In Every Heartbeat (22 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

S
tanding in the hallway outside the apartment where his parents lived, dressed in his fine suit with his hair neatly brushed and his one shoe buffed to new-penny shine, Pete felt as though he’d rushed backward through time. He was once again seven years old with a teacher-starred arithmetic paper in his hand, hoping Pa would beam with pride. He shook his head, dispelling the long-ago image. He wasn’t there to make his parents proud; he was there to shame them.

“Pete? We goin’ in?” Lorenzo tugged at Pete’s jacket. His fingers—freshly washed in the sink at the hotel—held tight to the brown paper bag containing the needle and spool of gray thread.

Pete managed to give the little boy a wobbly smile. “Maybe you should go in without me, Lorenzo. Suppertime’s coming, and your . . . our ma isn’t expecting me. She might feel obligated to ask me to stay and eat, and then there won’t be enough for everybody.”

Dennis huffed. “
Never
enough.”

Pete’s conscience panged at his brother’s comment. He’d taken the boys to a little diner for lunch, and they’d wolfed down fried egg sandwiches and thick vegetable soup. Then they’d eyed a tall chocolate cake under a glass dome, but Pete had worried his limited budget wouldn’t stretch far enough to cover cake and another train ticket, so he’d ignored their pleading looks. Now he wished he’d treated them to cake, even if it meant limping all the way back to Chambers on his peg leg.

“You two go on in,” Pete encouraged, giving Lorenzo a gentle push toward the door.

“But I thought you wanted to visit.” Confusion puckered Lorenzo’s boyish face.

“I do want to visit, but I need to see both Pa and Ma.” The names slipped out easily, catching Pete by surprise. “But Pa’s not home right now, is he?”

The pair shook their heads in unison. “Reckon he’s workin’ at the brewery,” Lorenzo chirped.

“So I’ll have to come back later.”

Dennis cast a furtive glance at Pete. “But . . . you’re comin’ back . . . right?”

Pete wished he could wrap Dennis in a hug that would heal all the insecurity and hurt of his brieflife. But he sensed if he reached out, the boy would retreat. Instead, he leaned down to look eye-to-eye with his brother. “I promise, Dennis. I’ll come back.” He’d keep that promise no matter what it took.

For long seconds, Dennis peered unsmilingly into Pete’s eyes. Then, without a word, he grabbed Lorenzo’s arm and hauled him inside. Pete waited until the door closed behind his brothers before heading out to the street. He paused on the slab where he’d met the boys that morning, trying to decide what to do. He could go to the hotel and relax until his pa got off work, then come back; or he could sit on the bench outside the little market across the street and wait. If he waited, he’d spare himself the cost of a cab ride. He decided to wait. Only three hours until the end of Pa’s shift.

The sun had slipped downward, and Pete buttoned his jacket to protect himself from the cool, city-scented breeze. He settled onto the wood-slatted bench and observed people passing. Some scurried, some slogged. Most sent curious glances in his direction, but few smiled and none stopped to talk. As the supper hour came and went, the scent of ripening fruit from the boxes in front of the market made his stomach growl. So he purchased a rosy apple and a small wedge of cheese from the kind-faced older lady behind the counter inside then returned to the bench to eat his simple supper.

The activity on the street slowed as evening fell. Pete checked his watch—seven-thirty. Only another half hour before Pa got off work. Would he come straight home, or would he stop off at a tavern? With it being Friday, it could be payday. Pete pinched the crisply ironed crease in his pant leg. Was he wasting his time sitting there watching for Pa?

A tall, rail-thin man in a stained white bib apron stepped out onto the shadowed sidewalk, broom in hand, and began busily sweeping dust and dried leaves toward the curb. The straw bristles came within inches of Pete’s foot. Pete tucked his legs backward to avoid having dust tossed across his shoe. His wooden leg scraped against the cracked sidewalk, making his stump tingle. Automatically, he reached to massage his leg.

The broom ceased its motion, and Pete’s gaze followed the broom handle to the man’s face. The man offered a sympathetic grimace. “Did I hurt’cha? Didn’t mean to.”

“No, you didn’t hurt me.” Pete cupped his knee, ignoring the persistent distant ache in his stump. “I can move if I’m in your way.”

The man waved a callused hand. “Nah. Never sweep under the bench anyway, no matter how much my wife chides me about it. What difference does it make? Nobody sits under there.” He chuckled briefly, and then his eyes narrowed. “You new around here?”

