Chapter 23 - The Mercy Cage

The twenty-third chapter of our novel, in which Anne first arrives to the house and soon faces off against the girl of the house to not be messed with.

Anne - 1899, New York City

Prologue // Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7 // Chapter 8 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 10 // Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 // Chapter 13// Chapter 14 // Chapter 15 // Chapter 16 // Chapter 17 // Chapter 18 // Chapter 19 // Chapter 20 // Chapter 21 // Chapter 22

      I suppose the throbbing of my head might be a permanent addition to my other ailments from dancing all these years. A couple of months ago, I thought I would go on a lark and snatch Florence’s head piece while she chased me for it, and I tripped up the last step, smashing my toe. It bled profusely, not even stopping during the show, and I even left a trail of blood through my shoe on the stage as we exited. Florence and Rose insisted that I clean it instead of leaving it to the stagehands at the hall, and refusing to dance again until it was clean. I suppose it made sense, but I wish I could unlive the humiliation of cleaning on stage between numbers. As much as the crowd was awed by our routines, transforming from dancer to human to them (especially down to the level of a servant) brought forth an ugliness that, at the time, I never wished to see in them again. I have seen worse now.

     From my years of dancing, my body has started taking a little longer to rise in the morning. I find it a bit stiffer, a bit harder to jump out of bed like I did even a year ago. Sometimes it is my back that is sore, or the back of my legs get tender. My walk to and from the Coney Island Dance Hall is at the same time my transport as well as my chance to discover all of my new aches and pains from the night before. 

    Here in this house, though, we are expected to rise from our beds instantly. I have managed to trick my body to comply by imagining I am laying in the bird cage before the cue, ready to spring into flight at the first note of the music. Though normally I’ve only been lying there for a few moments instead of the entire night. If I am lucky, I wake in the moment just before the nuns come in and ring the bell for us to spring awake. I am not so lucky this morning, though, as the pounding in my head still lingers. The nun stopped giving me medicine for the pain once I left the infirmary and joined the main room here, and while I am elated to no longer be restrained to a bed, I do wish I could drown the knocking in my head. 

     Sometimes I wake earlier than the bell in a panic sweat, with echoes of “Reformed- Reformed- Reformed!” haunting my dreams. I relive the night at the dance hall over and over again, with each replay coming nearer into focus, a bit less of a blur, with a new detail to latch onto. Though, I can not say if I am truly remembering it, or creating memories to fill the gaps where I lapse. I find it oddly comforting- until the moment where I black out. One night I woke in the middle of the night screaming, yelling, “They are going to take me away! I DO NOT WANT TO -”, until a small hand closed over my mouth, and a body wiggled behind me, and held me, rocking me, back and forth as she whispered, “Shhhh. It’s ok now. You are safe here. Fannie’s got you. Fannie will hold you all night.” And she did. I don’t recall when last I felt so-safe? I would say with Andrew in the cellar, but at the time I was so frightened, he was- wonderful, I almost murmur aloud, but aside from him, that night was horrible. The night I was captured; or rescued, depending on how I look at it. Oh goodness, if I told my mom the story, and said I was rescued, she would scold me. Mother…That next day was the last time I’ve seen mother. God. I hope Rose or Florence have told her about- they must have. I hope she is alright. I feel my breath heaving, feel the cold sweat on my skin and force myself to stop thinking of mother and of Andrew.  I open my eyes and see Fannie, awake already and looking back at me. I nod at her calmly and slow my breath. That night that Fannie held me was the only night I yelled out. My body knows better than to betray me now.

    As if on cue, the tall sister strides in, clangs the bell, and off we go for the day. We rise, curtly change into our work clothes, stop by the hall for a brief breakfast, if you can call it that, and then march down into the laundry for another long day of work. Once the nuns leave, we all find ways to make the laundry more fun, or at least ways to help the time pass a bit easier. Some girls like to gossip and chit-chat, sharing stories of life before they came to this house, or of dreams of when they get out. Some like to imagine what their moms, lovers, and friends are doing beyond the four walls here, while others prefer to keep quiet, resistant to trusting the others. On my first day, Fannie was assigned to show me the ropes of the laundry. The first piece of advice she gave me was to “Mind who you trust.” I’ve noticed that while she does daydream during laundry time, she is careful who she shares with. 

