Speak Through the Wind (12 page)

Most often, though, it was Ben himself who provided her with a brief respite from the foul odors of the city. Sleeping beside her, one arm pinning her to the mattress, Ben never seemed to carry an assaulting scent. He reminded her of Reverend Joseph’s black oilskin coat, which repelled the harshest raindrops, sending them into harmless rivulets snaking down the sleeves. On these mornings, she would turn to him, carefully maneuvering under the weight of his arm, and sneak her cheek across his shoulder until her nose just touched the hollow at the base of his throat. There she breathed. Deep. His skin smelled of ginger, though she could never trace the source. In the early days she had followed behind him, sniffing the cake of soap he slivered and worked into a furious lather before shaving each evening, but it smelled like glycerin and lye. Not like Ben. On particularly hot nights, the ginger mixed with a thin sheen of sweat that evaporated under her breath as she buried her face in his skin, drinking in that sweet, warm scent.

Soon she would feel his arms draw her closer, the first kiss of the day planted on the top of her head. She would look up, know that his eyes were still hidden behind his freckled lids and dusky lashes.

“Mornin’, Kassie, my love,” he’d say, his voice heavy with dozing.

And she knew she would be able to hold her nose and plunge through another day.

In the first weeks after their arrival, Kassandra had been too fearful-of the squalor of the neighborhood to venture far from the little apartment above Mott Street Tavern. Leaving only for the most necessary excursions, she spent long afternoons sitting at the open window, looking out on the raucous lives below. She felt a little like one of those princesses in the fairy tales Reverend Joseph used to read to her as a child—trapped in a tower, waiting for rescue from an uncertain fate. But in the end it was the tower keeper himself who saved her from exile, as Ben took her hand one afternoon, saying, “Come on, Kassie love, it’s not as bad as all that,” and began to introduce her into his world.

There was a clamorous volume to life on the streets. Men and women, standing not eight inches apart from each other, shouted their conversations over the constant noise of the jangling harnesses and rumbling wheels of the ever-present wagons, carriages, carts, and cabs that jockeyed for a clear path on the narrow streets. The street vendors—proprietors and drivers of many of those vehicles—shouted even louder, hawking their wares and services to the masses. Chimney sweeps strolled the sidewalks singing, “Sweep-o, sweep-o your chimbley today; sweep-o, sweep-o the black soot away!” Ragmen drove their wagons, shouting offers of two cents per pound of “good, clean rags” and two bits a bushel for bones.

At the corner of Mulberry and Canal, a fat man with a blond beard sold baked pears. After pocketing Ben’s nickel, he lifted two of them, dripping with syrup, from the shallow metal baking pan. Kassandra took her pear by the stem—as the man had demonstrated—and brought it to her mouth, sinking her teeth into the warm, sweet fruit. After weeks of nothing but bread and cheese and coffee in Ben’s apartment, it was the nicest treat she could imagine. So consumed was she with her snack that she failed to hear all of the conversation between Ben and the purveyor of the pear and was surprised when she saw the man reach into the same pocket where he had deposited Ben’s nickel and draw from it a handful of bills which were handed back over to Ben.

“Why did he give you that money?” Kassandra asked, wiping a drizzle of syrupy pear juice from her chin.

“Just a matter of business, darlin’,” he said, devouring half of his own pear in three bites before tossing the core into the street as a contribution to the pungent smell.

There were, it seemed, several matters of business all along the blocks that Ben and Kassandra strode together. As they made their way down Mulberry Street, across Bayard and back up Mott towards home, Ben stopped at several establishments, met their proprietors at the door, and left with his pockets considerably richer for the conversation. With some patrons there was a genuine affection to their greetings, but others spoke through tight-lipped resentment. He shook the hands of well-dressed, well-groomed businessmen who would offer Kassandra a gentlemanly nod in greeting, though Ben never formally introduced her. He also offered chaste kisses to brazen women of low reputation who eyed Kassandra with a leering grin before giving Ben a wink and a nudge, saying, “Popped you a good un, eh, Bennie?”

When he wasn’t conducting a matter of business, Ben was waylaid on the street, caught at the elbow by some young man or another. She’d seen many of them before, as they were regular visitors to Mott Street Tavern. Each doffed his hat in polite greeting to “Miss Kassandra,” revealing close-cropped hair that defied the style of the time. They all had clean-shaven faces—not a moustache or beard among them—and seemed, in comparison to many of the other men on the street, meticulously clean. Most wore green kerchiefs tied around their necks, and Kassandra had heard enough conversation about them to know they were called Branagans. Ben’s Branagans. Whenever one of these men came up to talk to Ben, Kassandra leaned in to listen, curious to know what matters needed to be discussed with such urgency. But she was usually disappointed when Ben would clap his arm around the shoulder of his confidant and take several steps away.