Pete nodded.

“Thought so. Don’t get too many gentlemen like yourself in this part o’ the city.” His eyes took in Pete’s suit. “Mostly workin’ class. A few bums.” He snorted. “Too many bums.” Then he tipped his head, his gray eyebrows forming a V. “Wasn’t for them fancy duds, though, I might mistake you for one of ’em. Lowest of the low lives right over there with his wife an’ a whole pack o’ young’uns.” He pointed to the apartment building where Pete’s family lived. “You look quite a bit like him.”

Pete’s mouth went dry. “That right?”

“Yup. But you wouldn’t wanna be associated with that lot. Sends his kids over here to steal from the stands.” Shaking his head, the man put the broom to work again. “ ’Course, I don’t turn ’em in to the coppers. As my Norma keeps tellin’ me, they’re just kids doin’ what their old man tells ’em to do. ’Sides that, we don’t feel right lettin’ a kid go hungry. . . .”

Pete swallowed, his belly twisting at the thought of little Lorenzo sneaking over to snatch an apple or peach out of hunger— or for fear of Pa. “That’s kind of you.”

The man shrugged, stacking both hands on the rounded top of the broom handle. “Least I can do.” He swiped his hand down the front of his grimy apron and then stuck it out to Pete. “By the way, I’m Keith—Keith Branson.”

Pete pushed to his feet and shook the man’s hand. “Peter . . . Rowley.” His conscience pinched, but he reasoned that after this weekend he
would
be Pete Rowley. Surely it didn’t hurt to try out his new name? “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Branson.”

“Thank ya, Peter. An’ call me Keith—everybody does. So what brings you down here?” He set his broom to work again.

Pete licked his lips. While chatting would make the time pass more quickly, he didn’t want to tell this stranger the purpose of his visit. He chose a vague response. “Taking care of some long-overdue business.”

“Does it have anything to do with the Leidig youngsters?”

Pete pulled out his handkerchief and coughed into it. “Why do you ask?”

Pausing in his work, Keith flashed a grin. “Saw you headin’ off earlier with the two littlest boys. Kinda hard to miss, you in that fine suit an’ all.” He gripped his whiskery chin between his thumb and pointer finger. “Might I be hopin’ somebody’s finally gonna do somethin’ to help them kids?”

Stepping near the man, Pete dropped his voice to a near whisper. Even though the sidewalk was deserted, he felt the need for secrecy. “What kind of help do they need?”

“What kind?” Keith blasted a humorless laugh. “Every kind! They’re always dressed in rags, always lookin’ hungry . . . Half the time them little ones spend their day playin’ in the street ’stead o’ goin’ to school. My Norma worries herself sick over ’em. Only a matter o’ time an’ they’ll
all
be in big trouble with the law.”

He jabbed his finger at Pete. “I seen purple marks on them kids, too. More’n once. Haven’t said nothin’ to Norma about it. She’d prob’ly march on over there an’ apply a fryin’ pan to the side o’ that man’s head, an’ then she’d be in trouble.” He scuffed the worn toe of his boot on the sidewalk. “ ’Sides, a man’s got a right to discipline his own kids like he sees fit. Even the Good Book says ‘spare the rod and spoil the child.’ Folks’d say we shouldn’t be interferin’, an’ most times I’d say they’re right.”

Shaking his head, he wrapped his hands tight around the broom handle. Pete got the impression he wished the broom were Gunter Leidig’s neck. “But to tell you the truth, Peter Rowley, I don’t think them bruises are teachin’ bruises. They’re left by a mean drunk who takes his mad at the world out on his young’uns. An’ whatever anybody else says, I say that ain’t right. So—” Keith squared his shoulders and looked Pete straight in the face—“you gonna do anything?”

Pete’s knees went weak as helplessness washed over him. “Keith, I’d like to help, but I’m not what you think. I’m just a university student, not a welfare officer or a policeman. I don’t know what I can do.”

“Oh.” Keith’s face sagged with disappointment. “Well . . .” Turning, he gave the broom’s bristles a final half-hearted push across the pavement. “Sorry I bothered ya then. Just thought since you took off with them boys earlier today, you might know . . .” His voice trailed off as he seemed to focus on something in the distance. He stepped to the curb, his gaze narrowing.

Pete limped over beside him. “What is it?”

