The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

He steps forward out of the darkness, scowling down at me. He’s a big man, bigger than Herschel, with curls over his ears and a full beard. Long fringes hang from the waist of his trousers. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and he’s wiping his hands on a cloth. They’re stained with something, but I’m not sure what.

“I’ll just be a minute,” I say, surprising myself with my insistence. He can’t frighten me. He’s just dream-stuff, too.

The uncle fixes me in a long, steady stare and slowly puts aside the rag in his hands. “Time for more thread already, eh?” he says lightly.

I inhale sharply.

He turns his back to me, browsing through shelves of cloth bolts and rolls of lace.

“Yes,” I say. “I do a lot of . . . sewing.”

Not exactly true. But I have found myself in desperate need of thread lately.

He grunts, his fingers roaming the shelves behind him.

“That corporation man, the banker, he’s your father, yes?” he says without looking around.

I’m taken aback by this question. How would this man, whose name I’ve never learned, possibly know who my father is?

“Yes,” I say, wary.

“They have a big celebration soon,” the man continues. “For a big canal. Everything going to change.”

I’m not sure what Herschel’s uncle is getting at. His tone is strangely hostile.

“Very big,” I say, drawing myself up taller in a way that Mother calls imperious. “It’s going to transform the city. Papa’s been working very hard.”

The man snorts. “Hard work, she says. She doesn’t know from hard work.”

I frown, resenting this man who seems to be enjoying making me feel uncomfortable.

“Is Herschel here?” I ask, my voice cool.

“Not here.” The uncle shakes his head.

He sorts through several rolls of thread, finally selecting one particular roll of bright crimson. He holds it up to the light, squinting at it and turning it this way and that.

“But it’s Tuesday,” I press. “He’s usually here, Tuesdays.”

“Not here,” the uncle reiterates. He plunks the thread onto the counter, then leans forward on his elbow and glares at me. “You know who will benefit, from this canal? Who, besides your father, I mean,” he asks, brows lowered over piercing eyes.

I pick up the thread quickly and stuff it in my pocket. Herschel’s uncle’s gaze is unnerving in its directness.

“Can you tell me where he is? It’s very important that I speak to him,” I say.

I fish around in my skirt pocket for the necessary pennies to pay for my contraband, and slap them onto the counter between us. Herschel’s uncle pays no attention.

“You don’t know, do you? Your father and the upstanding corporation machers will line their pockets, and for what?” he says, a new fierceness in his eyes. “To give rich men even softer cushions for sitting?”

“I have to find Herschel,” I insist. “I have to talk to him. It’s very important.”

“Herschel’s. Not. Here,” the uncle says.

I’m so angry, I could spit. But I realize that I have nothing to gain by acting like a child. Of course he won’t tell me where his nephew is. He’s a hateful man.

“Fine,” I say in my coldest voice. “I’ll be going then. But when you see Herschel, please tell him I was here.”

I turn on my heel, and as I storm out of the dry goods shop, the uncle calls out, “Be careful, Dutch girl who sews so much. I don’t think you know what’s going to happen.”

? ? ?

I’m blinded by anger as I stalk up Pearl Street. What did he mean, talking about my father like that? What did he mean, I don’t know what’s going to happen? I finger the thread in my pocket, rolling it in my palm. It makes me feel better, having it there.

Lamps are flaming to life as night advances in the ward. I have to get home. If I can. How long will I stay here, in this moment? Can I stay here until I find Herschel, or will I close my eyes and open them and find myself somewhere else completely? Does the advancing night conceal another fog bank that will gather me up into itself and deposit me wherever it likes?

What if it takes me nowhere?

I’m not ready to think about that.