Grace's Pictures (6 page)

“I’m fine. I’m sorry I caused a commotion.” Grace hoped that would be the end of it.

“A commotion?” The woman clicked her tongue. “Not at all, love. But I sense an uneasiness around the police officer. You’re not afraid of him, are you? Because there is no need to be.”

Grace closed her eyes a moment, contemplating how she might explain herself.

Mrs. Hawkins grabbed her hands. “There, there, child. Like my Harold used to say, ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved.’”

Grace tilted her head to her shoulder, trying to figure the woman out. “Did your husband really say that, Mrs. Hawkins?”

“Indeed. He said many a wise thing. Funny, how once a loved one passes on, you remember things he used to say.”

Grace remembered much worse things her father used to say to her. “You miss him?”

“Terribly.” She smiled and patted Grace’s hands, then
released them. “But I have you and Annie now and soon more boarders as well. I’m not lonely.”

Grace felt a smile coming to her own face. “I’m glad for that.”

“Well, now, I do have a bit of news for you. The reverend believes he has a family wanting to employ you.”

“Me? Why? When?” Grace rose and began to pace.

“My, you’re a worrier.” Mrs. Hawkins rose as well and headed for the door. “This is fine news. Maids make a fair wage and some even receive room and board for free with the family. But for now you’ll stay right here with us and travel uptown to work. The reverend will have news about your new job day after tomorrow. He’ll give us the details then.”

“I just want to make enough money for my mother to come to America.”

“That’s what every Irish lass who comes to America does, love. Send for someone in the family or else mail money home. You’re no different.”

Tuesday morning, standing in the hall bath he shared with the other tenants on his floor, Owen splashed cold water on his stubbly face to refresh himself. He was awake earlier than usual, and the late-morning sun coming through the bathroom window stung his eyes. He reached for the pocket watch he’d carelessly left on the edge of the tub last night. A miracle none of the others living on the floor had lifted it. This watch symbolized his dedication to police work. Thank the good Lord it was still there.

He listened for movement outside the door. No one was waiting for the washroom. He popped open the silver cover on
his watch. Eleven thirty. He pinched his eyes shut. His mother would be on her way to Miss Amelia’s. He had to hurry.

Dressing in his uniform because he’d have no time to change before his shift, Owen wondered what his mother would think of it. She’d never seen him so decorously attired with metal buttons from neck to knees. He had no time to shave, though, and she’d certainly offer comment on that. But better to head her off than to deal with her disapproval if she set foot in the station.

On the el he soon found himself among upper-class ladies on a mission to tour the department stores. They clustered together like hens as they discussed Siegel-Cooper & Company Dry Goods Store, a “Big Store” as the papers called it, and at least three times the size of his father’s own business, which still was quite prosperous. The enormous white building, spread over an entire city block with pillars stretching several stories high, stood as a monument to the excesses of the rich in Owen’s opinion.

“I simply cannot wait,” one of the women proclaimed, swinging her mink stole over one shoulder.

“I know,” her friend said. “We must certainly meet at the fountain!” They erupted into laughter.

Owen turned to gaze out the windows on the opposite side. The phrase “meet me at the fountain” had been propaganda perpetrated by company men to lure customers to the oversize fountain in the store’s lobby. Colored electric lights frolicked between sprays of water, causing New Yorkers to stutter in amazement. Folks said the fountain’s statue was a copy of the one from the Chicago’s World Fair. Owen had seen it last year when he allowed an acquaintance to set up a date with a young lady who was promised to be a perfect match for him. Owen had no problem with monuments, and this one was stunning
and laden with patriotic symbolism. Still he had found the whole experience—the fancy lady, the orchestra, the oysters, the gourmet dish called
croûtes aux champignons
—too close to the life of privilege he’d been born into.

