Just four short blocks and Richard found himself in a complete whiteout. At least three inches fell in that time and the wind blew snow and debris far and wide. An escaped bumbershoot slammed against him. One of the spines scratched his cheek. Through the blinding snow he noticed a woman sprawled out on the sidewalk, the likely owner of the rogue umbrella. He dashed over trying to keep himself upright in the gale. She was young and buxom and Irish. He picked her up quickly.
“Tank ye, sir.” She said breathless and cold.
“Where are you going?” He asked.
“On me way home from my employer, sir.” She replied. “Aw, now, ye’ve a got a nasty cut there.”
“I’ll help you to the church on the corner.” Richard said as the snow stung his eyes and lashed his exposed face.
“Ye’re kind, sir.” She added.
“Take refuge inside until the wind dies down. This can’t last.” He said. He had his arm about her and guided her along the slick flagstones. She leaned into him with the full weight of her body. He helped her up the stone steps and into the great wooden doors. Inside there were people praying and lighting votive candles. A few whispers indicated that some believers thought that Armageddon was upon them this very hour. They beseeched the Holy Mother and pleaded with Christ himself. The jaws of hell yawned before them cloaked in white and void of heat. The woman was pretty in the amber glow of candles. She crossed herself and genuflected near the entrance like a good Catholic. Then she turned and said, “Bless ye’re kindness, sir.” And disappeared into the row of parishioners. Richard blew on his hands. His breath was not very effective in warming his chillbit fingers. He stood there for a moment gazing out through the small rectangular window mustering his resolve to trudge back out into the storm. He thought perhaps if he could make it to his studio he could warm himself by the stove, find another coat, change his shoes, have some tea and then make the twenty block walk down to Grove street and Victoria. He looked at his pocket watch and it was close to tea time. If he timed it right he could be home before supper and have Nell heat some water to warm his frozen feet. As he stepped outside he leaned into the wind. Another inch had accumulated and the cold stung like a nest of bees. He moved carefully and as he reached the corner of Twentieth and Fifth Avenue he saw the shadowy apparition of a man in a bowler and a smaller object. He thought perhaps the man was outside with his dog. Perhaps they were seeking shelter from an illegal dog fighting ring. As he moved closer he noticed the man making the dog move out into the snow instead of trying to protect his fighter by finding cover. He thought he might intervene but the cold ran up his legs and began to settle as an ache at the small of his back. His felt hat was not at all effective and he tried to pull the wool collar of his coat up over his ears. Suddenly he heard a cry. It was the unmistakable cry of a child not a dog. He whipped around and although the man and boy had disappeared into the grey whiteout, he followed the whimpers and the pleading that echoed through the empty streets and between the buildings. Carriages had been abandoned and drivers led their horses to the nearest stable to avoid getting stuck in the impending snowdrifts. A few coachmen ran through the streets unharnessed horses in tow seeking alleys trying to escape the nor’easter. Richard’s toes went numb and he knew he would be in trouble if he did not get to his studio quickly. He heard the cry of a child once again and he could not turn his back. He walked in the direction of the sound and as he drew closer he saw the grey shape of a man swinging at the boy. He tried to run through the snow but it impeded his speed. The man had a belt and was whipping the child. The boy wore only a beat-up moth eaten sweater, grimy shirt worn out trousers and woolen socks. He held a violin in his hands and as the man swung at him. The boy would play a few notes and set to crying again. Richard suddenly caught the man’s arm in one graceful move snatched the belt from him and had it about his neck tight. A dark rage washed over him and he wanted to pull at the belt with everything he had. He wanted to squeeze the very last breath out of this veritable slave driver, this padrone. The man’s death throes paled to the noise in Richard’s mind. This kind of rage would not cease until long after the spirit departed. The boy cried and pleaded in Italian for Richard to let the man go. Richard only understood a few words. The boy dropped his instrument and jumped on Richard hitting him with his tiny fists and trying to bite any appendage. It was enough to shake Richard out of his bloodthirsty delirium. He dropped the belt. The man slid to the ground unconscious. The boy went to his master’s limp body and exclaimed in Italian, “Morte, Morte!” Richard pulled out his pocket watch and held the silver back up to the man’s nose. It fogged over and Richard pointed this out to the boy. The man was alive.
