Circled Heart (8 page)

As soon as she said textiles, my mind was made up. Drew Gallagher had invited me to come to him if I ever needed his aid, and although my request was probably not exactly what he intended, in a roundabout way I needed his help. That weekend I composed a letter inviting him to visit Indiana Avenue at his earliest convenience and posted it first thing Monday morning.

Each heart has its haunted chamber,

Where the silent moonlight falls!

On the floor are mysterious footsteps,

There are whispers along the walls!

What are ye, O pallid phantoms!

But the statues without breath,

That stand on the bridge overarching

The silent river of death?

Chapter Five

Mr. Andrew Gallagher, resplendent in a fine wool double-breasted reefer jacket of tasteful gray, matching trousers fashionably turned up at the cuffs, an immaculate white shirt, and a silk tie in muted blue, appeared at the front door of the Anchorage the following Friday morning. With a hesitant knock, Eulalie interrupted my reading class with Kipsy and Yvesta.

“There’s a man waiting for you downstairs, Johanna. I’ve left him in the hall by the front door.”

“Are you sure it’s safe for him to be inside?”

“I left him in Matron’s hands, so I’m not worried. He said his name was Mr. Gallagher and that you especially requested—no, I think he used the word commanded—his presence. He showed me a letter you wrote and I recognized your handwriting.”

“Good. You’re right, Eulalie, Mr. Gallagher is safe enough, and he might have the answer to a question Yvesta asked me last week.” I gave Yvesta a quick smile and added, “Is Flora still holding her own?”

“Yes, but the pains are coming more regularly and she’s not liking that very much.”

“I can imagine, but there’s nothing she can do about it now. Tell her to hold on. I’ll come up and see her in a few minutes. Have you sent for the doctor?”

Eulalie nodded and I excused myself. At one time I’d hoped the sight of her new child would soften Flora’s attitude toward it, but I knew she still couldn’t wait to give the baby up for adoption. Her complete lack of desire for the child was sure to make labor and delivery even more painful and frightening than usual.

Downstairs Andrew Gallagher and Hilda Cartwright conversed in the front hallway like old school chums catching up on alumnae gossip. Both looked up at me as I descended the steps. I went forward with extended hand.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gallagher.” To Hilda, I remarked, “I see you’ve already met Mr. Andrew Gallagher, Hilda. You’ll recall we saw him at Mrs. Trout’s presentation at the Tribune office two weekends ago.” If she was surprised to see him turn up in her hallway, she never showed it.

“Yes. In fact, I was just telling him that I admired his response to Grace’s speech and wished more men were as enlightened.”

“And I,” interjected Drew Gallagher lightly, “was still recovering from the shock of being considered enlightened. I can’t recall that anyone has ever paired that word and my name in the same sentence before.”

Hilda gave an obligatory smile to his remark but went on, “However you downplay it, your gesture was appreciated by a number of us in the room who didn’t have the presence of mind or the courage to do the same.” She turned to me. “I’m on my way out, Johanna, so if you have business with Mr. Gallagher, feel free to use my office. Yours might not do.” She said a polite good-bye, and I led my guest down the hallway to Hilda’s office.

Drew Gallagher sat down in a chair across from me, gracefully crossed one leg over the other, and asked, “Tell me, Miss Swan, where exactly am I?” I choked back a small gurgle of laughter, bit my lip, and resisted the very strong temptation to recite the street address. He gave me a stern look seeming to know exactly what I was thinking, but then, almost in spite of himself, grinned and added, “Do not play with me, Miss Swan. The presence of Miss Cartwright and her office—why wouldn’t your office do, by the way?”

“It’s in a closet down the hall.”

“Your office is in a closet?”

“Yes, well, it’s the best we can do right now, and I don’t spend much time in it anyway. There’s room for a little desk and a chair and that’s all I need when I’m working on class preparation. I don’t think two people would fit in it simultaneously.”

“What classes are you preparing?” Gallagher had the disconcerting habit of listening intently when I spoke, giving the impression that for that moment he could see or hear nothing else. No one had ever shown me such undivided attention before, and its effect on me was a mixture of gratification and juvenile self-consciousness. I thought he did not miss much and forgot even less.

“Baby care, typewriter skills, English, and literacy right now.”

