The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 31
“He doesn’t usually like people touching it,” Rye said, “but you being a lawyer, it’s probably okay.”
Fred Moore carefully put the book back with such a pitying look on his face that Rye felt compelled to point out the window to the grove of trees behind the house. “Mrs. Ricci is selling us that little piece back there. Gig and I are planning to build a house—well, we were, I mean, before all this started.”
This didn’t seem to alleviate Mr. Moore’s pity, and he turned away. “I’m sorry about Jules, Ryan,” he said. “And your brother. I’m going to get Gregory out of jail, and you’ll be working on your house by spring.”
“Spring,” Rye repeated.
The back door opened just enough for Mrs. Ricci to slide a bowl of noodles and some bread out; then, without a word, she closed the door. Rye jumped up and had a forkful before he’d looked up at his lawyer. “I’m sorry. Did you want some?”
“You go ahead. Eat up.”
Fred Moore said he’d check on Gig’s case the next day, and he left, glancing back once at Rye’s sleeping arrangements. When Rye’s lawyer and his dinner were both gone, he collapsed back onto his cot. It was like an entire life had been lived in this one day, the schoolhouse, court and his lawyer, the redoubtable Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, and then seeing Jules dead like that. And to end this day here, on the porch without Gig—Rye felt lost and alone. He leaned back in his nest of blankets and fell straight into sleep, dreamless and black.
He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but then it was late morning and the sun was flashing through the porch window and Mrs. Ricci was shaking him awake in frantic Italian: “Donna! In una grande machina!” He got the first word. Woman.
He sat up. He must have slept sixteen hours. He felt panic that he’d missed something. Then he remembered that Gurley Flynn had wanted to talk to him about accompanying her on the trip to raise money for the lawyer. But here? Now? Rye felt disoriented. “Tell her I’ll be right out, Mrs. Ricci,” he said.
“Si, Geno,” Mrs. Ricci answered, and went back inside. She left a glass of milk and a biscuit, and Rye made quick work of them. He looked at the stack of neat clothes piled at the foot of the bed, the bowler hat he’d worn the day before smack on top.
Rye went out back and used the outhouse, cleaned up as best he could, powdered and dressed in the clothes Mr. Moore had given him, which smelled fresh and fit fine, if a bit loose in the seat. He hitched the pants with the new set of braces that Mr. Moore had provided. He had everything but shoes. He laced up his old boots and put on the gray coat. He slicked down his hair with water, set the bowler on top, and caught his faint reflection in Mrs. Ricci’s back window: a fine gentleman—
The back door was open, and Rye walked into Mrs. Ricci’s kitchen, then through the house and into the parlor. And there, sitting in a chair with her hands in a muff, looking around the room, was Ursula the Great.
“Oh, hello, Miss—” He’d begun speaking without knowing what came next, and so he said, “Great.”
14
Life is slow until it isn’t; Rye wondered if that was what people meant by fate, life speeding up like the view from an express train. Or maybe fate was a fancy motor car driven by a silent man in white gloves, for once Rye climbed in, there was no choice—you held on and rattled over cobblestones and streetcar tracks, around horses and carriages, nothing to do but shrug and think, So this is it, one day on a ball field, next a sweatbox, then snuggled into the leather backseat of a pup-pupping automobile with Ursula the Great—buffeted by wind while she squeezed his arm like she was his girl, the two of them chauffeured by this serious man in a driver’s cap and goggles, who gave Rye the warmest scarf and gloves and now motored them around buggies and trucks and lampposts, heads turning like royalty was passing, for this had to be the finest car in town, and they traveled through neighborhoods and years, up the South Hill to the grandest boulevard overlooking downtown and the whole river valley.
There were other autos on the street, but those lesser vehicles were chuddering old Tin Lizzies and delivery trucks, nothing like this long, fancy dragon.
“This is the Peerless seven-passenger Touring!” the driver called over his shoulder, over the wind and the thupping motor. “Out of Cleveland! Ohio! Shipped piece by piece! Built on the spot by a specialist! Only vehicle of its kind in the state!”
Rye wondered at the kind of man who could afford to hire someone to yell out his bragging for him. “I could see six passengers,” he said quietly to Miss Ursula, “but you’d have to drag the seventh.”
It was ice cold in the open air, and Ursula just kept pulling him closer by his hostage arm. “Thank you for coming. I’ve been worried about Gregory.”
“Gig can handle himself,” Rye said, and wondered if it was true.
“I hope you’re right.” She nestled even closer.
When she glanced up at the driver, Rye took in her whole face and thought how funny the word beautiful was, that it could mean such different things. The stark contrast of Elizabeth Gurley Flynn’s black hair and eyes against that pale Irish skin or Ursula’s scarlet hair and pink lips and high flushed cheeks. She looked at him looking at her, and before he could turn away, their eyes locked, and she glanced down at his lips. Rye wondered if she did this to make men think about kissing her, because it certainly made him think that, then he felt awful for even thinking about kissing his brother’s girl.
“I went to see