“No Morte.” He said amid the din of the gale. “Come.” And Richard motioned for the boy. The child shook his head ‘no’ as he shivered next to the criminal sprawled out in the snow.
“You’ll freeze.” He said matter of factly. Then he started to move away. Once again he leaned into the wind and made his way towards the Avenue of the Americas. He looked back every few minutes and he could tell the child was following him. So he stopped and adjusted his coat collar and blew into his hands, jammed his hat further down on his head and looked down to find the boy standing next to him shaking like the last leaf on a tree. He picked him up and tried to pull his great coat around the both of them and leaned into the cold wind coming off the Hudson River.
He climbed the great wood stairs up to the third floor. The boy was still shivering hanging onto his small fiddle and hiding his face in Richard’s shirt. Once inside he set the boy down and began to stoke a fire in the woodburning stove. The boy remained only a foot or two away from Richard. He was underfoot like a shadow.
“Mangia?” Richard asked. The boy smiled and shook his head excitedly. Richard moved a stool close to the stove and motioned for the boy to sit. He pulled the soggy worn socks away to find the child’s feet pink and freezing. He rubbed his toes in his hands hoping the friction would provide a bit of warmth while the fire started to warm the room. The boy giggled and shivered. He was dark with black hair and black eyes. He was covered in grime and when Richard looked at his hands the boy’s filth had rubbed off. Immediately he set a full kettle on the stove and went through his cupboards that mostly held art supplies. He found tea biscuits and an apple and set them on a work table. The boy leapt from his perch and descended on the stale scones and biscuits like a ravenous wolf. Richard lit a few oil lanterns as the room slowly warmed. He studied one of the most unluckiest boys in New York and he saw himself. That dirty little six year old was him a lifetime ago. The boy was a tiny mirror reminding Richard of his own history and awakening in him a profound compassion. Unlike Richard this child could pull himself up. He could overcome the odds and he could do it with his own inventiveness and skill starting at his very young age. America was built on stories like this boy. Mulberry Street or rather Bandit’s Bend was still paved with gold compared to the desperate poverty of Southern Italy or the wicked streets of London. The boy’s shivering eased. Richard found an old blanket and a piece of soft canvas and draped it over him. He stuck his finger in the kettle’s water to find it luke warm. Not the best for a bath but better than nothing at all. He took an old rag, dipped it in the water and then began to wipe away the dirt and filth from the boy’s feet and legs. He moved from the legs to child’s hands cracked and swollen from the cold but able enough to procure food. As he washed the boy he imagined his own child and how he would care for him. How he would do everything he could to make sure his son would be happy and well. How he might look a bit like Victoria and lot like himself. It made his heart tumble further into fatherhood. The boy began to eat the apple and the sweet juice made his eyes bright. Richard remembered his first apple and how the tart pithy fruit gave him a rush of taste and the sweetness seemed sublime to the gruel he was accustomed to. A kindly fruit vendor in Liverpool saw him crying near the gutter. He was so hungry he hardly had the strength to stand and the old woman slipped him an apple.
“Ye’ll say not a word or it’ll be the death of ye.” She warned and then moved to the next corner.
“What’s your name?” Richard asked. The boy was fully engaged in the fruit. Richard held it from him.
“What’s your name?”
The boy gazed at him blankly. Richard pointed to himself. “Richard”. He said.
The boy laughed. “Ricardo!” He said gleefully. “Ricardo”. And he pointed to Richard.
“Alright. Ricardo.” Richard said then he pointed to the boy. The boy eyed him suspiciously and remained silent for a moment.
“Then I shall have to call you Friday.” Richard said and he got up and dumped the dirty water and commenced to making tea.
“No Friday! No!...Pietro.” The boy said softly.
