Signed a paddy, p.13
Signed, a Paddy, page 13
She stopped talking to take some dishes back to the kitchen. When she returned, she said, “Come to think of it, you’ll need a coat, too. I gave my old one away last spring.”
“Maybe you should take it out of my wages,” I said. I was starting to feel like a burden.
“Nonsense,” she said. “I can spare enough for some boots and a coat. If you haven’t noticed, this inn is a pretty busy place.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
I picked up the last of the dishes and carried them to the kitchen.
__________
Washdays were tedious. We had to take off the old bedsheets, put on the new bedsheets, boil and then scrub all of the bedclothes, and sometimes boil and scrub our own clothing. Then find places to hang it all to dry. Marie believed in using lavender soap in addition to the lye soap. She said it was a secret of the inn. It was also expensive, so we didn’t use too much. I liked the smell. It helped me forget about what might be on those sheets we were washing.
“I just can’t believe what they did to that man and his family,” I said, during the scrubbing.
“What man?” Marie asked.
“Frederick Douglass!” I said.
“Well, believe it,” she said. “It happens every day. And even worse happens the farther south you go. Mr. Douglass was enslaved in Maryland. That’s right next to the free states.”
“It makes me so angry,” I said. “What can we do about it? I want to help. What does someone like me do to help?”
She looked at me and thought. I could tell she was thinking hard, because when she was thinking hard, she would chew on her bottom lip.
“You’ve got to be serious about helping,” she started. “And I mean serious. This stuff is nothing to take lightly. You could get in trouble. You could get hurt. And you’re not like some of these white abolitionists. They have money. They have friends. They know the law. You don’t have any of that.”
She was right. I didn’t have anything, but I still wanted to help. “Can you be an abolitionist anywhere?” I asked. “Could I help even if I left and went to Lowell?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “We need help everywhere. Lowell is...very active in this cause,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But there are also people in Lowell who are sympathetic to slaveholders. Slaves pick the cotton they use. That cotton is important for their businesses. If anything, abolitionist work will be more dangerous in Lowell than in Boston.”
She stood up to hang the sheet she had just washed.
“Think about it,” she said. “If, in a few days, you still want to help, I can introduce you to some people.”
She sat back down to start on the next sheet.
“Marie...” I started to say. I wanted so bad to ask Marie about her story, but I had to stop myself. Our friendship was becoming stronger due to trust. Trust that I would respect her boundaries. Marie would tell me her story when she was ready, or maybe never at all.
But she sighed. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You want to ask about me. Was I ever a slave? Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “But I know that’s personal. You don’t have to tell me. But I promise I will be respectful if you do.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I can’t tell you nearly as much about slavery as Mr. Douglass, which is why I lent you his book. I was only a slave for a few years. In Virginia. I don’t have many memories of it. My daddy’s masters gave him his freedom, but only his. My daddy did a very heroic thing and saved their little boy’s life. The boy would have drowned, but my daddy pulled him out of that lake. There were white witnesses. His masters asked how they could repay him, and he bravely asked for his freedom. They thought about it for a long while, but eventually they agreed. I was just a baby. It took him four years to save up enough money to buy my older sister, Lydia.”
She stopped to count the sheets that were hung up, drying. I was practically holding my breath, waiting to hear the rest.
“He was heartbroken that he couldn’t buy me, too. He was living in Philadelphia and told a man he worked with about it. He was sort of just unloading on the man—just talking to make that awful weight a little lighter. To give him the courage to do what needed to be done and to live with it. My daddy didn’t know it, but that man’s uncle was a white man and a very wealthy abolitionist. The uncle gave my daddy the money he needed so he could buy me, too.”
She wrung the water out of her rag.
“What about your ma?” I asked.
“She died,” she said. “Giving birth to me. I never met her. I don’t remember much about that life. I know I helped the older women with this thing or that, but I mainly remember just being with my sister. Listening to her deep, steady breathing at night. Her braiding my hair. Little moments and feelings. But I never saw anybody get whipped. Never went into the big house. My memories are of growing up in Philadelphia with my daddy, who worked hard every day of his life to provide for us. And of my sister, who was my very best friend. Our story was a happy one for the most part. It’s rare. I have been so lucky.”
“Wow,” I breathed out. “Your da must have been an amazing man. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him.”
“He was,” she said, smiling to herself. “I’m not sure I’ll ever meet another man as amazing as he was. Maybe that’s why I’m still not married.”
I laughed. “My da was amazing, too. I guess we’re lucky that we know what to look for in a man.”
“Isn’t that true?” Marie said.
“Thank you for sharing, Marie,” I said.
She smiled. “You are welcome, Rosaleen. And how about your story? Are you ready to share that?”
I shrugged. “Sure,” I said. “My da was a fisherman. He died during a bad storm out at sea. My ma died during the potato blight. She got sick. I ended up at the workhouse in Cork. I did jobs with the spinning and weaving while I was there. Then, one day, they gathered all of the older girls and younger women and told us we were going to Australia to become maids and servants.”
