“And perhaps,” Mama says to Papa, “you’ll be allowed to go before a magistrate. You could . . . you could tell him we could send Emma home to Denmark.”
“Send her back?” cries Maks.
“Better than prison.”
“But she’s a good girl!” cries Papa. “An honest girl.” Then he adds, “But yes, we’ll make sure they know that. One way or another, we’ll get Emma out of that place. Absolutely. No question.”
Too upset to look at his father, Maks turns to Willa. The girl is standing ’gainst the wall, staring at Papa. Maks wonders what she’s thinking.
Papa follows his look, finally notices Willa. “Forgive me,” he says. “But . . . who are you?”
Maks quickly tells him what happened.
Papa sighs. “Maks, I’ve told you. Too many fights. It leads to no good.”
“Papa—”
“What?”
“I sold all my papers. Made my eight cents, and more.” Maks goes to the table, scoops up his pennies, and puts them into Papa’s large, dye-stained hand. “Wasn’t for Willa, wouldn’t have ’em.”
Papa gazes at the pennies. “Every bit helps, doesn’t it?” he says. Closing his fingers round the coins, he turns to Willa. “We thank you,” he says to her. “You see, this family works together. More than ever.” Nodding, he looks round for agreement.
Mama sighs, wipes a tear away, and struggles to her feet. “I’ll make supper,” she says. “Just need water.”
“I’ll get it,” Maks says, wanting to be out of the room.
Snatching up a candle stub from the stove shelf, he lights it from the lamp. Grabs two pails from under the kitchen table, goes to the door, stops and looks at Willa.
“Water’s out back,” he says, hoping she’ll come along.
Willa, darting a shy look at the rest of the family, leaves the apartment too.
Once in the hallway, Maks shuts the door behind them, takes a deep breath. “Hey,” he says, “why’d you bring your stick? Just going to the yard.”
Which is when Willa says, “I’m not staying.”
13
“How come?” says Maks. “Don’t you want no food?”
“Your family is too upset. They don’t want me here.”
Soon as Willa says it, Maks knows it’s true. Makes him feel bad for what he thought ’bout the girl. And the thing is, now he wants Willa to stay. ’Cause with the whole family miserable, he’s sure the night is gonna be awful. But if Willa is there—a stranger—they won’t talk so much ’bout how bad things are. Besides, Willa knows Bruno. So he can talk ’bout that.
Except he don’t know how to say any of it.
“Don’t you want that food I promised?” he coaxes. “Probably fish soup. Mama makes it good.”
Willa shakes her head.
Maks, not knowing what to say, stares at the girl, but she won’t look up. “Okay,” he says, too exhausted to argue.
Using candlelight to show the way, they go down the five dim flights without talking. As they go, Maks keeps glancing at Willa. Keeps seeing that sadness on her face. Makes him feel worse.
They get to the front door. Stand there, still not saying nothing.
Willa looks up. “Hope your sister is okay.”
“Yeah.”
“You know where I live. You don’t have to be chased to come and tell me what happens to her.”
“Sure,” says Maks.
He pulls the door open. And what’s he see? Right across the street—standing under the streetlamp—it’s Bruno.
14
Maks slams the door shut.
“What’s the matter?” says Willa.
“Bruno. That redheaded guy from the gang. ’Cross the street. He must have followed us.”
Willa reaches for the door.
“Don’t!” Maks says, blocking her way. “That guy’ll kill you soon as look at you. Better he don’t know we seen him.”
Willa just stands there.
“Might even be more of ’em,” Maks presses, afraid to look out again. “Won’t matter you’re a girl. Honest, they’re terrorsome.”
Willa don’t move.
“Don’t worry. You can sleep here,” Maks pleads, really scared for her, upset that he’s the one who got her into this.
Willa eyes the door. “I’ll be in the way.”
“Naw. Honest. We always got room. And in the morning, be lot safer. People on the street. Anyway, be a favor to me if you stayed.”
She looks round. “Why?”