He thought a moment before he replied, “Which brings me back to my original question: Where exactly am I?”

“The Anchorage Home for Women in Need.”

“Are you one of those women and is that why I’m here?”

“No. Well, not exactly.” He spoke no response, picked a nonexistent piece of lint from his trousers, settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and offered a faint, encouraging smile. A man clearly waiting for clarification and not about to ask any more questions. A man prepared to wait as long as necessary to be enlightened.

“The Anchorage is a place women come for sanctuary when they’re in trouble, any kind of trouble. Right now we have unwed mothers, destitute widows, a woman hiding from her abusive husband, and a girl leaving a life of prostitution. The Anchorage offers safety, protection, medical services, the rudiments of an education, and above all, hope for the future. Safety and hope are two basic rights of human beings, after all, and why should a woman’s past keep her from knowing a safe present and a hopeful future? That’s why you’re here.” At his blank look, I went on, “You offered me the power of Gallagher Enterprises, and I’d like to take you up on that offer.” As I spoke, the animated interest in his face faded into a bland expression of courteous boredom.

“Miss Swan, if you can be patient, I’ll write you a check as soon as I return home.”

“Oh, I don’t want your money. Is that why your face got all shuttered? The Anchorage is supported by very generous contributions from a number of highly placed women whose husbands have more money than they know what to do with. I have my own money, besides, or I will have when I’m twenty-five, so please be assured that I have absolutely no designs on your inheritance.” I could tell my use of that word sobered him, made him remember how he came to have the kind of wherewithal that would make me seek him out.

“Then what?”

I guessed the abrupt bark of a question originated more from the unexpected memory of his brother than from impatience and explained, “Yvesta Stanislaw is an older woman with two small children. She can’t read and write, her English is far from perfect, and she needs work.” He started to speak, but I held up a peremptory hand and rushed on. “Yvesta is hard-working, strong, honest, and reliable. She’s escaped an unbearable life, and right now the only future she can see is to go back to it, go back to a man who beats her and her children and drinks away the few pennies she manages to save. I won’t have it. I realize she can’t do anything really sophisticated, but she can clean and sew, and I know Gallagher Enterprises is in the textile business. I thought you might have an opening for a seamstress at one of your locations. If not, maybe she could clean at one of your banks or offices. You must have someone doing so now. Why not Yvesta? Of course, I’ll need to approve the conditions in which she works, and a day job would be better because she could leave her children at Hull House. Still, if she must work at night, I’m sure we can work out arrangements for the children. It’s a small thing I’m asking of you, Mr. Gallagher, but it would mean so much to Yvesta.”

He never hesitated. “All right.”

“All right what?”

“All right, I’ll find a job for her somewhere. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do or did I miss the point entirely?”

“No, I just thought it might take longer to persuade you.”

“I am a relatively intelligent man and I recognize when resistance is useless. I—” He was interrupted by a loud rap at the door and Crea’s voice.

“Johanna!” Crea stepped just inside the room, her face anxious and her tone urgent. “You’d better come. Something’s not right with Flora’s labor. She’s scared and asking for you. Eulalie sent for our regular doctor but he’s out, so she’s gone in search of another one. Can you come? I don’t know what to do.”

“Of course, I’ll come.” To Drew Gallagher I said, “I’m sorry. Perhaps we could finish this conversation later.”

He settled comfortably into his chair. “You’re obviously needed elsewhere and I’m in no hurry. I can wait a while.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“Miss Swan, I’m all grown up and can take care of myself. Please don’t give me a second thought.” I smiled my appreciation and hurried with Crea out into the hallway, immediately following Mr. Gallagher’s instructions to the letter by not giving him another thought until several hours later.

By the time the doctor arrived, I knew we had a problem. Flora’s pains were coming regularly and close but the baby was not making progress. Something was terribly wrong and I looked up with relief when the doctor entered. He shooed Crea out to get clean cloths and hot water but asked me to stay, then did a quick, capable examination, finally standing to say grimly, “There’s no time to get her to a hospital. I’ll have to take the baby by incision. If I don’t, we’ll lose them both.” Much later it was clear he would be at least half right. Life came into the world and life left it, all within a matter of minutes.

