A Proper Pursuit (43 page)

“Did my father fight in the war?” I asked instead. She seemed surprised by the sudden change in topics.

“He had just turned eighteen and was old enough to be drafted when the war ended—thank heaven.” She took my hand in hers. “Violet, what is it that you really want in life?”

I thought for a moment, then said, “I want to be loved. I don’t want to spend my life all alone like Aunt Matt. I want to find someone who loves me for myself, just the way I am, not for what he’ll gain by marrying me. Is that too much to ask?”

“Not in the least.” She slid her arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. “I know someone who loves you that way right now.”

I sat up in surprise. “You do? Who?”

“God.”

“He doesn’t count.”

“Of course He counts! I know you’re facing some very important choices in your life. And that you’re trying to understand all the new things you’ve experienced this summer. You’re trying to figure out how they fit with the experiences you grew up with and what you learned at school. Ideally, you will be able to bring everything together—and find God’s purpose for your life in the process. He allows tragedies such as losing your mother in order to shape us into better people. It’s not His will that we suffer, but He can bring good from it if you’ll allow Him to.”

“I can’t see any good in it. And now I feel like I’m trapped. Father is going to choose a husband for me if I don’t make up my mind.”

“When my husband died, I couldn’t see any good in it either. I didn’t know which way to turn. But all the loose ends came together when I sought God. I pray that you’ll do the same. And that you won’t marry for the wrong reasons.”

“Will you talk to Father for me?”

“Yes, of course I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him that I disagree with him, and that I think you should wait a little longer before getting married. But talking is all I can do, Violet. You are his daughter.”

“What would you do if you were me?”

“I would pray.”

Chapter

29

Monday, July 10, 1893

I
fretted all weekend about my trip with Silas on Monday to the Jolly Roger on Bishop Street. I wanted to dress nicely and look my very best in case this rabbit trail led to my mother, but I remembered Silas’ advice about wearing plain clothes so that we wouldn’t get robbed. I was pacing the floor, wearing a bare spot in the bedroom carpet, when Silas finally arrived on Monday afternoon.

“Any news about my mother?” I asked as I thundered down the stairs. He was in the front hallway, returning Aunt Birdie’s hug.

“No, sorry. I’ve been asking around, but I haven’t found anyone named Angeline Cepak. I’m still looking though.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your help.” I exhaled and took Aunt Birdie’s arm. “Come on, Aunt Birdie. We’re going out this afternoon with Mr. McClure.”

“Oh, how nice. You know, Violet, out of all your beaus, he is my favorite. Too bad his walnut didn’t burn up with yours.” She beamed at Silas and he grinned in return. I couldn’t speak. I felt my cheeks grow warm.

“And out of all of Violet’s aunts,” he said, “you’re my favorite.” He offered her his arm and led her outside. “I borrowed a horse and a runabout,” he said, gesturing toward the street. “To make things easier on you ladies.”

I looked where he was pointing and saw a skinny, swaybacked horse tethered to our hitching post. The horse looked so weary with its head drooping to the ground that I feared it would keel over and die before Silas could untie it. It was harnessed to a rickety runabout that was in even worse condition than the horse. I didn’t think either one could make it to the end of the block, let alone to Bishop Street.

I watched Silas help Aunt Birdie onto the rump-sprung seat and wanted to ask if he had resurrected the rig from the garbage dump. Silas offered me his electrified hand so I could climb onboard, then he untied the reins and settled onto the carriage seat between us. He made a clucking sound and jiggled the reins. The horse started off, meandering down the street as if sleepwalking. I tapped my foot impatiently.

“I do believe we could get there faster on foot,” I finally said.

“You might be right. But this rig does have one advantage for where we’re going.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“It’s not likely to be stolen while we’re inside.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll be more worried that the horse will die of old age while we’re inside.”

Silas laughed out loud. He had a wonderful laugh.

I cleared my throat. “So. I gather that you found out where Bishop Street is?”

