City of Promise (25 page)

“How much?” Mrs. Buchwald asked again.

“The rent depends on which floor, of course, but it can be as little as two hundred and twenty-five dollars a quarter.”

Mrs. Buchwald did not write down the sum. “That’s nine hundred dollars a year. It’s a great deal of money, Mrs. Turner. And I take it you have to promise to stay the entire year.”

Mollie swallowed hard and put a bright smile on her face. “In fact, Mr. Turner is committing himself to maintain that affordable rent for five years.”

Mrs. Buchwald put down her pencil. “You’re saying it’s necessary to sign a five-year lease?”

“That’s correct. But only the first quarter need be paid in advance.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say, Mrs. Turner, that it’s all that affordable.”

For a post office employee, probably not. Josh had not underlined Frank Buchwald’s name. But the new lawyer, and the accountant, and probably the manager of the shop that sold Steinway pianos—his wife hadn’t spoken a single word, but she had not once taken her eyes from Mollie’s face—all had firmly penciled lines drawn below their names.

“I think it is,” Mollie said, “when you consider what you gain. Moving to the St. Nicholas means it’s possible for an ordinary family to be in a private home for a modest amount of money compared to the thousands required to purchase. That’s every family’s dream, isn’t it? A home of your own where you serve the meals you choose, and have a Christmas tree decorated to your own taste, and you and your husband can leave a puzzle half done and know when you come back to it next evening no one will have spoiled all your work, or worse, picked it apart. And in summer you can fill a picnic basket with supper and carry it over to the Central Park, and the whole family can have a jolly
outing for no extra expense at all. With one of these flats, ladies, you can achieve that goal now, not years in the future when maybe—with no guarantee, mind—you might be able to purchase a whole house.”

“Because,” Mrs. Buchwald said, rising to leave the dining room, “these places you’re talking about are not really in New York City. They’re way up in the East Sixties where no civilized people live.”

“Och, but you’re forgetting about the stable and the horsecars. They make the flats entirely convenient for gentlemen needing to come downtown to work.”

It wasn’t Mollie who made that argument, it was Margaret Jackson.

By the time Mollie left twenty minutes later, she was entirely satisfied with what she’d accomplished. Of course Mrs. Wildwood would tell Josh his wife had called, but that wouldn’t happen for a week or more. Josh was too busy building his flats to visit his rooming houses with any frequency. And by next week or the week after, Mollie was certain, the seeds she’d planted this afternoon would be bearing fruit and it wouldn’t matter.

“Sorry, folks, not a hope. This is as far as we go.”

The conductor pushed his way through the crowded streetcar with determination. Some of the many standing in the aisles were actually pushed into the laps of the seated passengers. “Everybody out,” the conductor shouted. “End of the line for today.” The outside straphangers meanwhile, those who anchored themselves to the exterior of the car with the leather harnesses provided for the purpose, had long since jumped free. Because lashings of snow had turned them into moving snowmen in what had become, in a virtual instant, a howling blizzard.

Having boarded at the beginning of the run when she left the Bowling Green residence, Mollie was seated at the back and was among the last passengers to descend from the stalled car. She stepped onto the street and into a blinding white maelstrom. “Please, can someone tell me where we are?” She aimed the question in the direction of the
other passengers, mostly men, disappearing into the odd combination of whiteness and encroaching late afternoon dark.

“Fulton Street,” someone called. “You’d best find some shelter, miss, else . . .” The warning was lost as the man moved off and his voice trailed away.

Mollie took a few steps forward, clutching her hat with one hand and trying to both lift her skirts and hang on to her muff with the other. She heard the muffled sound of shovels ahead—for the last ten blocks teams of workers had preceded the streetcar trying to clear the tracks—and the snorting of the horses, so she presumed she was heading uptown, but it was impossible to be sure. “Please,” directing the question into the white void, “can anyone tell me if there’s somewhere nearby I can find a cab?”

The only reply was the whinny of a horse, then the sound of a man gentling him, and the team of four being unhitched, followed by the soft clopping sound their hooves made on the snowy street as they were led away. Mollie started trudging up the road, hoping to encounter a cab, or perhaps someone who could advise where one might be found. Because of the storm, however, the shops and offices that lined this section of Broadway were already shut up tight and this far downtown, there were no private homes on the cross streets. Besides, the regularity of the grid didn’t exist down here. If she turned away from the tracks she could get entirely lost. Even heading straight up Broadway she was unsure of exactly where she was. But if memory served, Park Row came after Fulton, and Park Row fronted on City Hall. Which indeed might be open and offering refuge to—How silly! She’d forgotten how close she was to St. Paul’s Chapel. There could be no better place to seek shelter.

The path through the graveyard to the church doors hadn’t been shoveled, but it did seem to be trodden. The wind shifted and she was half doubled over as she struggled toward the entrance. A gust tore at her hat and it came off but didn’t blow away, hanging on instead by one pearl-tipped pin. Mollie made a number of futile efforts to secure
it, then gave in and yanked the hat off and let the wind take it. “Hello!” she shouted into the whiteness and the silence. “Hello! Is the rector or someone about? I need—”

A hand grabbed her from behind and an arm circled her throat. “Ain’t nobody at their prayers just now, love. So you be quiet and everything’ll be fine. I’ll take that muff.”

