The Girl in the Torch (11 page)

T
HEY MADE THEIR WAY
toward Mott Street, the main thoroughfare of the neighborhood. People bustled around them, purposefully weaving along the street and sidewalk in a way that reminded Sarah of densely packed ants moving in purposeful patterns in the dirt mounds in her old backyard.

Miss Jean stopped at a vegetable vendor and purchased a sack of carrots and a large bag of bean sprouts that the man pulled from a metal tub filled with water. Next, she moved on to another stall that sold spices and rice out of huge open barrels. A Chinese man with a thin black beard approached.

“Five-pound bag today, Miss Jean?”

“Better make it seven,” she said.

He dipped a small hand shovel into a barrel of white rice and scooped several pounds into a cloth sack.

“I see you've got a new assistant,” he said.

“Yeah, Smitty had to work around the house.”

“Nice to see another girl in the neighborhood,” he said, handing
Sarah the bag in exchange for some coins Miss Jean had extracted from her purse. “You're a rare breed around here.”

“I've always been a rare breed,” Miss Jean said.

“That's the truth.” The man laughed.

“What did he mean, ‘rare breed'?” Sarah asked as Miss Jean led her away. “Is it the same as half-breed?” Sarah asked.

“No. They're very different things. How'd you know that word?”

“Someone called Maryk that.”

“‘Half-breed' is a nasty way of saying someone has a mixed background, that they're not one specific color. A rare breed is something special.”

“What makes you special?”

“Well, lots of things,” Miss Jean said. “But what he was talking about was the fact that we're women.”

“I don't understand,” Sarah said.

“Look around you,” Miss Jean said. “What do you see?”

“People.”

“What kind of people?”

“Chinese people,” Sarah tentatively guessed.

“Chinese
men
,” Miss Jean said, gesturing to the crowds around them. “There aren't a whole lot of ladies in this part of town. All the immigrants who come over from China are men, because they're the ones who can get jobs. You don't see nearly any Chinese girls down here, so you and I are minorities in more ways than one. You're lucky you found your way to Mrs. Lee. She collects
stray cats like you. Those Chinese girls she has living at the house, they're orphans or escaped from all sorts of very bad situations. Lord knows what would've happened to them if Mrs. Lee hadn't taken them in. And old Mrs. Fat and her girl, Bao Yu, they'd be all alone too.”

“What happened to Bao Yu's father?”

“He was a merchant, but he died a couple of years ago. They lost nearly everything. Like I said, hard to think about what would've happened to them if it wasn't for Mrs. Lee.”

They made their way back toward the apartment building. They were just about to turn onto Pell Street when a voice called, “Hold it right there!” Sarah froze in place, unsure if the voice was calling to her. Miss Jean walked on, unaware. Sarah heard the voice again.

“Yeah, you, Red!”

The hair stood up on the back of Sarah's neck. She was being watched.

S
ARAH SLOWLY TURNED TO
see who was calling to her. Should she run?

“Right here,” the voice said.

Sarah looked down and beheld a small, thin boy, who couldn't have been more than eleven years old, carrying a newspaper in one hand with a bag full of them slung over his shoulder. His ragged clothing hung off of his bony frame, and a big, floppy wool cap sat on his head at a slant.

“You wanna buy a paper, Red?”

“A paper?”

“Yeah, the
New York World
. I got all the dirt about what's going on all over the city.”

“Dirt?” She furrowed her brow in confusion. “Why would I want to read about dirt?”

The boy laughed. “
Dirt
's just a way of saying ‘the news you want to read about.' Wow, you must've just fallen off the boat, huh?”

Sarah grinned, amused by the boy and his brash way of talking. She resisted the urge to tell him that she hadn't
fallen
off the boat, she jumped.

“With that hair, I thought you were Irish, like me. You ever been to County Cork?”

“No.”

“So what's a redhead like you doin' in Chinatown?”

“I'm staying with my uncle.”

“You got a Chinese uncle?”

“No, he's not Chinese.”

“Well, does your uncle read the papers? Only a penny.”

Up ahead, Miss Jean stopped, looked back, and called, “Sarah, come along now!”

The boy regarded Miss Jean with surprise.

“Who's that? Your aunt? You've got a Negro aunt and a Chinese uncle?”

“She's not my aunt,” Sarah said. “And I told you he's not Chinese.”

“Well, one of them must read the papers. Come on, I need to make a sale. Mr. Duffy expects me to sell this whole stack by sundown.”