Keith’s lips pursed as if he’d tasted something sour. “Speak o’ the devil, there he comes.” He balled one fist on his hip. “Gunter Leidig himself. But praise be, he ain’t staggerin’, which means he’s sober. Maybe them kids’ll have some peace tonight.” Propping the broom on his shoulder, Keith bid Pete good-bye and stepped inside the market.

Pete’s heartbeat thudded in his ears. His father strode up the sidewalk, his head low and shoulders slumped. The streetlamp exposed the lank, thinning hair and sallow complexion of a tired old man. The years hadn’t been kind to Gunter Leidig.

While Pete watched, his pa grabbed the rickety railing and heaved himself onto the cement stoop. After eleven long years, Pete finally could confront his father. Face-to-face. Man-to-man.

But he didn’t move.

Go! Catch up to him!
The inner prodding stirred him to action. Pete stumbled onto the cobblestone street, opening his mouth to call out. But before any sound left his lips, a horse-drawn cab clattered around the corner and halted in front of the apartment, blocking his way. Grunting in annoyance, he stepped around the cab in time to see a young woman alight. She dropped a coin in the cab driver’s hand and then turned. The streetlamp illuminated her features. Pete’s jaw dropped.

“Libby! What are you doing here?”

“Petey!” Libby dashed forward and grasped his lapels. “I found you. Thank goodness. Bennett said you’d be here, and he gave me the address, but he wasn’t sure he remembered it correctly.”

Pete glanced up. His father had disappeared inside the apartment building. He released a groan of frustration. Taking Libby by the shoulders, he led her to the corner of the building, out of the sight of anyone who might peek from an upstairs window. “Why aren’t you at Alice-Marie’s?”

Even in the shadows, he saw color flood her cheeks. “I . . . I sneaked out.”

“Libby!”

“I needed to talk to you. So when Alice-Marie and I went up to our rooms after dinner, I told Alice-Marie I was going to take a long bath, and then I sneaked down the maid’s stairs and out the back door.”

Pete slapped his forehead. “Libby, you are bound and determined to cause trouble.” Catching her hand, he dragged her to the curb. “Well, you’re going right back.”

“No!” She wriggled loose of his grasp. “Petey, you’ve got to listen to me. There’s something you need to know before you see your parents.”

He tapped his peg against the ground, trying to stay patient. “All right, but hurry. You’ve got to get back before they miss you. What is it?”

“It’s about your brother Oscar.”

Immediately, a fuzzy picture of a round-cheeked youngster with curling butter-yellow hair appeared in Pete’s memory.

“He’s in jail, Petey, accused of murder.”

The sweet picture of innocence shattered. He grabbed Libby’s shoulders again, but this time as a means of supporting himself. Surely he’d misunderstood. “M-murder?”

The empathetic pain in Libby’s eyes confirmed he’d heard correctly. “I saw it in the paper and went to investigate. Under the pretext of writing an article for the newspaper, I spent an hour with him today. Petey, he’s so young and so scared. And he says he didn’t do it—says it was someone else, but the court found him guilty, so . . . he’s been sentenced to hang.” She pulled in a shuddering breath and clung to his wrists. “Petey, I’m so sorry.” The last words choked out, as if carried on tears.

Pete found himself gripping Libby’s shoulders so fiercely she winced, but he couldn’t seem to let go and she made no move to pull away. The market owner—Keith Branson—had indicated his family needed help, but their needs went far beyond Pete’s ability to assist them.

“We have to help your brother, Petey. If he’s innocent, we can’t let him hang.” Libby squeezed his wrists. “I asked for Mr. Daley’s help, but being a business owner himself, his sympathies reside with the dead clerk. He isn’t willing to listen. Judging by Mr. Daley’s reaction, I’m not sure anyone else here will reach out to Oscar. So it’s up to us.”

The same helplessness he’d felt when talking to Keith struck again, harder than ever. His knees trembled. With staggering steps, he made his way to the stoop and sat. The cold concrete penetrated to his flesh, and he shivered. Libby perched beside him, taking his hands.

His thoughts bounced hither and thither until they were a muddled mess: Oscar jailed for a heinous crime, his younger brothers practicing thievery to combat their hunger, all of them bearing the marks of Gunter Leidig’s drunken rages . . . So many things wrong. How could he possibly change any of it?

Eyes closed, he clung to Libby’s hands, seeking strength.

Eventually he looked into her pale, expectant face. Tears blurred her sweet image. “As a preacher, I’ll be expected to minister to people—to meet their needs. But I’m helpless against problems like these. I can’t fix them. . . . Libby, I don’t know what to do.”