Rebecca Hagan Lee (7 page)

James hugged the little girl in his arms even tighter. Trust Garnet to be the first to notice Diamond and to notice that
he had omitted the baby from his gift list. “That,” James explained, “is your new little sister, Diamond.”

Garnet smiled.

Arms akimbo, Ruby stamped her foot. “Wanna see.”

James bent at the waist and carefully set Garnet on her feet before taking Diamond from Mrs. G.’s arms. He carried the baby over to the rocking chair beside Emerald’s crib and sat down, angling his body so that Emerald could peer through the slats of her crib at the baby and the curious introductions. He made himself comfortable on the rocker, then leaned forward a bit and called Ruby and Garnet forward. “Come on over. Gently now,” he cautioned when Ruby made a beeline for his lap. “Come see Diamond.”

Ruby and Garnet wiggled closer, pressing their little bodies close against James’s legs. Garnet’s little face glowed with delight as James peeled back the blanket and held Diamond up so the girls could get a look at her face. She reached out and reverently touched the blanket. “Pwretty.” Garnet stood on tiptoe, making smacking sounds with her lips, as she leaned forward to kiss the baby.

James nodded his approval at Garnet and smiled at Emerald, who was reaching through the slats of her crib and babbling excitedly. James brushed his lips against Emerald’s hand, then turned1 to Ruby and asked, “What about you, sweetheart? What do you think of your new sister?”

Ruby frowned at the baby, displeasure written in big bold letters across her face for all the world to see. She backed up a step or two, away from the baby. “Rwuby rwather have her pinano,” she said, looking her daddy squarely in the eye. “And brwocks!”

ELIZABETH WATCHED AS
Father Paul strolled up and down the narrow path between the rows of graves. She focused her gaze on his feet, watching as the hem of his garment swept back and forth, brushing the tops of his black boots and across the sandy loam covering the newest sites in the ever-increasing potter’s field.

“Are you certain this is it?” Elizabeth asked, pointing to the second grave in the row.

Father Paul shrugged his shoulders, “I cannot be certain.” He stared down at the row of burial plots. “There are so many new ones.”

“Please, Father, try to remember,” she pleaded. “Owen had a boyish face, blond hair, and blue eyes. He was only twenty-one.”

“So young,” the priest remarked, reaching up to reposition his zucchetto on his close-cropped, grizzled hair. “They all seem so young to me.” Sighing heavily, he turned his attention back to the row of graves. “Perhaps, it is that one,” he told her, pointing to the second grave. “Or perhaps, that one, or the other,” he concluded, pointing to the first and third graves. “One of these three, although I cannot say exactly which one.”

Elizabeth stood quietly for a moment, absentmindedly chewing on her bottom lip, before making a decision. “That’s the one.” She pointed to the second grave, then looked over at the elderly priest for confirmation. “Somehow, I just know Owen is buried there. I feel it in my heart.”

Father Paul nodded, his faded blue eyes brimming with understanding. “Then that grave is where his mortal body lies.”

“Fine, then,” Elizabeth agreed. “It’s settled.” She reached out and grasped the old man’s hand. “Thank you, Father.” Her next course of action determined, Elizabeth started out of the cemetery. “I’ll go order a headstone. A fine one of polished marble.” She turned back to the priest.

“See Mr. Dorminey at Dorminey Stone Works near the end of Larkin Street,” he instructed. “He’s one of my parishioners. Tell him I sent you.”

“Oh, thank you, Father. Thank you so much.” Elizabeth’s gratitude was mirrored in her blue-green eyes.

The elderly priest smiled. “Go with God, my child.”

TWO HOURS LATER
, after having ordered and paid for a white polished marble headstone engraved with Owen’s name and dates, Elizabeth concluded her business with the owner of Dorminey Stone Works. Her sense of euphoria at having accomplished the tasks she had set for herself—that of locating Owen’s final resting place and purchasing a fine headstone to mark it—faded rapidly once Elizabeth left the stone works and realized she’d spent all but a small portion of her remaining cash on the first payment on the monument and the final payment would be due when the headstone was delivered.