     On some days, when the nuns are far enough, we play games. One of our favorites is a game of “hot potato” where the goal is to keep from getting an object being passed around. If a girl leaves the daily “hot potato” in your work or at your station, you must find a way to pass it off without getting caught. It is ironic, since all of us dream of the day we will have a real hot potato again. The game is more exciting as the end time for the morning shift nears, as the nuns will come down to check our work and possibly risk discovering our game. I have resorted to humming and singing songs from the Coney Island Night Club. The oven, washing, drying, and clattering are loud enough to drown out the noise to anyone who is not standing directly beside me, or to the nuns for that matter, so I pass the time practicing my dance steps as I sing along, wistfully thinking about Rose and Florence doing our numbers without me. I hope they have not been captured as well, though I imagine they would be here if they had. I pray everyday that I do not wake up to find them here. 

    For today’s tasks I am paired with a girl that Fannie has warned me the most about in hushed whispers, a girl with scowls and looks that could rival the sisters when displeased. She is not liked. She has probably figured it out by now, many of the girls work in pairs except one person rotates each day to work with Harriet. She refuses to do anything but the ironing, claiming that everyone else is too stupid to do it properly and please the nuns. It is an unspoken rule that we all take turns having to iron alongside her. I suppose I can sing my songs and hum today without too much trouble, though I swear that her looks pierce my throbbing headache each time she looks my way. With us, another girl, a bit taller than me, with olive skin, dark brown eyes, and long brown full hair that looks as though at one time it might have been as beautiful as silk. She moves with the grace and ease of a dancer in comparison to the clumsiness of Fannie.  

     After a few songs, the girl asks, “What’s that you are singing?” I pause, weary to have been heard and careful to choose my words (especially in earshot of Harriet), “Well, I, enjoy dancing.” She lights up, “Oh how I miss dancing! That might be what I miss most.” Some of the simplest joys of life are lost here. We are banned from dancing in front of the nuns, labeled as sinners- what do they say? ‘In need of reformation’,” she laughs at this, her smile even more lovely and warm than her voice, and so comforting! Like a familiar friend. She darts her eyes around then drops her voice “-but as long as the nuns are unable to see us, they can’t stop us. “Where did you dance?” I ask. “Well, I used to go with my brother and cousins to the dance hall down by the beach, at Coney Island. It is one of my favorite memories.” She trails off reminiscing as my heart drops. A chill climbs my spine as new sweat breaks on my foreheads, my last memory of the chaos that night at the dance hall rising up, but somehow I manage to shove it down. I think back on all the pleasant memories with Florence and Rose instead. I remember them mentioning that on other nights, they would bring in a band along with the quartet, clear away the chairs, and people would dance. It didn’t matter if English was your native tongue, as long as you spoke the language of dance. People would dance until all hours of the morning. I smile, offer out my hand, “I’m Anne.” She giggles, and extends her hand, taking mine, “And I’m Anna.” I chuckle with her, “I suppose it will be a shame if I don’t remember your name,” even with my throbbing head, my memory cannot fail me here. I then notice Harriet’s piercing stare, and I release my hand from Anna’s, and drop my gaze. Back to the ironing I go.

