Firestorm! Page 7

  No! She would not wear those old, raggedy clothes again. Claire had given her the pretty dress and she wanted it back. Cautiously, she crept to the tattered armchair where Ma had tossed the new dress. Poppy reached for it silently and slipped it over her head. She couldn’t reach the buttons, but it didn’t matter. This was her dress and she’d never give it up. She felt through a pile of clothes on the floor until she found an old knitted sweater. She put her arms into the long sleeves and buttoned it in the front.

  Carrying a shoe under each arm, Poppy crawled to the door and pulled it open an inch at a time. Once, Ma snorted, and Poppy froze, waiting to hear Ma’s even breathing again. Then she opened the door gradually until her eyes became accustomed to the darkness and the stairway leading up to the street door became visible in the murky shadows.

  Up one step, then another. One step, then another. The noises of wild laughter and revelry had ebbed, and Poppy knew it had to be close to dawn. She had to get far away before she was missed. If Ma woke up and found her leaving, Poppy would never escape and Ma would surely beat her until she was black and blue.

  Poppy reached the front door and released it slowly. The night air swept in on a cool breeze, and the moonlight cast a soft glow on the street. Poppy closed the door quietly behind her, then sat on the front steps to put on her shoes. She tiptoed down to the dirt street and onto the board sidewalk, and then she scurried up the block toward Justin’s house.

  Two dark shadows stood on the corner of the block, so Poppy squeezed into an alley. She shivered in the cold wind, waiting until the shadows disappeared into the night. I hope no one stops me or grabs me, she thought. She had heard stories about the vicious hoodlums who stalked the streets of Chicago day and night—hiding in places even worse than Ma Brennan’s.

  Breathlessly she darted to the main road, her shoes clickety-clacking and echoing on the dark streets.

  At last, she saw Justin’s house in the distance, on an acre of farmland. The house was dark, but it stood out silent and silver in the moonlight.

  She tiptoed to the fence where Ticktock was kept, unlatched the gate, and opened it quietly.

  Ticktock heard her and trotted out of her little shed, whimpering and bleating. Poppy looked toward Justin’s house. There were no lights on and no one seemed to be stirring. The sound of Ticktock’s whines hadn’t carried that far, she hoped.

  “Hush, Ticktock,” Poppy whispered, bending down to pet the goat. “It’s just me, Poppy.” The stars glistened above the pasture, and the lawn and trees were swathed in moonlight. How still it was. Not a harsh sound—nothing but the wind.

  As Poppy went into the shed, Ticktock trotted close behind her, bleating eagerly again as she butted Poppy’s backside. Poppy giggled. “You silly little goat.”

  Inside, the hay smelled sweet. Poppy reached for the quilt, lay down on the bed of straw, and pulled the blanket over her. Ticktock nibbled at the fabric. “No, no, Ticktock,” she whispered. “Come here.”

  The goat came closer and nudged her hand, as if requesting for Poppy to pat her. Poppy scratched the goat’s head and neck and then pulled Ticktock down next to her.

  “Let’s go to sleep. I need to get up and leave before someone finds me.” She fixed the quilt over both of them. “There.” Ticktock seemed to understand, because she folded her legs and leaned against Poppy. Soon the little goat dropped her head and became quiet.

  Poppy put her arms around Ticktock. “You’re my first best friend, Ticktock,” she whispered. “I wish I could stay here with you forever.”

  She closed her eyes, and for the first time ever, she felt safe—at least for a little while.

  EARLY TUESDAY MORNING,

  OCTOBER 3, 1871

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  - Not Yet -

  “Blaa! Blaa!” Justin pulled a pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep, but Ticktock’s insistent bleats came through. He pushed the pillow aside and glanced out the window by his bed. The very first streaks of dawn spread across the horizon in red and orange bands. I wonder what’s wrong with Ticktock. She usually doesn’t start calling this early. She must still feel strange in her new home. I better get up before she wakes everyone. He climbed out of bed barefoot and tiptoed down to the kitchen.

  “What’s going on with Ticktock?” Claire was already up and lighting the kitchen stove. She had on a blue striped robe over her nightclothes. “Were you just out there? She’s crying like she does when you leave her.”