As the train slowed, Owen could see the elaborate second-story windows. The keyed-up chatter of the women escalated. He was glad when they exited with all their furs, feathers, and jewels. He knew the disparity that existed in the city better than most. Born into high society, he now patrolled in some of the dirtiest and most desperate places on earth. He wondered if any of the shoppers had read Jacob Riis’s
How the Other Half Lives
and if they’d be so eager to spend their husbands’ income or their ancestors’ savings on baubles and bric-a-brac if they had. Maybe they would. Some things never changed.

“Good day, ladies.” He tipped his hat. Everyone, rich or poor, enlightened or a fool, was a child of God and no more or less worthy of his grace than another, according to his granny.

“Officer.” They erupted in giggles. But Owen knew that as soon as the shiny, black heels of their shoes hit the polished marble floor of the department store, they’d forget all about him. And that was what was so intriguing about Grace McCaffery—her genuine smile and her ragged, red petticoat. She knew how the other half lived, and she was pulling herself out of poverty. Like most of the immigrant population he served, however, she saw him as an outsider, someone who didn’t belong, like that wild ocean porpoise living in a tank inside the aquarium.

When Owen arrived at his destination, Miss Amelia’s butler met him at the double leaded-glass doors. Owen extended his hand. “Ansel, good to see you.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t you know me? It’s Owen.”

Ansel narrowed his eyes. “The master Owen I knew didn’t wear brass buttons and a badge.”

It had been a while since Owen had even stepped foot uptown, let alone visited his mother’s friend. “Kathleen’s son. I’m a policeman now.”

The man’s eyes showed recognition even though he did not change his posture. “I see. Do you have official business here?”

Servants. One thing Owen didn’t like was how unemotional, almost inhuman, they presented themselves. “I believe my mother is visiting today, and I planned to meet her here.”

“Very well.” With stick-straight posture, the man led Owen down a marble hall and paused in front of two slightly parted pocket doors.

Miss Amelia was in the parlor entertaining, and Ansel obviously thought Owen was intruding. The servant knocked sharply, waited just a moment, and then pulled the doors open a few inches. He cleared his throat. “Owen McNulty—” He grunted. “Mr.—” He paused again and shot Owen a puzzled look. “That is,
Officer
McNulty says he is meeting his mother here.”

A whoop resounded from the room, and one door retreated into the wall. “Why, Owen, darling! Look at you. So handsome.” Miss Amelia, rouged cheeks and a flower bouncing on top of her faded blonde bun, embraced him. She was so unlike his mother.

“Hello, Miss Amelia. Lovely to see you.”

“Oh, honey. It’s been too long. Come in; come in.”

The butler retreated, and Owen stepped into the room of velvet-covered furniture. A delicate young girl rose from a seat near the bay window. He smiled at her. “Hello.”

Miss Amelia grabbed his arm. “Oh, Owen McNulty, may I present my niece Tabitha Pierpont. She’s visiting from Chicago.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” He held her tiny fingers in his much larger hand for a moment, as was proper etiquette. The girl blushed, her ivory skin turning frostbitten pink.

He turned to the other end of the room, where his mother sat, hands folded tight against leg-of-mutton sleeves. “I did not expect you here, Owen.”

“Mother.” He crossed the room and pecked her cheek.

She groaned as his beard brushed her face. “You’ve spoiled the surprise.”

“Oh?”

“I hoped to properly introduce you to Miss Pierpont at a charity event Amelia is holding.”

“I told you I’m on the night shift, Mother.”

“Not tonight. On Thursday. That’s why I planned to meet you at the station. To explain to your captain why you need to be released from duty that night.”

What a disaster that would have been. “I’ll check the schedule, but I do believe I have the night off.”

“Splendid.” She took a step back and regarded him. “What on earth are you wearing, Son?”

Owen spent the next few minutes explaining his job as best he could to three gentlewomen, including his mother.

Tabitha Pierpont pursed her lips as though she wanted to ask questions but thought better of it. And how could she, anyway? Owen’s mother and her friend jabbered so much a candle didn’t have a chance of staying lit in the room.

