The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

We’ve walked at night, the few times we could both sneak away. Once we stole enough time to ride the Brooklyn ferry over the moonlit river, stars scattering in the waves before the prow of the boat as we pressed against the railing, the dotted lamps lining Manhattan’s wharves receding behind us, enclosing us in darkness. Herschel drew his thumb along my jaw and moved his fingers into my hair and then he kissed me, his young beard chafing my cheeks as he touched his lips to mine, first nervously, trembling, and then with hunger.

I’m lost in a daydream of Herschel, the feel of his mouth on mine, the smell of his skin, and the prickling and trembling in my body when I think about him. I’m deaf to the catcalls from the men lounging on the Bowery.

I cross Houston Street, pulse thudding in my throat. I’ll be there in seven minutes. I’ve counted. Seven minutes until I see him. Seven minutes until he gives me the cameo and tells me his plan.

A rumbling noise approaches behind me in the street, and then a carriage thunders by of a like I’ve never seen. It veers so close I’m pushed aside by the breeze of its passing. Frightened, I scream, and thrust my knuckles into my mouth. The carriage is painted a vibrant butterfly yellow, and it spits like a chimney from under the chassis.

And there’s no horse.

“Did you see that?” I shout, reaching out and grabbing the first sleeve in the crowd, which proves to belong to a young mother, only a bit older than me, her face shaded by a fashionable bonnet with a bow under her chin, her hands on the shoulders of a small boy.

“See what?” she cries, looking around with alarm.

“I thought I saw . . .” I trail off.

But I’ve lost sight of it, between the landaus and wagons, pulled by snorting horses, driven by harassed-looking boys.

The young matron gives me a wary look and steers her boy away in the crowd.

I carry on. Only now I’m unable to daydream. My feet bring me downtown, and under my feet, I feel an unfamiliar rumbling, as though a sleeping giant were turning over with a snore. A cadre of young men in plaid suits plays at cards at a table in the open doors of a beer hall, and though I should know better, I call to them, “What can that rumbling be? Can you hear it?”

They exchange glances among themselves, laughing, and one of them says, “I’ll give you a rumbling.”

I shake my head, hurrying farther, looking down at the bricked sidewalk as I pick my way between daubs of mud and excrement. In one stretch the bricks have been oddly replaced with what look like narrow iron bars, as if it were the door to a dungeon. No one else notices anything amiss. I edge around it, peering down, and am met with a blast of hot air, like the furnace of hell, and a screeching and groaning such as I’ve never heard. Lights flicker by, and the rumbling passes again, and I fall backward in confusion, my hands pressed to either side of my head.

“What is that?” I scream.

A few passersby hesitate, deciding whether to offer me help, or if they should summon whatever man has appointed himself guardian of the ward to usher me off the streets, or into a wagon to be hauled off to the House of Refuge.

A German family loiters on the periphery, watching me, and presently the man approaches me with caution at the apparent urging of his wife. He has a friendly face, and his tall hat is new and brushed.

“Miss?” he says, his accented voice low so as not to attract attention. “Is there someone I can help you to be finding?”

I’m confused by this offer. Herschel, I think, but I must only be a few blocks away, and it is only his face that I crave.

“N-n-n-o,” I stammer, backing away. “Thank you, no.”

“You are sure?” the young wife calls.

Without answering her, I turn on my heel and run.

I haven’t gone twenty steps before the rumbling returns, and I stop short, gasping, watching in openmouthed horror as the tenement next to me begins, slowly, inexorably, to shake. A wave surges up the building as across the surface of the sea, from its foundations, up to the windows, to the pitched roof.