She had planned to secure lodging in another establishment like the Russ House until she decided whether to stay in San Francisco and look for a suitable job or to move on, but staying in a hotel like the Russ House was out of the
question now that she had so little money left. And traveling to another town was also out of the question until she replenished her cash. Elizabeth toyed briefly with the foolish notion of telegraphing her grandmother and asking her to send money, but discarded the idea almost as quickly as she’d thought of it. Her grandmother Sadler wouldn’t send money for Owen’s headstone or for Elizabeth to live on, nor would she acknowledge any plea for help—by letter or by telegram. Elizabeth had created a scandal and Grandmother Sadler had scratched her name out of the Sadler family Bible. She was as dead to their grandmother as Owen was. Grandmother had made that perfectly clear when she disowned her and asked her to leave, not only the Sadler family home on Hemlock Street, but Providence as well.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and willed herself to forget the hurtful things Grandmother had said about her—the names she had called her. What was done was done. She wouldn’t crawl back to Providence on her hands and knees to beg Grandmother’s forgiveness and she wouldn’t send a letter or telegram begging for money, either. She was on her own. And the next order of business was to find an inexpensive place to live and a job.

Her decisions made, Elizabeth took another deep breath and began the long journey back the way she had come—from Larkin Street back toward Saint Mary’s Square—in search of inexpensive lodging.

She found exactly what she was looking for on Clay Street, several blocks away from Saint Mary’s Church and the cemetery, in a place called Bender’s Boardinghouse. The owner of the establishment, Augusta Bender, was a stout, no-nonsense widow in her late fifties, who had sailed around the Horn to San Francisco in forty-nine. Although Mrs. Bender’s language was coarse and she wasn’t as clean as Elizabeth hoped she would be, she had rooms available and she didn’t require references for unchaperoned ladies.

“You can bring gentlemen friends back to your room at
night if that’s your leanin’,” she said as she explained the house rules to Elizabeth.

“Oh, no, I’d never …” Elizabeth began.

But Mrs. Bender held up a hand to forestall Elizabeth’s assurances. “That’s what they all say. You don’t have to worry about explainin’ things to me. I know that a girl’s gotta make a livin’ however she can. But I’ll expect an extra two bits a night when your gentlemen friends stay over to cover the cost of the racket and of washing the sheets. And if a cop pinches you for solicitin’, I’m telling you now to leave my name and my establishment out of it. The rooms rent for a dollar-fifty a week with no meals. For seventy-five cents a week extra, I’ll guarantee you one meal a day. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Elizabeth told her.

Augusta Bender stared at her for a long minute before asking, “You sure you want to live here?”

Elizabeth nodded. “I’m sure.” She extended a hand to Mrs. Bender to conclude the agreement, then dug into her purse and counted out the required coins. “Here’s my first week’s rent in advance. One dollar and fifty cents for the room, plus seventy-five cents for meals for a total of two dollars and twenty-five cents.” She beamed at the older woman. “When may I move in?”

“Whenever you want,” Mrs. Bender replied. “I’ll get you some linens for the bed. And a pitcher of fresh water. The slipper tub’s in the room at the end of hall. Full baths are assigned by room number. You’re in room four, so your bath time is four in the afternoon. You have the tub room all to yourself for one hour. If you miss your time or need to change your hour, you’ll have to negotiate with one of the other residents. And I’m not a lady’s maid. I don’t fetch hot water or empty the tub, but the kitchen has an indoor pump and I keep the reservoir in the stove full of hot water. You’re responsible for emptying the tub when you finish with it. Just tip it over. The water’ll run down a pipe and out into the street.” She reached into her apron pocket,
pulled out a key, and gave it to Elizabeth. “Supper’s at six-thirty. Welcome to Bender’s.”

It took three trips by foot, and the remainder of the afternoon to transfer her baggage from the San Francisco Ferry Building at the end of Market to the boardinghouse on Clay. Elizabeth was exhausted by the time she carried the last of her valises up the stairs to her second-floor room at Bender’s. Elizabeth surveyed the sparsely furnished room with its dingy walls, rough planked floors, marble-topped washstand, and cheap furniture, then dropped her bags on the floor beside the narrow wooden bed and walked over to the window. After struggling with the stubborn window, she managed to raise it a couple of inches to allow the fresh air to dispel the musty odor. After removing the stack of clean bed linen and a quilt from its resting place atop the scratched and scarred mahogany bureau, Elizabeth made up the bed.

