The Incorrigibles

by Meredith Jaeger

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

From USA Today bestselling author Meredith Jaeger comes an emotionally resonant novel about two women whose lives intersect as one resists the gentrification of her San Francisco neighborhood, and the other, eighty years earlier, fights for her freedom in nineteenth-century America. . . .

1890, San Francisco. Seduced by her employer’s nephew, Annie Gilmurray, an Irish maid, is accused of stealing the ring he promised her. Sentenced to one year in San Quentin, Annie is heartbroken and frightened among the inmates of the women’s ward: prostitutes, murderers, and pickpockets. But Annie finds beauty and friendship in a brutal place, where the women look out for one another, dreaming of a better life after release. But their world inside San Quentin's walls is a dangerous one, and when the unthinkable happens, Annie makes a choice that will alter the course of her future forever.

1972, San Francisco. Aspiring photographer Judy Morelli is grappling with the searing betrayal of her husband’s infidelity, subletting a San Francisco apartment while she pieces her life back together. When Judy discovers Annie's mugshot, she becomes fascinated and invested not just in Annie's fate but also in the history of her gentrifying South of Market Street neighborhood, joining the fight against redevelopment to maintain its rich community. 

Exploring the different ways in which we are imprisoned and how we can break free, The Incorrigibles is a story of women reaching across the barriers of time, the unbreakable bonds of female friendship, and the forgotten histories of those pushed to society’s margins.

Release date: May 21, 2024

Publisher: Dutton

Print pages: 368

Sample

1

Judy

San Francisco, 1972

I dress in corduroys and a collared blouse, pulling a crocheted sweater vest over my head, then I grab my résumé from the typewriter. A glint of gold on my ring finger catches the light, and a lump rises in my throat. I'm still not ready to take off my wedding band. Instead, I finish the dregs of my coffee and set the chipped mug down in the sink.

This dingy one-bedroom flat, south of Market Street, overlooking a row of weathered clapboard apartment buildings, doesn't feel like home. My real home is in Sacramento, a ranch house on a suburban tree-lined cul-de-sac. But if I think too much about it, I might cry. I try reminding myself that today is the first time in years I'm doing something for me.

After locking the apartment, I make my way down a flight of creaky, narrow stairs, wondering about the other tenants in my four-unit Edwardian building. I've barely introduced myself, but I've seen a Black woman and her son, along with an old Filipino man. In the lobby, a lone bulb hangs overhead, illuminating a cork message board.

My eyes drift over the flyers offering discounts at a local supermarket, automotive repair, and social services. Bold words on yellow paper announce: toor: we won't move. I have no idea what the acronym means, another reminder that I'm an outsider, a young housewife masquerading as a city dweller, as if I belong here.

Walking down Natoma Street, I look up at laundry flapping on clotheslines strung along the rickety back stairs of the apartment buildings. The narrow street, more of an alley, really, is strewn with trash, but this was the cheapest rent I could find. Besides, it's sunny, flat, and centrally located. When I reach Sixth Street, I walk past auto shops, a few greasy-spoon diners, and brick residential hotels, where old white men play dominoes outside.

The sound of a jackhammer pierces the air. There's a construction site a few blocks away, over on Fourth Street between Mission and Folsom, the empty lots cutting across blocks like a scar. I don't know what kind of new development the city is planning, but the demolished hotels give the area a postapocalyptic feeling, like Berlin after the Second World War. The only building left standing is a brick Gothic-style Roman Catholic church-Saint Patrick's.

When I reach Sixth and Howard, I pause in front of a black awning that reads glass photo in white letters. For a week now, I've walked past the help wanted sign in the window, trying to work up the courage to step inside. I hear Tony's voice in my head.

You don't need to work, Judy. You're my wife.

But Tony isn't here to stop me.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the door to the photography studio. A middle-aged man with a neat gray beard looks up from behind the counter. He wears wire-frame glasses and a small silver hoop in his left ear. He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Can I help you?"

My mouth is dry and my palms are sweaty.

"Um, hi. I'm Judy. I'm here to ask about the open position?"

"Oh, wonderful!" He reaches across the counter for my résumé. "I'm Seth Glass, the owner. May I take a look?"

Reluctantly, I hand it to him, my skin prickling with self-doubt.

Seth's eyes narrow as he reads. "I see you worked at a color-processing lab in Berkeley. So you're familiar with developing C-prints?"

