Page 12 of The Harvey Girls
Seven
It was only after they’d safely made it back to the Harvey House dorm and told Mr. Gilstead the horrible news that Billie asked Charlotte, “How did you know where I was?”
“I didn’t.”
“But you found me. You… you saved me!”
“I was taking a walk. I thought a stroll might improve my”— temper , she almost said—“outlook. Then I stumbled upon the fracas.”
When Mr. Gilstead returned from Christ’s Hospital, he told them that Pablocito had suffered three cracked ribs, a broken shoulder, numerous cuts and bruises, and blows to the head which had left him “a bit foggy.”
“He’s alive?” asked Billie.
“Alive and well.”
Not well, you bumbling fool , Charlotte thought. Not remotely well.
“Did you tell him I was okay? That Charlotte got me out of there?”
Mr. Gilstead’s pasted-on smile became ever more strained. “Well, he… he wasn’t terribly… conversational.”
“But he’ll be okay?”
“Yes, I feel certain that he’ll be right as rain, bussing tables again in no time.”
“And the men are in jail?”
“The men…?”
“The ones who did this to him. The police caught them?”
“Well, now, I… I’m not entirely sure. The police don’t always involve themselves… in, uh… that sort of… Men do fight, you know. This is the West. We don’t slap the cuffs on every gent who gets into a scuffle.”
“Scuffle?” Charlotte muttered through clenched molars. “He was beaten within an inch of his life by three bullies who were at least twice his size.”
She turned on her heel, headed up the stairs, and put herself to bed early, before the tremors she’d struggled to contain broke loose and tossed her to the floor.
The next morning a scream woke her. Her eyes flew open, and she sat straight up in bed with a sense of dread so deep it was as if she already had one foot in the grave.
Billie was also sitting up, long white legs hanging off the side of her bed. She stared at Charlotte.
Charlotte exhaled. “For goodness’ sake, what are you looking at? And who screamed?”
“You did,” murmured Billie. “It was you.”
“I never,” scoffed Charlotte.
“You said just what you said to that mob, ‘Please stop!’ and then you screamed like someone was stabbing you.”
Charlotte tucked the covers up a little closer around her chest. “I must have had a nightmare about it.”
“Yes, but you have nightmares all the time, and you’re always begging someone to stop.”
What was there to say in her own defense? No I don’t ? That clearly wasn’t working anymore. I’m secretly married, and my husband, the man who swore to love and honor me all the days of my life, beats me regularly ?
“It’s none of your business,” said Charlotte.
“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Billie didn’t move, only continued to sit there. “You must be very brave.”
“Why ever would you say that?”
“Because you have all these nightmares about someone hurting you, and you went into that crowd to save me anyway.”
That day the dining room seemed particularly full of passengers who dropped their silverware and tipped over their milk while complaining that the soup wasn’t hot enough and the oysters smelled off.
(They weren’t. Charlotte had grown up in the port city of Boston, in a shipping family, and had eaten enough oysters to know fresh from spoiled.) It was Sunday, of course, so they were short-staffed all morning as one group of Harvey Girl faithfuls, and then another and another, attended the services of their choosing.
Charlotte, who’d been raised Episcopal but had stopped attending church after her decidedly secular nuptials to Simeon, chose none.
Thus she and Billie had to work as hard as those ship-paddling Vikings of yore, and without so much as a moment to lean in a doorway and take a sip of Fred Harvey’s world-famous coffee.
“You’re in the paper!”
The last batch of churchgoers had returned with the Topeka Daily Capital , and the picture glared out from the front page: Charlotte and Billie, faces contorted with fear, clinging to each other as hands reached out from the edges of the photo like demons’ claws.
The headline read: T OPEKA KKK R ALLY T URNS T ROUBLESOME .
“Troublesome?” Billie turned to Charlotte. “ Troublesome ?”
But Charlotte was too busy checking the photo credit below the picture.
Associated Press.
As the rest of the girls’ heads clustered over the paper to read the article, Charlotte’s mind frantically calculated the cascading probability of being discovered.
Would the St. Louis Post-Dispatch pick up the piece from the AP? Likely. The Klan was a high-interest story, with many readers passionately for or against it.
If so, would it be printed with the picture or without? Definitely with. That picture was worth more than the entire column.
If so, would Simeon see it? He read the paper cover to cover every single day, so yes.
If so, would he be able to locate her at the Harvey House? Questionable. In the picture she wore street clothes, and they had been several blocks from the train depot. There was nothing to tie her to the restaurant.
“How did the reporter know we were Harvey Girls?” Billie said suddenly, her head bobbing up from the paper.
“Must have followed you back to the station,” said Tildie.
“ Oh, dear God ,” Charlotte whispered.
That night, Billie didn’t hide her face in her pillow and pretend not to cry as she usually did. She lay on her side facing Charlotte, head propped in her hand.
“Who hurt you?”
“I told you it’s none of your business. Besides, you wouldn’t understand, so just go back to crying yourself to sleep.
” It was mean, and Charlotte felt an immediate urge to apologize, which was strange.
She didn’t like this girl—wasn’t she the reason Simeon might now know where Charlotte was?
The last thing she should care about was Billie’s feelings—or anyone else’s.
She just wanted to find somewhere she could finally be safe, and it didn’t matter if she never made another friend for the rest of her life.
Even more strange, Billie didn’t seem to be put off by the comment. “Why were you so upset when you saw our picture in the paper?”
“I was not upset in the least, only surprised. Don’t go making a fuss of things where there isn’t any fuss to be had. If you’re bored and looking for high drama, go to the movies.”
“I can keep a secret, you know. I have secrets of my own.”
“Yes, well, the way your heart flutters when you see that kitchen boy is no secret.”
Billie’s pale cheeks went pink. A direct hit. The girl muttered something unintelligible.
“I can’t understand your mumbling.”
“I said, that’s not the secret I was talking about.”
“Well, what then?”
“I’m fifteen.”
Fifteen? thought Charlotte. Good Lord, she’s a child. No wonder she cries so much. A memory traced across her brain: herself at that age, terrified on her first day at the Winsor School, which was only across town, not in a different state entirely.
“Years old,” Billie clarified. “Not eighteen, like I’m supposed to be.”
Charlotte continued to stare. She hates it here. She desperately wants to go home, but she stays because her family needs the money. Such a hard worker, and never a complaint.
Billie puffed out a little sigh and rolled onto her back. “Now you think I’m even more of a baby than you already did.” She popped up again to face Charlotte. “You won’t tell, will you? Oh, sweet Jesus on the cross, please don’t tell!”
“No, of course not. Besides, even if I did, I doubt they’d fire you. You’re clumsy but you’re already a better waitress than half the girls here.”
Billie’s eyebrows went up. Her surprise at such a small compliment stung Charlotte like a wasp. My God, what have I become?
“I’m married,” she said suddenly.
Billie didn’t move a muscle, but Charlotte could see her putting the pieces together. “My friend Clara… her father has a temper” was all she said.
They sat there in the quiet of the dorm, the silence broken only by the sound of the clock ticking from the bathroom.
Frances had hung it to remind them not to dillydally, and it echoed off the tile and down the hallway in a comforting sort of way.
It had lulled Charlotte back to sleep from bad dreams on several occasions. Now it sounded ominous.
“He didn’t know where you were, did he?” said Billie.
“No. He didn’t.”