Maks always knew there were rich people. But this is more than rich. It’s rich times ten—as Agnes might do the math—and even then, Maks ain’t sure he’s got it right. This place, he’s thinking, is a palace.
And the people! He don’t see one rich person; he’s seeing a parade of rich people. Women in fancy long skirts, wide collars, puffy sleeves with jewels on necks and fingers. Big hats. Umbrellas in hand. Men in suits. Coats. Top hats. Derbies. Walking canes with gold grips. Neckties. Spats. Glossy whiskers and mustaches. People talking, talking, and smoking.
Plenty of servants, too, a lot in uniforms, like Maks, moving like lean dogs on long leashes.
An hour ago Maks was in an old, wrecked house, scared to death. Now he’s in a world that’s flashing money and he has no idea what’s gonna happen and he’s scared to death all over again—but in a whole new way.
The guy leads Maks up to a glossy wooden door and stops. Maks looks up to him.
“Mr. Packwood is in here,” says the mug, and he raps hard on the door.
“Come in!” calls a voice.
Maks, more than a little panicky, feels a push from behind. He hates this Packwood. But if he wants to help Emma, he’s got no choice. He opens the door. Steps in.
53
What’s Willa doing?
She stands on the street watching as Maks heads uptown. He’s my friend, she’s thinking, liking the thought. Then she heads back to Birmingham Street. At the apartment she finds Mama on her knees scrubbing shirts in the big tin bucket.
Mama looks up and smiles. “Is everybody safe?” she asks.
“We brought the boys to school,” Willa says. “Can . . . can I help you?”
Mama sits back on her legs, pushes hair away from her face with red hands. “That would be good.” Looks at the water in her bucket. “I can use fresh water. And once I get these five shirts done, I’m going to visit Emma.”
“If you’d like,” says Willa, “I’ll go with you.”
Not waiting for a reply, Willa puts her stick in a corner, takes up two buckets, and carries them down to the backyard. A girl is there, using the pump. Willa waits.
“Hola,” says the girl.
Willa nods. “My name’s Willa. I live on the top floor. With the Geless family.”
“Me llamo Rosa. Vivo en el tercer piso. En la parte de atrás.” With a quick smile, the girl goes her way, hauling a heavy bucket.
Willa dumps her dirty water on the ground, shoos the chickens away, pumps up water. With a bucket in each hand, pausing on each landing, she carries them back to the rooms.
“It’s a long way, isn’t it?” says Mama. “Do you know how to do laundry?”
Willa shakes her head.
“Work one shirt at a time, scrub it hard against the washing board. Use that yellow soap. Like this, see? I’ll string the drying rope.”
Willa balls up her skirt, gets on her knees, reaches into the cold water, and begins to rub a shirt against the washing board. Mama watches. “A little bit more this way,” she says, taking a shirt and scrubbing it harder.
Mama ties a length of rope between two chairs. “It’s such a filthy city,” she says.
After a while she inspects the shirt Willa has been washing. “Good,” she says, and hangs it over the line.
The two work silently. Suddenly, Mama says, “I keep thinking about Emma. Did you go into that prison with Maks?”
Willa shakes her head.
“Horrid. Skraekkelig, we say in Danish. And she’s gonna be on trial. Ah, Willa, a child of mine . . . in prison. And . . . and none of us . . . we’re not doing anything.” She sighs deeply. Reaches up to smear some tears from her eyes.
Willa stares at her.
“When you have children,” says Mama, “you’ll see.” She reaches out and touches Willa’s cheek. “The good things that happen to them fill your heart with joy,” she says. “The bad things . . . fill it with pain. I sometimes wonder why we give them life. It’s hard to give them more.”
Willa gazes at her.
“Where did Maks go?” Mama suddenly asks. “Did he tell you? That boy does what he likes.”
Willa takes a breath. “He’s gone . . . to that Waldorf Hotel. Where . . . Emma worked.”
“Why would he go there?”