It was one of these men—tall and strong with piercing black eyes, jet-black hair, and a face with continuous stubble that would sprout without effort into a beard if ever allowed—who stopped Ben just outside a shoe repair shop. His name was Sean, Kassandra recalled, and he wasted little time tipping his cap to her before letting flow a stream of language, speaking syllables that sounded like they were delivered through a mouth full of cotton. Kassandra could not understand a word of it, but knew from hearing some of it tossed about in the streets that he was speaking Gaelic. Then, to her utter surprise, Ben responded in kind, allowing Kassandra to listen to every word. Though the topic was unclear, the feelings behind it were not. By the end of his talk with Sean, Ben was furious in the stony, jaw-clenched way that often made Kassandra reach down for her quietest self, disappearing until the anger passed. Within the space of an afternoon Ben became a complete stranger before her eyes.

When Sean finished his conversation, he clapped Ben on the back, received a reassuring return gesture, and actually offered a polite smile to Kassandra before leaving. Ben started again on his trek up Mott Street, seemingly unaware that Kassandra was not following. He was at least ten paces away before turning, signaling for her to join him, and finally walking back to her side, where he reached for her wrist and gave it a strong tug.

Kassandra refused to move, standing as if mired in the street. Indeed, glancing down, she saw there was plenty to be mired in, as her boots were precariously close to a steaming pile of horse dung.

“Tell me about Sean,” she said, forcing authority into her voice.

“He’s a friend. That’s all you need to know.” He gave a more forceful tug of her wrist. “C’mon.”

“No, Ben,” Kassandra said, finding the courage to refuse to take another step. “Tell me what is happening. Why are these people giving you money? Are you collecting some kind of rent?”

Ben laughed and dropped her hand. “What? D’ya think I’m a secret millionaire, hidin’ my fortune in my cap?” He turned and bowed to her, taking off his cap as if to prove its lack of fortune. “No, Kassie. There’s no money ownin’ a buildin’ in the Points. One minute y’have a thrivin’ trade, the next a pile of ashes.”

To punctuate his point, he nodded toward a structure scorched by fire, having lost only its topmost floor while its neighbor was nothing more than a blackened foundation.

“Then wh—”

“It’s the people inside,” Ben interrupted, quickening his pace. “Let the landlords own the property, take their rents and sit back, fat and rich off the lives of the poor man livin’ and workin’ in it. Me? I own the people. Just a bit of ’em—” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of defense against Kassandra’s indignation, “—not enough to tear the flesh, but enough to make ’em feel the pinch of it.”

Kassandra felt her own flesh prickle at the utter calm and seeming humor behind Ben’s words. Even with this she didn’t fully understand his meaning, and she was still deciding whether or not she really wanted clarification when a voice called from across the street.

“Connor! I gotta piece with you!”

The voice scattered the people gathered around the front of the property—a grocery store that sold produce and daily goods stocked on floor-to-ceiling shelves, and a barrel of uncertain liquor set up on the counter from which customers could siphon a nickel shot before leaving with their purchases. The man himself looked rather like a barrel, with his tiny feet and a smallish head that capped a large, round middle.

“What’s your problem, Kinley?” Ben asked.

“You’re not getting a dime from me this week, Connor. You hear me? Not a dime!”

“Now, Kinley, you know that’s not true,” Ben said, the compassionate tone of his voice a far cry from the implied threat of his words.

“Oh, it is true.” Mr. Kinley nervously fumbled with the apron that covered a pair of stained, brown striped trousers and a sweat-soaked shirt. He wore small round spectacles, and try as he might to hold eye contact with Ben, his gaze was soon darting past him, to the small gathering of Branagans, all with shorn hair and jaunty caps, who seemed to have come from out of nowhere to gather in a loose semicircle behind Ben. “It’s just—uh—I been robbed, Mr. Connor. Three times this week.”

“I know you have, Kinley. My boys told me.” Ben gestured grandly behind him. “My men haven’t caught up with him, yet.”

