Chapter 26- The Mercy Cage

The Reporter returns to the House of Mercy in search of a story.

Henry- 1899, New York City

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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 // Chapter 23 // Chapter 24 // Chapter 25

      “Between the morning and evening prayers”, I repeat to myself as I make the long trek from the bottom of Manhattan to the furthest point north before the Harlem river separates from the rest of New York City. I am certain the boss has set me upon this task because no one else wants to spend their day commuting the furthest one can get from the paper and still be in Manhattan. I enjoy the pace of the downtown hustle and the quick clack of the typewriters as we furiously bang away the latest story to print. I started as a newsie, riding my bicycle through the streets of New York to deliver my stash of papers and return the fastest before anyone else. Whoever returned first made a bonus coin (which I never told my

parents so that I could get to spend it for licorice at the pharmacy). It was my secret treat, and sometimes the pharmacist would throw me some extra pieces in the bag so I could share with my siblings. Anytime my mother asked, I told her the guys at the paper gave them to me so that I could keep my little secret. 

    After spending my teen years delivering papers and sneaking secrets from writers who would give me books to study, one journalist took me under his care. He offered me a mentorship after I biked as fast as I could to and from the local factory to interview the tailors striking against the conditions of the sweatshop. It was September 4th. Because of my quick efforts, our paper was the very first to report on the strike and release the story. Full of immigrants, the sweatshop was crowded like they all are, some out of code with no fire escapes even though they’re over two stories tall. The crowded conditions were ripe for spreading disease from poor ventilation, and with rats running around. And that’s all if there wasn’t a fire breaking out. Oftentimes, we heard they got locked inside during the workday, and so many needed the work so badly that they came to work ill just to keep food on the table and a roof over their families. Unable to speak English or hide their accents, most immigrants are limited to the type of work they can find, and we all need money. In my experience, children, as young as five, were working. Some of the kids I worked the rounds with as a paperboy were that young. Hard hands at a young age. We were lucky to be outside though, delivering the paper. The kids in the shops had it worse. Some of them were missing fingers, some covered in burns- if they made it home at all at the end of a work day. I heard horror stories September 4th talking to them. Every day after, I went down to the strikes, interviewed workers, immigrants, on the frontlines, and delivered the news when labour legislation was finally formed to have some real protections for the workers. After that, my place was secured to report for the paper. I was 18. It’s happening again now- there are rumbles at least. There’s word of a strike coming- not the sweatshops, this time, the kids throwing papers. I can’t help but chuckle to myself- it gives me a little sense of pride to know that newsies still can’t be messed with. We didn’t just deliver papers, we spread the news, we barked it, and when we did adults would listen. Adults would listen to us kids! We were the pulse. I hear this kid, one of the leaders of the potential strike, they call him Kid Blink on account of his eyepatch. That’s the lore isn’t it? That’s the stuff that folktales are built on. It’s kind of poetic- the people spreading the stories become the story. 

Before I know it, the estate of the House of Mercy comes into view. I think back to my last visit here and my stomach twinges at the memory of blood trickling down the girl’s head again, and those eyes. Mom’s eyes. Like a corpse. She did not appear to me a vibrant and reformed young lady in society. I did not stay through the end, I left soon after my chat with the boy that mans the grounds. It would have been near impossible to approach the Sister in charge that day or talk with the girl, but I hope to today. It seems such a silly thing to me- to shave a woman’s head. Even sillier to write that in an article about a church program that sends ladies back into society after caring for them. How would the public react?  I’m not sure I know how to react yet.  I surely had never seen a lady before without hair. A public punishment makes it seem as though her offense must have been severe. I could trust that, I suppose…except for those damn eyes. The same gurgling I felt interviewing those factory workers, those kids with missing fingers and parents, that twist of injustice in my gut. I can’t ignore that. I’ve got to see this house.  

     After the long journey up, the house looms even larger than I remember from yesterday. As if some silly omen, it begins to drizzle rain as I round the long drive up to the house. There is a gate, which the kid groundskeeper opens to allow my coach to pass. He tips his hat, and exchanges an expression that makes me infer he’s surprised that I have returned. I nod back and greet him with, “Felt like a ride!” He doesn’t say anything, but smiles as he closes the gate and puts his hand on his hat as he walks across the grounds. I should like to catch him to chat again. Later then. My hack stops at the front of the house, and as I step down, my horse spooks and rears. I nearly tumble out of the coach as she rears up and the driver jumps to steady her. Though normally calm, she huffs and lifts and settles her hooves over and over. Curious. I suppose I shall make this quick or ask him to come back, though I don’t know if they will even accept me. 

     I make my way up the steps, and pound on the large door with the large brass circle. It echoes throughout the halls inside as if whispering back and forth. Eerie, I think. The echo sounds so lifeless, despite the house being full. After a minute, I hear footsteps approaching the door, the chain being removed and a turn of the lock. Finally the door pushes open to reveal a nun shorter than me, but with sharp features. Her eyes pierce through me, and though normally I remain calm, I feel my pulse intensify and my breath leave me. Behind her, the girl with the shaved head passes. Or was that another girl? Is this common practice? It must be harder to tell them apart without hair. 

     “Are you here for laundry?” she finally asks, unamused with my presence and the time I seem to have wasted. I realize I had yet to introduce myself and state my case, but all that manages to escape my mouth is, “Her” my voice cracks. I clear my throat, “-yesterday.” My face flushes. Am I resuming puberty again as an adult? Why can’t my pulse slow? “Shave-”. She sighs, annoyed, and interrupts my stuttering, “I haven’t time to waste after morning prayers. Are you here for laundry or a girl?” I take a deep breath to steady myself and shake myself. “I am here on behalf of  the paper”, I pause and consider, then with more confidence add, “to write a story on the church’s work with troubled women.” She softens a bit, though difficult to read through her sharp expressions. “Yes, we take in troubled girls to reform them and care for them until they are ready to re-enter society and return home. We teach them prayers, verses, respect, and hard work.”

I’m in. I pull out my notebook and feign polite curiosity. “Do you mind? What kind of work do they do?” I ask, putting pencil to my pad. “We teach them in the laundry. Parishioners drop off their laundry to us, and the girls take care of it. The money helps us feed, clothe, and board the girls.” I jot down in my journal. “An admirable thing, to help girls who are on the street. I suppose many of them are poor?” I glance up at her, she misses my scrutiny. She sighs, “We receive all kinds of girls. Poor girls. Immigrant girls. Sometimes girls from money who have become…” she pauses, choosing her words carefully, "unmanageable.” She clears her throat and continues, “their families are thrilled when they return.” After making a few more notes I ask, “How long do the girls stay here?” She clasps her hands, looks up towards the sky, and with lips pursed finally says “As long as they need. I must return to my tasks. So if you are finished, thank you for your visit.” I raise my hand as she shuts the door “I’m n–” before the door slams shut in my face.