Chapter 6 - The Morning In White Linen
The morning light broke through the stained-glass windows of St. Jude Parish in fractures of deep amber and muted violet.
The storm had passed during the early hours before dawn, leaving Boston buried beneath fourteen inches of quiet powder.
Outside the arched bedroom casement, the muffled chime of cathedral bells rolled across the rooftops of the North End.
I had not slept more than two consecutive hours.
Every time the ancient floorboards settled or the steam radiator gave a metallic hiss, my hand snapped to the quilt.
Chloe was still breathing in that deep, unburdened rhythm that only children under heavy blankets possess.
Her skin had lost the bluish pallor that had terrified me in the drafty corners of the restaurant.
Her small cheeks were flushed with a clean, natural pink.
The brown paper envelope lay untouched on the nightstand beside the silver-embossed business card James Moretti had left.
Fourteen thousand dollars in stacked twenties and fifties.
In my neighborhood on Border Street, that amount of physical cash was an invitation to a funeral.
Men had their skulls cracked in alleyways behind the fish processing plants for a fraction of that sum.
I stood up from the edge of the mattress, my joints stiff from the months of kneeling on wet tile.
The rectory room was quiet, insulated from the city by three feet of granite masonry.
A soft, deliberate tap sounded against the outer panel of the door.
My pulse spiked instinctively into my throat.
"Grace, child, are you awake?" came the gravelly voice of Father Thomas.
I hurried across the room in my stocking feet and pulled the heavy latch open.
The old priest stood in the hallway holding a fresh ironed white shirt, a dark wool cardigan, and a pair of clean trousers.
Over his forearm hung a child’s red knit sweater and a small pair of insulated snow boots with the tags clipped off.
"Mrs. Murphy brought these up from the parish donation storehouse," Father Thomas said, offering the bundle.
"They are clean and dry."
"You cannot walk down to breakfast in trousers soaked with lye and dish grease."
"Thank you, Father," I whispered, taking the clothes into my arms.
The fabric was thick and warm, smelling of lavender and cedar shavings instead of restaurant floor bleach.
"How is the little one?" the priest asked, glancing toward the bed where Chloe still lay curled.
"She slept through the night without coughing," I replied, feeling a knot loosen in my diaphragm.
"She hasn't done that since October."
Father Thomas nodded slowly, his weathered face showing neither surprise nor curiosity.
"The doctor James mentioned will arrive at ten."
"Dr. Albright is a good man, despite the company he keeps."
"He delivered half the children whose fathers work the south pier drydocks."
"Father," I said, hesitating on the threshold as he began to turn away toward the stairwell.
"Tell me what James Moretti expects from this."
The priest paused on the second step of the wooden staircase, his hand resting on the polished banister.
He did not look back up at me; he looked down into the shadowy well of the stone tower.
"James’s mother, Elena, knelt in the third pew of this church every Sunday morning for twenty-two years," the old man said quietly.
"She scrubbed the floor of the altar with her own knuckles until her arthritis curled her fingers like dried roots."
"When she grew ill, there was no clinic in the North End that would take a woman without insurance vouchers."
"James was sixteen years old."
"He ran through the snow to three different private surgeries on Tremont Street begging for a doctor to walk down the hill."
"Not one of them left their fireside."
"By the time he carried an orderly back to their basement room on Charter Street, Elena’s lungs had filled with fluid."
The priest turned his head slightly, his pale blue eyes catching the amber light of the landing lantern.
"James does not give charity, Grace."
"Charity implies superiority."
"James settles scores with the world that let his mother drown on dry land."
"Do not insult him by looking for a hidden ledger."
"Take the clothes, feed your child, and let the doctor listen to her chest."
Father Thomas descended into the lower rectory without waiting for my reply.
I closed the door and turned the iron key in the lock.
I dressed quickly in the warm woolen trousers and the thick navy cardigan, stripping off my soiled work clothes.
Chloe began to stir as the church bells struck nine across the harbor.
She rolled onto her back, her hazel eyes fluttering open and staring at the high white plaster ceiling.
"Mommy?" she whispered, her voice husky with sleep.
"I'm here, baby," I said, sitting beside her on the mattress.
She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked around the room, taking in the framed prints of saints and the radiator.
"Where are the mops?" she asked.
The question was so innocent and so tragic that a sharp pain tore through my ribs.
"No mops today, Chloe," I told her, lifting the red knit sweater from the pile.
"It's Christmas morning."
"Did Santa Claus come to the restaurant?" she asked, her eyes brightening with sudden hope.
