Welcome to the Hamilton Read online

  Copyright © 2022 by Tanya E Williams

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue, are a product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  FIRST EDITION

  Cover Photograph by David C Williams

  Cover Design by Ana Grigoriu-Voicu

  ISBN - 978-1-989144-18-3

  For Justin,

  "Family is not an important thing. It's everything."

  ~ Michael J. Fox

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Tanya E Williams

  Chapter 1

  Newbury Apartment Building

  Vancouver, BC, Canada

  Saturday, May 7, 1927

  I lie awake in the early morning hour, the view through the bedroom curtains still far removed from the day’s promise of illumination. The rhythmic breaths emerging from my older sister’s slumber keep time like a grandfather clock. In our small shared bedroom, Louisa’s bed is a short arm’s length away from mine. A sigh slips past my lips. Another night’s sleep lost to restlessness and worry.

  The apartment door’s lock clicks, drawing my attention before the hinges yawn in response to being opened then closed. I hold my breath and listen, imagining Father shuffling through the compact kitchen and bumping down the narrow hall toward his bedroom.

  I slide my legs from under the covers and place my feet on the cool, hard floor. After ensuring Louisa is still asleep, I tiptoe from the room, gently pulling the bedroom door closed behind me. I slip into the hall like a shadow and feel the corners of my mouth curve downward. A sad state envelops me as my eyes, already adjusted to the darkness, take in his defeated silhouette.

  “Come, Papa. I’ll help you.” My voice is low and soft, but it startles him all the same. He’s either too lost in his own thoughts or too liquored to implore even a basic level of awareness.

  “Clara, girl, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Papa’s downcast eyes do little to hide his embarrassment at needing help from his youngest daughter.

  A plain expression accompanies my honest words. “You didn’t, Papa. I was already awake.”

  He seems to consider this for a moment before leaning against the wall for support. “I imagine the market won’t be open for several more hours.” Papa pats his jacket pocket with his free hand. “But don’t you worry yourself one bit. I’ve got your market money, safe and sound.”

  Stepping forward, I hook his arm over my shoulders and guide him toward the light of the bedside lamp in his bedroom. “Thank you. I will put it away for safekeeping.”

  Arm in arm, we shimmy through the narrow bedroom door before I release his six-foot, two-inch frame onto the edge of the bed. A shame, I think to myself as an image of the man he used to be flits through my memory. I kneel to untie his shoes.

  “Your mother used to be able to untie my double knots. Just like you, Clara. You remind me so much of her.” Papa exhales an alcohol-laced breath that no amount of ducking can save me from. “Just like you, Clara.”

  “Yes. I remember,” I whisper, rising to stand as his chin droops to his chest in what I assume is regret, drunken or otherwise. Taking advantage of his brief steadied position, I walk around the bed, drawing the curtains closed before pulling the top quilt back from the pillow.

  “Let’s get you out of your jacket.” My words remain slow and calming. “There you go. Now the other arm.”

  I place the jacket at the foot of his bed before guiding his feet and legs under the quilt. I support his head as he lowers it to the pillow. A deep sigh releases from his lips as his body relaxes into the soft bedding. “There you are. Are you comfortable now?”

  A faint “mm-hmm” is his only response.

  “Okay then. Sleep well, Papa.” I turn off the lamp and slide the jacket from the bed. His deep, steady breath is an unspoken comfort as I soundlessly close the bedroom door.

  As I walk with muffled steps toward the kitchen, my head swivels away from the smoke-infused jacket. I hope it airs out before the scent permeates every soft surface in our little apartment.

  I retrieve a wooden hanger from the entryway closet and ease open the sole kitchen window before hanging the offensive jacket on the curtain rod, hoping it will catch the cool morning breeze. The fresh air from last night’s rain is a welcome relief from the stale smell of tobacco, and I wonder how a man who hasn’t smoked a cigarette in the seventeen years of my life comes home reeking of the stuff.

  I envision the establishment he frequents as a cavernous room filled with low tables and solemn men, lost in their own thoughts, unable to see one another through a haze of smoke. Having never ventured into such a place myself, I let my imagination fill in the gaps of what I suspect is a dismal display. I could blame British Columbia’s repeal of prohibition five years ago for Papa’s frequent outings. But in my heart, I know his grief over losing Mama leads to both his overconsumption and our shrinking grocery funds.

  Remembering the market money Papa mentioned, I search the jacket’s pockets. The weekly grocery allowance has been dwindling these past few months. Each week brings a little less money, which has more than once arrived in my hands far later than the agreed upon day of Monday. Stretching the allotment for seven days is one thing, but this week I’ve made do for thirteen. Not knowing when or if another infusion of funds will arrive is the primary cause of my growing unease and frequent sleepless nights.

