Cinnamon Moon Read online

  Of course, the residents of Chicago don’t bother to verify the newspaper stories. They are desperate for answers—and an old Irish hag is the perfect person to blame.

  Even if that person doesn’t exist.

  “Read it out loud,” Nettie pleads. “Don’t skip a word.”

  I read about how Mrs. O’Leary said she and her family went to bed and were awakened by their neighbor, Daniel Sullivan, who told them their barn was on fire. Mrs. O’Leary also testified that the McLaughlin family, who lived in the front part of their house, were having a small party that night and had possibly gone to the barn to get some milk. “That’s all it says.”

  Nettie slumps back against the tree. “Who do you think started the fire, Ailis?”

  “Hard to say. Mr. Sullivan saw it first, which is making some wonder about him.”

  “I know Mr. Sullivan,” Nettie says, perking up. “He’s only got one leg. The other one is made out of wood.” She reaches down and knocks her hand on her lower leg. “He’s too nice to do something like that.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” I say. “And there’s also been talk about some boys gambling in the barn that night. Then there’s the McLaughlins’ party that should be considered.”

  “Ailis”—Nettie’s voice is soft—“do you know what started your fire?”

  I fold the newspaper, remembering the winds of that afternoon and how they suddenly turned to flame. How Quinn and I were coming home from the general store when we saw a wide and twisting wall of fire spinning across the land. How I pulled him into the Menominee River and forced his head down under the water over and over so we wouldn’t burn. Then walking back across town two hours later, stepping over charred lumps of animals and heaven knows what else—only to find a black square where our farmhouse used to be. We recognized Mother and Father by part of Father’s boot that was oddly unburned and Gertrude in Mother’s arms.

  I tighten my grip on the paper and push all those thoughts away. “No,” I say to Nettie’s question. “Does it matter? Would it make any difference if I knew that a couple of the lumberjacks got in a drunken fight and knocked over a lamp? Or that some kid across town was playing with fire in a field?”

  Nettie’s chin tips down, quivering.

  “This is my whole point with the O’Learys,” I go on. “The damage is done. No one did it on purpose. Why ruin more lives?”

  Nettie bobs her head twice.

  “Come on,” I say, standing up and reaching a hand out. “Help me dig up these potatoes before it gets any later and Miss Franny has a conniption fit.”

  3

  Nettie helps me search the community garden. I use the trowel to dig in the frozen dirt, which is challenging. We only find three potatoes—two of which are mealy and discolored on the side—and throw them in the basket. After searching with the trowel we go back through every row, feeling for sprouts or lumps with our hands. Finally, we give up. I take the basket and we start walking to Miss Franny’s.

  “People have lost their homes and jobs because of the fire,” I say. “They’re hungry. Besides, the potatoes can’t last forever. It’s not our fault they’re gone.”

  “Mrs. Mead got the last of them,” Nettie says in her gentle way. “If we weren’t reading the paper, we could have asked her to share before she left.” Then she looks off to the side. “They’re probably already cut up into a pot. Should we go ask her to share them?”

  “The Meads volunteered to take in two families,” I say. “So much of Chicago was lost, people are doubling up on living quarters. The Meads need those potatoes more than we do.” I put my arm around Nettie’s shoulder and pull her in. “We will be fine.”

  “We will?”

  “Positively, absolutely, perfectly fine,” I promise.

  “Miss Franny won’t be happy when she sees these three ugly potatoes.”

  “They are sad-looking things,” I say.

  Nettie points to the smallest. “That one’s all shriveled up like my toes when I’ve been in the bathwater too long.”

  It feels good to see the hint of a smile behind her eyes. “This one’s fatter, but has spots on it,” I say, pointing to the largest potato. “It looks like Miss Franny’s face before she puts on all that powder.”

  Nettie covers her mouth and giggles.

  “Look, there’s Charlie!” Nettie says, heading across the street.

  “Watch for buggies,” I yell, going after her.

