The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, setting my jaw. “When they see what the canal really means, there’ll be riots in the streets. I’m going to give them a grand display they’ll never forget.”


We roll with drumbeats and fanfare and torches all down along the water’s edge, the crowd finally growing so thick that the carriages can go no farther. The governor has gotten out of his carriage ahead of ours and wades through the populace, escorted on either side by rough-looking young men with hats pulled low over their eyes. The Battery is thronged with crowds the likes of which I’ve never seen, the waterfront bristling with masts in silhouette against the darkening sky, and more ships floating at anchor here and there in the harbor, with low black rowboats sculling back and forth between them. Lanterns hang from every mast and spar, smoke belching out of smokestacks and casting the night in a burning haze. We’re nearly there. How can I keep them off the boat?

Mother and Papa are fumbling at the carriage door when a drunk sticks his head through the window and cries, “Canal Day! Issss Canal Day! Huzzah!”

He thrusts a bottle in through the window, and in a trice I knock the bottle out of his hand, dumping foul-smelling liquid in Papa’s lap. With a bellow Papa jumps to stand up and brush the spillage off him, cracking his head hard on the landau roof. He collapses with a groan back into the seat, his head lolling, eyes rolled up in their sockets.

“Peter?” my mother asks, resting a concerned hand on his chest. She shakes his lapel, and he slumps over senseless to the side, leaning on Beattie, who struggles to right him. Ed cuddles closer to me, the tears having overflown their dams.

Now who’s the crackbrain, I think wickedly.

“Mr. Van Sinderen?” a young corporation lackey cries into the carriage window after hustling the drunk away. “Are you quite all right, sir?”

The bands outside are striking up again, and a lone firework goes off with a whine and glittering pop over the water. Someone bellows through a speaking tube that all parties expected on the barge should make their way to the gangplank.

Mother shakes Papa more roughly. “Peter!” she shouts in his ear. “We’re going to miss the boat! Wake up!”

“Mr. Van Sinderen?” the lackey says again. “They’re calling people to the barges, sir.”

“Peter, dammit!” Mother says, pulling off her glove and slapping Papa across the face. The force from her blow flops his head over to the other side, but his eyes are glassy and he doesn’t reply.

Cursing, the lackey wrestles the carriage door open and leans in, thrusting a small container of ammonium salts under Papa’s nose. Mother catches a whiff of it and coughs, shouting, “Be careful where you put that, for God’s sake!”

Meanwhile, the door on my side of the carriage opens softly, and I feel a gentle hand on my arm.

“Annie,” Herschel says to me levelly. “It’s time to go.”

My lover stands before me full of life, and my heart quails at the sight. I push Ed into Beattie’s arms, take Herschel’s proffered hand, and step out of the carriage. I feel as light as a leaf, as though beams of light were shining out of my head.

“No!” Beattie screams. “Wait!”

I turn to my struggling family in the carriage, Mother gagging on the ammonia stench as she and the secretary try to rouse the dead weight of my drunken, head-stunned father, Beattie wedged in next to them, her arms full of my bawling little brother. I lean back into the carriage and plant a kiss on Beattie’s cheek.

“Don’t you worry,” I say with a smile, tucking a hank of her hair behind her ear. “You keep them here. Watch Ed. I’ll be back soon as I can.”

I’m lying to her. We both know it. Tears start to fill Beattie’s lower lids.