  Papa’s slim wallet is buried in its usual place within a deep outer pocket. I wrap my fingers around the smooth folded leather and tug. A jagged piece of paper bites at my skin, and my hand retreats in response to the sting. My fingers lose their grip, the wallet falling to the deepest part of the pocket.

  I hold my hand toward the dim light from the window, searching for the source of pain. “Ow,” I mutter as the cool air hits the invisible injury. “How can something so small cause such pain?” I suck on the paper-cut finger to soothe its discomfort and then flip the light switch. Muted light creates a shadowy glow. Turning my attention back to the jacket, I retrieve Papa’s wallet and place it on the counter. Then I reach into the pocket once more. Peering into the dark opening, I grasp an envelope and lift it to the light. The hastily torn edges coax me to investigate the envelope’s contents. Though I know I should respect Papa’s privacy, I have too many questions running through my mind.

  On the back of the envelope, a logo stamped in the t
op left-hand corner is familiar but not fully remembered in my sleep-deprived state. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms the bedrooms are quiet and filled with slumber. Sliding my fingers into the open envelope, I extract a single sheet and unfold the stationery, flattening it against the kitchen counter.

  The red ink stamped at the top of the page in large bold letters floods my body with trepidation. The words final notice bring a hand to my open mouth while my eyes dart across the typed words.

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Wilson,

  This is to inform you of the amount outstanding for rent on apartment number 3D at The Newbury apartment building.

  This is your third and final notice. If payment for the rent in arrears is not received by May 31, 1927, you will be evicted.

  Please remit your past due payments immediately to the building manager, Mr. Ralph Watkins.

  Sincerely,

  Robert J. Mitchell

  Management for The Newbury

  * * *

  I stumble toward the kitchen table, barely pulling a chair back fast enough before sinking into its wooden frame with a thud. The room spins, forcing my head into my hands. “But we’ve only just arrived. Surely Papa can’t be behind on the rent this soon.” My voice wavers as I attempt to talk sense into a situation I am now forced to see. I count on my fingers. “Four months. It has taken me the better part of four months to make this hovel of an apartment feel like a home Mama would have been proud of, and now . . .” My head shakes defiantly with the knowledge of this new reality. “Now, we may have nowhere to go.”

  A strangled groan forces its way past my lips as I accept the dismal feeling that life could quickly become much worse. “Oh, Mama, whatever am I going to do?” I say her name out loud, as if summoning her spirit will set us straight again.

  Missing Mama is a constant state of existence for each of us, though Papa, Louisa, and I express our grief differently. Five years after her passing, her presence remains in all that I do. She is the reason I put every effort into keeping our house a home. Though I am the youngest in the family, she taught me to cook, clean, and mend. Mama taught me how best to live my life.

  I gather my strength, along with the eviction notice, stand, and travel the few steps to the kitchen. After returning the letter to its envelope and then to the jacket’s pocket, I open Papa’s wallet and count the coins he has left for the weekly shopping. “Coins,” I say with a frown. “Paper money seems in short supply in the Wilson household. No wonder he is late with the rent.”

  Chapter 2

  Saturday, May 7, 1927

  The crowd moves as one at the corner of Georgia and Howe, in front of the roped-off Hotel Georgia. Anticipation radiates from the group like a cloud of noxious fumes. The fanfare of the hotel’s opening, set to include more than two hundred of the city’s most distinguished guests, is scheduled for later this evening and is the reason, I assume, for the frenzied gathering.

  With their claims staked, the throng pays no heed to their surroundings, spilling over the recently added sidewalk and into a lane of afternoon traffic. I crane my neck from the opposite side of the street, searching for an alternate route so I can skirt the commotion. My heels lift as I inch upward on tiptoe, an unladylike dampness dotting my upper lip in apprehension. My annoyance at having forgotten today is The Hotel Georgia’s opening gala event has me muttering scolding words under my breath.

  The twitter on the street, in the shops, and plastered on the front pages of this week’s newspapers should have reminded me to avoid the block where the hotel stands. Alas, I find myself jockeying for a position to cross the street to the other side of the hotel’s entrance. Foresight must have eluded me this morning when I chose the location to meet Louisa upon the completion of our individual errands. Having trekked several blocks further than usual, hoping to extend the grocery money at a market on the outskirts of the city, my patience is marred by exhaustion. Checking my wristwatch, I note my tardiness.

  Newspapermen with their oversized flashbulbs mingle at the edges of the crowd, cigarettes dangling from barely closed lips. Even the courthouse lawns across the street from the hotel’s grand entrance are littered with curious onlookers. Seeing no other solution, I grit my teeth and move forward with the throng. The image of a twig being snapped in two dashes across my mind as I enter the fray of the excited crowd and am swept into the wave of people, no longer able to determine my own destination.

