Chapter VI
MAE SNATCHED UP her coat and purse and bounded toward the door. Jamming the key into the lock, she turned the bolt and hurried down to the street. As her feet scurried toward the streetcar, her hand kept checking to ensure the key was indeed in her pocket.
Home—she needed to get home.
As her heels clicked their way frantically toward the El, every sound resounded in her ears.
The slam of doors as business patrons entered establishments, the subtle creaking of the signs as the harsh winter wind whisked past her cheeks, the distant rattle of the streetcar beckoning to her.
Then a soft slap, slap, slap behind her.
The sound of leather soles rhythmically moving through the slushy remnants of snow along the sidewalk.
Her legs moved faster before her brain could communicate.
Click, click, click. Her heels sounded hollow, insufficient against the clopping behind her.
Click, slap, click, slap. The sound’s staccato rhythm echoed in her ears.
As she reached the corner, she peered back over her shoulder, and the sound stopped abruptly. Bang! The barbershop’s door swung shut.
She dragged in a ragged breath and turned back toward the El only to slam into something hard. Stunned, she rocked forward, her arms fighting wildly to grasp equilibrium. She felt a hand grip her biceps and bring her back to an upright position…
“Whoa!” The voice penetrated her muddled mind.
The smell of acrid, stale smoke assaulted Mae’s nose. She stumbled back as she brought her line of sight up from the dark overcoat pressed against her face.
“Excuse me, Ma’am.” The voice was calm and monotonous. She peered up at his smooth, smoke-stained smile.
“Pardon me,” she mumbled. As she created more distance between them, she felt the pressure on her biceps diminish.
Her eyes scanned to the right and left of them, but no other people were present in this section of the walkway.
Finally, her gaze fell full upon him as he tipped his slouch hat toward her and stepped aside for her to pass.
Her eyes took in the familiar hat. His eyes were fixated on the bag under her arm.
She scurried past him and shot around the corner of Park Row to see the distant streetcar rumbling its way toward her stop.
She heaved herself onto the streetcar and crumpled into a heap as her lungs gasped for deep, crisp breaths.
Her trembling hand went to her pocket and verified that the watch and the notes were still there.
Her fingers closed around both and held them firmly until her stop.
Under her woolen gloves, her white knuckles tightened on her purse straps, her soft woolen fingers began to shake with renewed intensity.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she compelled the drained muscles of her spine to straighten against the hard seat back.
The lashes of her eyes rested momentarily on her cheeks as her nostrils widened to draw in deeper breaths.
As her chest fell, her swollen, protesting eyes cracked open, and she felt a bone-weariness settle over her.
Mae could see her front steps in the distance.
Sanctuary was in sight. Her feet had grown cold while waiting for her stop.
The muddy snow had pushed up above the soles of her shoes during her collision with the man and created splotches of frozen, dingy stains on her stockings.
She knew that the church bell hadn’t tolled out the second hour of the afternoon quite yet, so maybe she could close her eyes for a few minutes while she waited for Simon.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner.” She recognized the overly pious voice of Father Cary before his face came into view.
Mae turned toward him and mustered what she hoped looked like a smile as she suppressed a sigh. “Hello, Father Cary.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about Henry,” he lamented as he reached forward to grab her hand in his. His bony fingers wrapped around her gloved hands, and she was immediately thankful for the woolen barrier between them.
Her gasp was inaudible. She hadn’t told anyone about Henry yet. Her body stiffened.
“Thank you, Father,” she replied in a mechanically polite tone. The automatic response had been ingrained in her during the many mornings spent reciting the appropriate words on Sundays of long ago.
“Such a young man for so sad an end. But as the Good Book reminds us, ‘Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.’” Mae felt his grip loosen on her hand to cross himself and quickly drew it back to her side.
“Yes, thank you, Father.”
“I hope you will seek the church now that you and Simon have need. We shall welcome you with open arms, just as we did Henry when his parents passed on.” When Mae didn’t respond, Father Cary’s eyes sharpened slightly and his thin shoulders pulled back in an indignant pose.
“How is Simon taking it?” His eyes drew down at the sides while his mouth turned down.
Instead of a compassionate facade, Mae thought he looked more like a caricature of a porter who had lost his bags.
“As good as can be expected, I suppose,” came out of Mae's mouth, although ‘He just lost his father and best friend in one afternoon. How do you think he’d be taking it?’ lashed out in her mind.
She looked up at the heavenly numbers of 111, just a mere forty yards away, and inched away from Father Cary.
“I can speak with Simon if you wish. Young boys need guidance in fatherless households.” He leveled his stare as he finished his sentence.
“I’m sure we can manage.” Mae bristled.
“Have you spoken with anyone about the services yet?” Father Cary took another step closer.
“No. Henry wasn’t one for frills. We will have him buried at Calvary with his parents.” Mae's eye darted over to her door again while schooling her features to show mock attention.
“He really should have a service. The Good Lord reminds us that we should always ‘Mourn with those who mourn.’ That is best done with a community surrounding you for support.” He crossed himself again.
“Yes, well, I will think about it, Father. Thank you for your offer.” He opened his mouth to continue, but Mae stopped him by speaking first. “Simon will be home any minute now. I really must be getting along.”
Father Cary took another step forward, but Mae sidestepped him and made for the walkway behind him. He reached out his long fingers again, and they locked around her biceps like a hawk swooping down to snatch a pigeon. “Mrs. Turner, please, for the boy’s sake, let the church help you.”
Mae recoiled and tried to pull her arm away from his clutches. “He has me, and we will be fine. We just need time to heal. Thank you, Father.” At that, his hand opened as Mae glimpsed a slight tremor in his jaw.
“Yes, well, Mrs. Turner, I wish you the best.” He forced the words from his tight lips, and the edges of his mouth turned up into a brittle smile. Turning on his heel, he strode off in the direction of the church.
Although Mae forced herself to walk as calmly as possible to the front door, her instincts overcame her, and she dashed up the few steps as if she’d been chased by the devil.
She stepped over the single sheet of folded paper lying, unread, just inside the door’s mail slot and threw her purse and gloves on the sofa, shifting the curtain slightly to make sure Father Cary was still walking and didn’t see her bound up the stairs.
A chill ran up her spine as she reached for the poker to stir the coals. Once the task was completed, she lay down on the sofa with Henry’s pocket watch resting on her breastbone. Its weight served to calm her frayed nerves as she awaited Simon’s arrival.