Forgetting Tabitha: An Orphan Train Rider (2 page)

Mama was near passed out from the combination of agony and whiskey so I ran into the kitchen where Mrs. Canter was baking bread and staying close in case we needed her. I asked what I should do and she lent me a dollar bill for the extra fee. She wiped her hands and walked into our quarters with me, nearly fainting from the sight and metallic smell of the blood filling one of the two rooms we now inhabited in her apartment. The dentist gave my mama another three finger full shot of whiskey and wedged a piece of sanded wood wrapped in thick cotton in her mouth to help it stay open allowing him to work better. One of the strong men held a lantern closer so the dentist could discern the problem. Mrs. Canter filled our basin with warm water and held the fraying rag to her chest in preparation for cleaning up; all the while she was losing her color and swaying. The gore didn’t bother me but I thought my mama was dead because she wasn’t talking and her eyeballs were rolled backwards into her head so I started to cry hysterically.

“She’s just passed out from the pain, now she won’t feel a thing,” the dentist told me.

“What’s your name, little girl?” the man with the filthy shirt asked me.

“Tabitha, sir, what’s yours?” I asked, wondering what kind of name belonged to this huge man.

“I’m Big Joe, now look here at my teeth.” The burly man opened his mouth and showed me the three empty holes where his teeth had gone missing. “The good dentist took these teeth and I’m fine, just like your mama’s gonna be.”

I didn’t feel much better since his gums were swollen and mouth horribly smelling. But I knew my mama would brush and at least she’d wake up after she slept off the booze.

The dentist used long metal tweezers with razor sharp tips, his newest tool, and poked at my mama’s mouth until he said all the splinters of teeth were gone. He was befuddled because the tooth he pulled had three roots holding it in place, which was rather unusual. He said she would be swollen in the morning and probably for the next several days, but that she could drink and eat soft food when she felt up to it. He gave me a dozen whole cloves wrapped in a ramie cloth that she could put inside her cheek when she woke, it would help dull the pain. I thanked him for the cloves and fondled the ramie cloth that held them.

After that episode, he put the bottle of whiskey to his lips and took a long swig.

“She made me work for my money, Tabitha, you take care of her now.” He patted my back and left with all the big men.

“Tabitha, quickly, gather an armful of rags from beneath the kitchen sink, we‘re going to need more to get your mama good and cleaned up,” Mrs. Canter said.

I did as instructed, rummaging through the stacks of folded towels and shreds of cloth, thankful to have the help of this woman. Together we wiped the dried caked blood from the corners of my mama’s mouth, and the drips that ran all the way down her neck getting trapped in the folds of her skin before drenching her shirt collar.

“Help me turn her over, she’ll sleep better that way.” Mrs. Canter ordered once the bathing was complete, so we laid her on her left side, propping her with pillows and I covered her with our patchwork quilt, tucking her in like a cocoon. Mrs. Canter went across the hall with the dirty rags and returned with clean strips of material for the morning and two warm oatmeal cookies.

“Now get some sleep dear, your mama will be needing you in the morning.” She ran her hands across my fuzzy head and left me to tend to her own brood.

Sure enough my mama woke up in agony, hollering in pain and swishing her tongue into the hole where the tooth used to be. She looked all crooked because one side of her face was swollen like a chipmunk and her eye was black and blue, which nagged at me since it was her mouth that had work done. I put a nice warm cloth on her cheek and she said it helped, but when she stood up she held tight to her stomach and swooned.

“Lie back down, Mama, I will do the day’s laundry.” I was more than confident in my abilities to work.

I had been my mama’s laundry helper for one year now and even though I was only ten years old, she said I did as good a job as she did at getting out wrinkles and spots. I set to work on the white collared shirts first and paid extra attention to scrubbing at the stains and underarm pit spots. We used lemon or vinegar on most stains, not too much though or the acid would wear through the fabric. After I laundered the shirts I had to let them air dry. In between washing I ironed. I was careful not to let the iron get too hot or else it would leave a burn mark on the cotton fabric and then we would have to buy a new shirt; we learned this the hard way.