  The mob of onlookers concentrates on nothing except maintaining their position within the fervent crowd. They jostle my slight frame back and forth like a rag doll tossed between a group of children. A muted yelp emerges from my throat as I tumble off the curb and into the lanes of traffic.

  I duck my head to dodge flailing arms and, in a flash of recognition, see the chaos for what it is: the physical manifestation of my internal struggle to keep my head above water these past several months. Like a fish swimming against the current, I clutch the small paper bag of groceries to my chest with one hand and cover my head with the other, my pocketbook gripped between white-knuckled fingers atop my cloche hat.

  A motorized jitney horn trumpets behind me, startling me into a stilted and short-lived sprint. With nowhere to turn, I dodge a man on a bicycle and dive back into the crush. Concentration burns into my back as I strain to steady every step while advancing through the crowd. Fresh concrete, a mere three weeks old, is barely visible between the brown polished oxfords and the blue and red heeled shoes. Body odour permeates the space and mixes with perfume more expensive than anything I’ve ever known, causing my stomach to churn.

  Spotting a break in the swarm, I angle myself low and weave forward. I am careful not to step on the toes within a navy brocade T-strap, its wearer hoisted onto tiptoes and wobbling unsteadily with excitement. Snaking my way toward fresh air and freedom, the jumble of well-dressed spectators mingles with that of newspaper corner boys, shopkeepers, and residents. The usual separation in class and social standing, though a polite subtlety on the surface, creates an undercurrent like the electric tram that travels through the city.

  A trickle of sweat slides down the side of my face, highlighting my dishevelled presence among the city’s upper crust. Desperate for stability in physical and societal standing, my survival instinct pushes me forward. As I regain my balance, Mama’s remembered voice cuts through the noise, as clear as glass. Everyone is on the outside of something, at one time or another. Her words, originally intended to console a small child left out of play, have today reminded me that all of those in this crowded gathering, eager for a glimpse, have found themselves on the outside, desperate to get in.

  Mama’s ability to put my struggles into perspective was one of her greatest traits. I snatch a glance inside the elaborate hotel’s glass doors while I skirt the fringe of the crowd. A wide red ribbon stretches across the lobby, just beyond the closed doors. My gaze shifts to the line of staff, with smiles as white and wide as the snow-capped North Shore Mountains. They prepare to welcome guests and the city into what is being touted as the most state-of-the-art hotel Vancouver has ever seen.

  Though the afternoon sky holds no breeze, my face rejoices at the feeling of fresh air as I step free from the throng. Out of sorts and exhausted, I stop at the edge of the hotel’s smooth stone exterior. The bag of groceries slips from my arms as I check the time. Brushing sweat-soaked hair from my forehead, I scan the many faces in the crowd, searching for Louisa.

  Standing almost a full head above the gentlemen in the crowd, Louisa waves to me. Her face is aglow with excitement. I marvel at her ability to find enthusiasm in a moment where I’ve located only discontent.

  Home and bedraggled from the afternoon’s events, I put the groceries away before taking a moment to wash my face with a cool cloth. Needing words of comfort, I reach behind the breadbox for Mama’s recipe book and flip through its pages until I find what I seek: her parting words to me, written in her delicate hand.

  Despite the strength the can
cer stole from her, she was graceful and stoic until the final breath left her lips. Over the past four months, I have moved my treasured letter more times than I can count. I hid it beneath my pillow and then in the clothes cupboard I share with Louisa. After it was nearly discovered, I decided the one place Louisa would never look was in the cookbook. Should she ever take an interest in a domestic task, I will rethink the letter’s hiding spot. Until then, the letter is quite safe in our kitchen.

  Seldom does an opportunity to read Mama’s letter in full present itself in our close quarters. My eyes follow the curves of her handwriting, searching for the wisdom my heart so desperately craves.

  * * *

  Take care of your sister, Clara. I would not ask this of you if I did not believe you were capable of such a task. She may be the eldest in terms of age, albeit by months rather than years, but she is a fragile soul, my love, and you were born with both feet planted firmly on the ground. Your resourcefulness will serve you well in all things, Clara. This I am certain of. Believe in yourself and let your heart guide you.

  All my love,

  Mother

  * * *

  My finger traces her words. Through tear-blurred eyes, the word “resourcefulness” leaps from the page. A solution to all of our problems is forming, and I know what I must do. I pluck the few remaining coins from my pocketbook, slide on my sweater, and stuff my feet into shoes. I slip out the apartment door and down the three flights of stairs without a word.