“I got directions. Do you think your mother might be there?”

“I’m not sure, but here’s what I do know: Aunt Birdie said that my Uncle Philip would know where my mother is. Someone else told me that my father used to come to Chicago to the Jolly Roger for his brother Philip’s sake. So I thought perhaps I would find my uncle there, and I could ask him about my mother.” I didn’t mention that my Aunt Matt had said Philip had nothing to do with my mother.

“That makes sense, I guess,” Silas said with a shrug.

“But here is where it gets mysterious—when I checked the records at the city administration building, I found out that the proprietor of the Jolly Roger is listed as Lloyd O’Neill.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s the man who I believe was murdered.”

“The guy whose wife pushed him down the cellar stairs?”

I nodded. “If O’Neill owned a saloon,” I continued, “perhaps he really was a drunkard who beat his wife.”

“That makes sense.”

I couldn’t tell if Silas was taking me seriously or not, because he hadn’t stopped grinning since Aunt Birdie let him through our door. I had to admit that when I added up all the clues—my mysterious uncle, my missing mother, the murdered alcoholic, and the ridiculous name Jolly Roger—the story did sound like a corny plot from a dime novel.

The horse trudged slowly through the city streets as if on its way to the glue factory. We finally reached a neighborhood that was very much like the one where I’d played the piano for Louis. Saloons and burlesque theaters crowded both sides of the street, and there might have been bawdy houses too, but I wasn’t brave enough to look for them. I didn’t look up at all until I heard Silas say, “Whoa.” The runabout rattled to a stop in front of a tawdry-looking saloon.

“I think this is it,” Silas said.

My body began to tremble as if I had caught a chill. “H-how do you know?”

He pointed to the sign hanging above the door:
Jolly Roger
. Aunt Birdie had been silent throughout our journey, but she suddenly piped up.

“I certainly hope this isn’t your new restaurant, Violet. I wouldn’t step one foot inside that place.”

“She’s right,” Silas said. “A classy woman like you should think twice about going in a dump like that.”

I drew a breath for courage—or as deep of a breath as I dared, considering my odiferous surroundings. “It’s broad daylight,” I said. “And I have you for protection.” I could see his inside pocket sagging with the weight of something heavy. He had his gun.

“So what’s your plan?” Silas asked.

“I brought along a photograph of my Uncle Philip. I thought I would show it around and ask if anyone knows him.”

“That’s a great idea, Violet. Let’s go.” He climbed down to tether the horse, then offered Aunt Birdie his hand.

“I don’t think I care to eat here,” she said. “This isn’t a very nice place at all. We need to find a different restaurant.”

I hated taking her inside the saloon against her will, but I couldn’t leave her alone in the carriage either. She seemed to dig in her heels as I dragged her reluctantly through the open saloon door.

“You want me to do the talking?” Silas whispered.

“No. I appreciate your help, Silas, but I need to take charge of my life. I can do this.”

I had learned to be brave this summer, going to neighborhoods like this with Louis, visiting tenements with my grandmother, confronting abusive factory owners with Aunt Matt. I’d received an entirely new education in a few short weeks, learning things that Madame Beauchamps never dreamed of putting in her curriculum.

The Jolly Roger was as dark as a mausoleum inside. I saw a lump in a corner booth that might have been a sack of rags or a customer— it was hard to tell in the grimy light. No one sat at the bar, thankfully, but a distasteful-looking man with entirely too much facial hair stood behind it, wiping a beer mug with a gray rag.

“Good afternoon,” I began in a quivering voice. “My name is Violet Rose Hayes, and I’m looking for information.”

“You the police?” he asked, glancing at Silas.

“Hardly!” I blurted.

“Then give me five good reasons why I should talk to you.”

I couldn’t reply. I was unable to think of a single one, let alone five. Silas slipped his hand inside his jacket, and for a horrible moment I feared he was reaching for his gun. But when his hand came out it held a folded five-dollar bill. He slid it smoothly across the bar and beneath the man’s fingers. It disappeared into the bartender’s pocket.