The boy held out his hand, and something in his expression changed.

“Please,” he said in a more serious tone. “A guy's gotta eat, you know.”

“I don't have a penny with me,” she said, feeling sorry for the
boy. “But I'll try to find one for tomorrow.”

Miss Jean stood impatiently with her hands on her hips. “Sarah!” she snapped.

“I've got to go,” Sarah said.

“Okay. But be sure to buy from me, Tommy Grogan,” he said, the bravado returning to his voice. “The best newsie in all of lower Manhattan.”

“I will,” she said.

He grandly offered his hand. She tentatively extended hers and they shook.

“See you later, Red.”

Sarah rejoined Miss Jean, who shook her head.

“You'd better wash that hand real good,” Miss Jean said. “Half of those newsies live in flea-ridden flophouses. The other half live on the streets. I bet that boy hasn't had a proper bath all year.”

Sarah glanced back over her shoulder and saw Tommy's small hand lifting a paper above the crowd and heard his voice calling, “Get your
New York World
here. Only a penny!”

When Sarah arrived back at Maryk's room, she hesitated before opening the door. Would Maryk be inside? She decided to knock, just in case, but there was no answer. She put her ear to the door to listen but heard no sound from within. Was he passed out on the bed? Or trying to trick her into thinking he wasn't there when he really was? She took a deep breath and opened the door.

S
ARAH PEEKED HER HEAD
inside the room and exhaled as she discovered it was empty. She closed and locked the door.

Stepping over to the shelf, she scanned Maryk's small collection of books. She plucked out
Aesop's Fables
and flipped through the well-worn pages, stopping short when she came to the story titled “Androcles and the Lion.” Maryk had called her that name on the first night they spoke on the Lady's island.

As Sarah read the fable, she couldn't help but smile, picturing herself as the slave and Maryk as the ferocious lion. She quickly skimmed through the rest of the collection.

Maryk had underlined many sentences and put check marks beside some:

Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten.

A liar will not be believed, even when he speaks the truth.

One passage in particular was underlined and annotated with a large question mark:

Try as one may, it is impossible to deny one's nature.

The words were somewhat mysterious to Sarah, but she assumed that they were important to Maryk. It was hard for her to think of the gruff, hard-drinking giant as a man who read books and attempted to find meaning in them.

She replaced the book, her attention wandering to the wooden box on the top shelf. She self-consciously glanced back over her shoulder, remembering Maryk's stern warning not to touch his things. But her curiosity overcame her hesitation, and she carefully pulled down the box.

Brushing off the top layer of dust revealed a chessboard pattern painted on the lid. Sarah's father had taught her how to play, another unusual skill he had passed on to his daughter. She remembered his pride as she mastered the game and was eventually able to defeat many of the boys in their town. Boys and men from other villages would come to see her demonstrate her skills, as if watching a cow that could talk.

Sarah sat down on the bed and opened the box. Inside was a set of simple wooden chess pieces. Running her fingers along the neat row of figures, she noticed a brown envelope tucked under them and slid it out. Peeking inside, she found a small, worn photograph of a pretty young woman with long, neatly styled dark hair and skin. She removed the photo to get a better look. The woman held an infant on her lap dressed in a long, frilly white gown and a ribbon in her hair.

Before she had a chance to study the photograph too closely, a
loud knock came at the door that so startled Sarah, she abruptly sat up and knocked the chess set from the bed, spilling the pieces across the floor.

“What was that?” Maryk called from outside the door.

“N-nothing . . . ,” she stammered.

Sarah fell to her knees to pick up the scattered pieces.

“I told you not to touch anything!”

“Yes, I know. . . .”

She quickly shoveled the pieces back into the box.

“I'm coming in,” he said.

“Wait . . . I . . .”

Before Sarah could find the words to hold him off, the key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Still on her knees, Sarah glanced up.

“What do you think you're doing?” Maryk asked.

“I was just . . .”

“You were just what? Didn't I tell you not to touch my things?”

“I was just going to use the chessboard.”

“You should ask before you take.”

“I know,” she said, fear running through her. “I'm sorry.”

“I came up here to apologize for barging in last night,” he said, his voice rising with anger. “But I guess I should've been keeping a closer watch on you.”

“I am sorry,” she said again, picking up more pieces and placing them in the box.

“I'm the one who's sorry for trusting you.”

“Please, I didn't mean to do anything wrong. I just wanted to play chess.”

She got to her feet.