My shoulders relax a little. "Yes. I'm actually a photographer myself. I prefer chromogenic prints because I like to shoot in color."

But this statement rings false. I haven't shot anything I'm proud of in years-not since my days as an undergraduate at UC Berkeley. In Sacramento, I lost my focus. I tried photographing the manicured lawns and identical houses, the austere government buildings downtown, but my photographs weren't telling a story.

Seth nods. "We have a number of fine-art photographers as clients, and we hand process film in small batches. Are you familiar with developing black-and-white film?"

"Yes," I say.

I've never forgotten the magic of watching my first image come slowly to life in the developing tray: an empty field, the golden grass beneath a blue California sky taking on an eerie quality in monochrome. From the moment I first set foot in my high school darkroom, I was captivated by the alchemy transpiring before my eyes.

"I pretty much arranged my life around having access to a darkroom when I was younger, and back then the only photos I processed were black and white."

It's sad to realize how quickly I lost myself. My identity as an aspiring photographer ebbed away, replaced with my identity as Tony's wife.

Seth sets down my résumé and leans against the counter. "Judy, you seem very passionate about photography. So, tell me this . . ." He frowns, his brows drawing together. "Why is there such a large gap on your résumé? No jobs, no local gallery shows of your work?"

My mouth feels dry. It's the question I've been dreading.

"I got married my senior year of college and my husband didn't want me to work."

I don't tell him how I fell into the same role as my mother, who smokes Pall Malls while doing the dishes, even though I thought I was a progressive young woman. How I spent my days cooking, cleaning, and ironing my husband's shirts.

"We're separated," I clarify.

As I say the words out loud, my throat tightens. I should be planning a romantic candlelit dinner with Tony for our third wedding anniversary later this month, not living alone in a derelict San Francisco apartment building.

Seth's eyes are kind. "Well, thank goodness for that."

"Right," I exhale.

But the relief is fleeting. Tony will never agree to a divorce. Besides, I'm not even sure that I want one. I'm still hoping he can change.

"Tell me." Seth gestures to the cameras in his display case. "What do you shoot with?"

I recognize a Japanese Olympus Pen-F and a rare Hasselblad 500C. Though they're beautiful instruments, I prefer my view camera.

"Don't laugh." I smile at Seth. "But I use a Gundlach Korona."

He whistles. "Like Ansel Adams used to?"

I nod. "An eight-by-ten."

Seth raises an eyebrow. "You're not one for modern technology?"

I fidget with a hangnail. "I also use a Rolleiflex 2.8 when I want to be able to take a photograph in less than twenty minutes."

He chuckles. "I like you. And I like the fact that you're not afraid to take your time to get the image right. Tell me, who inspires you?"

It's been so long since I've been asked about myself.

Who inspires me? What do I like?

"Dorothea Lange." The answer comes easily. "Her photographs of dust-bowl migrants are stunning. She tells a story while also raising awareness of social issues."

Seth hands my résumé back to me. "Great answer. So, are you ready for my spiel?"

"Sure." I'm desperate for work, but I don't want to seem too eager.

He clears his throat.

"At Glass Photo, we give film negatives the expert attention they deserve. And you seem like someone who pays attention. Do you have any experience with photo conservation?"

My stomach sinks. "No."

He gives me a reassuring look. "That's all right. We don't have many customers who come in for conservation work, but some do. I can teach you how to remove surface dust and correct planar distortion. It's a hobby of mine, collecting old photographs. Mug shots, especially."

"Mug shots?" I raise my eyebrows.

Seth nods. "Many surviving images from the past are of royalty or the very wealthy. I collect mug shots because they give a glimpse into the lives of ordinary people."

"Who happen to be criminals . . ."

He laughs. "Yes."

I nod. "I suppose a mug shot is a form of portrait photography."

"You'd be surprised how stunning some of them are. Here, look-" He reaches for an album, its black cover worn and frayed. "I bought this at a flea market."

I scoot closer to get a better view as he cracks open the old book. In cursive ink, the inside cover is inscribed: D.A. Higgins, San Francisco, 1890. Property of San Francisco Police Station. Seth turns the page, revealing a single card with two photos side by side-the first, a man's face in profile; the second, the same man staring straight at the camera, a prisoner number hanging around his neck, his dark eyes boring into mine.

"It's an old mug book," Seth says, turning the page again. "These images and their corresponding notes on the cards were used by police agencies and penal institutions in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries."

