Authors: Shirley Martin
He smiled down at her. “Same here, but we can’t dwell on what might have been.”
She sighed and looked up at the dark, dreary sky, mentally bracing herself for William’s return and for his anger.
Random thoughts ran through her head as she pondered all that had happened this past year. It seemed as if she’d lived more than one lifetime in the last few months. She wondered what more could possibly happen.
Chapter Twenty-five
At her
Ellsworth Avenue
mansion, Lisa took a long look at herself in the entrance hall mirror. I never wanted things to be like this, she fretted with a downward curve of her mouth.
God help me, I
only wanted to love and be loved
.
She shook her head, as if to deny the reality of her situation. What a deceitful liar she'd become.
And yet . . . and yet . . . she recalled all that had happened this past year--meeting Owen, falling in love with him, and knowing how much he loved her. How he had enriched her life, Lisa realized with an intense awareness of her blessings. She wouldn't have changed anything for the world, except for marrying William. Deep regret weighed heavily on her, all but crushing her when she considered the enormity of her mistake.
If she could live her life over . . .
Aware that brooding never accomplished anything, Lisa spun away from the mirror.
Far better to do something useful, such as putting her cedar chest in order.
She mounted the stairs, blowing on her hands for warmth. Despite the chill in the air, bright shafts of sunlight beamed through the stained glass window at the landing, giving a false impression of spring.
"Will spring ever come?" Lisa murmured, stepping into the warming light at the window.
Resolved to get the job over with, she quickened her pace as she approached the spare bedroom. She opened the door and stepped inside the room, frowning at its musty smell, its air of abandonment, as if it had stood empty for centuries.
"Whew!" Wrinkling her nose, Lisa hurried to open a window. A sudden, cold draft of air blew into the room, whipping curtains away from the wall and flapping the sheets that covered the furniture. Dust motes flew frantically about in the swift onrush of air, making her sneeze. She really should have the maids clean this room, she reminded herself again.
The wedding gifts lay on the floor as she'd left them, a blatant reminder of William's perfidy. Hitching her woolen dress up, she knelt down on the floor to carefully return the items to the chest, setting the delicate china pieces between layers of linen.
That done, Lisa lowered the lid and let it fall with a soft thud.
She braced herself against the chest to rise, resting her other hand on the floor for support. Something hard pressed against her hand, a small object lying under the fringe of the rug. With only mild curiosity, she drew the rug back. She gasped. Her sapphire ring!
"Well, what do you
know!
" She held the ring between her thumb and forefinger as she admired how it caught the brilliant sunlight. How had William missed it?
she
wondered, turning the ring this way and that. Now, she remembered--the spring on the box had been faulty from the first. The ring could easily have fallen to the floor and escaped his notice, especially if he'd been in a hurry. Smiling in smug satisfaction, she pictured the jeweler as he opened the box, only to find it empty. Ha!
If she could have seen William's face then.
This will fetch a pretty penny, she reckoned, rising from the floor. First chance, she'd take it to the jewelry store, for she knew the manager would give her a good price for it; he'd been quite generous in the past.
Relief flooded her, coupled with an intuition that things would surely get better. They just had to. The money from the ring will go toward
Owen's
college education, Lisa vowed with an ever-increasing determination. She'd make sure he received his engineering degree. Clasping the gem in her hand, she closed the window and left the room.
* * *
Emma set the breakfast dishes on the table, glancing out the window at the gathering dawn, anxious for Anton's return from the night shift at the mill. Bacon sizzled in the frying pan, and cinnamon bread baked in the oven, mingling with the aroma of fresh coffee. How good it was to eat well again, she thought as she opened a drawer to grab a couple of forks. Shoving the drawer shut with her hip, she reflected that Anton had gotten this mill job none too soon, since she had two to eat for now. After all this time, she was finally with child. Just wait until I tell Anton, she mused as she opened the oven door to check on the bread.
Emma peered out the window again, aware he should have arrived home by now. Why was he running so late today?
she
agonized, more worried by the minute. The darkness of a long winter's night had lifted, a pale glow lighting the east. Despite
Homestead
's usual murkiness now that the mill was operating again, she could see out the window more clearly than only a few minutes ago.
Still, no Anton.
Tiny snowflakes swirled about in a stiff wind, beating against the windowpane. Emma lifted the kerosene heater closer to the table, knowing Anton would be cold after his long walk from Rankin. Poor man! How hard he worked for such a mere pittance, yet he never complained.
She set the coffee cups on the table, reflecting on last night's dream, recalling it as if it had actually happened. In her dream, she found herself on a ship, returning to
Slovakia
. She’d felt the rise and fall of the ship as it crested the waves, heard the laughter of the other passengers as she rode steerage. But where was Anton? Emma had looked frantically about and had gone in search of him, her heart thudding with panic . . . and woke up in a cold sweat.
Now, in the stark light of day, she gripped a hard-backed chair, paralyzed with fear.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the outside stairs. Emil burst into the room.
"Blast furnace exploded!" He slumped against the door, gasping for breath.
Through a haze of anguish, she stared at Emil, covered with red dust. "Anton!" She pressed her hand to her heart, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, her heart beating frantically.