“Ah. Pietro. How do you do.” Richard said. As the boy finished the apple, seeds, core and all he wiped his sticky hands on his soiled sweater. Then he wandered over to an easel holding a still life. The boy studied it for a quite a few minutes. It was an unfinished painting of a bouquet of flowers. The bouquet had been Victoria’s wedding flowers. The more one viewed the painting the more it seemed to glow. It was as if the flowers themselves were emitting light. Layers and layers of varnish, linseed oil and brilliant saturated colors made it vibrant and uplifting. The painting captured not only the beauty of the flowers but the subtle emotions that pervaded the entire life-changing event. There was a linking of sorts. A silent abiding infinite coupling that dances through time. The strokes at once suggestive and staccato yet fluid and undulating. The texture rich and sensual as if the act itself had been designed just so by the absolute. It was nature translated through the eyes of the beloved for his most loved.
Suddenly there was a ruckus on the staircase outside. It sounded like several men running to the roof. But the scuffle stopped at his door. A startling knock and the boy sprang from his spot and hid behind the stretched canvases.
“Open up! Police!” A gruff, Irishman commanded. Richard went to the door and as he swung it open two policemen and a few plain clothes men with a camera spilled in.
“What’s this about?” Richard asked.
“A child was abducted earlier on the street.” The policeman said.
“A witness saw you carrying a boy into this building.” The other snapped. Then he reached over to take a look at the gash on Richard’s cheek. Richard pulled away and he instinctually readied himself for a fight.
“Did the witness happen to be a padrone?” Richard inquired.
“Doesn’t matter if he was or not, the child is missing.” The policeman replied.
“Did the witness tell you that he was beating this missing child in the street and treating the boy worse than a dog?” Richard added.
“Makes no difference---the child ain’t yours. Now tell us where ye’ve got him hid.” The Paddy commanded.
“First, I would like to say that I did not kidnap the boy. I rescued him from certain death in this storm. Second, it would be my Christian duty to do what I can for the welfare of a child.” Richard explained.
“That why he scratched you? Because of ye’re Christian duty?” The officer said smugly.
The plain clothes man had set up his wooden camera in the corner and as the pistol flash went off and the plate exposed, the boy, startled by what sounded like a gunshot, jumped from his hiding place and scurried quickly into the hallway almost making a clean escape. The second policeman caught the child by his shirt and the boy screeched and struggled like a skinned cat.
“Ye’re under arrest.” The Irishman said and he clapped on a pair of irons before Richard could explain. The blood drained from his face and he felt a little weak. This situation if made public would not fair well with Victoria. Her reputation would be marked and it would be his fault. He should have kept walking. He should have ignored the cries. However, Victoria would not condone ambivalence. Surely, if she were in his place she would have done even more. She would have strangled the padrone with her bare hands. She would forgive him. He hoped that he had not begun their days as pariahs in New York’s elite circles.
“What is that glass plate for?” Richard asked nervously.
“Documenting the streets and the crime.” The man replied.
“I did not commit a crime.” Richard said emphatically.
“The court will decide that.” The man said.
“Did you take a picture of the padrone?” Richard huffed. This time there was no answer. “I’m an artist. I have no interest in criminal activity. My wife gives her time to the children’s aid society and the Orphans’ hospital. I swear I was only giving the boy some food and shelter from the storm.”
The photographer just shook his head and did not look at Richard further.
“I’ll need your full name.” The officer said.
“Richard Rhys.” He replied.
The photographer looked up this time. A look of concern washed over his face. He moved close to Richard. “Husband of…the former Mrs. Thornton?”
Richard nodded. “I ask you please, please do not print that glassplate. All of her hard work will be for naught if you do.” The officers escorted Richard to the horse drawn paddy wagon as the photographer folded up his tripod and warmed his hands by the stove.
Mrs. Hopkins sat at the kitchen table with Mr. Watkins. She was on edge and every sound seemed to make her jump.
“How long has Nell been out?” She asked. Mr. Watkins pulled his watch from his vest pocket.
