I ran up the stairs from the basement, my heart beating fast. I was so annoyed at myself for making that slip. Of course these girls would never have taken a cab in their lives. Paddy Riley would never have slipped out of character so easily.
I reached the austere building of the University Settlement and went inside. It reminded me of the time I had lived in the hostel run by a bible society. Strict and cold. Not the kind of place you’d want to stay longer than necessary. A distinguished-looking woman took me into a cluttered little office and pointed at the telephone on the wall. “Do you know how to use this contraption?”
“I’ll manage, thank you.”
She stood behind me, her hands on her hips, watching. It was with some trepidation that I cranked the handle and then heard a voice in my ear. “Number please?” I gave it to her and almost immediately a voice answered. “Miss Blankenship’s residence.”
“Is Miss Blankenship at home, please?”
“I’m afraid she’s not. This is her maid speaking.” A slow voice with an unfamiliar drawl to it.
“When are you expecting her back?”
“We was expectin’ her back by now. Would you care to leave a message for her?”
I dictated my message, suggesting that she might want to join us as soon as possible. When I returned to the headquarters, fifty picketers had been assigned to the morning shift, with the rest ready and waiting to take the places of those who felt faint from standing too long. The meeting concluded in great high spirits but Nell Blankenship didn’t put in an appearance.
Seventeen
It was dark when we finally came out into the evening rain. I hurried home and not even the downpour was able to dampen my spirits. I was bursting with excitement that things were about to happen and that change was in the air. I was so caught up in the momentous things about to happen that I truly believed I was one of them, not just a girl from comfortable surroundings, playing at being a garment worker. This hit me, of course, when I crossed Washington Square and saw the lights from the elegant homes on the north side reflected in the wet pavement, and then Patchin Place with its own quiet serenity.
I came into my living room to find Shamey and Bridie sitting with their cousin Malachy.
“What are you doing here?” I asked coldly. “I thought I made it very clear to your mother that you were not to come to this house.”
“Got a message for ya, don’t I,” he answered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand before holding out an envelope to me. “The lady asked if anyone could take a message to a Miss Molly Murphy at Patchin Place and I said I knew ya on account of my cousins lived at your house. So I got the job. And she said she’d pay me ten cents and I told her the Eastmans always paid us twenty-five. Then she said, ‘Likely enough, but I don’t have illicit funds at my disposal.’ Regular old tartar, she was. Real snooty like. She looks down her nose at me and says, ‘So do you want the job, or shall I ask one of these other boys instead?’ so of course I took it.”
He handed me the envelope, now somewhat grimy and creased. I tore it open.
The letter had been written in obvious haste and uneven penmanship, which must have meant that she had scribbled the note while still out and about. It also meant, I realized with a slight pang of jealousy, that she must have one of those new fountain pens that didn’t leave blots all over the place.
Molly—I have had a successful day. Kathy was employed by Mostel’s on Canal Street and I’ve just been given some startling information that I have to check out. Can you meet me at Ormond’s Café at Canal and Broadway? I’ll wait for you.
—N.
I looked up to see three little faces watching me.
“How long ago did she give you this note, Malachy?”
“Not that long ago. Maybe an hour.”
“Then I must go out again at once. Come on, you and I can walk together.”
He glanced longingly and pointedly at the kitchen. I laughed. “All right. I’ll make us both some bread and dripping to keep us going. And you two—“I turned to Bridie and Shamey ”—had better have some too. Who knows how late I’ll be home.”
Thus fortified, I grabbed an umbrella and we set off down Broadway. This time we rode the trolley. Malachy was entranced. I don’t think he had ever ridden an electric trolley before. When we got off at the Canal Street stop, I glanced around and spotted the lighted windows of Ormond’s Café.
“Where was the lady when she gave you this letter? Was it around here?”
“No. Down there a ways.” He nodded in the direction of the East River. “Down on Canal, not far from Orchard Street and the Walla Walla.”