Maks, nodding toward the top of the house, says, “Up there, with everyone upset, it’s gonna be bad. Be good to talk to someone who ain’t family.” He touches her arm. “Come on. You don’t wanna get hurt. And you’ll get some food. Mean it: Mama’s a good cook. Just have to get some water.”
When Willa still don’t move, Maks says, “What’s the matter?”
Willa, eyes down, says, “Your mother said I was dirty. Can . . . that place where you get water, can I wash my face?”
Maks snorts. “That all? Come on.”
He leads Willa out the back way, down the rickety wooden steps, into a small, muddy yard.
On all four sides of the yard, tenement buildings rise up. Light enough from windows—plus Maks’s candle— to see.
Middle of the yard, surrounded by puddles of dirty water, is an iron water pump. Couple of chickens strut ’bout. Back of the yard is what looks like a row of closets.
Maks shoos the chickens away, points to the closets. “Privies,” he says, handing Willa the candle.
Willa hurries to use one of them. When she comes back, Maks is finishing filling his buckets. She hands him the candle, then holds out her hands.
Maks pumps up water, which she throws over her face and rubs. Dirt flows off. “Any better?” Willa asks, peering at him.
It’s almost as if Maks is seeing her for the first time. She’s got a small, thin face, with a slightly turned-up nose. Her mouth is small, tight.
Maks mutters, “You look fine.”
“You sure?”
“Honest.” He hands her the candle and hoists the buckets. She picks up her stick.
As they climb the dim steps, Willa says, “Why do you think that Bruno is out there?”
“Told you. Wants revenge. Beat us up.”
Willa halts and looks down at Maks on the step below. “Us?” she says.
“Sure. Betcha anything he thinks we’re together.”
With tiredness filling her face, Willa says, “He doesn’t know anything about me.”
Maks shrugs. “Don’t matter to him.”
She sighs.
Maks looks up at the girl. The candlelight lets him see her eyes. And what he’s seeing now is that she’s scared.
Willa seems ’bout to speak. Instead, she swings round and heads up the steps again.
Maks follows, thinking, Hey, I’m scared too.
15
Maks and Willa step into the kitchen.
Now, this room, this kitchen—maybe ten feet by ten—what it’s got is a square table covered with yellow oilcloth and a lamp. Plus three chairs and a deep tin sink, which is really a tub. Also, an iron cookstove, a coal scuttle, a storage closet for food, and a cabinet for dishes and pots. There’s a small icebox, but the family only gets ice during hot summers. During winter, they use window ledges to keep things from going worse.
There’s also a big tin bucket—with a scrubbing board—for Mama’s laundry work and for giving baths. On a shelf over the stove are three heavy pressing irons, which Mama also uses for her work.
Not much, but it’s crowded.
The ceiling is tin. The floor is wood. As for walls, they’re all faded green with a few cracks and not much peeling. Two paper pictures stuck to them. One is of Queen Louise of Denmark—Emma found it somewhere. The other is a chromo of President Lincoln, which Maks got from some ward heeler for Election Day. There’s also a wooden clock on the wall.
When Willa and Maks get there, the room
is hot ’cause Mama has the stove going. Agnes is sitting at the table near the oil lamp reading a book. The book’s pages are loose, its cover bent, but she don’t seem to care. As she reads, she coughs.
Maks stands in the doorway, Willa right behind him. He says, “Willa’s sleeping here tonight.”
Mama, at the stove, says nothing, just stirs the pot. Agnes keeps her eyes on her book.
Maks, guessing they’re not happy ’bout Willa staying, don’t want to explain that Bruno’s outside. There’s enough trouble. All he says is, “Where’s Papa?”
Agnes, not lifting her eyes from her reading, says, “In the back room. Very upset.”
“Where the boys?”
“Front room. Not happy either.”
Maks brings the buckets to Mama. To Willa, he says, “Come in.”
He sits at the table, glances at Mama. He can only see her back, but from the way her shoulders keep twitching, he can tell she’s weeping—silently.
Trying to push down the pain he feels, Maks looks over to Willa. The girl’s still standing by the door, not sure where to go. Maks pats the chair next to him.