  She stops on the other side of the street in front of a broad-shouldered man in a plaid flannel shirt. His head is as bald as an eagle’s, but he has black, curly hair pouring out of the front of his shirt collar and spinning in knots on the backs of his hands.

  “Charlie is our cook at the orphanage,” Nettie says. “He’s the best cook in the whole world. Are you still making your rabbit stew, Charlie?”

  “Not so much these days,” he says. A toothpick dangles from the corner of his mouth, bouncing as he speaks.

  “Too bad,” Nettie says.

  Charlie sits down on his heels so he can look at Nettie straight on. I notice his shoes are shiny blue-black leather with a silver buckle on the front. “Don’t worry about me, Net,” he says. “I’ll be back cooking for my favorite boys and girls soon. They’ve already started rebuilding the orphanage. Where are you staying now? And who is your friend here?”

  “This is Ailis. She’s almost my sister and we’re staying at Miss Franny’s boardinghouse in the prettiest room you ever did see and Miss Franny gives us chores just like a real mom would and even cooks us dinner but it’s not as good as your stew.”

  “Did you say that all in one breath?” Charlie asks with a smile. Then he pulls on one of her braids gently and says, “Same old Nettie.”

  Nettie throws her arms around him. “I miss you, Charlie.”

  He seems surprised by her gesture and gives her a quick pat on the back. Then he stands up and repositions his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “I’ll see you around, kid.”

  “You should come visit me,” Nettie says, waving as we walk away.

  Charlie keeps to his spot on the road, watching us for a minute before turning back in the opposite direction.

  “Don’t tell strangers where you’re staying,” I say.

  “Charlie’s not a stranger. I’ve known him my whole life. Besides, what if he came to Miss Franny’s and cooked his stew for us? You’d like his stew. It’s good.”

  I guide Nettie across the street and say, “Race you to the boardinghouse?”

  “On your mark,” Nettie says. “Get set…” And then she takes off running and yells, “Go!” after she is a good distance ahead.

  I hold back, allowing her to keep her lead and taking in the world around me. Gauzy clouds cloak the sky and cover up the sun, making everything colorless and drab. People shuffle by, wrapped in dark woolen coats or shawls. I notice their freezing white breath puffing out as they go. They are human locomotives pushing through the city.

  And everywhere, from all directions, there is still the sound of hammers and chisels and workmen shouting commands at one another.

  “You didn’t even try,” Nettie says as I jog up the walk of the boardinghouse.

  “Tried my best,” I lie. “But it was clear you would win so it seemed silly to keep running full speed.”

  She eyes me suspiciously and then turns her attention to the basket. “I’m afraid to take these inside.”

  “You go in the front and I’ll take these around back to the kitchen,” I say. “You weren’t assigned potatoes so you don’t have to worry about what Miss Franny thinks. Let me handle her.”

  Nettie runs her hand back and forth under her nose. It is what she does when she feels uneasy.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “It’s just that…” Her hand keeps going under her nose—side to side.

  “Quit hovering and go find Quinn.”

  Nettie stops rubbing her nose and gives a tiny nod. “Okay, Ailis,” she says.
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br />   I watch her go through the front door and then I walk around back, remembering to take my shoes off outside the kitchen door. The mud on the streets is too frozen to be messy, so they are mostly clean, but I take them off all the same.

  A push of warm air and the smell of logs burning in the stove meet me as I come into the kitchen. For a moment, it seems welcoming. Friendly, even. I place the basket on the table and start for the hallway but Miss Franny steps into the doorway, blocking my path.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks, swishing her skirt as she moves forward.

  “To my room,” I say.

  “And if you go to your room, who will peel the potatoes for supper?”

  Every inch of my being wants to say, you. Instead, I turn to the basket and pull out the potatoes. “I will prepare them for dinner, Miss Franny.”

