Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [29]
She and Princess wandered around the city streets, peering curiously into the lighted windows of houses, sniffing the beery smells coming from noisy saloons and watching the people, listening enviously to their laughter. She was eavesdropping on a world different from her own, where people sang and danced and laughed together and were happy.
Much later she and Princess would sneak back through the side door which she always left unlocked, knowing no one would check because they did not expect it to be open. She would hurry up the back stairs, making Princess walk on the carpet so that her claws made no noise on the wooden surround. She would lock her door carefully, pour the glass of milk she’d taken earlier from the kitchen into Princess’s bowl and watch her eagerly lap it up. Then she would climb into bed and huddle under the chilly sheets with Princess curled up on her feet, and soon she would fall asleep to dream of life and freedom on the ranch, and of Blaize, her little chestnut mare, of fried chicken and roaring log fires and her mother, rosy-cheeked and smiling, sitting quietly beside her in the firelight’s glow.
She began to stay out later and later, lingering outside the saloon at the bottom of Jones Street, loathe to leave the bright lights and the happy music and laughter for her own cold, dark little room. The people going in and out stared at her, laughing at the sight of the small girl in the black velvet cloak with the dog that was bigger than she was, but their glances became more curious as they noticed her there night after night.
“What is it, darlin’?” a red-haired man called out to her one night. “Lost your father to the demon drink, have ya?”
Francie blushed and shook her head. Grabbing Princess’s lead even tighter she hurried away up the hill.
“You ought to do sum’n about that girl outside,” the man told the saloonkeeper. “It’s not good for business having kids waitin’ on their drunken fathers. Throw the bastard into the street and tell him to take his kid home where she belongs.”
“She’s no child of any of my customers,” the saloonkeeper replied indignantly. “Next time you see her, tell me and I’ll call the police.”
But Francie was scared and she avoided the saloon, roaming farther and farther through the dark city, inventing lonely make-believe scenarios for the families she saw behind the lighted windows and in the cafés.
It was a few weeks before she passed the saloon again. It was a clear, cold night and she shivered as she stopped to sniff the hot, spicy smells of cooked ham and corned-beef hash and the earthy aroma of rich dark ale mingled with the stinging smell of whiskey.
The red-haired man eyed her guardedly as he hurried into the bar. “Better send the lad around for the police,” he told the saloonkeeper. “That little girl’s out there again and the streets are no place for a young kid like that, she can’t be more than seven or eight. She must’ve run away from home or sum’n.”
“I’ll get her this time,” the saloonkeeper replied, calling over the boy.
Francie watched the uniformed police officer approaching the saloon curiously. She felt so invisible in her nighttime world that she almost jumped out of her skin when he called out to her.
“Hey, little girl? Lost your way, have ya?”
“No! Oh no!” She tugged urgently on Princess’s lead as the police officer came closer, but Princess stood firm, her fur bristling, her teeth bared, growling softly. The policeman took a wary step backward. “I’d like to talk to you, young lady. It looks to me like you need a spot of help … you and your nice dog.”
Francie tugged hard on the lead as Princess growled menacingly again. “Oh no, thank you, sir. I don’t need any help. We’re just on our way home, that’s all.” With a final desperate tug on the lead she dragged the big dog around and hurried back up the hill.
The policeman followed at a distance, watching to