City of Orphans: Chapters 1–22

Look at someone on the street and you might never see that person again—ever. Then you bump into a stranger and your whole life changes—forever. See what I’m saying? It’s all ’bout them words: “luck,” “chance,” “coincidence,” “accident,” “quirk,” “miracle,” plus a lot of words I’m guessing I don’t even know.

Now, this Maks, he’s regular height for a thirteen-year-old, ruddy -faced, shaggy brown hair, always wearing a cloth cap, canvas jacket, and trousers, plus decent boots.

Taller than Maks by a head, his face is sprinkled with peach fuzz, greasy red hair flopping over his eyes, one of which is squinty, and on his head he’s got a tipped-back brown derby, which makes his ears stick out like cute cauliflowers.

Trouble is, his home is a three-room tenement flat over to Birmingham Street, near the East River.

Sidewalks packed with hundreds of curb-stalls, two-wheel handcarts, plus backpack peddlers selling anything and everything, whatever jim-jam a person should want, might want, could want, can want.

Galloping like a runaway horse, Maks reaches the alley. Gives it a quick check. It’s four feet wide, dismal, gloomy, with grimy brick walls on either side, garbage on the ground.

The rest of the Plug Uglies squeeze in right behind Bruno, leering, laughing.

Couple of the buildings have them newfangled iron fire escapes, already draped with drying clothes that look like old drippy wax.

“Here’s my place,” Maks announces, stopping before a five-step stoop.

Cracked linoleum on the floor. Ceiling covered with pressed tin, bulging in a few places. Walls painted ugly brown.

And, sorry to say, sometimes mugs from the saloon use the hall as a privy.

“What’s wrong with cheap?”
“They can’t make a profit,” Agnes says. “When we closed last fall, we were off for two weeks. It could be worse this time. In school we learned that capitalism needs profits to—”

“And perhaps,” Mama says to Papa, “you’ll be allowed to go before a magistrate. You could...you could tell him we could send Emma home to Denmark.”

“Don’t you want that food I promised?” he coaxes.

Not wanting to draw attention, Willa shuts the door softly and sits on the chair’s edge. With downcast eyes, her stick is resting ’cross her knees, as if she’s gonna rush off any moment.

See, these days, with cheap rooms hard to find and immigrants filling up the city, lots of people take in boarders. Helps with the rent.

Shoes scuffed and the fingers of his right hand smudged with ink ’cause all day he’s copying letters for some business near Wall Street.

Maks likes the way the story describes the boy detective: “He looked like a mere boy, with a handsome face, a pair of keen eyes, and a dashing, aggressive air that showed he was of a bold, intrepid character.” Maks wishes he were bold, but he don’t know what “intrepid” means.

The story says she’s “tall and splendid, with raven black hair, soft red lips, and gentle brown eyes, all of which gave her an air of great refinement.”

The man makes a dismissive gesture.

Bruno just glowers.

Do as I tell you and you’ll avoid working the stone quarry at Sing Sing prison for ten years.

“That a welt on your cheek? Looks like you walked into a wall.”

Standing there, knowing he’s gonna visit Emma in The Tombs, makes him tense. He’s hoping that when he gets there, they’ll have decided arresting her was a mistake. Be a lark meeting Emma on the street coming home.

As Maks dips his pan into the milk barrel, Mrs. Vograd makes a mark in her ledger and calls, “A good morning to your mother! Be so good—thank you—as to tell the lovely lady that family accounts are due Friday. Cash only!”

When he gets back to his stoop, Mr. Tyrone’s fish store has opened. A barrel of herring is on the sidewalk.

Willa watches her intently.

Agnes is also wearing what she wore the day before: a blue gingham shirtwaist, black boots that are too big for her.

That’s when Maks routs out his brothers and makes sure they’re dressed right.

She beckons for him to come back.