Fingy Conners & The New Century Page 12

Hannah related the story to Annie, then found herself crying hard for the first time in quite a while.

  “That just doesn’t sound like Jim to me, Hannah.”

  “No?”

  “No, Hannah. Do you remember,” soothed Annie despite her ongoing battle with the infant, “when little David was born? And as he got older, you were terrified he would die when he reached age two, like little Hannah Jr. and Daniel and Catherine? You put David in ruffled dresses and finger curls. Your Jim was so anxious to show off his youngest boy, his little man, but you fought him tooth and nail to keep little David in dresses and long curls for God knows how long. For two years or more anyway, as I recall. And Jim allowed you to have your way.”

  “All right. I remember,” she said stiffly.

  “And do you recall why you dressed David in girl’s clothing and had his hair in ribbons, even though people haven’t done that with boys since, well…since the war between the states?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a period of silence in which Annie waited for her to continue her thought, but she did not.

  “Well, say it, Hannah. Say the words.”

  Hannah wiped her tears and cleared her throat.

  “Ahem. All right. Many Irish once believed that the devil was out to steal their boy babies, and so they dressed baby boys in girly frills and ribboned curls to fool the boy-seeking devil into not taking their child, because Satan didn’t take girls.”

  “And do you really believe in that malarkey, Hannah? Or did you ever? ”

  “Well,” she explained, “I never really believed in that particular superstition, no. But I had lost three babies and I was terrified it would happen again, and I couldn’t bear that. So...I didn’t think it would hurt anything.”

  Annie paused a second to look her friend kindly in the eye.

  “I think it might have hurt Jim, Hannah,” said Annie seriously. “He wanted to show off a new son, but you had him dressed like a daughter and wouldn’t even let David out of your sight, so fearful were you that something or someone would take him. You wouldn’t even allow Jim to take him over to the boathouse to meet the fellas—fifty feet away!”

  “I was desperate, Annie,” she whined. “And perhaps a bit...barmy... in the head.”

  “Well, no, you weren’t barmy, Hannah. You were terrified, and no mother on earth who had herself lost children would ever fault you for that. But Jim patiently stood by and allowed you to have your way, as much as he’d rather his baby son look like a little boy. He let you have him in the way you needed to have him without any fight or recrimination. Do you recall that? Because he knew what was going through your mind at the time. He put your welfare ahead of his own desires. Jim is not the kind of man who would take a risk of losing his family, Hannah. Not ever.”

  “But what if I drove him to it, Annie, with all my feeling blue and my bedlam and my crazy distressing about everything? What if I drove him away, like my mother drove away my father?”

  “Well…all right. What if we consider that—about what you would do if you found that this rumor was true? If he admitted he had seen another woman, and said he was sorry. Would you allow him forgiveness, admitting as you do now that you may have driven him to it?”

  Hannah’s face grew red as she ruminated for a few long moments.

  “Forgiveness. I don’t know. What is that, exactly Annie? Is forgiveness the dictionary definition of the word, or something else altogether? Forgiveness from my experience is re-trusting those having proven themselves previously untrustworthy. Allowing those who have already proven to us that they can hurt us to have the opportunity to take another shot at us. It is the delusion one is under that the person who has demonstrated they’re capable of wounding us terribly will never do it again, if we will only just ‘forgive’ them.

  “Forgiveness in such a case would seem have to be defined as taking Jim back and just giving him another chance…one more chance to hurt me, betray me. Only when the damage of hurtful people is absolute, complete, do they finally let you be, leaving you collapsed in a crumpled pile while they go off and find themselves a new victim as willing to overlook and reduce themselves, their own wants, needs and desires, as you!”

  Annie was rendered speechless for a moment. “Oh, my, God.”

  Annie recoiled, and more than just a little bit. “What in heaven’s sake is going on with you, Hannah? Inside that head of yours?”

  Hannah’s agitation had flown up suddenly and in great volume, like a splash of muddy water from a puddle some speeding automobile just raced through. Hannah had obviously given this particular subject far more thought than Annie ever suspected.