  “No. I’ve been in bed.” Justin went outside, where the dawn was now taking over the sky and birds had begun to chirp in the trees.

  “Blaa! Blaa!” cried Ticktock. She was standing by the gate, crying.

  “What’s wrong, little nanny?” Justin asked soothingly. The little goat eagerly pushed her way through the gate the moment Justin opened it. “No, no,” Justin said, closing the opening. “Are you hungry?” He went into the shed and opened the barrel that contained the goat’s food. “Here you go.” He was about to pour food into Ticktock’s tin basin but stopped in surprise. The bowl was almost full. “What’s this? I filled this last night and it was almost empty when I left.”

  Claire, still in her robe and slippers, came into the shed and had apparently overheard Justin’s words. “Is Ticktock all right? Didn’t she eat last night?”

  “Yes, she did. She ate so much, I didn’t want to leave any more in the basin. Look.” He pointed to the food in the bowl. “It’s just about full.” He turned to his sister. “Did you feed her after I went to bed?”

  “No, of course not. But perhaps Father or Charlie did when she started bellowing.”

  “I don’t think so. I would have heard them. Besides, if she’s not hungry, why is she bleating? Do you suppose she’s sick?”

  “No,” Claire said. “Look at her. She’s ready to play now that you’re here. Maybe she was lonely.”

  Justin sat down on the doorsill and hugged his pet. “I wish you could talk and tell me what you want.”

  “Look, Justin.” Claire pointed to the quilt, which was folded neatly on the hay. “Who do you suppose folded this blanket?”

  Justin frowned. “I keep it on the shelf unless it’s real cold. How did it get folded like that? Do you think someone was in here?”

  “It had to be somebody. I don’t suppose Ticktock climbed up, took it off the shelf, and then folded it,” Claire said with a wry grin.

  “Whoever it was is gone now.”

  “And that would explain why Ticktock was crying. Whoever was with her left, and she became lonely.” Claire bent down and examined the flattened bed of hay. “Someone other than Ticktock slept here. Do you suppose you walked in your sleep?”

  “No!”

  “Then who could it have been?” Claire was silent for a moment. Then she nodded. “Oh, Justin, I think it was—”

  “Poppy.” Justin spoke his sister’s thoughts. “But why? She went home.”

  “Perhaps she was punished for being late,” Claire said. “Heaven knows what might have happened when Poppy got home.”

  Justin scratched his head. “But to sleep in a goat’s barn? Surely she must have somewhere else to go.”

  Claire shook her head. “If she had somewhere else, she’d have gone there.”

  “Do you suppose she’ll come back tonight?”

  “I think she will. But don’t wait up and confront her, Justin. Let her come. Maybe we can put some food out here for her—as if we left it by mistake.”

  “Suppose Mother or Father or Charlie finds out? They know she’s from Conley’s Patch. They’d send her packing. We can’t tell them.”

  “No, the poor thing needs to figure out what she’s going to do. Meanwhile, we won’t say anything to anyone. She’s careful about coming here late and leaving early.” Claire sighed. “I wish I could help her find a good place to stay.”

  “She doesn’t like goats,” Justin said. “She thinks they stink. She’d better be good to Ticktock.”

  “She
doesn’t have a mean streak in her body. If she were mean, do you think Ticktock would have cried so much when she left? It looks to me like Poppy fed your goat.” Claire sat next to Justin and put her arm around his shoulder. “I think Ticktock is fond of Poppy. And Poppy needs a friend. The goat is most likely the only one she can trust right now.”

  “Do you think …”

  “Yes, I think eventually Poppy will come to us for help. But she’s not ready yet.”

  TUESDAY MORNING,

  OCTOBER 3, 1871

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  - Poppy’s Worst Fear -

  It was still dark when Poppy left the goat house and headed toward town. Her stomach grumbled for something to eat. In fact, she was so hungry that she began to wonder if she’d done the right thing by leaving Ma Brennan’s. After all, despite the beatings, at least she had something to eat every day. Where could she go now to stop this awful, empty ache in the pit of her belly? She had no money.