Miss Amelia pointed at Owen’s side. “Just what does one do with a nightstick? I’ve heard rogue policemen slug pickpockets with those, but I’m sure such force is not necessary. What do you use it for, Owen?”

He’d tried his best to steer the conversation away from the
cruel realities of his job. He normally worked the night beat, and while it was daylight for the first few hours of his usual shift, most of the time he worked in the dark, when there were no puppies to rescue from fire escapes and very few respectable old ladies to help across the street.

His mother glared down her narrow nose at him. “Hmm? Answer the lady, Owen.”

“I . . . uh . . . I . . . direct traffic with it. Folks have trouble seeing just my arm at night, so the nightstick—that’s why they call it that—helps extend my reach.” It wasn’t too much of an exaggeration. The device did allow him to probe into murky corners where he was reluctant to stick his hand. And he’d motioned to a cart driver once with the thing.

“I see.” Miss Amelia waved her ever-present paper fan in front of her face. “But have you ever—?”

“Tea?”

He glanced up to find Miss Pierpont already pouring him a cup. “Yes. Thank you.”

Her interruption thankfully ended the interrogation. This girl was both lovely and smart. He noticed her black lashes fluttering on her white cheekbones as she looked down. When she spoke, her words were light, proper, befitting her. “Are you an outdoorsman, Officer McNulty?”

He chuckled. “You mean like Governor Roosevelt?”

“Well, yes.”

Finally the old ladies were silenced.

“I’m afraid I rarely get beyond the sidewalks of New York anymore, Miss Pierpont.”

She placed a butter cookie on his saucer and handed it to him. “The sidewalks of New York—not quite as quaint as the song implies, I’m sure.”

“No, not really.”

“Well, you simply must come to The Park on the Palisades in the spring. My brother has part interest in the establishment. He could take us there . . . if you’re interested, that is. I have several friends you would enjoy meeting.”

“How kind of you.” He pulled the pocket watch out. “I’m afraid I have to go.” He slurped the tea and then popped the cookie into his mouth. “I have to be at the station soon.”

“Oh, pity.” Miss Amelia snapped her fan shut. “A man like you does not have to work, you know.”

He noticed his mother staring at the watch and quickly put it away. Their eyes met. His father didn’t approve of his job. And his mother had not been in favor of his career choice either. “Lovely to have met you, Miss Pierpont.” He winked at his mother when he bowed his head to kiss the young woman’s hand.

“Thursday at seven sharp,” his mother said. “Formal attire. I’ll send your suit to your . . . apartment.”

“Lovely. Thank you, Mother.”

She took hold of his arm and whispered in his ear. “You must be there, Owen. It’s a police benefit, and the O’Tooles will be there.”

He gritted his teeth and then told her again he would come, knowing that neither Mother nor her friends would be there if it weren’t foremost a social gala at which to be seen.

Miss Amelia patted her hands together. “Oh, I cannot wait.”

On his way back to the station, the disparity between the society he was born into and those he sought to serve seemed as far apart as New York and the Philippine Islands he’d read about in the papers. It was as though he had been on a long voyage and now was headed home, when he had in fact not even left
Manhattan. No matter that the two worlds were close together geographically. He could not live in them both.

The train was not crowded because the working folks had not yet heard the factory whistle blow and the female shoppers were still engaged. Even so, a man in a brown tweed overcoat took the seat next to him.

“Good day, sir.” Owen tipped his hat.

“Oh, it is that. Greetings.”

As the Sixth Avenue el swung southward, Owen checked his watch.

“Nice-looking timepiece,” the man said.

Owen glanced at the man and then quickly tucked the watch away.

“Mind if I see it?”

Reluctantly Owen handed it to the fellow.

“These are given to families of police officers killed in the line of duty.” He raised his eyes, seeming to examine Owen’s uniform. “How did you get it, if I may ask?”