Marie was concentrating on getting something out of one of the sheets, but I knew she was listening intently, too, because she nodded along.
“But as we were switching boats in England, a man that I had once served soup to told me not to go to Australia. Bad things were happening to the girls there. Violent things. They were being abused.”
I started to tear up, thinking of Boudica. I tried to push past it.
“I couldn’t convince my best friend to come with me. She refused. She didn’t believe him. But I got on the boat to America.”
Then I started to cry. I had managed to keep Boudica out of my thoughts since I’d gotten on that ship to America, but now I couldn’t stop her from flooding them.
“Oh, honey,” Marie said, putting down her washing.
“I just left her,” I managed, through my sobs. “What happened to her? Is she all right? Is she living in a horrible place where horrible things are happening to her?”
Marie got up and came over to me. She gave me a hug and rubbed my back.
“We can only control our own actions,” she said. “You tried to help your friend. Now it’s time to give it to God.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t know how to do that.
“Sometimes, we are given very difficult choices,” she said. “Maybe you couldn’t save your friend, but you saved yourself. And that was very brave. I’m glad that you did it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. I bet your friend Emmett is glad, too.”
She pulled away and looked at me.
“I will pray for your friend,” she said. “What’s her name?”
“Boudica,” I said.
“I will pray for Boudica,” she said. “It is out of your hands now. Forgive yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I will try.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next day was cold and windy. Miss Susan left Marie in charge of the inn. Marie and I exchanged a look. Neither of us knew why Miss Susan was going with me to the shoemaker instead of Marie.
“I thought you spent Saturday afternoons with Florence?” I said.
“I do, usually,” she said. “But today you need some proper winter clothes. It’s not that I don’t trust Marie. Sometimes people just respect me more. They won’t take advantage of me. I’ll see Florence again...sometime.”
She seemed on edge to me, though, and I wondered why the people at the market didn’t take advantage of Marie when she went shopping during the week but might try it today. I kept my questions to myself.
The sun was hidden, and I couldn’t stop myself from shivering on our way to the market. Today we would be going to the clothing stores just beside Quincy Market, where we went for food. The streets were more crowded than usual, but I had not been out yet on a Saturday.
“Isn’t it a little cold for all of these people to be out shopping?” I asked Miss Susan.
She laughed. “Wait until February,” she said. “Life doesn’t stop here because of the cold. If it did, we wouldn’t get much done.”
Walking with Miss Susan was much slower than with Marie. She often stopped to say hello to the people we passed on the streets and to ask after their parents or their children. I was a little surprised to see Miss Susan being so social. At the inn, she was always all about business.
We eventually stepped off of the smooth, paved sidewalk and onto the uneven cobblestone road. We were at the market. To the left of the market stood a very tall building with a sign that read John Gove & Co., and in smaller letters, Clothing Warehouse.
Miss Susan walked past that building to a smaller one behind it. Sitting on the corner, tucked beside another very tall building, sat two stores. The first, William W. Allen Boots & Shoes, and next to it, Charles J. Lovejoy Clothing.
These were not the same tall, rectangular, brick buildings with long rows of windows that lined most streets in Boston. These looked more like country cottages with sloping, triangular roofs. They stood out among the rest, and they made me smile.
The windows on the ground level were large and square. Light from inside shone out onto the street. Miss Susan kicked her boots against the edge of the sidewalk before walking in, and I did the same.
The smell of leather hit my nose immediately. Inside, it was nice and warm and brighter than it was outside. Multiple wooden stools were spread along the walls. Workers sat on them or stood next to them, helping customers. Some measured feet, others hammered soles or sewed leather. Still others were cutting patterns or gluing soles. Along the far wall hung all sorts of tools. Some looked like they were for clamping, others for widening or tightening. Every few minutes, a shoemaker stood up and went to grab a tool off the wall.
An older man, perhaps Miss Susan’s age, came to greet us.
“Welcome to William W. Allen Boots & Shoes.” He smiled. “I’m Mr. Allen. Oh, Susan! Hello,” he said, recognizing Miss Susan. “It’s nice to see you. What can I help you with today?”
“Good morning, Mr. Allen,” Miss Susan said. “She needs some new boots.”
He looked down at my current boots. “She certainly does,” he said. Then he cleared his throat and smiled again. “Please, have a seat here and one of our apprentices will be by to measure her.”
“Many thanks,” Miss Susan said.
I sat on the stool that Mr. Allen had indicated. A few feet away, in the corner of the room, a fireplace blazed. I took off my boots and considered throwing them directly into the flames. I was so embarrassed by them. They felt like the last thing identifying me as a poor, deprived orphan.
Mr. Allen approached us again, this time with some tea. He also pulled up a chair for Miss Susan.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said to her.
