The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“How much?” he asks, leaning nearer.

A knot of other men passes by, remarks on the exchange, and laughs. The tight-laced man straightens, red-faced, and lifts his hat to the passing men. Their laughter becomes an uproar.

The hot corn girl looks annoyed. They’re going to cost her her business. After all, she’s really selling two things. Already the tight-laced man is moving away as if they weren’t in the midst of a negotiation.

“Here, I’ll buy it,” I say to her. I’m hungry anyway.

The men all think this is a marvelous turn of events, and hoot and applaud like they’re at a disreputable theater. A bright-colored woman in plaid happens by, an actress or someone pretending to be one, and joins in the merriment. One of the men puts his arm about her waist, and leans in to hear the price she whispers in his ear. It’ll be more than the hot corn, I can tell.

“Fine,” the corn-selling girl says, ignoring them. I fish a penny out of my skirt pocket and press it into her palm. She hands over the ear.

As I take it, I look at her. She’s shorter than me, about Beattie’s size, but I can see that she’s older than Beattie. Maybe older than me, but not by much. Her cheekbones are so sharp I can see them clearly through her skin, and her eyebrows and hair are wiry.

“Thanks,” I say to her with a nod.

“Hmmph,” the girl grunts, uninterested in my charity. She turns away, and resumes her cry of “Hot corn! Piping hot! Hot corn!”

I peel the husk back and take a bite, wandering south on Bowery. It won’t take long for me to reach Herschel’s uncle’s schmatte shop. I have money for thread. The corn is rich and sweet, and I chew contentedly, pausing every so often to spit corn gristle into the sewer along the center of the avenue. I’m starting to feel better. It must have been the Madeira, honestly. I didn’t realize I’d had so much. Mrs. Dudley kept refilling my glass over and over, teasing me about when I’d get married, and tickling me to make me tell her about my beaux, and I was so afraid I’d say something to give myself away about Herschel that I kept reaching for my wineglass so I wouldn’t have to talk. And then it was time to dash for the dais, and . . .

I pause, looking at the overlapping posters pasted up on the brick wall of a haberdasher. Ads for theatrical productions, sheet music, lumber, cigars, rum, molasses, rewards for slaves run away, a notice for a political meeting. I take another big bite of my corn and chew, wiping my lips with the back of my hand as I look closer.

STOP THE MARCH OF TIME, it reads. Underneath the heading there’s a rough engraving of a barge in flames. Then there’s a time listed for a meeting, and the signature of the notice reads UNITED BROTHERHOOD OF LUDD—

The rest is torn off.

I frown.

“And how are you today, my dear?” whispers a voice in my ear.

I turn and spy a man with a huge round belly straining at the buttons of his waistcoat and spindle legs, his mustache growing into the hair on his cheeks. He’s looking at my chest. All the blood vessels in his potato-nose have burst long ago.

With a sigh of disgust I throw my corncob into the street and start to walk downtown.

“Hey,” the man says, trotting after me. “I’m askin’ you a question.”

I hunch up my shoulders to make my chest smaller, and walk faster.

“Hey! Girlie!” He’s catching up. I can hear his breath huffing through his hideous nose.

“Leave me alone!” I shout, and a few heads turn from passersby noticing, and then deciding not to intervene.

“Look here,” he says, reaching for my elbow, but before he can get his hands on me I break into a dead run.

“Hey!” he hollers. “Why’d you walk so slow, if you didn’t wanna talk to me?”