With each additional story, Alma felt her resolve tightening. Heat traveled up her neck, and she had to fight to hold her tongue, to keep from lashing out and getting herself fired.
“Everyone knew about John,” Mrs. Keller said. “Even Commissioner Fitchie when he was here, but he didn’t care, and no one has been able to prove anything. John had friends in Washington, DC, for a long time, but I don’t know if that’s still true with Roosevelt and Williams. Oh, and this is quite funny.” She leaned forward as if to tell Alma a secret. “He’s known among the staff as Herr Groper. No one says this to his face, of course.”
And everyone had been careful not to say the terrible nickname around her. Mr. Groper, indeed. Alma didn’t find it the least bit funny! She was ready to explode.
“I wish you had told me, Mrs. Keller,” Alma said, tone clipped. “I could have married him!”
“Well, what was I to say?” She sniffed, looked at a stack of papers on her desk, and pretended to rearrange them. “I couldn’t very well go against the wishes of your parents, could I? We were all hoping his marriage would be the end to some of his more distasteful tendencies.”
“Distasteful tendencies. Right,” Alma said, clenching her fists. “And might I ask why no one has gone to Mr. Williams? Commissioner Fitchie is now long gone.” Though she asked the question, she already knew the answer. No one wanted to confront Williams—or Lambert, should he prove to be more powerful than the new commissioner because of his allies—but this situation was beyond serious. It was horrifying. Alma could think of nothing but what Fran had endured the first few weeks, when she was desperate to enter the country. And it was Alma’s damned fiancé who had taken advantage of her friend’s vulnerability in the most despicable and demeaning way.
“I can’t speak for the staff as a whole, but I do know that even if they spoke to Mr. Williams, the commissioner wouldn’t have much of a case against Lambert unless there is proof of some kind.” Mrs. Keller sighed heavily. “There’s nothing to be done but to quickly pack the immigrants off to their next destination.”
Alma couldn’t believe there was no recourse for such despicable actions. “I don’t care what Williams says. I’m going to talk to him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mrs. Keller said.
“And why not?” she asked, the last of her patience draining away.
“If you don’t have proof, you’ll make John your enemy. It isn’t pleasant—take my word for it.”
“I won’t be his favorite person anyway, once I break off the engagement. I have to make this right.”
For Fran—and for myself.
“Lambert is one of the reasons Commissioner Williams has come down so hard on the staff,” Mrs. Keller continued without acknowledging Alma’s response. “He makes no secret of his feelings. He despises the man. If the immigrant woman who was molested came forward, however, it might work.”
Alma paused, realizing there was proof of John’s misdeed—Fran’s very visible pregnancy.
But would she come forward? Alma wasn’t sure she would put herself in such a position, so she could hardly ask Fran to do so. That said, Fran wasn’t like her. Her friend was extraordinarily brave, and she might feel some vindication in seeing the man who forced himself on her finally paying for his wicked deed. John deserved to be fired, and Fran’s coming forward might be the only way. It would also have the added bonus of preventing John from firing Alma.
Now, if only Fran would agree.
And then something clicked into place in Alma’s mind. Perhaps the commissioner wanted John gone badly enough to make an exchange. She smiled slyly.
“Yes, well, I think I may have a plan,” she replied. If she was going to put herself and Fran at risk, she might as well get something for it in exchange. Something she dearly wanted.
Mrs. Keller’s eyes narrowed, but her lips stretched into a smile. “Good.”
*
Alma drained a full stein of the Brauer’s finest lager after work to gather her courage. She’d told Helene everything, and her friend promptly offered to come with Alma as moral support. Alma had declined. Telling her parents wouldn’t be easy, but this was her battle. She had to speak up for what she wanted, alone. She’d never been good at it, and suddenly she felt the urgency to stand on her own two feet. It’s what any self-respecting woman would do—it was what Fran would do.
She poured herself another pint.
“You’re going to be tripping over your feet if you keep that up,” Greta chided, “and smell like those men.” She wrinkled her nose as she looked across the room at a group of scruffy men who reeked, fresh from work at the docks.
“I’m trying to calm down.”
“Why?” Greta pushed a steaming plate of food toward Alma. “You should eat something, or you’ll make yourself sick. That’s three now, isn’t it?”
Alma glanced at the plate and her stomach roiled. She had no appetite, and the beer wasn’t helping. “Something’s happened,” she said.
“What is it?”
Alma shook her head.
“Why don’t you tell me anything?” Greta stuck out her bottom lip in a pout.
Because you can’t keep your mouth shut, Alma thought, but aloud, she said, “It doesn’t concern you.”
“Please, Alma. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I swear I’ll keep it a secret.”
Alma hadn’t spoken to Greta for a week after she’d let it slip that her older sister had met with Father Rodolfo one afternoon two years ago. They’d both suffered Robert’s foul mood that night, and Alma had suffered a few lashings of his switch. Greta, Alma knew, felt terrible afterward. Her younger sibling had pleaded for forgiveness and offered to do Alma’s chores. Alma had learned then her younger sister looked up to her, loved her, and Alma forgave her quickly after, but she was still careful to guard her secrets.
Sighing, she threw Greta a crumb of truth. “Let’s just say I’m not going to get married soon.”
Greta’s mouth formed an O of surprise for a moment, and then she shook her head vehemently. “I won’t tell a soul, honest. And Alma”—her eyes were round—“I’m glad. He’s too old!”
“Thanks,” Alma said, feeling a small sense of comfort that her sister agreed with her. She jumped down from the barstool, her head swimming as the alcohol hit her system. “I think I will eat something.”
Greta handed her a napkin. “The chef sends their compliments.”
She smiled and tucked into the plate, stuffing herself with kn?dels, her favorite potato dumplings, and an extravagant helping of mushroom gravy.
The next hour, she helped Greta with the dishes and, after, headed upstairs. The beer’s effects had started to wear off, and a lead weight formed in the pit of her stomach. The longer she waited, the more she dreaded the impending conversation. Finally, when her siblings went to bed, she dragged herself to the front room where her parents were stretched out on the sofa. Her mother was quietly sewing, and her stepfather was reading a newspaper. Though the rest of their home was quiet, the sounds of a baby crying could be heard through the thin walls from next door.