The sting of the October air in her lungs was a shock after a warm few days, punctuated with a light drizzle. Soon enough, she’d need to fetch out the gloves and scarves. Where did Harry get his clothes from? Did he steal them, like he had the books? The adorable boy she’d raised, with his bow-shaped lips and sparkling eyes, could not be reconciled with the feral young man, living on the streets, who no longer needed her. She carried his stuffed lamb in her bag when she went out looking for him, although she wasn’t sure why. Red Paddy would probably laugh and toss it in the gutter if she dared to pull it out.
Only one of the bookstores on Fourth Avenue was still open at this late hour. She entered to escape from the rain, breathing in the unique smell of the old books, a musty mix of vanilla and wet wood. When she’d lived at the library, she’d sometimes buried her head in one of the books and inhaled, even when the other patrons gave her strange looks. Better than any perfume, Jack had agreed.
“I got something for you.” The voice was familiar.
She peeked around a bookshelf to the back of the store, where a cashier stared down at a reedy boy wearing a cap, red curls wrapping around his neck like worms. Red Paddy.
The cashier sighed and put an elbow on the counter. “What now?”
Red Paddy pulled a book out from his coat. So they were still at it. The gang probably had moved on to other libraries, or stole from other bookshops. It was a lucrative business.
The cashier shook his head and returned to his newspaper, ignoring the protestations of Red Paddy, who eventually gave up and sauntered out.
Laura followed at a distance, the red hair like a beacon under the streetlamps, until Red Paddy reached a building on Second Avenue. He scampered down a stairway into a basement entrance. After a moment to gather her courage, Laura followed.
The door opened into a hallway so narrow a burly man would have to shift sideways to get through. To the right was a door, and she could hear Red Paddy swearing from inside.
“Bastard wouldn’t take it.”
Murmuring from other boys followed. She didn’t hear Harry, even though her ear was pressed close.
She could knock, but that would give them time to run.
Instead, she turned the knob, relieved and also terrified when she met no resistance and the door swung open.
She almost reeled back from the stench, a mix of sweat, alcohol, and rubbish. One tiny window near the street offered the only light, and just beneath it three small boys sprawled against an upturned barrel, fast asleep. In the far corners of the room, stuffed mattresses covered rickety-looking lofts, and a table of sorts was pushed against one wall, holding the remains of what looked like last week’s breakfast.
“Are you a charity lady?” said Red Paddy, nonplussed. “Going to give us a speech, are you?”
By now, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness.
There, at the table, sat a boy who stared back at her with an electric shock, who lacked the disdain of the others.
Her boy.
Harry.
The first year that they moved into the library, Jack had come up to dinner one evening complaining about the difficulty of fixing a leak in the basement, where a crawl space narrowed almost to nothing. “Can’t reach it for the life of me.”
Harry had offered to help, but Laura had dismissed the idea as too dangerous. Jack studied his son as if he was seeing him for the first time, sized him up, and announced that it was worth a try. Together, they disappeared after dinner and returned an hour later, both covered in muck and grinning madly. Harry had been able to reach the leak and patched it, following his father’s instructions.
The next day, Harry dashed into his room after school, pulled on his overalls, and told Laura he was going to work. She nodded solemnly, not wanting to let on how adorable he appeared. He returned less than fifteen minutes later, in tears.
Jack, caught up in whatever crisis had arisen that day, had roughly dismissed Harry, forgetting that he was only a little boy who just wanted to help. After dinner, Laura tried to explain to Jack why Harry was hurt, but Jack hadn’t listened. “The boy’s too sensitive,” Jack said, before turning away.
In the dankness of the tenement basement, Laura’s sensitive boy stared at her with huge eyes. This was her only chance.
“Harry, let me buy you something to eat. That’s all I want to do.”
She’d guessed correctly. He was hungry. He glanced down at the detritus on the table and then checked in with Red Paddy, who leaned against one of the lofts and raised his eyebrows.
“Please.” She locked eyes with Red Paddy.
Red Paddy shrugged. “He can do what he likes. I’m not in charge of him.”
As they walked up Second Avenue, Laura kept her arms tight to her side. She reminded herself that she mustn’t touch him, mustn’t reach out to grasp his hand or his arm, even if not doing so went against her every instinct. It took her a moment to get used to his height—he was now as tall as she was. This was a new Harry, and she’d have to treat him carefully, not baby him or beg him to come home.
They settled in at a Russian restaurant and ordered blintzes. She tried not to stare as he tore into the food. All those boys in that room, growing and needing to eat. What was dinnertime like for them? A fight over whatever scraps they could scrounge together, probably.
“Pearl made a cake for your birthday.”
“When was it?”
He didn’t even know. “Today. Do you not know the date?”
“No.”
Of course he didn’t. He must have outgrown the pair of glasses they’d bought together, so long ago. Without them, reading a newspaper would be impossible. “Why don’t you come home and have a piece. It’s delicious, and we saved you plenty.”
“No thanks.” He glanced up at her, then back to his food, as if it might be snatched from him if he didn’t put it away fast enough. “I don’t want to live with you and Father anymore. I don’t need to . . .” He trailed off.
Laura’s mouth went dry. He didn’t know his father was dead. Dr. Anderson and Mr. Gaillard had successfully covered up the suicide, so it hadn’t made the news. Of course, they’d been more concerned with protecting the institution’s reputation than maintaining discretion for Jack’s family. She took a ragged breath, focused on keeping a semblance of composure. Harry didn’t seem to notice, engrossed as he was in his meal.
She couldn’t tell him, not yet. “We’ve missed you.”
“You wouldn’t, not if you knew what I’ve done.”
“The manuscript? That’s over with, done. No one is angry with you about that. It was a moment, that’s all.”
He lifted his chin, a challenge. “I’ve done worse.”
“I know.”
The chin wobbled, slightly—almost imperceptibly—but Laura knew what it meant. It was a glint of the old Harry, letting down his defenses. She spoke as tenderly as she could. “I found your hiding place. I found the Tamerlane and the money. I’m not angry, you don’t have to worry about that.”
Relief washed over his face. He was still a boy in so many ways, his reaction no different from when he’d accidentally ripped the dress of one of Pearl’s dolls, confiding in a rush of regret as soon as he realized his mother knew it had been him.
“Why did you steal the books, Harry? Was it the gang that forced you to do so?”
“I took Leaves of Grass because I thought it would be about the countryside, where we used to live. I brought it to school with me one day, and Red Paddy saw me with it and started talking to me, asking about what it was like to live in a library. We became friends.”
Harry, who’d had a terrible time making friends, would have been easy prey for Red Paddy and his gang. Laura remained quiet, listening.
“He said that I could make money if I liked, by nicking books like that for him. I heard you and Father saying that you needed money, so I thought this way I could help out.”