Bowery Girl Read Free Page A

to charity. Ow. Haven’t done any sewing in a while.” Annabelle shook her thumb, then sucked the blood from the tip. “How’s Seamus?”
    â€œSame as ever. Wanting more than ever. What the hell. I ain’t marrying him.” She stood, and moved two chipped cups from the shelf to the barrel. Using her skirt as a towel, she picked up the pot and poured the tea. “I mean what the hell, ya know? What does he think?”
    Someone pounded against the wall. Mollie grabbed for the mirror so it wouldn’t fall. Then she kicked at the wall.
    â€œShut up, ya filthy”—she kicked the wall again—“stinkin’ Wops!”
    More pounding. Annabelle’s dresses fluttered with each hit.
    Mollie whirled to Annabelle. “Was I yelling? I don’t think I was yelling.” She made a fist and thumped twice, tearing the newspaper that lined the walls. “I wasn’t yelling, ya sons of bitches!”
    Annabelle laughed. She set the needle she worked with on the barrel’s top, and wiped her eyes. “Aw, ya daft bitch. I’m so glad to be home.”

A BATH
    THEY WERE ASKED TO write their names in the ledger at the East Side Baths. The large, wafer-thin pages were filled with the names and dates of all the visitors who had entered; upon the approval and signature of the head matron, five cents were to be deposited in a coffee tin.
    The building had once been a mansion, and its back gardens had stretched to the banks of the East River. The elegance could still be seen in the welcoming curves of the banister railing, the colored glass above the door where Jesus’ lamb lay in green meadows, in the high ceilings carved with angels and bouquets of flowers. Where had the family fled who had once lived here, in the time of Madison and Adams? To Washington Square, perhaps, or farther away—the Forties off Fifth Avenue. They fled the immigrant masses: the Irish and Germans who came through the gates of Castle Garden and invaded the East Side. The fathers and sons of the old families had continued to conduct their business here, although they were careful to place large signs in the windows of their shops and factories stating NO DOGS OR IRISH ALLOWED.
    But that was before. Now, the Irish were, if not respectable, at least established in their rough-and-tumble strong-hold. And as the good American families had done to them, so the Irish did to the newcomers who now flowed through Castle Garden.
    The head matron scowled at Mollie. She crossed her ample arms and narrowed her eyes. Her jowls were gray as the dirt in the corners of the entryway. She waited for Mollie’s name.
    Mollie dipped the pen in the ink bottle.
    The light from the stained-glass meadow above her suffused the room with a green phosphorescent tint. Mollie held the pen aloft; the black ink slid in one large drop to the very tip, where it ballooned and then dropped to the paper below.
    â€œNow look what you’ve done! I won’t be able to read three names now, you stupid girl. I’m meant to transfer the names from this ledger to Miss DuPre’s ledger, and you have ruined it.”
    â€œWhat are you keeping the names for?” Annabelle asked.
    â€œI ought to take your five cents just for defiling my ledger. And you’ve held up the line—look.” The matron pointed to the doorway.
    She was right: Young girls, women holding babies close to their bosoms, cheap shawls, no shawls, thin shoes, thin hair, children with bowed legs certainly caused by rickets, stood in a long line behind Mollie.
    â€œNow sign your name.”
    Mollie’s hand dropped to the empty line, 152. In her very best handwriting, she signed, Dolley Madison .
    The head matron plucked the pen from her hand and pointed it at Annabelle. “Come, come, come.”
    â€œShe can’t write,” Mollie said. “I’ll sign for her.” She took back the pen and filled line 153: Martha Washington