  My back is turned, so I don’t see the look on her face when she realizes the basket only holds one good potato and two shrunken ones, but I hear her gasp and feel a ripple of anger roll through the room.

  “Where are our potatoes?” she asks. I had expected her to yell as she so often does, but her voice is steady and firm. “You gave them to the O’Learys, didn’t you?” She takes the empty basket and shoves it into my chest. “Well, you can get back out there and dig some more for me.”

  “There are no more potatoes. The garden is empty.”

  Miss Franny slits her eyes and leans in. Her breath brushes across my face. “You gave the last of the potatoes to that filthy family?”

  “I didn’t give them anything,” I say. “The garden was empty when I got there. I checked every row but only found these three.”

  She keeps pressing her lips together and staring at me through a seething squint. “You gave our potatoes to that filthy family and now you stand here in my kitchen and lie about it.”

  Something about the depth of her anger makes me feel unsteady. “I didn’t, I swear it, Miss Franny. I didn’t give them anything.”

  “You did and we both know it. Look at you, filthy just like them.”

  I glance down and notice my dress is black with dirt. “It’s because I was on my hands and knees,” I say. “It’s because I was digging through every inch of the field trying to make you happy.”

  “A filthy liar, standing in my kitchen and sweating like a pig.”

  A sharpness snaps deep inside of me and, in a flash, fear turns into frustration. “Shows what you know,” I say, straightening my spine. “Pigs don’t even sweat.”

  I feel her hand hit my face before I see it, she is so fast. There is still a ringing in my ears when she says, “Get the red hen.”

  “What?”

  “I have eight other people expecting Sunday supper later today and you’ve brought me nothing. Go get the red hen.”

  “Why not one of the gray hens?”

  “Because I say so. That sickly girl keeps feeding our scraps to the red one. It’s the fattest.”

  She’s talking about Nettie’s favorite hen, the one Nettie named Kristina. I think it’s foolish to name something that will eventually end up stewed with turnips. Still, I know Nettie doesn’t understand that. Six is so young. Kristina is fatter than the other hens, but that isn’t why Miss Franny wants to put her in a stew. She is doing it to punish me because she knows I love Nettie and Nettie loves Kristina.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “And while you are getting the hen, I will call the girl to help pull its feathers.”

  I let the door slam loudly behind me. I put on my shoes and go out to the side yard where Kristina is digging her claws through the frozen earth, looking for seeds and clueless about the plan Miss Franny has for her. But in that moment, I also have a plan.

  I scoop Kristina into my arms and take off running toward the Irish quarter. Kristina is wriggling, twisting, and pecking me like mad. Chickens are surprisingly difficult to hold. Their feathers are slick and they squirm like nobody’s business. Plus, Kristina is known for her temper and has never liked me to begin with.

  “I’m trying to save your life,” I shout. “Stop pecking at me!”

  She struggles against my grasp and twists sharply to the left, flipping out of my arms and landing on the ground. Kristina shakes her feathers and glares at me. Then she begins scratching and pecking at the road as if nothing has happened.

  “Stupid bird,” I say.

  “She got away from you, did she?” It is Mr. Sullivan.

  “Hello, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Call me Pegleg, everyone does.”

  I’m not really comfortable calling someone by their one imperfect quality so I say, “My parents always taught me to use Mr. or Mrs. or Miss.”

  Mr. Sullivan rubs the gray, bristly stubble spotting his chin. “Properly raised,” he says with a nod. “They must be smiling down from above.”

  It’s not a secret Quinn and I are orphans who came to the city after the fires—or that Mr. Olsen set us up in Miss Franny’s boardinghouse.

  Kristina pecks at Mr. Sullivan’s boot.

  “She’s a feisty old girl, isn’t she? Shall I help you take her back home?”

  “That boardinghouse is not my home.”

  Mr. Sullivan raises an eyebrow. “’S that so? Where would you be callin’ home, then?”

  His brogue is deep and melodic. The rhythm of it reminds me of Father’s voice. I keep my head down, looking at Kristina. “I’m not sure.”