  “Hannah, compose yourself! This might only be gossip. In fact I would bet money on it. If that Rundle woman is correct and this slander did come from Fingy Conners’ horrible wife, then for God’s sake consider the source! She is an awful woman! She’s from West Seneca, for cryin’ out loud! West Seneca! She grew up barely surviving on onions! You know what them people are like out down there. They’re dirt farmers at best. Your Jim is a good man! A good family man.”

  Hannah began to apologize for bothering Annie with her problems.

  “Hannah! You stop that right now. We may not be blood, but we are sisters all the same. Don’t ever apologize for coming to me. We two need each other.”

  Hannah stood and summoned a weak smile, then patted Annie on the shoulder that didn’t have baby spit-up all over it.

  The women kissed. Hannah called for little David and made her way out with him to their house next door, glancing over across the river toward The Island where a giant ship was spewing grain into the massive new concrete elevator just constructed, guaranteed fireproof, it was claimed. We’ll see about that, thought Hannah, recalling some of the spectacular window-shattering explosions of the past. Its cloud of rising grain dust was dramatically back lit golden by the lowering sun. The river stank something awful of iron and oil and dead things. Hannah was doubtful if the age of disastrous elevator fires caused by the spontaneous ignition of grain dust would ever really become a thing of the past.

  Having two hours to torment herself with Evelyn Rundle’s claim and to compound it with recollections of other terrible upsets of her past, by the time Jim made it home she was seated collapsed into her own folded arms on the kitchen table, sobbing.

  She told him of the rumor. He listened patiently, calmly.

  “Hannah,” Jim said firmly. “I love you. I realize I have in recent times not been paying you proper attentions.”

  He lowered himself and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “I am…well, embarrassed…as a man...to admit that my powers and appetites may not be what they once were. But I have no interest in other women, Hannah, honestly. My fidelity and loyalty is yours and only yours. No one else’s.”

  She could see a fury begin to rise behind his eyes, it bubbling and boiling, he formulating in his mind his own suspicions and ideas about the origins of such a nasty story even as he was calmly comforting her.

  ”You and I have been through too much together for me to be anything other than what I promised you I’d be, Hannah. You have been tolerant and kind and considerate to me during those long intervals when I was tormented and drawn into myself and feeling as though I had all but lost my way.

  “I am a police detective, sweetheart. It’s in my blood. And I need to know from you where you heard this rumor. I will track down the origin of this lie and I will put a stop to it.”

  Jim’s eyes were watering now from equal parts emotion and vengeance. This reaction, unanticipated, put a sudden fright into her. So she lied.

  “I don’t know just yet Jim. I heard it from a woman on Katherine Street who told me she heard it from someone who heard it from someone else, and so on and so forth,” she rambled. “I will ask more questions tomorrow, and when I discover the source of these stories I promise I will tell you.”

  It occurred to Hannah that if Jim ever suspected that the source m
ight possibly be Fingy Conners himself, there might be hell to pay.

  The following morning Hannah read the social notices in the Express to see if she might discover some opportunity for a convenient encounter with the second bride of Fingy. There was no mention therein of any doings connected with her name. Hannah sent the children off to school, then went next door to talk with Annie before leaving little David with her and Sophie. Hannah could not speak freely about her intentions in front of the servant girl. Annie was preoccupied and overwhelmed with the children. Hannah longed to have Annie’s opinion of her plan before she set out on her provocative errand. In many ways she and Annie were opposites, but this contradiction often revealed its fullest value when complicated matters needed opposing points of view in order to be best understood. But today, Annie’s wisdom would not be available.

  “I have some errands to run downtown Annie, so I will speak with you later. I’ll be back by the babies’ nap time to fetch David, to be sure.”

  “You aren’t by any chance going into the Wm. Hengerer Company, are you?” asked Annie. “I have a jumper I’d like returned but I haven’t had any time.”

  The last thing Hannah needed was to be sidetracked from her essential purpose, and at first she took charge of the package, not having an excuse not to. But then she abruptly changed her mind.