The aroma of food cooking in the shacks lining the back alleys and in the restaurants fronting the street drifted in with the breeze coming through her window as Elizabeth opened her valise and began to unpack. Her stomach rumbled hungrily. Elizabeth realized she hadn’t eaten anything since her arrival in San Francisco the day before. She glanced down at the gold ladies’ watch pinned to the bodice of her dress. Her bath hour had long since expired, but the supper hour was rapidly approaching. She had just enough time to finish unpacking and attend to her toilette with a quick stand-up bath before dinner. After laying aside an evening dress and a set of underclothes to change into, Elizabeth pulled open the bureau drawers and placed the rest of her clothes inside them.

When her chore was completed, Elizabeth reached into the pocket of the dress she was wearing and took out two brass hotel keys wrapped in James’s handkerchief. She unwrapped the keys and dropped them in the bureau drawer, then stared at the handkerchief and the initials embroidered in deep blue thread on one corner of the square of linen.
J. C. C. James
C. C. After carefully folding the handkerchief,
Elizabeth placed it on top of a pile of her frilly undergarments and closed the bureau drawer.

She unbuttoned her dress, stepped out of it, and walked over to the washstand dressed in her camisole and petticoat. She tilted the pitcher of water over the chipped basin, intending to fill it, but halted abruptly when she discovered a cockroach lying on its back in the center of the bowl, its legs pointing toward the ceiling. Shuddering with distaste, Elizabeth set the pitcher down, then picked up the basin, carried it to the window, and emptied the dead roach into the street. She returned the basin to its place on the washstand, started to fill it with water from the pitcher again, then thought better of it. After inspecting the water in the pitcher for signs of more roaches or other vermin, Elizabeth took a clean washcloth from the bar on the side of the washstand, and held it folded in the palm of her left hand, while she used her right hand to pour water from the pitcher onto it.

It was an awkward way to bathe, but Elizabeth managed to do a credible job. She unpinned her hair, brushed it back into a neat chignon and repinned it, then dressed for dinner in a dark blue satin gown edged in matching velvet.

She entered the dining room promptly at six-thirty and discovered she was the only one of the other six female residents of Bender’s who had bothered to go to the trouble of bathing and dressing for dinner—or to dress at all. The other women had apparently interrupted their toilette in order to make it to the dinner table on time, for they were all in various stages of dress or undress. Elizabeth glanced around the room. Two young women wore thin dressing gowns and nothing else. One wore a lacy red camisole and matching pantalets. Two more women wore combinations of corsets, camisoles, and petticoats. And the last, a brazen woman of about thirty years of age, came to the supper table wearing a corset and silk stockings held up by frilly garters. Elizabeth blushed at the sight. The woman’s corset was laced so tightly her massive bosom threatened to spill over the edge of her corset and onto her plate.

“Wot’s this?” The young woman in the red camisole and pantalets turned to glare at Elizabeth as she slipped into a vacant seat at the end of the long dining table. “ ’ave we got a bloomin’ duchess here at Bender’s?”

Augusta Bender placed a huge bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. “What we have here is a lady,” she announced to the occupants seated at the table, shooting a warning glance at each of them. “A lady a bit down on her luck. She moved into number four this afternoon.” Mrs. Bender abruptly turned and exited into the kitchen. She returned a few moments later carrying a plate of fluffy yeast rolls and a platter of fried chicken. Mrs. Bender set the dishes on the table and began introducing the residents of her boarding house to Elizabeth, nodding her head at each woman as she introduced her. “That’s Phyllis seated next to you. She’s the Brit. Dove is beside Phyllis. Jennie’s the youngest. Trudy’s sitting beside Jennie. Eleanor is across from Jennie and Ida’s at the end of the table. Girls, this is Elizabeth Sadler. Be nice to her while she’s here,” Mrs. Bender instructed. “No more talkin’. Dig in to your supper while it’s hot. After all, you’re paying for it.”