She sat quietly. I was quite comfortable, but Miss Susan still seemed a little anxious. She bobbed her leg up and down and kept glancing at the door. Within a few minutes, a very young man, probably just a few years older than me, knelt down next to me.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” I said.
Miss Susan stood up. “Now that you are being helped,” she said, “I am going over to Quincy Market to buy Marie a new carving knife. I will be back soon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She smiled at the apprentice and walked out.
The apprentice looked at me and asked, “Are your feet done growing?”
I looked back at him. His eyes were so intensely dark, they were almost black. It was the most obvious thing about him. But his skin was not dark, and his hair was a sandy, light brown. He wasn’t quite smiling, but he didn’t look serious, either—just curious. It occurred to me that he enjoyed his job. He was eager to do it.
“I don’t know,” I said. “When does that happen?”
“For girls, sometimes as young as thirteen but sometimes as old as twenty,” he said.
“Well, I’m between those ages,” I said. “So, perhaps.”
He kept looking at me and tilted his head a little to the side, squinting.
“Are you fifteen?” he asked.
“You’re good at this,” I said. “I am fifteen.”
“I’ll give you a little room,” he said. “Just in case. But not so much that they’ll fall off or give you bad blisters on your heel.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That sounds like a good decision.”
“Please stand up so I can measure your feet,” he said.
I stood up. As he was measuring, I noticed he stuck out his tongue, just a little.
“You talk kind of strange,” I said.
“So do you,” he said, not looking up.
“Well, that’s because I’m from Ireland,” I said.
“Yes, and I’m from Germany.”
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Three years. I came here when I was your age.”
He stood up and wrote down a few more things.
“These will be ready on Monday,” he said. “But you can come for them any time next week if you are busy on Monday.”
“Thank you,” I said. “What’s your name?”
He looked at me with those dark, inquisitive eyes. “Henry,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Henry,” I said. “I’m Rosaleen. I’ll see you again in a few days.”
He gave me a half smile. “I’ll see you then, Rosaleen,” he said. Then he walked back toward a shoemaker, carrying my measurements.
__________
Miss Susan wasn’t back yet, but I didn’t think it was appropriate for me to wait in the store. They had many other customers to serve. So I left and looked around at the things hung up outside of the store next door. I tried not to stray too far or look too interested in anything. The sun was starting to peek out from behind the clouds. I thought the day might get warmer, but when I walked around the side of the building, the wind came at me with such a vengeance, it took my breath away.
Around the corner stood a little boy, tugging on his mother’s dress and sucking on a candy.
“Mama,” he whined. “I want a toy like last time.”
“Not today,” she said.
He started to cry.
“That’s enough, Walter,” she said. “You’ll choke on your candy, and I’ll have to take it away.”
He stopped crying quickly and wiped his nose on her apron. She grabbed his hand and led him away.
I must have looked very idle, because a man sitting with a horse and carriage asked if I needed a ride.
“No thank you, sir,” I said, and shuffled back around the corner toward the shoe store. Miss Susan was coming from the other direction. She still seemed a little frazzled.
“That took longer than I thought,” she said. “My apologies. I guess it’s been a while since I’ve been shopping. Things have moved around.”
I smiled at her. “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “The sun is coming out. It’s getting nice out here.”
“Let’s get you a coat, anyway,” she said, taking my arm in hers and leading me toward the clothing store.
We left with a very fine and very warm winter coat. It was dark blue and lined with wool. There were small designs along the trim that looked a little like leaves. I loved it and told Miss Susan as much. I offered again to take the money out of my wages, but Miss Susan quickly rebuked me. For the last time, she said.
After breakfast on Monday, as Miss Susan was sitting down to do some accounting, she gave me some of the money and told me to go pick up my boots.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you...again!”
She rolled her eyes and shooed me away. I was walking out the door when I remembered Emmett’s letter sitting next to my bed. I rushed back through the dining room, and Miss Susan raised her eyebrows at me.
“I...um, need to ask Marie something real quick,” I said.
She shrugged and went back to counting.
I found Marie just finishing the dishes.
“Marie,” I said, “I want to send a letter. Can you tell me where the post office is?”
“On your way to the market,” she started, “turn right at the second street. It’s called Friend Street. Then it’s on the next corner. When you’re done, just go back the way you came to get to the market. It’ll be easier that way.”
“Thank you,” I said. I ran down the stairs, grabbed the letter from my room, and ran back up. Marie was drying her hands.
“Slow down, child,” she said.
“All right!” I called over my shoulder as I hurried out the door.
It was cold outside again. Somehow, every day felt colder than the last. I was looking forward to some warm boots. I moved quickly to keep warm and tucked my hands and the letter under my arms.
The post office was just where Marie had said it would be. The man behind the counter was so short I could just see his head and shoulders poking up. He had light-brown skin, and I couldn’t tell if the people around here would consider him a Negro.