  “I know you go by Ailis, but what is your family name?”

  “Doyle.”

  “A more Irish name I’ve never heard,” Mr. Sullivan says. “It’s a tough situation for our people in today’s Chicago. Work is hard to find, but especially for us. Most of the city is angry at the Irish, even if the fire’s not really our fault. Miss Franny may be a hardheaded woman, but keep yer chin up and yer mouth closed and these times will pass. Take this old man’s word for it.” He reaches down and picks Kristina up. “The trick is to hold ’em firm and let ’em know who’s in charge.” Then he grabs her feet and flips her upside down. “Here’s how you do it.”

  “All right,” I say.

  “Shall I go with you?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “That’s a good lassie,” Mr. Sullivan says. “Don’t dilly about. You aren’t dressed for the weather.”

  “I won’t.”

  Mr. Sullivan hands me the hen, tips his hat, and walks on.

  Kristina wriggles. “Come on,” I say to the flailing bird, “let’s get you somewhere safe.”

  I walk through an alleyway and around to a house two streets over from where I began. There is a small brood of chickens behind a fence: one black, two gray, and two red. I know this house belongs to the McGintys, who sell eggs to Bennie’s Drug Store. These chickens are for laying and not for eating.

  I look around to be sure no one is watching, then I trade Kristina for the fattest of their red hens and go back to the boardinghouse.

  I hear Nettie’s cries as soon as I come through the door. She is crumpled into the corner of the kitchen with her knees pulled up to her chest and her head hanging down. Quinn is at her side, trying to console her. When he hears the door swing open, he looks up and, seeing me, says, “Miss Franny is going to kill Kristina.”

  “No, she’s not,” I whisper, holding the new hen out in front of me.

  Nettie looks up. I can tell by her expression that she is confused, but also that she knows this hen is not Kristina. “I swapped her out,” I say. “She’s safe in the McGintys’ pen and you can visit her every day if you like.”

  Nettie wipes her eyes and then her nose and then her eyes again with the heel of her hand. “Honest?”

  “See for yourself.” I thrust the hen forward.

  “She’s nowhere near as pretty as Kristina,” Nettie says. “And she doesn’t have those three white feathers on her chest.”

  “But here is the key: you must act upset. Miss Franny is doing this to punish me through you. If she suspects it
isn’t working, she may do something worse.”

  “There is nothing worse than killing Kristina.”

  “Still, you must play the part and never tell anyone what we know.”

  “I promise, Ailis.”

  Quinn shakes his head and smiles.

  At that moment, Miss Franny bustles in. “Where have you been?” Then she turns to Quinn, annoyed. “This is none of your concern. Are you finished mending the shed?”

  “Almost,” he says.

  “Almost is not yes. Get to work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gives me another smile on his way out but I hold my lips in a grim line and look down at the hen. “She escaped as soon as I opened the gate and I had to chase her down the road.”

  Miss Franny looks at the bird. I hold my breath. Nettie whimpers in the corner.

  “Oh, quit your whining,” Miss Franny says. “Your nose will start running and no one will be able to stand being around you.”

  “Are you certain we can’t kill one of the gray hens?” I ask, playing the part.

  Miss Franny pulls the hatchet down from a high shelf. “If I say it’s the red one, it will be the red one.”

  Nettie lets out a thin moan. It is perfect.

  “She who gave away the last of our potatoes will have the honor of swinging the ax,” Miss Franny says, holding it out to me. The hen is flapping like mad. “Go on then. We will be watching from the window.” She reaches down and pulls Nettie up by the shoulder of her dress.

  I take the hen out back, to the chopping block. I hear Nettie scream when the ax falls. Once it’s done, I hang the hen upside down and allow the blood to drain like Mother taught me and then take it into Miss Franny’s kitchen.

  “Both of you can pluck it and clean it out.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nettie and I say in unison.