Holy Mother, please! Please have Anton be safe
.
"A little burned." Emil turned away, his facial muscles working. He gazed down at the floor, shuffling his feet.
Emma's hand tightened on the back of the chair. "How . . . how bad was the explosion?"
"Several injured . . . and killed." Emil hung his head, looking everywhere but at her.
With trembling hands, Emma reached for her cape and babushka hanging from a door hook. A wave of dizziness halted her movements, but she refused to succumb to weakness. "Where is he?"
* * *
They buried Anton several days later in the Catholic cemetery on a hill overlooking
Homestead
. If only she could forget his last days, Emma lamented, when he'd suffered horrible pain, and in such a drug-induced stupor, he hadn't even recognized her. Mary, Mother of God, how it hurt! She pressed her hands to her eyes, the tears streaming down her face. Sobbing brokenly, she recalled all the good times she and Anton had shared, their love for each other.
She stood with her friends as the coffin was lowered into the frozen ground. A fierce wind whipped across the hill, scattering dry snow and bending bare tree branches. She tightened her babushka and hugged her thin cape closer to her body as she agonized over her future. By all that was holy, how would she manage? The benefit society of St. Michael the
Archangel
had paid for the funeral and given her money to tide her over, but that small sum wouldn't last forever. So, it was back to
Slovakia
, for she missed her family dreadfully. She drew a handkerchief from her pocket and dried her tears, fighting for the strength to bear a bleak future.
* * *
Owen had come to the cemetery to pay his last respects to Anton. He stood apart from the others, not wanting to intrude on Emma's grief and the solace she derived from her friends. He observed the priest saying a few final words but stood too far away to hear them. The last bits of earth were shoveled over the coffin, a painful reminder of death's finality.
As he turned to leave, Emma caught sight of him and headed his way.
"It was kind of you to come, Mr. Cardiff," she said, her voice breaking. "That means so much to me." She dabbed her face, struggling to control the tears.
Owen spoke in his halting Slovak. "It was the least I could do, Emma." What an inadequate thing to say; he regretted the words immediately. He wouldn't ask her about her plans for the future; she had enough to deal with in the present. He turned away from her for a moment, overcome by a sorrowful rage. Greed, plain greed had caused the accident. The mills were using cheaper ores now from the
Mesabi Range
and not making technical adjustments for the difference in ores. How many more workers would pay with their lives for the short-sighted avarice of the mill owners?
Owen stared across the gravestone-dotted hill, observing Emma’s friends waiting for her, grief plain on their faces. "I mustn't keep you from your friends any longer. But remember, if I can help you . . . if you should need any money . . ." Owen looked away again, fighting tears of sorrow and anger. Would he be here to aid her? His trial would begin tomorrow, but he pushed that worry from his mind. "Please come to me anytime you need help," Owen offered.
Emma managed a wan smile. "I shall always remember your kindness, Mr. Cardiff.
Ist
es
Bohom
.”
“
Es
Bohom
, Emma," he replied.
"May you go with God,
too.
"
* * *
Lisa took one last look at the parlor of her new house in Allegheny, noting the furnishings, as if she’d never see them again. Would she and Owen have the chance to share these lovely things?
she
asked while running her fingers along the back of the green horsehair sofa. Would she ever see him again? It seemed as if he’d been in jail forever. God, she prayed, please have the jury find him innocent.
Please, please.
And what if the jury declares him guilty?
a
voice inside her head whispered. What then? Lisa shook her head vigorously, banishing the thought.
Her black velvet hat in place, she reached for her black woolen cape from the coat rack and slipped it on, then eased on her black kid gloves. Bracing herself against the cold, she left her house on
Resaca Place
and made her way to the
Sixth
Avenue
Bridge
that led into
Pittsburgh
.
It was a long, cold walk across the bridge, a harsh wind pummeling her face. Even though it was mid-morning, the street lights had been turned on, barely penetrating the city's murky shroud. Heavily-packed snow crunched beneath her high-button shoes as she took cautious steps, fearful she might slip and fall.
Finally reaching
Ross Street
, Lisa viewed the massive Allegheny County Courthouse. The county jail stood across the street from the courthouse, the
Bridge
of
Sighs
connecting the two buildings. A short while later, she entered the building's cold, tomblike interior and paused for a few seconds, then located a sign pointing to Criminal Court on the second floor. Gathering her skirt in her hand, she mounted the marble steps,
then
proceeded to Criminal Court.
She found the last empty seat on the defense side of the room, back in the last row. A group of staid, dark-suited men with tablets in front of them sat at a separate table; she assumed they were newspaper reporters. More than anything, she observed the great crowd that had assembled in this room, all the spectators appearing anxious to view the upcoming trial.
An air of intense anticipation pervaded the courtroom, a certainty that some momentous occasion would soon begin. Lisa listened to bits and snatches of conversation, recognizing that the people's sympathy lay with Owen. Other strikers had been charged with murder, she heard the onlookers say, but this man was one of the strike leaders. Would the jury find him guilty and sentence him to hanging? They wouldn't dare!