  “Annie, no, here. I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t take this for you right now.” She handed the package back. “I’ll explain why later on when I get back home,” she said, silently casting sidelong noddings in the direction of the servant girl.

  Annie understood the code. Hannah left. Annie walked to the window, baby bent over her shoulder, patting his back to encourage a burp. She stood there, between the curtains, and watched as Hannah boarded the Hamburg streetcar in front of the house.

  She was concerned.

  ...

  Hannah was required to transfer twice in order to reach the Conners mansion. The West Ferry Street car stopped just yards from the Conners’ entry gate.

  She approached the solid front door, its great volume resembling a castle’s drawbridge, and pulled at the ponderous brass knocker, sniggering as she employed it due to its being cast appropriately in the form of a huge clenched fist. It must have weighed a good two pounds. The door opened. The Irish servant girl Jennie McCree recognized Hannah immediately but pretended that she did not.

  “Yes, may I help you?” she lilted.

  “Is Mrs. Conners to home?” asked Hannah, a difficult-to-maintain pleasant smile on her face. Her keen peripheral vision at that very instant perceived the flash of the sunlight’s reflection off the sheen of an expensive yellow silk gown as Mary Jordan Conners, formerly of West Seneca, spied her from the inner reaches of the grand home and took refuge in the shadows.

  “Mary Jordan! I see you in there!” shouted Hannah.

  The servant insisted, “Ma’am, she’s not at home.”

  Jennie tried to block her way. “You’ll have to leave now,” the house servant dictated, attempting to close the door on the guest. Hannah pushed back with a strength anchored in her unrelenting intention as the servant called out, “Mrs. Sullivan! Stop. You have no right!”

  Scorning the servant’s shanty Irish origins, the maid being a product of a shack at The Beaches constructed largely of driftwood, flotsam and jetsam, Hannah would not lower herself to respond to her. Instead Hannah steamrolled toward the inner sanctum. As she turned the corner there stiffly stood Mary Conners, terrified and indignant.

  The former Mary Jordan had set her determined sights on Fingy Conners from the moment she first heard of his first wife Katy’s illness. After Katy’s death Mary doggedly pursued him. She did not relent until Fingy had given in to her fierce pursuits and the whisperings of her storied talents and agreed to a union. The rumor had been that during her earliest days in West Seneca, Mary Jordan had cultivated a reputation for a certain ability most sought after by men, a technique that made her renowned in the gossip circulating at certain south-of-the-city saloons.

  “Who in God’s name do you think you are, Mary Conners, spreading vicious gossip about my husband to your guests sittin’ around your own dining table in this very house–including my very own brother!”

  Mary was stunned to have been found out. She cursed that damned David Nugent under her breath. Hannah, not suspecting her brother in the least, turned right then and cast her accusing steely gaze upon the hovering servant, assigning the guilt to her. Mary Conners immediately realized how the story might have spread so widely. Perhaps it wasn’t David Nugent—or Jennie McCree either—but it was clear that the dissemination was the work of either a guest or a member of the staff.

  “How dare you burst into my home, Hannah Sullivan! Everything your brother has said about you has now come to be proven as I speak in the here and now!”

  “How dare I? You are joking to be sure, Mary Conners! You will pay dearly for your disgraceful lies!”

  “They are not lies, Hannah Sullivan. Perhaps you should grow up! Perhaps you should be cognizant of your proper station!” she sniffed haughtily.

  “My station?” How about your own station formerly, one of which being the rear of the West Seneca rail station to be exact, from what I hear to be true! And the entire police force knows the tale as well, Mary Conners! Do you think that your marriage to Fingy Conners erases the disgraces of your past? Do think that men do not talk loud and long about women such as yourself?”

  The servant had taken flight, making a show of her hasty exit, but stopped and hid just around the corner, listening and smiling, hanging on every word.

  “I have it on good counsel that the Pan is combing the hinterlands for unique attractions for the Midway. Perhaps you could resurrect your talents of renown and exhibit yourself there! With your husband himself sitting on the Exposition board of directors I’m certain he could intervene on your behalf.”

