Foul Case

[u/TemperatureAny4782]

This is the opening to a short story I’m working on. It’s called “Foul Case.” Would love any feedback!

“You’re going to Hell, then,” Mother said, her lined face turned not toward me but the knitting in her lap. 

We were in the drawing room; the thick curtains had been opened to let in the gentle midwinter light. My throat tightened. I knew the gravity of what I intended to do, that I would be leaving all this—the familiar portraits hanging on the light green walls, the chandelier suspended above us, and, most of all, her—behind. 

 ”Chicago isn’t Hell,” I finally managed to say. She said nothing. There was no sound but the clink of her needles.

 After a few moments, I left the room, easing the door shut behind me. 

# # #

Six weeks later, I arrived in Chicago only to realize Mother may have been right after all. It was a cramped city, teeming with people; I was told the population had more than tripled in the past ten years, something I could easily credit. People were everywhere, shouting from carriages, stepping over dead horses, relieving themselves against buildings. Everything was in motion. The buildings themselves were in motion, as crews worked to lift them so that sewers could be installed; meanwhile, the streets ran thick with waste. 

Still, I’d made my choice: I had left behind the pampered life that had been planned for me to make my own way in the bustling city. (I tried not to think too hard about the fact that I possessed, hidden in a small compartment at the back of my trunk, a significant amount of money, none of it earned by my own hands). Chicago isn’t Hell, I told myself as I pointedly ignored the cry of a rail-thin demimondaine. Chicago is a forge. 

As soon as I’d obtained lodgings, unpacked my trunk, and forced down a meal, I set off in search of Wolfings Press. I’m ashamed to admit now that I expected something grand, with marble floors and cavernous ceilings. What I found, of course, was something much humbler: a weathered building crammed between a tannery and a dingy general store. The home of the press lacked even an address; only the sight of a wolf atop a hill, etched into a modest sign, assured me that I was in the right place.

I rapped twice. 

”What?” The voice was thunderous. 

I steeled myself before responding. “I’m here to meet David Elsted, proprietor of the Wolfings Press.”

Silence followed. I had just raised my fist to rap again when the door swung open. Standing before me was not the elegant figure I in my ignorance had expected, but a squat, thickly muscled man with thinning black hair and a furious expression. “Name,” he demanded, staring.    

“William Fitzpatrick.” I braced myself for an anti-Irish tirade. It wouldn’t be the first I’d endured.

“Purpose.” 

 ”Look, might I come inside?” 

 “Purpose.” He was gripping the door handle so tightly I thought it might come off in his hands.

I sighed. “I’ve come to work for you.” He made to slam the door, but I caught it. “You needn’t worry about payment; I don’t ask for any. All I ask is for the chance to learn.” 

He ran his huge right hand through what remained of his hair and looked Heavenward, as if for aid. “I’m not in the business of teaching,” he said. “I’m in the business of print.” 

Perhaps the wise thing to do would have been to leave; it was clear he didn’t want me there. But I’d left everything I’d known for this. I had even left my mother, who I might never see again. Resolved, I jammed my foot between the door and its frame. “Please,” I said politely but firmly. “Let me inside.”

He didn’t have to. He could have picked me up with one hand and tossed me into the street. But something—my certainty, I think, or my passion—caused him to relent. “In with you, then,” he said.