“Well, ha!” Kinley said, like a man taken with a sudden draught of courage. “Guess what? I got him! Myself! Got him locked in my cellar!” He rubbed his hands together in pudgy glee. “Gonna take him to the police! I just been waitin’ for you to come around so I could tell you to your face.”

Kassandra, in wide-eyed shock, watched as the grocer brought his sausagelike finger up to emphasize the last three words, its tip landing just short of Ben’s nose. Her gaze landed on Ben’s eyes, green and narrowed to mere slits. Then they crinkled, just at the edges, the way they always did when he smiled. But this wasn’t the smile that could warm her heart and make her laugh when the world around her seemed frightening. This was the smile that sometimes made it so.

“Bring the boy out to me,” Ben said, and although he did not break his gaze with Kinley, the message was clearly intended for the young men behind him. Two of them broke rank, walked through the grocer’s open door, and emerged minutes later dragging a ragged, bony, barefoot boy who shook his head to clear away a shank of dirty brown hair to shoot Ben a look of utter defiance.

“Take ’im to Mott’s. I’ll be there directly.”

In one swift movement, the two men half dragged the boy toward Mott Street. Kassandra watched them go, but when the boy turned his head and sent his hatred into her own eyes, she looked away.

Mr. Kinley, meanwhile, had lowered his hand and was once again fumbling with his apron. He seemed to have grown shorter in the intervening moments, his courage completely dissipated, leaving him with a deflated demeanor.

“Now, Kinley,” Ben said, his voice still controlled, “you know I don’t want police takin’ care of my business.”

“He robbed my store three times!”

“Whose store?”

“Listen Connor, this here is
my
place.”

“Maybe so,” Ben said, edging closer to the little grocer, “but it’s on
my
street. An’ me and my boys handle the business on my street.”

“And just where were your boys when this hooligan was stealing my inventory?” Kinley said, his jaw set, his jowl quivering.

Ben turned his gaze upward as if in deep thought. Then he shrugged and said, “You have a point, Kinley. The boy’s a sneaky one—got away from us. Tell you what. For your inconvenience, I can forgive this week’s payment. Sound fair?”

Mr. Kinley clutched and unclutched his fists, dangling at his side, as if trying to pump himself full of the strength he would need for his reply “No disrespect, Connor, but I don’t think I want to fall in with you no more.”

Ben chuckled. “Are you quite sure? Because you do have a fine establishment runnin’ here. I’d hate to see any harm come to it.”

For the first time, Ben looked away from Mr. Kinley, turning his gaze behind him to the burned-out pile of rubble just over his left shoulder. Kassandra followed suit, as did Mr. Kinley.

“You just think on it, Mr. Kinley,” Ben said, holding out his hand, “and I’ll check back with you personally in a few days.”

Mr. Kinley held out his hand to shake Ben’s. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Connor,” he said, before turning on his heel and walking back inside.

For all Kassandra knew, Ben had forgotten that she was even there as he set his jaw and strode, arms tensed and swinging at his side, back to Mott Street. His remaining men followed suit, and Kassandra had to push her way through their ranks to get close to Ben.

“What are you going to do to that boy?” she asked, practically running beside him.

“Not now, Kassie.” He didn’t stop or speak again until he was swinging open the door of the Mott Street Tavern. He turned to address his men, saying something in Gaelic, which they repeated back to him in one solemn voice before dispersing into the street.

Although the people of the neighborhood thought nothing of spending entire afternoons drinking in the tavern, on this day the place was practically empty. The usual permanent fixtures kept their place at the bar, and some of the women Kassandra recognized from their silent passing on the stairs occupied the tables, but there was no warm greeting of Ben as he burst across the threshold. In fact, no one was speaking at all—not even Hamlet, a regular at the swill barrel who could recite any Shakespearean sonnet at the drop of a shot.

Kassandra followed Ben through the large room to the closed door at the back. She had never seen this room before. She had walked through it several times, as it was necessary to do so to get to the stairs, but, windowless, it had always been drenched in black. Now, though, several sconces lining the wall were lit, their glass bowls tinted to give the room a dim red light, revealing that it was larger than she had expected it to be—nearly half the size of the tavern at the front. The walls were roughly plastered and irreverently whitewashed; the floor was nothing but hard-packed dirt. Besides the odd, mismatched chair, there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the room. At its center was a round, raised platform, bordered on all sides by three-foot fence pickets, each cut to a sharp spike at the top and placed so close together that she doubted even her tiniest finger could wedge between them.