“I took care of everything, Mama, look,” I said as I held up a several stacks of neatly laundered, and folded shirts and trousers. I took my time especially in the folding so I didn’t leave any creases in the wrong spot.

“Be a dear and ask Mrs. Canter to be sure they are delivered.” Mama held cloves to her cheek, and drifted in and out of sleep all day while I worked.

Mrs. Canter rewarded me with a shiny penny for my hard work and I took it right down to the penny candy store on Orange Street and bought a sack worth of butterscotch balls that my mama could suck while her mouth was sore.

“Here, Mama, your favorite butterscotch balls!” I unwrapped the sweet indulgence upon my return and she popped one in her mouth, careful to savor the salty flavor of it on her good side only.

“I am so proud of you, Tabitha. If we stick together we will be just fine won’t we?” Mama asked. We may have managed to fail the farm but so far we had done well in New York.

Chapter 2 The Five Points

City life was crowded, costly, and challenging and we didn’t have a Da to help us manage anymore. We moved from the country to the city when he died a year ago and settled into the first affordable place with a vacancy. We lived in one of a dozen identical, five story, red brick buildings on Cross Street in the notorious Five Points. Unfortunately, the vacant room was in a building with mostly German immigrants, not Irish, as we had hoped in order to reacquaint ourselves with kin.

I could see Paradise Place outside my window and often sat for hours watching the spectacle below. Women wearing colorful bonnets waltzed through town carrying baskets in the crook of their arms full to the brim with ripe fruit, meats and cheeses, wine and bread. They hustled their children towards the Used Clothing Shop to sell their old clothes or purchase new ones. After shopping they lunched at the Chinks Oyster Shack or The Yard House Tavern for the mid-days meal. With full bellies they picked up articles of clothing taken in, let out or hemmed from the Tailor and finally ducked into the Barber Shop with its twirling red and blue striped pole out front for a quick snip or shoe shin for their boys.

Other individuals, mostly men but not always, drowned their sorrows at the corner tavern next to the Brewery building where drinks could be purchased with ears and noses as long as they were won in a fight from an opposing gang. Mama told me the remains were placed in glass canisters lining the bar for all the patrons to admire and try to recognize.

Immigrants and others in destitute circumstances made stops to the Money Lender Shop, always leaving with their heads down. Mama and Mrs. Canter agreed, taking a loan in this city was a last resort with high interest rates making it impossible to pay back the lender. The lack of reimbursements caused a great need for henchmen who sought those who didn’t pay, taking ears, noses, fingers, and toes as retribution. We didn’t want to lose any of those so we paid for everything with cash on the barrel.

Brothels, missions, and theaters all lined Anthony Street providing various forms of entertainment at one establishment; food and redemption for those who lost themselves in the other. Occasionally my mama and Mrs. Canter would take in a show when all of us children were at school or otherwise entertained.

“But why can’t we go, Mama?” I pleaded one day.

“Because there are unsightly businesses along the way and you are far too young to have your eyes ruined.” I always wondered what she meant by that; years later I learned.

Priests, Pastors, Ministers, Reverends, and Rabbis led their congregations to worship in Paradise Park while their various cathedrals, temples, and churches were under construction. Anyone seeking solace at the end of the week could find a place to bow their heads. Children donned their Sunday best that for the boys included button down shirts, trousers held up with suspenders, top coats, and occasionally caps. Gentlemen dressed similarly, but on Sunday they appeared more dapper adding low cut plaid vests displaying fine starched dress shirts, colorful cravats, and long knee length topcoats. On Sundays the men wore their best top hats, often reaching an impressive twelve inches in height. Little girls and young ladies wore a wide array of bonnets and dresses, some with hoops and lace shawls and others in coats and muffs when the weather warranted.