Not wanting to draw attention, Willa shuts the door softly and sits on the chair’s edge. With downcast eyes, her stick is resting ’cross her knees, as if she’s gonna rush off any moment.
Maks leans toward her and says, “Soon as we get enough money, Papa’s gonna get more chairs.”
Willa barely nods.
Usually at this time, everybody in the family would be in the kitchen talking ’bout what they did that day, with Papa reading a newspaper and announcing what’s happening. This being Monday, Emma should have been home, which means lots of laughter. But this night, other than the clock ticking, the only sounds in the room come from Mama scraping a spoon ’gainst her black iron pot and, every once in a while, her sighs.
“I’m hungry,” Maks blurts out.
“Think how Emma must feel,” says Agnes, not looking up.
Maks slumps down and thinks, Maybe I should go to Denmark.
Sitting there, Maks notices that though Agnes is acting as if she’s reading, she ain’t turning no pages.
Agnes looks up. “Do you mind my asking,” she says to Willa, “where are your mother and father?”
Willa, her voice small, says, “I don’t know.”
Agnes’s cheeks redden. “Forgive me,” she whispers, coughs, bends over her book.
Maks fidgets, leans over the table, pokes his sister, and says, “What you reading?”
Agnes holds up her book. On the cover it says Every Girl Her Own Clerk: How to Get a Job in a Fine Business.
“Reads better than any of us,” Maks tells Willa. “Never pays more than three cents a book. Always reading. Goes to those free night classes at that Educational Alliance over on East Broadway. Trying to get out of the factory.” He glances at his mother. “Mama thinks that’s too high-and-mighty. Says she should stay at the factory.” He pokes his sister again. “Tell Willa what you’re studying.”
Agnes don’t even look up. “Accounting. Typing.”
Willa gives Maks a puzzled look.
“Accounting. Business adding,” says Maks. “Typing is machine writing.”
“Oh.”
Frustrated, Maks jumps up. “Come on,” he says to Willa. She grabs her stick and follows him into the front part of the apartment.
This front room is the flat’s largest, maybe twelve feet all ways, with two windows on the street side. Got five narrow beds—one against each wall, one in the middle.
“The boys’ room,” Maks explains.
His three brothers are sitting side by side on one of the beds. Not talking, looking miserable.
To Willa, Maks says, “When Emma’s home, she shares a bed with Agnes in my parents’ room. Me and my brothers sleep here. This here middle bed’s for our boarder, Monsieur Zulot. He’s a Frenchy. Be home soon.”
Maks goes to one of the windows and peers down. When he sees Bruno leaning against the streetlight, he feels sick.
16
Maks turns back into the room. Willa, having guessed what he’s doing, looks him a question. Maks just nods.
Not wanting to talk ’bout it, he sits on the middle bed, opposite the boys. “Whatcha doing?” he says, same time offering Willa a place next to him, which she takes.
Jacob, almost eight, the oldest of the three boys, glances toward the kitchen, leans forward. Small-voiced, he says, “Maks, did Emma steal?”
“Didn’t you hear?” says Maks. “No. And don’t no one go telling nobody she did. Understand? Nothing to nobody.”
Eric says, “We know. But what’s gonna happen to her?”
“In the morning,” says Maks, “first thing, I’ll get her out of jail.”
“How?” Ryker asks. He’s six.
“She shouldn’t have been arrested. It was a mistake. Don’t worry. I’ll get her out. This here’s Willa. She’s my new friend. Staying here tonight.”
“How come?”
“I invited her.”
Eric grins, wrinkles his nose. “Is Mama gonna give her a bath?” he asks.
“Shut up!” says Jacob.
Maks introduces his brothers to Willa. “Jacob. Oldest. Sometimes he sells my papers when I can’t. This one is Eric. Thinks he’s funny when he ain’t.”
Eric giggles.
“And Ryker. Youngest. Just started school.”
“Maks,” says Ryker, “she gonna live here?”
“Have my own place,” Willa says.
“Where?”
“By Chrystie Street.”
“How come you don’t have shoes?” Ryker says.