    The only thing worse than my throbbing head is the intensity at which it grows the longer I am in front of the heat. I excuse myself to pick up another basket of freshly drying laundry, but pause at the washers on my way. Fannie, washing, looks at me, and grabs a free cloth, soaks it in the cool water, and gives it to me to press to my head. Her kindness continues to inspire me, that there may possibly be a light at the end of this tunnel. On my way back, Anna comes up and puts her hands in mine again, though she is holding a trinket of some sort. “I found our hot potato for today. This is the last memory I have from my Nonna- oh, that’s grandmother- before we came to America from Italy. It was her wedding ring. She gave it to me after my grandfather died, in hopes that I might find my love, or it would be valuable in case I was in trouble” I smile and nod, eager to play. I wrap the ring in my cloth and drop it back to Fannie. She giggles, and proceeds to work on her next victim for the game. The time passes quickly, you can hear the stifled laughs of those conspiring and groans of whoever has found it, and I enjoy glancing up, following the next scheme or plot to drop the trinket, though I miss when it is hidden in the basket of dry clothes coming. When Anna goes to grab the basket, Harriet snatches it instead, glaring at her, and finds the trinket when she takes out the first sheet, as we hear the footsteps of one of the sisters descending down the stairs.

      I forget to mind my humming, as the sound of the oven drowns the footsteps, and Harriet jabs me in the side. Gosh, her fingernails could slice even the stale rolls upstairs. When the sister finally arrives at the bottom of the stairs, the chatter ceases and only the hollow sounds of scrubbing, washing, ironing, and folding continue. Her footsteps pierce through the hum-drum of the laundry, first fading as she walks away, but then intensifying until I can see her shadow on the floor. Arriving next to me, I don’t dare to breathe or look up, but I can feel her breath send a shiver down my spine. Into the basket she reaches, for the sheet, and before I can stop myself, I yelp. Anna’s ring is below the sheet. 

      “A patron must have forgotten their jewelry upon delivering their laundry. A very valuable one, at that. Real diamonds” the sister finally says. While not as tall as the sister that awoke us this morning, I’ve learned that she is the head of the house and the most undesirable to displease. I glance at Anna to see her shaking, and a tear falls from her eye as the nun reaches down for it, but I am most shocked when Harriet halts her by blurting out, “No. It is a personal item. I don’t know who it is from, but I saw Anne put it in the basket.” What a bitch! How dare she? 

     “Is it true?” the nun roars. I thought the nun could not possibly get closer, but now I feel her hot breath behind my head, and though I do not dare look at her, I shoot daggers at Harriet. She smirks. That BITCH. My mother told me to never refer to another lady as a bitch, as we can all help one another through the difficulty that is life, but at this moment, I do not care. Anna’s body uncontrollably shakes as she tries to hold back tears or sound, as I see in my peripheral vision, but I do not dare break eye contact with Harriet. This is a test. She will not ruffle me and her lies will not win. 

    “Do you know that it is rude to not answer? I asked you,” the sister grabs my shoulder, “Is it true?” I refuse to break with Harriet, and lock my eyes, which at this point must be spewing fire, towards her. Sister Agatha digs her nails deeper in my shoulders, and snaps, “Well I suppose since you are the newest arrival, it would make the most sense that you would defy our order and try to hold on to an item. Though, we made it clear that in order to reform, you must release all worldly possessions.” I shudder at the mention of reform. The room starts to spin, though I remain locked on Harriet, as all the girls around me begin to chant, “Reform. Reform. Reform.” Not again. 

     I see a viscous smirk on Harriet’s terrible face and hear a sob leave Anna’s lip. Her ring. There is no way she’ll ever see it again. I cock my eyebrow back at that snide, catty face, and lunge across the table, swiping the basket and tossing it over towards Sister Agatha…and Anna. The sheets fly and scatter between us and the girls start whooping and screaming while some still chant like banshees. The room is chaos, but for Harriet and myself. We stand dangerously still, our eyes once again locked, though a brief look of shock flashed over her smug grin. I win. Sister Agatha kicks aside the basket and wrangles the sheets and dresses between us to get to me, pulling me hard to face her, but instead my eyes look past her and see Anna, frantically crouching, stand then shove something into her mouth and swallow hard. She winces with tears in her eyes. We win. I couldn’t stop my smile.

     Sister Agatha grabbed me by the jaw, snapping my eyes to hers. She continued to talk, what she was saying, I had no clue, all I could hear were the echoes and shrieks and the hisses of the laundry fires. She dragged me towards the door, the chant still swirling through my head. In my brief elation I heard nothing. That is, until I hear, “Shave her head.”