New York was a city of clans; thousands of immigrants in different colors, shapes, and sizes came fresh off famine ships and streamed into our streets daily. Adding to our chaos the immigrants spoke different languages, looking as confused by us as we were by them. If luck was by their side, they were greeted at the harbor by distant family members who previously survived the crossing of the shifty waters and had settled into life in New York. Others who weren’t so lucky were left to their own devices, struggling to find work and shelter and make sense of this cauldron. Looking back now I recall that sometimes Sisters from the Mission met boats with warm bowls of soup and cups of tea; when money allowed they gave out clothing and held free checkups. The Sisters of Charity tried desperately to steer the depleted newcomers to a Godly life that held promise rather than a broken one on the streets.

Wealthy do-gooders, fanning their jowls and flanked by constables, mingled among the poor in the Five Points taking the populace in as you would a P.T. Barnum grand traveling circus with wide eyes, disbelief, and curiosity. They covered their noses with handkerchiefs, aghast at our squalor and confined living spaces as well as the swampy smell we became accustomed to. Concern regarding our poorly draining Bestevaer swamp was evident in their eyes as they noted the demise of our ramshackle buildings and sliding tenement homes resulting from the poorly engineered landfill and waterway problem. The water problems not only caused our structures to sink and fall but sewage leaked into the streets, fostering disease and death. Our conditions were unsanitary at best and deplorably uninhabitable at worst. But for the poor who could not afford to live elsewhere, it was called home. However, having the Manhattanites in town served a purpose for pickpockets and thieves dressed as sweet children. Any angler worth his salt used the opportunity to their advantage when up towners were here. They were often rewarded with their best ‘get’ of watches, wrist-lets, medallions, coins or rings that were immediately melted down at the Pawn Shop before any claims could be made.

Trolleys and carriages stopped at each corner in the Five Points between the fourth and sixth wards all day long delivering passengers to their destinations. The city bustled with life as people walked their schnauzers, wiener dogs, and retrievers, or stood singing and playing instruments such as organ grinders and fiddles for money on a corner. My favorite was the organ grinder with the poodle who danced while he played. Bums with missing limbs held up signs begging for food and charity. Some were too forlorn to beg and lie sleeping on the brick pavement, hoping for a few coins when they woke.

“He-She’s,” that’s what my mama called them, stood at the street corners waiting for a certain clientele to approach them, never mind if it was daylight, they shared flasks of gin and danced eagerly in anticipation of the evening’s events. If we passed them, my mama shielded my eyes so I wouldn’t see their drunken ludicrous behavior that included much fondling.

Ours was a crumbling civilization to say the least. Streets needed repair, rubbish stood putrid on every corner and storefront. In the Five Points jobs were scarce, medicine hard to come by, and the level of noise increased with all the construction continually going on. Construction was a necessary evil though because it was one place immigrants could find work. Unsafe conditions had many natives opt out after seeing one accident and death after another.

The only time the streets were quiet was during the draft. Men of a certain age abandoned the tavern and gambling halls in favor of their reclusive homes or hideouts hoping not to be found and summoned. Coffins carrying dead soldiers lined the harbor docks daily causing a panic for young men who then went to extremes by mutilating themselves; cutting off their fingers or bashing their ear drums to fail the necessary physical. If they could afford to pay a large fee of three hundred dollars they could avoid the draft and disfigurement altogether, otherwise it was law. The draft riled the Native American Butchers as well as the Bowery Brothers, Roach Guards, and Dead Rabbits, who joined in with the Daybreak Boys, Forty Thieves, and Swamp Angels gangs all in opposition to the wealthy buying their own sons’ safety. Our cities gangs grew and violence became worse.

Mama tried to shield me from the horror but I could hear gunshots at night and heard stories from the Canter boys about the murders occurring here nearly every day. All I had to do was look out my window at an opportune moment and I could see gangs fighting each other in daylight using make shift weapons such as axes, bats, bricks, knifes, and cleavers. In the mornings men lay dead at our doorway. It often took several days before the municipal came with shovels and scraped the stiff, reeking bodies into an open top carriage and carried them to a mass grave where they were covered with dirt, omitting the opportunity to say a proper goodbye and blessing over the deceased. Orphans or chiselers patrolled the streets for fresh dead bodies that they collected and sold to hospitals for research. If there was a way to make money the resourceful people of the Five Points found it.