City of Orphans: Chapters 35–51

“To summarize,” says Donck, “your sister was accused of stealing a gold watch. This occurred at that new Waldorf Hotel, where she works. She denies she took it. But the watch was found beneath her pillow. Conclusive evidence, I should say. Not surprisingly, she’s arrested, put in jail. Everything correct?”

They claim only the best people patronize the establishment. The Waldorf is the most elegant hotel in New York.

Like most city drums, it’s a dingy room with a little stand-up bar and a few bottles.

On the wooden floor—sprinkled with dirty sawdust—sits a brass spittoon near a potted rubber plant with large, glossy, yellow- tinged leaves.

Pressing down on the wooden arms of his chair, he rises precariously. Almost falling, he leans ’gainst his desk to catch himself.

With a rueful shake of his head, Donck moves slowly along the sidewalk till he reaches a restaurant whose window has a sign in gold letters:
THE PROMISED LAND—Cheap Eats!

A few people are sitting ’neath the feeble electric light, which hangs from the ceiling.

A mournful waiter—pale, long-faced, big-nosed, thin-fingered, wearing a frayed black suit and a grease-stained apron tied high over his waist—steps forward like an undertaker.

“This is Central,” comes a woman’s voice, rough, crackly with static.

“Maks,” Willa whispers, “did Agnes ever see a doctor?”
“There’s one over to Mott Street,” says Maks. “Supposed to be good. Only he costs. Mama has a friend, a midwife. She comes sometimes.”

There’s a full moon, but only a lick of light pokes out from behind billowy clouds.

My rooms may be slovenly, Philip. I may be growing deaf. Your sister once rejected my offer of marriage because I was too poor.

She was arraigned and now sits in The Tombs awaiting trial.

“Am I to hear about your illustrious Dutch ancestors again?”

Maks, not talking, leads the way to the women’s prison. It’s cold and gloomy, the way it was yesterday. The same hollow cries, shrieks of misery, the stink of people, the swaggering guards, the crowded lower floor.

But he says, ‘Pay no heed to me, young lady. Just go on with your fine work. I’ll be but a moment.’

As they head back to the tenement, Maks notices how dank the air is, how it smells of smoke.

She stays by the pickle shop—they have an awning over the door—and that keeps the papers dry.

An almost empty streetcar rattles past, the squally weather turning its tinkling bell to taffy.

Maybe waking up that way—suddenly—meant Bruno thought Maks was only a dream.
The notion calms Maks down.