Willa is silent.
“Ah, Willa. My children often don’t tell me things. They think I don’t understand. That I’m stupid.”
Willa, holding out the last wet shirt to Mama, stands up. “If we sit at the table,” she says, “I’ll tell you.”
54
When the office door slaps shut behind him, Maks finds himself in a wood-paneled room as fancy as the other places he’s already seen in the hotel. Three leather-covered chairs, books on shelves, a big table behind which a man is seated. Maks supposes it’s Packwood. He’s clean-shaven, wearing a fine frock coat, vest, silk tie.
Standing next to him is a woman. They look somewhat alike. As Maks sees it, the two must have been talking.
The woman is tall, wearing a big, flowered hat over black hair, dressed in clothes, Maks can tell, that must have cost a lot. Though he’s sure he ain’t never seen her before, she seems familiar. He don’t know why.
Both man and woman turn and look at Maks standing there, shoes damp, cold, fidgeting nervously, not knowing what to do.
“Yes?” says the man. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Maks . . . Brown.”
“Ah! Bartleby Donck’s friend.”
The woman starts and stares at Maks.
To Maks, the man says, “You are Emma Geless’s brother?”
“Guess I am.” Maks can’t get himself to say “sir.”
“Do you know my name?” asks the man.
“Packwood.”
“Exactly. The hotel detective.”
“I know,” says Maks, pushing down the anger he feels. Balling his fists, he waits for Packwood to speak. Same time, he decides he don’t care who the mug is. He ain’t gonna let him bully him.
The man gestures to the woman. “This is my sister, Mrs. Winton.” Then he says to her, “Maud, I think you’d best go.”
The woman says nothing, just keeps staring at Maks. He wishes he knew why. All the same, she leaves the room, full skirts swishing. She smells like flowers.
Packwood studies Maks, takes a long time to say, “A few days ago I arrested your sister.”
“She didn’t steal nothing.”
Packwood says, “Loyalty to one’s sister is a fine thing. What makes you so sure?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“Not even for a boyfriend?”
“She don’t have no boyfriend.”
“How do you know?”
“She tells me everything.”
“All?”
“Sure. Don’t your sister tell you her secrets?”
Packwood is silent for a few moments. Then he says, “Tell me one of your sister’s secrets.”
“Wouldn’t be a secret if I tells you, would it?”
Packwood smiles. “True enough. But by telling me you might help her.”
Maks considers and decides to try. “Well,” he says, “a couple of weeks ago she took the El home.”
“Why should that be a secret?”
“Costs a nickel, don’t it? Shouldn’t have done it.”
“The reason?”
“My family needs every penny we got. We walk.”
“Ah! Anything else?”
Maks thinks. “A week ago she bought a ribbon. A blue one.”
“Was that for a boyfriend?”
“I just told you, she don’t have no particular gent. Just that she shouldn’t have spent no money on that, neither.”
“Same reason as before?”
“Yeah.”
Packwood frowns. Presses his hands together, rests his chin on the tips.
Maks waits. He’s wondering if he should tell this guy ’bout Emma being at a dance hall. Decides not to.
“If you know so
much,” says Packwood, “I assume you know that I found the watch and chain she stole beneath her pillow.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You only found the chain.”
“How do you know that?”
“Emma told me.”
“You’ve seen her, then?”
“Yeah. In The Tombs. In that cell they put her in.”
“How is she faring?”
“You probably don’t care, but it’s awful. And she’s going on trial.”
“Indeed. In two days.”
“Two?” cries Maks, his heart squeezing.
Packwood nods. “Saturday court.”
“You gonna send her to Blackwell’s Island?”
“Will the judge? Most likely.”
“But she didn’t do nothing wrong,” Maks says, fighting back tears and struggling not to run off.
Packwood, eyeing Maks, stands and starts pacing behind his desk. “Do you go to school?”
“Used to,” Maks scowls.
“No more?”
