now. I’ll go to bed, never you fear, this happy New Year. But first, I have a pleasant duty to perform. Mr. Dyer won’t be in tomorrow and I’ll be sleeping the good day long and I don’t want to be disturbed by the likes of you. Mr. Dyer has commissioned me to give you your wages.” She took a bundle of bills from the large pocket of her apron. She began to count them into piles. “Ten dollars apiece for each of you and…”
“Ten?” Benjamin said. “We were promised fifteen, plus tips.”
“Oh, my good lad,” the old lady said, “I know what you were promised. But that lad there”—she pointed at a boy called Cunningham, who was sitting with his head in his hands—“he had the grand misfortune to pour a bowl of soup on a lady’s fine, expensive gown, and it’s ruined forever, the lady says, and it cost five hundred dollars in a great shop in the city of Paris and who’s to pay for the loss? Ten it is, lads, and you should be thankful it isn’t less, due to the kindness of Mr. Dyer’s good heart.”
“Cunningham,” Benjamin asked, “did you ruin a lady’s dress?”
“I dropped a few gobs of soup on some old bag’s tits. Yeah.” Cunningham didn’t even bother to look up. He was a frail boy, they had all been up almost twenty-four hours without any time to rest, and he sat at the table like a prizefighter who has just been knocked out and has not quite yet come around. “Five hundred dollars,” he said. “My mother buys better dresses than that in Bamberger’s Newark for twenty-five ninety-five.”
“There you are, lads,” the Irishwoman said, gesturing to fourteen neat piles on the table. “Come and get it and stop your complaining. Eleven-fifty apiece.”
“What’s the one-fifty for?” one of the other boys asked.
“That’s each boy’s share of the tips,” the old lady said.
“Oh, Christ,” somebody said. “Are you sure this poor white trash here tonight can afford it? Why, they may have to go without their caviar for two or three hours next year if they throw their money around like that.”
“There’ll be no blasphemy here in my kitchen, young man,” the old lady said, “and certainly not from the likes of you.” She sailed out of the kitchen into a small office near the back door and hung up her apron on a hook, closed the door, then locked it, fumbling with the key.
Cunningham began to sing “The Wearing of the Green” and was joined by some of the others. “It’s the most peculiar country that you have ever seen,” the boys sang, their voices hollow and mocking in the cold, echoing kitchen, “For they’re hanging men and women, for the wearing of the green—”
“Not enough,” Cunningham said.
Angrily the old lady turned around. She staggered a little as she came up to Cunningham and shook her finger at him. “I’ll have no slurs on the Irish either, lad, I warn you.”
“He’s Irish, lady,” somebody said.
“I know what kind of Irish,” said the old lady. “Scum.” She lurched out, and they heard her walking unevenly down the hall to her bedroom.
“Well,” Benjamin said, standing up, “I never had more fun in my life. I’m going to bed.”
They decided they’d all leave by eleven in the morning and climbed the three flights heavily to the servants’ rooms under the roof.
When Benjamin got to his door, it was locked. Sleepily, he tried to figure out how that could have happened. He knew he had left the key in the door when he went down before dinner, because there was nothing in the room that anybody could possibly have wanted to steal. But there was no doubt about it now. It definitely was locked. He tried to throw his weight against the door, but it held. He went into the next room where Cunningham, too tired to undress, lay sprawled, with the light on, across his cot.
Benjamin told Cunningham about the door and opened the window of the room to see if there was some way he could get to his own window three feet away. A polar
“Ten?” Benjamin said. “We were promised fifteen, plus tips.”
“Oh, my good lad,” the old lady said, “I know what you were promised. But that lad there”—she pointed at a boy called Cunningham, who was sitting with his head in his hands—“he had the grand misfortune to pour a bowl of soup on a lady’s fine, expensive gown, and it’s ruined forever, the lady says, and it cost five hundred dollars in a great shop in the city of Paris and who’s to pay for the loss? Ten it is, lads, and you should be thankful it isn’t less, due to the kindness of Mr. Dyer’s good heart.”
“Cunningham,” Benjamin asked, “did you ruin a lady’s dress?”
“I dropped a few gobs of soup on some old bag’s tits. Yeah.” Cunningham didn’t even bother to look up. He was a frail boy, they had all been up almost twenty-four hours without any time to rest, and he sat at the table like a prizefighter who has just been knocked out and has not quite yet come around. “Five hundred dollars,” he said. “My mother buys better dresses than that in Bamberger’s Newark for twenty-five ninety-five.”
“There you are, lads,” the Irishwoman said, gesturing to fourteen neat piles on the table. “Come and get it and stop your complaining. Eleven-fifty apiece.”
“What’s the one-fifty for?” one of the other boys asked.
“That’s each boy’s share of the tips,” the old lady said.
“Oh, Christ,” somebody said. “Are you sure this poor white trash here tonight can afford it? Why, they may have to go without their caviar for two or three hours next year if they throw their money around like that.”
“There’ll be no blasphemy here in my kitchen, young man,” the old lady said, “and certainly not from the likes of you.” She sailed out of the kitchen into a small office near the back door and hung up her apron on a hook, closed the door, then locked it, fumbling with the key.
Cunningham began to sing “The Wearing of the Green” and was joined by some of the others. “It’s the most peculiar country that you have ever seen,” the boys sang, their voices hollow and mocking in the cold, echoing kitchen, “For they’re hanging men and women, for the wearing of the green—”
“Not enough,” Cunningham said.
Angrily the old lady turned around. She staggered a little as she came up to Cunningham and shook her finger at him. “I’ll have no slurs on the Irish either, lad, I warn you.”
“He’s Irish, lady,” somebody said.
“I know what kind of Irish,” said the old lady. “Scum.” She lurched out, and they heard her walking unevenly down the hall to her bedroom.
“Well,” Benjamin said, standing up, “I never had more fun in my life. I’m going to bed.”
They decided they’d all leave by eleven in the morning and climbed the three flights heavily to the servants’ rooms under the roof.
When Benjamin got to his door, it was locked. Sleepily, he tried to figure out how that could have happened. He knew he had left the key in the door when he went down before dinner, because there was nothing in the room that anybody could possibly have wanted to steal. But there was no doubt about it now. It definitely was locked. He tried to throw his weight against the door, but it held. He went into the next room where Cunningham, too tired to undress, lay sprawled, with the light on, across his cot.
Benjamin told Cunningham about the door and opened the window of the room to see if there was some way he could get to his own window three feet away. A polar
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