  Of course! I’ll get some money from the hiding place behind the rock and have a good breakfast at a real restaurant!

  She brushed off bits of hay from her new dress and then straightened out the wrinkles as well as she could. I wish I had a comb, she thought as she drew her fingers through her hair.

  Poppy headed up the street toward Conley’s Patch, hoping no one would see her. The eastern sky was lighter now. A rat scurried across her path and she heard someone crying in one of the alleys as she passed by. That morning, when she had awakened in the goat barn, the sounds had been different—the warbling of birds, the sound of wind rustling through the dry meadow grass, Ticktock’s soft bleating. Tonight, when it was really late, she’d go back there. That would be her secret, safe place. But she’d need to be careful so that no one would know she’d been there.

  She paused, thinking about her rush to leave that morning. Had she folded the quilt and put it back on the shelf, the way she found it? Had anyone heard her pump water for herself and for Ticktock? When she poured food into Ticktock’s tin basin, it had clattered loudly. She’d need to be more careful from now on.

  She reached the empty lot and old foundation. Poppy found the loose stone, stretched her arm into the hole, and pulled out the can where she’d hidden the money. She removed the matchbox carefully, so as not to crack the wax. Then she took one dollar and put the rest back into the can.

  After replacing the stone, she returned to the street.

  She remembered a small café where they served coffee and breakfast. As she headed up the walkway, she heard the familiar sound of clanging bells, hissing steam, and galloping hooves. She stopped as sweating horses pulling a fire engine clattered by. The engine stopped a little ways up the street, and Poppy could now see fingers of flames sputtering from an old wooden building, casting sparks everywhere. A hot cinder landed on her shoulder. Slap! She brushed it away, searching to see that it hadn’t scorched her new dress.

  She crossed to the other side of the street and paused to watch two firemen pumping a water tank on the truck, while another man shot water from a hose onto the burning building.

  As black smoke that was swept by the wind blocked her vision, she ran between gusts until she could see the little café where she was headed.

  Once inside, she took a seat far away from the window, for fear Ma Brennan or the girls might pass by and see her. When the waitress handed her a menu, she brushed it aside. She couldn’t read anyway, so she asked, “How much for a glass of milk and a dropped egg on toast?”

  “Fifteen cents. The milk is fresh—Mrs. O’Leary delivered it this morning.”

  “That’s good,” Poppy said with a little sniff, the way she’d heard some of the highfalutin ladies speak. “I can’t abide sourin’ milk.”

  Poppy waited, twiddling her thumbs. Some of the customers were reading the newspaper. Others talked about the weather.

  “We have a problem with this drought,” one man said, pointing to an article in the morning news. “This town is a tinderbox just waiting for a spark.”

  “Between the wooden buildings and the lumberyards, Chicago would be gone in a puff of smoke,” agreed a young man at an adjoining table.

  “Nothin’ we can do ’bout it,” his friend said. “Can’t change the weather.”

  “They should have thought about fires when they put up all the wooden construction,” the first man argued. “We got lumber mills and sawdust, wooden bridges, wooden houses …”

  Even wooden sidewalks, thought Poppy.

  A waitress came around to refresh their coffee. “The fire trucks are out near every day. Bob Williams, the fire marshal, told me that there were more than six hundred fires during the past two years.”

  The waitress set Poppy’s order in front of her. The toast was cut in quarters, shiny with melting butter. The egg was perfect with the yolk just a little soft. Poppy pierced it with her fork and the yolk dribbled down into the bread. She grabbed a slice of toast eagerly and gobbled it down. After she finished the egg, she slathered the last piece of toast with strawberry preserves from a white covered dish. She ate it slowly this time, enjoying all the thick sweetness and sipping on the fresh, cold milk between bites. How wonderful to be able to buy food at a restaurant! Anything you want—all it takes is money. But the only way Poppy knew how to get money was to steal it.

  She watched the men leaving the nearby table. One of them dropped a few pennies onto the tablecloth, as a tip for the waitress. Poppy reached over quickly and slipped the pennies into her own dress pocket. A few minutes later, the waitress came to clean the nearby table and went away with a look of disappointment on her face.