“Too old. I’m a newsie, ain’t I? Need to sell my papers. People like you, you don’t understand. My family needs all the money it can get.”
“Perhaps that’s why your sister took the watch.”
“She didn’t take nothing!” Maks yells.
Packwood stands still. “Very well. Why did Mr. Donck send you here?”
“Teaching me to be a detective.”
Packwood suppresses a smile. “Going to replace me?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t go round ’resting no innocent people.”
“How well do you know Mr. Donck? Anything about his life? His career as a Pinkerton detective?”
Maks shakes his head.
“Never mind. What does he expect you to do here?”
“Supposed to find evidence that’ll prove my sister didn’t steal nothing.”
“How do you intend to do that?”
“You’re the detective, ain’t you? You’re supposed to tell me.”
Packwood stands there, staring at Maks. Then he says, “I’m not doing this for you. Or for your sister. There’s only one reason: Mr. Donck. I owe him much. But if, in any way, you do anything wrong, disobey me, cause problems, anything, I’ll toss you out to the street. Is that perfectly clear?”
“You done it to my sister, so I guess you’d do it to me.”
Packwood sighs. “You’re wearing the uniform of a bellboy. Which means you’ll sit in the main lobby. You’ll be asked to do errands. All kinds. Anything a guest might ask. You will do so swiftly, silently, and politely.”
“Supposing someone asks me to do something I don’t know how to do,” Maks says. “I ain’t never been here ’fore.”
“There’s a bench for bellboys. Ask questions of the other boys. They can help. Nearby is the bell captain, Mr. Trevor. He’ll instruct you. Is this all understood?”
“Mr. Donck says I’m supposed to find clues. Am I gonna be able to do that?”
“Keep your eyes open,” says Packwood. “See if you can learn anything. If you do, inform me. Now come along.”
Maks, not moving, says, “Donck says I’m to ask you something.”
“Which is?”
“Couple of things. My sister, Emma, told me that some guy—some guest—said he was gonna say something nice ’cause she cleaned his room decent. Donck said I was to ask if he ever did. And if he did, who was the guy.”
“Ah.”
“Another thing: wants to know the number on that room, the place where that watch was stolen.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
Packwood remains still for a while before saying, “I’ll see what I can learn. Now come with me.”
55
Back in the apartment Mama hangs a wet shirt on the line, then sits on one of the chairs. “Is Maks doing something bad?” she asks Willa.
“He’s trying to help Emma,” says the girl. Then she tells Mama ’bout Mr. Donck, what Maks agreed to do.
Mama listens in silence. Then she says, “Willa, why didn’t Maks tell me himself?”
“He’s worried you’d say he shouldn’t go, and he didn’t want to disobey you.”
Mama pushes a strand of hair from her face. “It’s good we came to America,” she says after a moment. “There was nothing back there for us. My husband—Papa—is a boat maker. Back in Denmark he couldn’t find work. We thought it would be better in America. Me? I learned English as a laundry girl in an English merchant’s house. In Copenhagen. It’s not such a big city as here.” She leans forward. “Willa, there’s so much that’s different here. And it’s hard when your children know more than you do.
“Like Agnes. Do you know, she wants to marry Monsieur Zulot. I told her, ‘You’re too young! Just fourteen!’ She says, ‘But I may not live long.’ Then she says, ‘Look at Juliet.’ I think that’s some person she met in one of those classes she takes. But I don’t know who this Juliet is. Why would her parents let her do such a thing? Fourteen!”
Mama holds Willa’s arm. “Do you think it’s right that Maks went to the hotel? Will it help Emma?”
“Hope so.”
“When will he come home?”
“Not sure.”
Mama is quiet for a while. “Willa, if he didn’t want to tell me, why did you?”
“I don’t want to lie.”
Mama grows thoughtful. “That other day,” she says, “did you really save him from a beating?”
Willa nods.
“You’re a good person,” says Mama, patting Willa’s hand. “I like you. I’m glad he brought you home.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Do you know what I miss most? Here? In America?”
