On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (5 page)

His father’s counsel brought out the anxieties that had pestered Tory lately. Would Joseph have to return to New York City despite his talk of wanting to remain in Chicago? What if Joseph’s father wanted him back in New York to help run the family business? Tory’s father expected the same from him. It was reasonable for fathers to want their enterprising sons close by.

Tory had wanted to discuss his concerns with Joseph whenever they were alone together, either in his bedroom late at night after their lovemaking or while strolling the neighborhood before supper. But he had stifled himself for fear of appearing too desperate. Tory did not wish to risk chasing Joseph away.

“He said he wants to stay,” Tory said, reassuring himself. “He might even want to rent the apartment above the bakery.” He glanced at the ceiling. The young couple from Peoria prattled about upstairs. Was there a way to get rid of them?

Mr. Pilkvist snickered. “The Wentworths are good tenants. Besides, a man of Mr. van Werckhoven’s means won’t want to stay in that nest.” He peered at Tory through the pots and pans hanging from steel hooks above the counter. “Han är aristokrat.”

“You can’t say such things about Joseph.” Tory grimaced. “He’s not an aristocrat. He’s a gentleman.”

“He still not of our same class.”

“Oh, Pappa.” Tory took out his frustrations on the limpa dough, punching and dropping it on the floured countertop. “That’s old-world talk. His family works as hard for their money as we do.”

“His money is older than ours, that is big difference. He only condescend us while he stay here.”

“Pappa, you’re wrong.”

“I am not so sure I am wrong. Best thing for you is to learn some people should not mix. Getting close to him is like throwing yeast into boiling water.”

After setting the limpa dough into a bowl to rise, Tory marched for the door.

“Where you run off to now?”

“I’m going to play some ball at the park,” Tory said gruffly. “I need some air.”

“Don’t get so dirty you need a bath,” his father called after him. “We save hot water for the boarders.”

Tory raced upstairs, grabbed his mitt, and descended the steps by twos. Outside, the chill air tempered his anger. His father and his irksome talk. He found fault with everything. He placed everyone into categories like mere insects cataloged in some entomological registry. Mr. Pilkvist never could get past such old-world notions. Especially in a city like Chicago, fledgling and vibrant, where everyone came from every part of the world, hardworking and eager, the idea of abiding by an archaic class system seemed ridiculous. Joseph van Werckhoven stood farther apart from snooty aristocratism than anyone Tory knew. Even if his family had lived in America since before the Revolution.

Never once had he uttered a single word that had made Tory wince with aversion. Ever since their first night making love, he had never expressed anything other than the utmost sincerity and respect.

An aristocrat? Joseph? The idea made him snicker.

Tory’s father hadn’t bad-mouthed a good honest boarder—he had disgraced Tory’s beau.

Walking along the sidewalk to the baseball park, he realized he could never defend Joseph to his father the way he would like. If he stood up for him too adamantly, deeper suspicions would arise. Best to the play it safe, in any case. He already suspected his father questioned his sexuality. Three years ago, in a moment of heated exchange, his father had let loose a string of Swedish curses followed by the accusation that Tory was “like Tchaikovsky.” And of course he had confiscated Tory’s volume of Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass
. Tory did not want to cause difficulties for Joseph during his stay with them. Especially if he might move into the apartment above the bakery.

His thoughts led to Clair Schuster. Had he put on airs with her like his father accused Joseph of doing? Perhaps he had been too harsh with her. Nothing wrong with coming from a small town and working in a factory. His own parents had come from an impoverished village in central Sweden. He had never intended to act snooty with her. She merely bothered him. He’d find a way to make up for his surliness before she left for the women’s hotel. Now that he and Joseph were courting, she no longer posed a threat.

When he arrived at the park, he was glad to see a baseball game about to start. Tory loved baseball, one of the few pastimes that provided him a release of energy and frustration. His natural bent for quickness had earned him the nickname “Locomotive” from his comrades. They always seemed impressed at the speed with which he’d take the bases.