Maryk's eyes suddenly fixed on the bed, where the photograph lay exposed next to its brown envelope. His expression hardened into a pinched scowl. Sarah followed his glance, and her throat tightened as he made his way toward the bed. She felt a deep shame at having disobeyed him and violated his trust.

For a long moment, he just looked down at the photograph. Sarah watched him, afraid that he might strike her at any moment and bracing for the blow. Finally he reached down and picked up the photograph.

Maryk sat on the bed, cradling the photograph in his thick palm. His entire body seemed to deflate. Sarah stood in the middle of the room, holding the chess set, unsure what to say or do. There was something unsettling about watching someone so physically imposing become so suddenly shriveled. Yet she also felt an unexpected pang in her chest.

She moved tentatively toward him. Maryk didn't look up, even as she stood directly beside him.

“Is that your wife?” she said.

“None of your business,” he snapped.

He stood and tucked the photograph into the inside pocket of his jacket. Sarah backed away, frightened by his sudden outburst.

“And for the last time, keep your hands off my things.”

He abruptly exited, slamming the door as he went.

L
ATE THE NEXT MORNING
, Sarah stood on the sidewalk looking up at the imposing brick building. A small plaque over the door read
111
E
SSEX
S
TREET
, but other than that there were no signs or indications that there might be a garment factory or any other business there. The windows were made from frosted glass and smeared with dirt, so she couldn't see what was going on inside.

Her run-ins with Maryk over the past couple of days had left her shaken about how much she could trust or rely on him. So she took a deep breath and opened the door, revealing a long, dark stairwell leading to the second floor. Sarah climbed the stairs and reached a battered steel door with a small sliding panel that served as a peephole. Pausing, she pressed her ear against the door but couldn't hear anything distinct.

Something about the place made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she thought about turning back. But this seemed like her only hope of finding a real job.

Sarah checked her pocket for her scissors and knocked. After a
moment a voice called from inside. “Who is it?”

“I'm looking for work,” she said. “I'm a buttonhole maker.”

The panel in the door slid open and an eye peered out at her.

“I heard you might have work,” she said. “I have my own scissors.”

She took the scissors out of her pocket and held them up for the eye to see. The panel abruptly shut, and then there was silence. Sarah was about to put the scissors back in her pocket and go when she heard the heavy metal locks turning and the door opened.

“Come in,” the voice said.

She stepped inside and he quickly shut the door. The man was younger than Sarah had expected him to be, not much older than a teenager. He was thin with a high forehead and black hair that was combed in a sharp part down the middle. The room was filled with rows of women and girls all bent over garments. Unlike the other factory, no one was talking or even looked up when she entered.

“Let's see the scissors,” the man said.

Sarah reluctantly handed them to him.

“Not bad,” he said, examining them. He didn't hand them back. “You ever work in a factory before?”

Sarah hesitated, but then shook her head.

“That's all right. I might be able to find you something. Do you know how to stitch?”

She wasn't much of a seamstress, but she figured she had to try.

“Yes. But I'm really a buttonhole maker.”

“Don't have any need for that this week,” he said.

Sarah looked around the room. Some of the girls looked no more than eleven years old. Another man walked among the rows of workers watching over them like a guard. One young girl with sad eyes glanced up at Sarah but then quickly looked down. Again, she felt a chill run down her back.

“If you can stitch, I can use you. I've got a deadline on a job, so I need an extra set of hands. I've got twelve hours to get it all done. So why don't you take a seat over there, and one of the other girls will show you what to do.”

“All right,” Sarah said. She was about to walk over and join the others, but she paused, mustering up her courage. “Can I have my scissors back, please?”

“I think I'll hold on to them for you,” he said with smile. “I wouldn't want you to misplace such a fine pair while you're working.”

Sarah glanced around the room again. The same little girl was looking up at her and gave her a quick shake of the head. The man supervising the workers noticed the girl had stopped stitching. “Get back to work,” he said, pinching the back of her arm. The girl grimaced and returned to her work.

Sarah knew then that the man in charge had no intention of giving her scissors back.

“Go on and start working,” he said. “I've got a hard deadline.”

The man moved to put the scissors into his pocket. Sarah instinctively shot out her hand and snatched them.

“Hey,” he said, his face darkening with agitation and surprise.
“What do you think you're doing?”

“That's all right,” she said, backing away. “I don't really need the work right now.”

He took a step toward her.

“Get back here,” he said.

She quickly turned and bolted out the door and down the stairs. As she fled, his voice called after her. “You'll be back. Who else is going to hire someone like you?”