Willa shakes her head.
“My mama.” After a moment Mama smiles and says, “Do you know what I like best about America?”
Willa waits.
“Coffee. At home it’s a rich person’s drink. Here everybody drinks it. Even my children.”
“Mama,” says Willa, “how sick is Agnes?”
“We’re not sure. At that place where Agnes goes to night school, someone told her about a doctor who might help. On Mott Street.”
“Did she go to him?”
“It costs a great deal. We’ve been saving. I tried to sell my hair.” She smiles. “I couldn’t. Too much gray. Imagine being told such a thing! But now, with Emma . . . Willa, if Emma has a trial, what will happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Papa says if she’s sent to prison, he’ll break in, steal her away. Take her back to Denmark.” She reaches out and grips Willa’s hand. “He and I, we’re very frightened.”
She looks at the clock. “Ah! We should go to that prison and see Emma. I have more food to bring. I’ll iron later. It will be good if she meets you.”
It don’t take long for the two to set out. Willa has her stick. They walk silently at first.
Then Mama says, “Why do you always take that stick?”
“It keeps me safe,” says Willa.
Mama suddenly stops. “Willa, while Maks is at that hotel, who’ll sell his papers?”
“I will. Jacob will come with me.”
“Did Jacob say he would?”
“Maks told him to.”
Mama shakes her head. “Those boys listen to him more than me. Ryker worships him.”
They continue to walk. After a while Mama says, “Willa, I don’t want you to tell me what you don’t want to, but I’d like to know about your family. What happened to them?”
Willa is silent for a long time. Mama waits patiently. Then Willa tells Mama what she told Maks—the death of her mother, the disappearance of her father, adding, “I’m sure he died.”
“I’m sorry,” says Mama, taking the girl’s arm and wrapping it around hers.
“I think . . . ,” says Willa, “I think it would be better that way.”
“Why?”
“I . . . I don’t think he was a
good man.”
Mama squeezes Willa’s arm. “So much is hard. But you have a home with us,” she says. “You’re welcome to take our name. Geless. It’s a good Danish name. I don’t even need to know your name.”
But Willa says, “Brunswick.” She says, “It used to be Brunswick.”
56
Maks follows Packwood this way and that till he comes to what the man calls the “Lobby.” Like everything else in the Waldorf, it’s huge and fancy, dripping money like Niagara Falls.
Ceilings are wide and high—maybe thirty feet—held up by stone columns and arches. Floors made of colored bits of stone. Chairs with leather seats looking like thrones. Big paintings on walls. Potted ferns and flowers everywhere, like an indoor forest.
Every few feet there are boys in the same uniform Maks is wearing. He guesses they’re waiting to be asked to do something. They are too. Rich people stop them and say things like, “Get my handkerchief from my room. . . . Fetch my luggage. . . . Boy! Deliver this message.” Ain’t things Maks knows how to do.
Packwood leads him to a small table with lots of carved wood. Even has a telephone on it. Maks knows ’bout telephones, what they do, but he has no idea how to use ’em.
“Mr. Trevor,” says Packwood to the sour-looking man at the table, “this is Mr. Brown, our new bellboy.”
This Trevor mug sniffs his snooter. “And whom, may I ask, hired him?”
“I did,” says Mr. Packwood.
“Mr. Packwood, I have absolutely no—”
“Just do as I say,” snaps Packwood, and walks away.
Mr. Trevor looks Maks over and don’t seem pleased at what he’s seeing. “Have you been a bellboy anywhere?” he asks.
“No, sir.”
“Do you know anything about the Waldorf?”
“It’s awful big.”
Just as Maks is standing there, a gent comes up to the desk, brushes Maks aside, and says to Trevor, “I’m looking for Mr. Yost. Is he in?” Trevor checks a big paper for the name, reaches for the telephone. Cranks it. “Mr. Yost, please.”