“An hour and a quarter.” He said quietly.
“She should have returned by now.” She said. The wind howled and it sounded as though the glass panes might shatter from the force. Mr. Watkins gently placed his hand atop hers. He said not a word. The firelight from the kitchen hearth danced across his face. His eyes sparkled. “You’ll worry yourself sick.” He said.
Mrs. Hopkins knew he was right but her thoughts continually moved to Victoria and her condition. She could not bear witnessing another miscarriage and she knew that Victoria would not survive another.
“You need to be strong. Nell should be along any moment. She’s of hardy Irish stock. You think a bit if snow will keep her from Margaret’s stew?” Mr. Watkins said. Mrs. Hopkins laughed. Nell was a healthy eater. She noticed something in Mr. Watkins eyes as he took her in and his concern seemed to grow. She felt calm for the first time since the morning.
There was a reason New Yorkers called it the ‘Tombs". Years ago it was the collect pond for lower Manhattan. The human and animal waste that piled up as immigrants continued to settle there rendered it a swamp of the most offensive sorts. It bred mosquitoes and disease. The miasma that hung over it was a noxious cloud of filth and excrement. Decades ago it was filled in but the bog had deep aquifers and the water seeped to the surface making the ground as stable as a sponge. Nonetheless, the city built their police headquarters and detention center on the very spot. "What is this dismal fronted pile of bastard Egyptian, like an enchanter's palace in a melodrama?", wrote Charles Dickens upon one of his visits to New York. The stone walls were cold and damp and wept with putrid water mixing with the urine of inmates. Richard sat in his cell thinking that perhaps this place might actually be worse than the Tower of London. Not that he had ever been to the Tower of London. It certainly was just as bad, if not worse than the Irish workhouses he remembered when he was very young. The place was horrid and he desperately needed to get a note to Victoria only to let her know where he was. He would resign himself to a few days incarceration until she might be able to maneuver the snow and the cold to come for him. He worried that this latest predicament might upset her so that she could lose their child. The thought caught in his throat and he choked back a wave of tears. Mrs. Hopkins warned him that she was advised not to conceive due to her delicate physical nature. But he could not help but intertwine himself with his wife. It was the most natural and intuitive act they could engage. It was not in their lexicon to decline or restrict. It would be like forcing a river not to flow or the ocean to cease high tide. His unease began to grow and the emotions he had kept so carefully concealed began to spring forth. He felt as though he was a small boat and he was taking on water. The more he bailed the more he seemed to fill up. But the intense feelings seemed to anchor him in his new life. For that he was grateful. He was grateful to her for showing him how to love---how to genuinely care and to foster a sense of empathy and stunning compassion. He thought he was alone in his cell when he heard the distinct sound of shoe leather on stone as if someone shifted their weight. He thought for a moment he might be in danger with no way out. A man appeared slowly sliding under a gas lit torch that supposedly was a kind of archaic sconce on the wall. Once the man was illuminated Richard realized it was the photographer.
“I paid your bail.” The man said quietly.
“Who are you?” Richard asked not wanting to trust him.
“Jacob Riis.” The man replied. He had a funny accent. Richard did not notice it when he first appeared in the studio. He was European.
“Why?” Richard pressed.
“I saw the Padrone.” Riis answered. Richard could hear the steel heeled clickety click tap tap of the jailer’s shoes walking down the long corridor. The large set of skeleton keys jangled like Jacob Marley in the darkness and Richard thought perhaps he might hallucinate of some Christmas past. The lock turned. The door sprung. Richard stepped out. The jailer handed Richard a paper and then stood for a moment waiting to escort the two gentleman out of the detention area.
“The little boy?” Richard inquired.
“Taken to the orphans hospital.” Riis said. Relieved, Richard began his long walk to freedom. He would have to walk home but he didn’t care. He would walk across the entire world to get to Victoria. To hold her and kiss her and tell her how grateful he was to be a part of this life, their life. Her love for him was the most important and amazing adventure he could dare to undertake.
Posts