His friends, happy to see Tory, greeted him with robust hellos. They formed two teams, six men on each, no catcher, shortstop, or center fielder this time. Tory played third base. He always strove to play as well as his hero, Ned Williamson, third baseman for the Cubs. For nine innings, nothing but the game concerned Tory, along with the passion to win and the enjoyment he got from the handshakes, back slaps, and friendly cheer. Two hours later, with the sun setting over the row houses and factories, he returned home, flushed and lightheaded from exercise, eager to see Joseph once he returned from overseeing the construction of the drugstore.

Clair Schuster’s voice flowed from the parlor when he stepped inside. She suddenly quieted when she took notice of him gazing at her from the foyer threshold. She was taking afternoon tea with Tory’s mother and father. Odd his father should be there. He almost never bothered with tea when work dictated he stay in the bakery. Embarrassed by his scruffy appearance, Tory made to head upstairs, but the alarmed expressions on their faces rooted his feet to the floor.

Clair set her teacup on the side table with a clank of the spoon and raced past him up the stairs faster than a housecat. The swishing of her bustled skirt faded, followed by the bang of the bedroom door. Looking after her with narrowed eyes, Tory feared the worst. Questioning words rushed to his throat when he gazed back at his parents and saw that his mother had turned away with quivering shoulders. His father, still dressed in his baker’s smock, stood and peered at him, his eyebrows knitted.

“Torsten,” his father said, his voice coarse and stern, “we have just found out something we do not like to hear.”

The cold air from playing ball still lodged heavy in his lungs. With one hand over his rapping heart, Tory whispered, “What is it?”

“It’s about Mr. van Werckhoven,” his father said through tight lips.

Tory’s eyes, moist with apprehension, implored him to continue.

“Actually, it’s about you and him,” Mr. Pilkvist said. “We hear that the two of you spend hours together in your bedroom behind closed doors when the rest of us are asleep. Tell me, is this true?”

Baffled, Tory peered at his mother. Her head, still downcast and her cheeks red as rubies, shook like a fashion doll’s.

“Please don’t be angry with them, Gustaf,” she said to the Oriental rug. “They are young men. I’m sure they were playing cards or chess.”

“Var tyst, Anna. I will handle this.” After shushing his wife, Mr. Pilkvist laid scrutinizing eyes on his only son. “Tell me, Torsten, are you gambling and drinking in this house with the boarders?”

“No, Pappa, you know I don’t do that.”

“Then what do you two do concealed in your bedroom in the middle of the night? Is it games you play, like your mamma say? If so, then they should be taken to the parlor.”

“Games? No….” Tory dared to push his father. “What worries you, Pappa?”

Mr. Pilkvist waited an agonizing moment before responding. “I sense something wrong with all this. I don’t know, but all this stops now, here, today, for good. You will not permit Mr. van Werckhoven into your bedroom tonight, and as of tomorrow, he no longer a boarder in our house.”

“But Pappa, you can’t. You can’t toss him onto the street. So few rooms are available in the city—”

“When he return from his duties at his store this evening, I will tell him he must leave tomorrow. I know this will reach New York and come to look bad on us and Heloise, but as head of this household, I must do what best for family.”

“I won’t let you.”

“You won’t let me? Did you not hear when I say I am master of this house?”

Tory chewed on his fury. “Is it that Clair? Is she the one who turned you against Joseph?”

“This has nothing to do with Miss Schuster.”

Fuming, Tory rushed upstairs and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. He hurried to change his clothes, unconcerned if he left his breeches and shirt on the floor the way his mother disliked. Rage blinded him. A few moments later, dressed in proper street attire and a frock coat, he opened the door to find a startled Clair Schuster standing before him, her hand raised as if she were about to knock.

“Please, please, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” Her red eyes met his. “I only mentioned Mr. van Werckhoven spending time in your room because I was confused. Why does he spend so much time with you and not me? Do you know? Why?”

Furious, Tory wanted to slap her, toss her to the floor like he had his soiled clothes. He pursed his lips, able to think only of cruel curses to spew at her. Decorum cleaved his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Clair went on. Fresh tears streamed from her bloodshot eyes. She wrung her hands, her fingernails chipped and dirtied from her factory job. “I mentioned it to your parents to ask them why he spent so much time in your room, that’s all. I was so confused. I didn’t imagine they’d get so angry and force Mr. van Werckhoven onto the street. Try to convince your parents to let him stay. Please, try.”