Mollie opened her mouth to scream but the arm around her throat reduced the sound to strangled grunts of terror. She tried to kick behind her, but her bustle had come loose and the meant-to-be-graceful trailing skirt of the red traveling suit trapped her foot. “Get those gloves off, love. Let’s see what kind o’ rings you—” There was a loud thwacking sound and the man’s words ended in a squeal of pain.

“Get off with you! Go on! Go rob some other poor soul as is stranded in a storm. You’re not even a proper thief, just a coward picking on a slip of a woman all alone in the snow.”

The words—spoken in a woman’s voice—were accompanied with more thwacking sounds and out of the corner of her eye Mollie saw the rise and descent of a rolled umbrella. Seconds later the assailant had let her go and run off. Mollie fought for breath while mumbling her thanks.

“Weren’t nothing, miss. His kind is cockroaches and deserve what they gets.” The wielder of the umbrella materialized as a shadowy silhouette in the driving snow, a bulky figure wrapped in numerous scarves and assorted wraps who stooped down and came up holding Mollie’s beaver muff. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Mollie had to shout to be heard above the howling wind, “I don’t have much money with me, but—”

“Don’t mind if . . . Hang on. I know you. Tillie Wallace’s pawn shop it was. I’m Tess o’ the Roses.”

The broad-brimmed hat was thickly encrusted in white snow, but having been reminded, Mollie recognized the unlikely assortment of pink-and-yellow silk roses she’d first seen at the pawn shop on East Seventh Street. “Why, so you are.”

Tess reached forward and took Mollie’s arm. “C’mon. You can’t be wandering around alone in the likes of this. There’s more villains about for sure. Candle to a moth you are, love.” She was tugging Mollie back toward Broadway meanwhile, both women half-bent against the blowing snow. “It’s Mollie as I recall. Now, where’s home? Nearby I hope.”

“Not very near,” Mollie said. “Grand Street. But if we could find a cab, I’d—”

Tess snorted in derision. “Not a chance. C’mon,” taking a tighter grip on Mollie’s arm, “shank’s mare it is. We’ll go on together.”

On Sixty-Third Street the sky had turned to gunmetal gray soon after the workmen took their dinner break, a meal they brought with them in tin boxes and ate sitting on the ground, leaning their backs against the upright steel beams that formed the skeleton of the apartment house to be. They washed the food down with ale from the keg Josh purchased from a nearby brewery, and provided as a bonus for working this far from the town. It was strong stuff—stand up without a glass, the men said—and the pungent reek of malted hops had become for Josh the smell of his unlikely project as it rose an incredible eight stories into the sky. Not today, however. The ale was overpowered by the metallic smell of the storm, followed by powerful gusts of wind that carried droplets of ice that stung the cheeks and bit into exposed hands. “Ain’t but a taste o’ what’s comin’,” someone said and there were murmurs of agreement.

It was not yet three when Henry Tickle nodded at the construction materials scattered everywhere and told Josh, “We’d best get things locked down. Feels like it’s going to be a bad one.”

Josh was content to let Henry see to what needed doing. The man had proved himself as capable a foreman of construction as Ebenezer was of steelmaking downtown in the foundry. It was the dwarf who’d suggested his cousin take over uptown. Said Henry would be invaluable
in getting the steel skeleton in place. Later, when the specialist trades took over—the bricklayers and stone masons and plumbers and steam fitters and carpenters—someone would be needed to coordinate their efforts. His cousin, Ebenezer Tickle promised, would do a good job with that as well.
Look out for your interests Henry will, Mr. Turner. Knows as what’s best for you is best for him. Won’t be nothing you paid for walking out the door without you earning a penny for the use of it.

As usual, it had been good advice worth taking. Particularly since Josh allowed the men who wished to do so to sleep on the building site, just as they did at the foundry. Most of the dozen workers took up the offer, making use of the empty but relatively snug stable, building a charcoal fire in a brazier for warmth, and saving themselves the long trek back into the city at least some nights during the week. Given the weather, they’d probably all stay tonight. If it weren’t for Mollie home alone on Grand Street, Josh might have considered doing the same. Or he’d have gone eight blocks further uptown to Sunshine Hill. Either would be preferable to the long ride back to town in a storm. As it was, neither was possible. It was Thursday. Mollie wouldn’t have even Mrs. Hannity for company. She’d be entirely alone in a blizzard. Unthinkable.

“Best start back, if you’re going, sir.” Henry again. “I think we’re going to get what Mother Nature’s been storing up for the last few months.”

“I think so too, Henry. Thing is, Mr. McKim was supposed to meet me here this afternoon.”

Henry sucked on his finger and held it up to the wind. “Nor’easter,” he said. “Coming over the river and traveling fast. I don’t figure anyone’s likely to head up to Sixty-Third Street this afternoon.”