"No, sweetheart," I said, pulling the soft red wool over her head.
"Santa didn't come to the restaurant."
"A friend helped us find a warm place to stay."
"The man with the big coat?"
"Yes," I said, smoothing down her hair.
"The man with the big coat."
She slid her feet into the new boots, which fit her perfectly over thick cotton socks.
She stood up on the floorboards, bouncing lightly on her heels to test the rubber soles.
"They don't have holes in the bottom, Mommy!" she gasped, looking down in wonder.
"Water won't get on my toes when we walk to the corner!"
I could not speak; I simply nodded and held her small hand as we unlocked the door and went down the stairs.
The lower kitchen of the rectory was filled with the rich aroma of fried sausages, toasted rye, and strong coffee.
A plump woman with gray hair pinned into a severe bun was stirring an iron skillet at the commercial range.
"Sit at the long table, the two of you," the woman said without looking around, her voice brisk but not unkind.
"The tea is on the warmer and the butter is fresh from the dairy delivery."
Chloe sat on the bench, her eyes wide as a plate piled high with eggs, crisp bacon, and buttered toast was set before her.
She ate with a polite restraint that crumbled the moment the warm food touched her tongue.
I sat opposite her, drinking the black coffee, feeling the exhaustion of seven months of terror settle in my bones.
At exactly ten o'clock, the outer heavy oak door swung open with a muffled click.
A tall, thin man in a tweed overcoat carrying a worn leather medical satchel stepped into the hallway.
He did not look like an associate of James Moretti; he looked like a university professor who had lost his way in the snow.
He had wire-rimmed spectacles and thin gray hair combed neatly across his scalp.
"Grace Bennett?" the doctor asked, stepping toward our table and removing his leather gloves.
"I am Dr. Albright."
"Mr. Moretti asked me to examine your daughter’s respiratory system before the clinics open on Monday."
Chloe shrank back against the wooden bench, her fork hovering over her plate.
"Don't be afraid, little one," Dr. Albright said, his voice quiet and gentle as he set the satchel on the table.
"I have no needles in this bag, only cold silver discs that sound like the ocean."
He spent twenty minutes listening to Chloe’s chest through his stethoscope, tapping her ribs and checking her throat.
He did not ask how long she had been wheezing, nor did he lecture me on preventative pediatric care.
He simply reached into his satchel and withdrew three small rectangular boxes with green labels.
"Albuterol sulfate," the doctor said, laying them neatly on the wood beside my coffee cup.
"Two puffs every four hours when the tightness begins, or before she sleeps."
He then placed a large glass bottle of amber-colored liquid vitamins next to the inhalers.
"Her bronchial tubes are inflamed from chronic exposure to damp environments and industrial particulates," he added.
"She cannot sleep in a basement with unvented kerosene heaters or mold behind the drywall."
"Do you understand me, Grace?"
"I understand, Doctor," I answered, my fingers trembling as I picked up the first box of medicine.
"How much do I owe you for the consultation and the prescription?"
Dr. Albright snapped his satchel shut with two sharp metallic clicks.
He looked at me through his round spectacles with an expression of dry detachment.
"My account with the North End Marine Logistics office is settled on the first of every calendar quarter, Mrs. Bennett."
"Your daughter’s care was paid for before the snow stopped falling last night."
He turned to Chloe and offered her a small wrapped peppermint from his pocket.
"Take your medicine when your mother tells you, young lady."
"Yes, sir," Chloe whispered, taking the candy with both hands.
The doctor nodded once to Father Thomas in the doorway, pulled his tweed collar up around his neck, and stepped out.
I looked down at the three green boxes of medicine on the oak table.
Eighty-five dollars a box at the corner pharmacy on Border Street.
Two hundred and fifty-five dollars of pure survival sitting right between the toast crumbs and the empty coffee cup.
I picked up the black card James Moretti had left on the nightstand upstairs.
The silver embossed lettering caught the winter morning light:
North End Marine Logistics — Pier 42 — J. Moretti, Managing Director.
There was no telephone number listed for the public switchboard; only a direct seven-digit harbor line.
"Mommy," Chloe said, sucking on her peppermint and swinging her feet beneath the bench.
"Are we going back to the room where the radiator clanks today?"
I looked down at the key to my apartment on Border Street, then down at the black card in my palm.
May you like
"No, Chloe," I said, my voice steadying with a sudden fierce resolve I had never felt in my entire life.
"We are never going back to that room again."
