It was an uncertain legal argument and an even shakier moral premise, at least in the eyes of Bergen County’s elected officials, but Constance was emboldened by the idea. Her spirits surged even higher when she opened the door and breathed in the heavenly fragrance of a bakery that had not quite reached the end of the day’s operation.
Constance knew bakers to keep early hours and was relieved to find Minnie’s landlord, Mr. Elliott, still there. Apparently one of the ovens had failed, and he was pounding at it with a wrench in between groans and curses.
The other oven worked just fine, and a late batch of popovers had just come out. A girl behind the counter sold her two, with powdered sugar. She took them in a little brown bag and tried not to think about the cloud of steam that would be released if she bit into one right at that moment, before they were allowed to cool. There was nothing like a popover directly out of the oven.
But that would have to wait. When she told the girl that she needed to see Mr. Elliott on sheriff’s business, he threw down his wrench and came over. He looked every bit the part of a baker: rotund and heavy around the shoulders, with massive hands that knew how to pound down a rising loaf of dough or punish an errant oven. He seemed a little gruff about the interruption and guessed right away the nature of her business.
“You know that girl left without paying the rent,” he said by way of greeting. He stood behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron.
“She can hardly pay it now. She’s behind bars.”
“Deserves it.”
“I understand you’ve agreed to testify against her. I take it you’ve spoken to someone at the prosecutor’s office.”
“Course I have. I want my rent money.”
Constance feigned regret. “Oh dear. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. This isn’t a case about the rent, and you won’t get paid.”
“What do you mean, I won’t get paid? I’m going to tell the judge?—”
“It’s a morality charge. I can assure you that the proceedings have nothing to do with the payment of rent. You’d have to speak to your city clerk about that.” Constance didn’t know who one might speak to about collecting late rent, but thought that a city clerk sounded convincing.
He snorted at that. “Well, I might as well tell the judge anyway. That girl was no good. Had a different fellow up there every night.”
“Did she? How many fellows, exactly? The judge will ask, and you’ll be under oath.”
The baker looked over at the girl behind the counter, who Constance took to be his daughter. “Go on back there and pull out those rolls.” He looked at the sack in Constance’s hand and said, “You’ll ruin them if you wait.”
“I know. But tell me first: How many men did you see? Are you going to be able to describe them?”
“Describe them? I don’t live on the premises. I only caught that one fellow because I’d come in to light the ovens.”
“Who was he?”
He shrugged. “I just saw him run out. Tony chased him down the alley. He was plenty mad.”
“What did Tony say?”
He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. “Well, he claimed the fellow was his brother, but what do I know?”
“Exactly!” Constance said, with enormous relief. At least this part of Minnie’s story was true. “What do you know? Was the man Tony’s brother, or wasn’t he?”
She reached in the bag, unable to wait any longer.
“Aw, hell. Is that what the judge is going to ask?”
She nodded, her mouth full of powdered sugar and a flaky golden crust that almost took her mind right off her business. It made the baker smile to watch his popovers disappear.
“Well,” said Mr. Elliott, a note of resignation in his voice, “I promised I’d say my piece in court, so I suppose I’ll have to.”
When Constance was able to speak again, she said, “That’s just fine, Mr. Elliott. It’s entirely up to you. The first session starts at eight o’clock. The prosecutor will let you know what day to appear.”
“Eight? I’ve got a bakery to run! You don’t expect me to close my doors just to go tell a judge that I don’t know what I saw, do you?”
She shrugged indifferently. “Sounds like a wasted morning to me. What did you say you had coming out of the oven next?”
36
THEY WERE THE WORST POTATOES Minnie had ever seen. The skins were green, they were soft and withered, most were pitted with bruises, and all of them sprouted roots. She tried to cut away the worst bits and was left with a meager pile of white potato-flesh and a much larger mound of peels.
“Don’t let Miss Pittman see that,” Agatha said, and quickly brushed the waste into a bin.
“But we can’t be expected to eat it,” Minnie said.
“Oh, you’ll eat worse. There’s bugs in the flour. You’ll see them in your dinner rolls.”
“Agatha!” called out Esther from across the kitchen. “Don’t be like that.”
“But it’s true,” Agatha persisted. She had plump lips and a smile wider on one side than another, and she spoke with a lisp. Minnie liked her because of it. She allowed Agatha to take her by the elbow and lead her to the flour-bin, which pulled out from a cabinet in the pantry.
“See here. Bugs.” She reached in, took a handful of flour, and let it fall. Little brown bugs the size of fleas scampered to bury themselves as they landed.
Minnie believed a show of strength to be the best course of action. “They’re only weevils. You can sift them right out and feed them to the chickens.”
“The chickens!” Agatha screeched. “You’re not a city girl, are you?”
“I wanted to be,” Minnie said, “and that’s what got me into trouble.” She went back to her potatoes and tried to be less discriminating with her knife. Agatha was scrubbing pots and Esther, the eldest and most senior resident of the state home, was boiling down ham bones for soup.
“What did get you into trouble for, exactly?” Agatha asked.
“No, let’s try to guess,” Esther said. She turned around and squinted at Minnie, as if she might divine the answer. “You ran away from home.”
“Of course she did,” Agatha said. “You don’t even need to answer that one. But then what happened? You ran away from home and you found a man to take you in.”
“He didn’t exactly take me in,” Minnie said. “I persuaded him to rent a room for the two of us.”
“Oh, that’s much worse,” Agatha said. “Don’t tell it to the judge that way.”
“That’s right,” Esther said. “You never want anything to be your idea. I’m here because I kept insisting that no one else was to blame. The judge believed me, and thought that any girl who lived such a wicked life of her own accord ought to be locked up and stripped of her inheritance.”
“You didn’t really have an inheritance, did you?” Minnie took another look at Esther and tried to picture her as the daughter of a rich man. She did have a pretty little chin and a turned-up nose, and eyes that might be made to look dramatic with a little effort. Minnie could imagine her in silk and furs.
“Ten thousand dollars would have been mine on my twenty-first birthday, but now a judge has hold of it, and I might never see it again, unless I marry the sort of man who won’t squander it.”
“What’s the point of ten thousand dollars, if not to squander it?” Minnie returned.