“Don’t want them.”
“Papa and Agnes make shoes,” Ryker tells her.
Jacob says, “You really chase that gang away from Maks?”
Maks says, “With that stick.”
“How?” Ryker says.
“Whacked ’em,” says Maks.
The boys’ eyes grow big. “Can I hold it?” says Eric.
Willa hands him the stick. The boys give it a study, running fingers over its bumps.
“Maks,” Jacob asks, “what’s a lawyer?”
“Does stuff with the law.”
“That Mr. Strande,” says Eric, “Papa’s friend. He’s a lawyer, right? All he does is tell stupid jokes in Danish.”
Wanting to get off the subject of Emma, Maks says, “What happened in school today?”
“Guess what?” says Jacob. “Ryker got a new name.”
“Why?” Maks says.
“Teacher said I needed an American one.”
“What she give you?”
It’s Eric who says, “Ronald.” He grins.
Maks makes a face. “You like it?” he asks Ryker.
“Naw.”
Shyly, Willa says, “My name used to be Waddah.”
Eric giggles. “Willa’s better.”
“You get it in school?” Ryker asks her.
“My mother gave it to me.”
“Our mama,” says Jacob, “says we should always keep being Danish.”
“But Agnes,” Ryker puts in, “is always saying we need to be American.”
“Maks,” says Eric, “guess what? Papa says he’ll take us fishing on Sunday.”
“Good.” Maks stands up and looks out the window again. Sees Bruno and wonders if he’ll stay till morning.
17
Dinner is fish head soup with barley and potatoes. There’s also bread, which Mama bakes ’cause she can make it cheaper than the bakery five-cent loaf.
As always, Papa and Agnes eat first. Mama serves. No one talks. Halfway through his bowl, Papa throws down his spoon. “Can’t eat!” he says, and goes into the back room. Slams the door behind him.
No one says anything.
Agnes, eyes cast down, now and again coughing, resumes eating.
Maks, not able to get Emma or Bruno out of his head, can’t keep still. He’s up, down, in and out of the front room, stealing looks o
ut the window.
Bruno hasn’t moved.
Coming back into the kitchen, Maks looks round, says, “Where’d Mama go?”
Agnes whispers, “With Papa. They’re really frightened,” and she puts a finger to her lips.
She calls the boys to dinner and ladles soup into their bowls. Maks cuts a thick slice of bread for each of them, then steps back and watches.
The boys, silent at first, keep looking from Agnes to Maks.
Willa’s stomach rumbles. Eric tries to keep from giggling.
Jacob, giving his brother a punch on the leg, says to Willa, “Hope you like fish soup. What we eat most of the time.”
“Get cheap fish from Mr. Tyrone,” Eric tells her. “When it’s old.”
“But not rotten,” Jacob adds with a look to Agnes.
“But sometimes Papa gets a fish from the river,” says Ryker.
“On birthdays Mama makes smakage.”
Willa glances at Maks, who’s pacing restlessly up and down. “Danish for ‘cookies,’ ” he explains.
“When’s your birthday?” Ryker asks Willa.
She looks down. “I forget.”
“How can you forget a birthday?” Eric hoots.
Willa shrugs.
“Maks,” says Agnes, “your pacing is making me jumpy.”
“Sorry.” Maks sits on the floor, back against the wall. Keeps shifting his legs.
“Willa,” says Agnes, “where do you live?”
“Near Chrystie Street,” Ryker answers for her.
“Guess what?” Jacob says to Agnes. “Her name used to be Waddah. Willa is her American name.”
“Her mother gave it to her,” says Ryker.
Agnes says, “I thought you lived alone.”
“I do,” Willa says softly.
“You live alone?” says Jacob, soupspoon stopping halfway to his mouth.
“Lots of people do,” Maks calls from across the room. “Half the newsies I know ain’t got parents.”
Agnes says, “It’s ‘do not have,’ not ‘ain’t got.’ ”
“Where they live?” Jacob asks Maks.
“Different places,” says Maks. “On the street. Newsboy lodging houses cost a nickel a night.”