  Poppy felt a bit sorry for the waitress but brushed the feeling aside. After all, Poppy had to live, too, especially now that she was away from Ma Brennan’s. She needed to take care of herself.

  Poppy wondered how much money she could make if she worked as a waitress. Waitresses made a small salary, she’d heard. But then they got tips—a few cents for themselves from good customers.

  “Are you finished?” Poppy looked up as her waitress reached for the empty plate. “Is there anything else?”

  “No,” Poppy said. “Thank you.”

  The waitress put a tab of paper on the table. Poppy checked the bill. Two figures—a one and a five. That meant fifteen cents, just as she had been told. She took out her dollar to pay at the counter. She paused for a moment, then took the pennies from her pocket and placed them on the table. A tip for her waitress.

  After paying her bill, Poppy stepped outside. The sun was shining brightly now. Most of the fire down the street was out, and the black clouds of smoke faded away in the breeze. She found a bench and sat down to be sure she had been given the correct change. It took her a while—she wasn’t used to figuring out sums.

  Suddenly she noticed two shadows appear on the ground in front of her. Looking up, she felt her heart drop. Four Fingers Foley and Patrick Cahill were standing before her.

  “Where’s your big-shot highfalutin bodyguard?” Fingers asked.

  Poppy tucked the money into her pocket and then stood up to leave, but Patrick blocked her way. “Where did ya get the money, Poppy?” He tried to reach into her pocket, but she smacked his hand hard.

  “Come on, Poppy,” Fingers said. “We know what you’re up to. You’re makin’ friends with that rich jeweler’s kid. Now we’re here to help you out.”

  Poppy frowned. “I don’t need help.”

  “Sure you do.” Fingers pushed her down onto the bench. “Let’s talk. You’re plannin’ to cash in on your friendship with the Butterworths. They’ve got money and they own that jewelry store on State Street. Right?”

  “Wrong!” Poppy stomped her foot. “I’m not friends with the Butterworths.”

  “Well, it looks to me like you’re tryin’ your best to be friends with that pantywaist Justin. Or is it the goat you like?” Patrick laughed. “He’s crazy. He has a stinkin’ goat for a pet.”

  “That goat does not stink!” Popp
y snapped. “And Justin isn’t crazy.”

  Fingers chuckled. “See, Patrick? She does like that Justin kid.”

  Once again Poppy tried to get up, and once again Fingers pushed her down. “Now, listen to me. We’re all pals here and we’re willin’ to help you break into the jewelry store. And we’re willin’ to cut the sugar even.”

  “Who said I was goin’ to rob the Butterworths?” This time Poppy jostled herself from Fingers and twisted from Patrick’s grasping hands. She tried to bolt off, when she was stopped by a large, imposing figure. Ma Brennan!

  “Aw, look who’s here! It’s my own little Poppy, who ran away from her ma last night.” She held Poppy by the shoulders. “Are these boys giving you trouble, dearie?”

  A sinking feeling of hopelessness swept over Poppy. She could never get away from Ma Brennan. Right now all she could do was act as if she were sorry—and find out what Ma intended to do.

  “They’re scarin’ me, Ma,” Poppy whimpered as Ma put her arms around her. “Make ’em go away.”

  “Those no-accounts were threatenin’ you. I heard every word. Don’t worry, Poppy. Ma’s here now and she’s goin’ to protect you.”

  The boys backed away as Ma shook her fist at each of them. “Leave my Poppy alone or you’ll disappear one of these nights,” she warned. “Scram! Get outta here!”

  Fingers and Patrick took off up the street, and Ma pulled Poppy down onto the bench. “Now, you tell me why you ran away from your ma, who’s loved ya all these years. I scared you last night, but you’ve gotta learn, dearie, that you mustn’t steal from your ma and buy things with her money. It’s not nice.” She put her arms around Poppy. “Let’s let bygones be bygones.”

  Poppy knew Ma very well, and she knew Ma only sounded forgiving. But Poppy knew how to pretend, too. “I’m sorry I ran away, Ma. But you scared me. And I really, truly didn’t steal your money to buy this dress. The Butterworths gave it to me.”