“Those are very good reasons,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I’ll have a cup of tea, please,” Aunt Birdie replied. She had seated herself on one of the wooden barstools. “And some scones, if you have them.”

The man bellowed with laughter. “That’s rich, lady! I can probably fix you some Irish coffee but no tea.”

“Well, I don’t care for coffee. Let’s go someplace else, Violet.” She slid off the stool and turned toward the door.

“We’ll leave in a minute, Aunt Birdie, I promise. I just need to ask this man some questions first.”

Silas linked his arm through Aunt Birdie’s and hung on to her as if she were made of smoke and might blow away. I turned back to the bartender.

“I understand that this establishment is owned by Mr. Lloyd O’Neill?”

“You understand wrong. O’Neill sold it to me more than ten years ago.”

“Oh. I see.”

“O’Neill got married and moved to some little one-horse town— Lemont or LaGrange or Lockport …”

“Yes, Lockport.”

“Why’re you asking me if you already know?” He picked up his greasy rag and swiped it across the top of the bar.

“There are still a lot of things I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m trying to locate a friend of Mr. O’Neill’s named Philip Hayes.”

“Never heard of him.”

Silas bent close to me. “Show him the picture,” he whispered. I pulled out the photograph of my father and his brother and laid it on the bar, facing the man.

“I don’t remember this guy,” he said, pointing to Philip, “but I certainly remember this one.” He pointed to my father. “He was a real troublemaker. Tried to break up the act, if you know what I mean. After O’Neill sold this place to me, he would show up every couple of months, begging to buy it back. This guy in the picture would show up soon after and insist that O’Neill come home to Lockport and be respectable. Got him all screwed up with religion, telling him to quit Demon Rum and so on. Had the poor guy on and off the wagon more times than a deliveryman. I gotta admit that O’Neill was good for business, with his leg and all. He could really tell a story, and all his buddies from the war would come in to hear them.”

“What do you mean, with his leg… ?”

“Lloyd O’Neill has a peg leg. Made out of wood. That’s why he called this joint the Jolly Roger in the first place. Thought it fit in with the whole pirate theme, if you know what I mean.”

“Was he a pirate?”

“No, lady. There aren’t any pirates in Chicago.” He gave the bar another swipe. “O’Neill lost his leg in the war. Used to brag that he got hit while saving some other fellow’s life. Don’t know if that’s true or just drunken swagger.”

“Was the man he saved named Philip Hayes?” I asked.

“No idea. I’d tell you to ask O’Neill yourself but I heard he died. Can’t say if it’s true, but I haven’t seen him in more than a year.”

“Was O’Neill ever involved with a woman? She would have been Bohemian. Very pretty. Dark-haired.”

“Don’t know nothing about a woman,” he replied, shaking his head. “But if she’s as pretty as you are, I’d give her a job. I could use a good-looking barmaid, if you’re interested. And I’ve got another business going on upstairs, if—”

“She’s not interested!” Silas yelled. “Come on, Violet. I think it’s time for us to leave. Unless you want to ask him something else.”

“I-I can’t think of anything else.”

“Thanks for your help,” Silas said.

The sunlight seemed blinding when we stepped into the street again.

“Well!” Aunt Birdie huffed. “That says it all, doesn’t it?”

My knees shook so badly that I couldn’t negotiate the carriage step. Silas had to put his hands on my waist and lift me onto the seat. It would have been very dramatic and appropriate to gallop away, leaving the Jolly Roger behind in a cloud of dust, but the horse wasn’t up to the challenge. Neither, I suspected, was the runabout.

I couldn’t speak for several long minutes for fear I would burst into tears. Silas seemed to understand my silence and didn’t say anything either, until we finally reached a more pleasant neighborhood.

“Do you mind telling me what you gathered from all that?” Silas said, “Or is it none of my business?”