Crea took one look at my face as I followed the doctor out into the hallway and put a hand to her mouth. “What is it? What’s happened? I heard the baby cry.”

“Yes, it’s a boy, but Flora’s gone.” My voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard to keep my composure.

“She can’t be.” Crea reached for the handle of the door to enter and see for herself, but I put a hand to her wrist.

“Don’t go in, Crea. Not now. We couldn’t save her. If the doctor hadn’t done what he did, they both would have died. You know Flora was weak to start with, not eating as she should, no matter how much we scolded or encouraged her, and then she lost so much blood. We couldn’t save her,” I repeated.

“She never wanted that baby. She said she couldn’t wait to have a life again and she couldn’t wait to be done with it all, she said. It’s not fair. It shouldn’t have ended this way.” Tears of fury pooled in Crea’s eyes. “She was only fourteen and she learned her lesson. She had her life all planned out.”

“I know.”

“It shouldn’t have ended this way.” The words came out a wrenching cry that caused me to put both my hands to her shoulders.

“It shouldn’t have, but it did, Crea, and it can’t be undone. Now go tell Matron what happened, and let her know we have a newborn who needs a mother. I won’t lose them both.”

Only after Hilda took the baby downstairs, after Flora’s body had been taken away and the room stripped and cleaned, did I think of how worried Grandmother must be. I called from the telephone in the downstairs hallway.

“Hilda Cartwright called me earlier,” Grandmother told me, her voice sounding reedy and foreign through the earpiece. “What happened?” After I told her, she said calmly, “I’ll send Levi for you.” I started to speak but she continued, “Don’t argue, Johanna. It’s very late and you’ve done all you can do there. Hilda Cartwright has a great deal of experience with newborns, and I’d wager the wheels for finding that baby a home are already turning. Eulalie can keep an eye on the child through what’s left of the night. Levi’s on his way.” She hung up, decision made, protest useless, Grandmother at her most authoritative.

At the moment, tired and sad and angry, I was glad someone else was making the decisions. All I could think of was pretty Flora, who wanted to dance and sing and live, especially live, and now was in a wagon on her way to the morgue.

Before I left, I went upstairs where several of the inhabitants, who had congregated on the landing, slowly drifted back to their shared rooms. Betsy, pregnant and alone herself, stared at me out of a pale face, something so vulnerable about her that I put an arm around her shoulders.

“Is she really dead?” Shock and a greater fear gave Betsy’s voice a breathy quality.

“Yes, but don’t make yourself sick with worry. Flora was the exception. There’s every reason to expect that your delivery will be perfectly normal. You’re healthy and stronger than she was.”

Betsy gave a weak smile before she went into her room. “Don’t seem right, though, does it?” she asked rhetorically. “It ain’t like we make these babies all by ourselves, so why should it just be us that runs the risks?”

Crea was nowhere to be found upstairs, but when I went to get my coat from my little office, I found her there, uncomfortably curled into my small chair, making me think she was waiting for me.

I realized that wasn’t the case, however, from her first words when she saw me: “I thought you’d already gone home.” Her red hair had come undone from its single thick braid and her shirtwaist was twisted and wrinkled. Despite the contorted sleeping position, I must have awakened her.

“I’m on my way home now.” I went closer and perched on the corner of my desk to look at her. “You can’t sleep here, Crea. Why don’t you go up to bed?”

“Ruthie’s there and I don’t know what to tell her. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me, but I know she wants some words of assurance that everything will be all right, that she won’t end up like Flora. She wants guarantees, but I don’t have any to give her.”

“I don’t know of any guarantees in life, either, but the truth will be enough for her right now.”

“What truth?” Her tone had that scornful bite I had heard the first day I met her.

“Tell her medicine continues to make great strides in all areas. Tell her it’s never been safer to have a baby, that doctors and hospitals exist to protect her. Tell her we’ll be here with her, and we’ll stay with her until she holds that new baby in her arms. Tell her Flora’s situation was rare, that around the globe women have thousands and thousands of babies without a hitch. You know the right words, Crea.” As I spoke, her face smoothed out, some of her obvious distress fading.

“You have a way of talking that makes people want to believe you, Johanna. I can say the right words to Ruthie, but they won’t sound the same as they do from you. I don’t believe like you do that everything has a happy ending.”