She nodded. It was getting late now, almost six. On order of the city, Birdie’s factory had changed its hours to lessen the commuting burden and risk of spreading influenza during peak hours. For the last week, she had started work late but left late too.
When Dawlish pulled up in front of the factory, a few workers were leaving, most still wearing the masks that factories were now demanding. A small group of women were gathered on the corner wearing aprons and handing out flyers. Likely it was yet another recommendation from the city about influenza. Commissioner Copeland had become rather heavy handed with the warnings, but it seemed necessary. One of the women saw Allene waiting on the sidewalk and boldly drew right up to her, offering a narrow slip of paper.
“I’m aware of the regulations. I know not to spit on the sidewalks,” Allene said, refusing. She knew plenty about what to do or not, after listening to Lucy chatter on about it the last few days.
“Would you like to help the city with the influenza scourge? We are looking for volunteers to help with the most needy and sick. Our ladies have—”
“Oh.” Allene cut her off. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. My own father is sick,” she added, knowing it was a slight fib. Her father was ill, but the physician said it was not a terrible case. The woman pressed on, though Allene stepped back two paces.
“But we could use every hand! With so many of our doctors and nurses serving in the war, we are in dire need—”
“My cousin is serving in the war,” Allene interrupted, as if that were payment enough. Though she never thought of him unless someone asked. Clarence was redheaded, a scamp who’d always stolen her candy when they were little. And now he was fighting in the trenches, and she didn’t even know where anymore. It shamed her. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Allene opened her reticule, took out what money she had, and stuffed it into the hands of the volunteer. “Take this. It’s all I have. Surely that can help.”
Allene quickly turned away and walked toward the clock factory entrance. She was afraid to turn her head, but then she saw Jasper.
“Oh, Jasper!” She embraced him. She could still hardly believe his uncle was dead. And those letters! She released him before anyone could stare and organized her thoughts. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” Jasper asked.
“I’m here with Dawlish to pick up Birdie. How did your talk with the police go? Did they find out anything about how your uncle died yet? Who—”
Jasper put his hands up. “You ask more questions than the police and talk twice as fast.” Her barrage had seemed to squeeze out any leftover energy he had. Purple shadows hung beneath his eyes, and his lids were puffy again. Grief hunched his shoulders. He paused before glancing at the doors to the factory. The sun was setting now, and the exodus of workers had ended. He sighed and spoke like every word was exhausting. “I’ll tell you everything, but let’s find Birdie first. Shouldn’t she be out by now?”
“Yes,” Allene said, concern creeping into her voice. “Maybe we should go in and see if she’s all right.”
“Will they let us?”
“Might as well try.”
Inside the entrance was a tall young guard, his nose and mouth smothered by a mask. The air smelled of wood varnish, and one wall was covered with clipboards where the workers signed in.
“I’m sorry, we’re closing,” the guard said.
“I know. Our friend is still inside, and we’re worried. She hasn’t left yet,” explained Jasper.
“I can’t let you in.” The guard started to walk forward, shooing them toward the door. He had the door almost shut when Allene pressed close to the small opening.
“Wait. Can’t you look for her?”
“I have to lock up—”
“Her name is Birdie Dreyer. Can’t you tell her that Allene Cutter is waiting downstairs?”
The guard abruptly stopped closing the door. “Allene Cutter . . . oh! Are you Mrs. Andrew Biddle?”
“I . . . well, not yet, but soon to be.” Who knew plain factory folk cared about the engagement announcements?
He opened the door and waved them in. “You have ten minutes. Go in and have a look, but I’m locking the doors then.”
“Thank you!” Allene grabbed Jasper’s hand and strode past the guard into the darkened hallway. She tried to orient herself and remember where Birdie’s dial-painting room was.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Jasper asked, holding her hand firmly. He was warm and strong. She wished they were in a never-ending tunnel and only she knew its secrets.
“I do.” Soon, she found the staircase. They walked past the clock assembly and electroplating rooms, the latter leaving their chemical perfume lingering in the hallway. It was odd to see them so desolate and empty. “Ah, here we go.”
She led Jasper into the room she remembered. Inside, there was the long table sectioned off into work spaces for each painter. The stools were tucked beneath the stations, and the glass-walled office was there, door open. Faintly, a green-yellow light glowed—at the painter’s stations, on the floor, on the stools. The radium dust was everywhere. Allene swiped her hand on the dusty wall and smiled at her luminescent fingertips.
“Where on earth is Birdie?” she asked, after breaking the spell of the glowing dust.
“I don’t know,” Jasper said. “Does she always come out on time?”
“Yes. Dawlish picks her up and brings her home like clockwork.”
Allene walked to Birdie’s work space in the far corner. Her paintbrushes were propped inside a small glass jar. The pots of radium dust and glue were capped and lined up neatly. Goose bumps rose and spread along Allene’s arms, and her heart sank.
“What if . . . what if . . .” she began, but couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.
“By God, I’ve not been murdered,” Birdie intoned from behind them.
Allene spun around at the same time as Jasper. She would have screamed or cried out in surprise, except she was too much in awe to make a noise.
Birdie stood crookedly in the back of the room, near the far end of the office where a second door was shut. Her hair was half down, waves tumbling over her left shoulder. Her dress was mussed as well, as if she’d rolled down a hill. And her entire body glowed with a luster only belonging to fireflies and summer stars. Despite the disarray of her hair and dress, Jasper audibly sighed at the sight of her, and Allene’s heart ached just to see something so exquisite.
“What happened, Birdie? Why didn’t you leave when everyone else did?” Allene asked.
Birdie didn’t approach them, and Allene was almost afraid to go near her, she seemed so unearthly and ethereal. Perhaps if she touched her, Birdie would disappear forever in a shimmer of magic.
“I’m not well . . .”
“Is it influenza? Oh, we have to get you home . . .”