To think he had wanted to act kinder to her. That he had harbored regret for the way he had treated her. All the while she had plotted her betrayal of him and Joseph. The meddlesome girl from Kenosha had sat in her room listening to them from the start. Irked with jealousy, she’d finally unleashed her bitter vengeance by revealing his and Joseph’s secret meetings in his bedroom. And now she pretended innocence. He refused to fall for her false sweet demeanor.

Biting his lower lip, he scooted by her and dashed downstairs. He heard the anguished call of his mother as he hustled outside down the marble front steps, followed by his father shouting at her, “Var tyst!”

He paid the hansom driver twenty-three cents and stood on the corner of State and Van Buren, gazing at the building that housed the van Werckhovens’ drugstore. He had come to see Joseph on a rescue mission. But to rescue him from what? His father’s wrath? The relentless clutches of Clair Schuster? Or the humiliation of having been found out?

To what depth did Clair and his parents understand their relationship? Tory did not care. He and Joseph van Werckhoven loved each other. Nothing wielded enough power to wedge a barrier between them now. Not confusion, not jealousy, not resentment. Destiny demanded they remain together.

Straightening his spine, Tory waited for a break in traffic before marching across the street. He entered by the lobby, where busy laborers raising the interior kept him from fully entering the drugstore. He saw Joseph turn his way and flash him a wide smile.

“Tory.” Joseph, wiping his hands on his smock, sidestepped the combo machines and wood planks on the floor and scurried over. “What are you doing here?”

“I was curious how things were coming along.” He glanced around, forcing a grin. “I can see a lot has come together in just a few days.”

“We’ve been working diligently, that’s for sure. Come in and have a peek.” Joseph escorted Tory inside the door. “How do you like the shelves? The carpenters have done a wonderful job, don’t you think? They’ve got most of them in place. You can see the electrical workers have gotten the lighting installed. See how the lights will allow us to work late if needed?”

Tory’s smile expressed his marvel. He noticed the muss of Joseph’s russet hair, his smock covered in sawdust and paint, the smudge of grime below his right eye. Joseph had toiled as hard as his laborers. Mr. Pilkvist had been wrong about him. No aristocrat would dirty his own hands when a team could do the work for him. A new wave of happiness, respect, and awe covered Tory. His smile, losing its tenuousness, taxed his cheek muscles.

Still, he must warn Joseph about the altercation he’d had with his parents and Miss Schuster. Returning to the row house would be difficult for them. Nevertheless, Joseph must know in advance what to expect. Tory decided to wait until Joseph finished showing him around the store.

The unwitting Joseph took him by the elbow and guided him farther into the construction. Workers, too focused on their chores, merely glanced at them. They stopped in a corner at the far end where columns and beams formed a rectangular division.

“Remember when we stood here last Saturday?” Joseph said, his voice full of pride and anticipation. “The pharmacy will go here. We’re about a third of the way done.”

“A perfect location,” Tory said. “You can see out over everything.”

“All our stores in New York are laid out in the same fashion. Father insists they keep the same interior design. He says it gives the store a unique imprint. By next week, we should have the shelves complete and the cabinets and the druggist table set up.”

“I can’t wait to see everything put together.”

Enchanted by Joseph’s enthusiasm, Tory followed him to the front of the store. Pedestrians passed by the windows, unaware or disinterested in the burgeoning dreams of the two young lovers inside.

“The counter supports are already in place,” Joseph said, running his fingers along the freshly sanded wood. “All we need is the top. The carpenters are working on that right now.” He nodded toward two men hand-sawing an elongated flat board. “We’re using only the highest grade of Michigan pine.”

“Everything looks wonderful,” Tory said. “Your first store in Chicago. It’s actually going to happen.”

“Come with me, Tory.” Joseph grabbed Tory by his arm. “Come see what I’ve discovered.”

Before Tory formed any words, Joseph steered him into the lobby and inside one of the electric elevators. Wordless, Tory gazed around him. “I’ve never ridden in one of these before,” he said.