  Hannah was surprised at herself, that she was capable of being so vulgar and crude, but did not regret it.

  “You, Hannah Sullivan are the most horrible woman in Western New York, if not the entire state. No wonder your husband’s famous cousin talks about you behind your back!”

  “You mean, no wonder he talks about me while he has you flat on your back! John L. told us all the details of your shamefully pursuing him!” she fabricated off the cuff. “That man can have any woman he wants, so why in heaven’s name would he settle for the likes of you?” Both women were being driven at the moment into a frenzy of concocting wild accusations.

  “Listen to me well, you Canal Street strumpet!” yelled Hannah. “You will take back your stories about my Jim and tell your friends that you were mistaken, or as our own John L. would say, the gloves will come off! You think you have some protection in your husband’s not caring what others think about him? Well I can guarantee you, since I myself have known him from the time he was a small boy, that he will not stand for the kind of shaming that you have brought upon yourself if made public! Perhaps he can overlook your past in the privacy of your bedroom, but he will not stand for being regarded the fool, seduced by a cunning harlot with intentions even less honorable than her reputation!”

  With that, Hannah turned to leave. She spotted a Chinese vase from the Ming period on a Chesterfield table surrounded by other chinoiserie. She picked up the vase and flung it hard against the wall, shattering it and ripping the imported French hand-painted wall paper that depicted a bucolic Bois de Boulogne scene with its lovely waterfalls in the early spring.

  “My God, you are an evil woman! Where do you think you are? This isn’t one of your customary resorts on Ganson Street, Hannah Sullivan! This isn’t the Swannie House, where you might be allowed to get away with such drunken shenanigans the likes of these! I am going to call the police right now!”

  “Fine, Mary Jordan from West Seneca! Just make sure you ask for Detective James E. Sullivan by name when you do call, or better yet, Michael Regan,” Hannah retorted, laughing. She strode out
feeling a good foot taller than when she’d walked in, and as she passed, the look of awe and admiration on the servant’s face sealed her victory.

  Hurrying from the Conners home, head held high, Hannah was nearly knocked over by a crazed-looking character at the corner of West Ferry Street as she rushed to board the waiting streetcar home. He didn’t bother to apologize. The primal expression on his face troubled her, so she didn’t ask for amends.

  Stash Molik had taken a streetcar from Kaisertown, down Broadway, up Main Street, then walked some distance in a zigzag pattern to reach Fingy Conners’ mansion on Delaware Ave. He did not want to be seen disembarking from a trolley anywhere near his final destination.

  He scoffed again when laying his eyes on the magnificent house built of the miseries of laborers like himself and his recently disabled brother. He was unarmed—this time. Men of his lowly caste lurking around on Delaware Ave. brought unwelcome attention from the police. He needed to be clever about this. Careful. Meticulous.

  His eye was drawn to the semi-circular portico flanking one side of the Conners mansion as an opportune point of entry. That freakish Irish animal needs to be put down once and for all, he fumed silently.

  Molik had visited this same spot three days previous, trying to look inconspicuous, waiting for Fingy’s auto to come out of the carriage house to carry him off on his daily business. He studied the features of the chauffeur. The driver wasn’t a common house servant. He recognized him as one of Conners’ lieutenants, almost certainly carrying a pistol. Molik’s intention was to get to know Fingy Conners’ movements so he could obtain a precise and deadly vantage point from which to blow his brains out.

  Stash Molik’s brother was only recently out of the hospital, but he would never function properly again. The wounded man had a wife and five children to feed, and rent to pay.

  Stash was a laborer too, and like his brother, barely able to feed his own. And now the Moliks were reduced to begging for money from their Bielicka cousin Bronisława who had gone and married that damn German, Schutkeker, the butcher operating the shop at the Broadway Market. Wilhelm Schutkeker was in better financial stead than most, even with his own four brats to raise. Bronisława gave her wounded cousin what she could, or so she claimed, which to Stash’s eye wasn’t nearly what she was able. Herr Schutkeker was determined that his children not end up laborers or anything close to it, and was resolutely tight-fisted.