I look at the mug shots, the corners of the cards peeling, the paper water damaged. There are men of all ages and races, some as young as sixteen, others as old as sixty. There is something captivating about the rawness of these portraits. Reaching out, I brush the edge of the book. "Are these gelatin silver prints?"

"Right on the nose!" Seth winks. "You have a great eye." He nudges the mug book toward me. "Go ahead. Take a look."

I gently leaf through the yellowed pages.

"If you turn the Bertillon card over," Seth says, "the back has more identifying information, like the person's name, their scars, criminal history, aliases . . ."

"Bertillon card?"

"Alphonse Bertillon was a French police officer," Seth says. "His system of identifying criminals by their body measurements was an early form of biometrics."

I frown. "This was before fingerprinting?"

"That's right," Seth says. "He called them portrait parlé."

"A speaking portrait." I smile, my years of high school French coming back to me.

"Exactly."

I turn the page in the mug book again, expecting to find more men. And then I stop, my breath hitching. I'm staring into the haunting eyes of a frightened young woman.

2

Annie

San Francisco, 1890

Annie stood on the corner of Fourth Street and Mission, a block from Saint Patrick's Church. The bells pealed, and she smiled, feeling elegant in her Sunday best. The grueling year she'd spent in San Francisco, working in service for the horrid Mrs. Whittier, was soon to be worth something. Annie hated the word service. She came to this country to better herself, and it wasn't bettering to have her mistress ordering her around morning and night. Perhaps if there was such a thing as fixed hours, or more time to herself, she'd feel differently. But she only got time off every other Sunday, to attend morning Mass, and Thursday evenings.

Ellen looked her up and down. "Have ye spent all your wages on a dress?"

"Ay, she has." Nora tittered behind a gloved hand.

"Never mind them, ye look lovely." Kathleen smiled.

Annie adjusted the brim of her feathered hat.

"Right you are, Kathleen."

While Ellen Driscoll wore a simple shirtwaist, a straw hat with a black ribbon, and a woolen skirt, as she did most Sundays, Annie spent what money she didn't send home to her father on the finest clothing she could afford. Today she wore a muslin dress with a fitted bodice in a floral print, the cuffs and collar trimmed in lace. She'd purchased a velvet hat and suede gloves at the City of Paris department store and looked every bit a lady, as much as Mrs. Whittier.

Annie stood straighter, admiring the draping of her dress. Was this not the reason that she, Nora O'Donnell, Ellen Driscoll, Kathleen Kelly, and thousands of other Irish girls had come to this country? To better their stations in life?

Her cottage in Ballycroy, County Mayo, with its dirt floor and thatched roof, had no windows. Twice a year, she washed the walls with lime. After her mother passed away, God rest her soul, Annie took over cooking for her nine siblings, boiling potatoes and cabbage in a pot over a peat fire in the hearth. Several times a day, she hauled water from the well. At night, she read by candlelight. Now she had fine clothes, electricity, running water, and the chance to marry for love, not land. Girls who went away were the lucky ones.

"Tell us, then." Ellen smirked. "Who are ye trying to impress?"

"You don't know?" Nora's eyes widened.

Nora, Annie suspected, came to church more for gossip than for the good of her soul.

Nora smirked. "Annie has an American fellow. Albert, isn't it?"

Kathleen shaded her eyes from the sun, her fair, freckled skin turning pink. "Ach, Annie!" She lowered her voice. "A Yank? Is he a Protestant?"

A horse carriage went past, stirring up dust. Annie took a step back. Here, on the busy street corner, south of the Slot, grocers, boardinghouses, factories, boiler works, liquor stores, and furniture stores crowded against one another, dwarfed by the impressive Gothic spire of Saint Patrick's Church. Annie's cheeks warmed as she thought of Albert.

A fortnight ago, Mrs. Whittier's handsome nephew had arrived with his mother from Chicago to stay as a guest in the Whittier home. Though previous guests of the Whittiers had refused to acknowledge Annie, despite the fact that she would faithfully serve them during their visit, Albert had looked at her kindly, pressing three silver dollars into her palm.

To compensate you for the extra work that our presence in the house entails.

His generous tip amounted to more than her week's wages. She'd been unable to hold her tongue, as she'd been instructed to by her mistress.

I'm not to smile under any circumstances, but you've left me no choice. If your aunt reprimands me today, 'tis your own fault!

He'd laughed, surprised. She loved the sound of his laugh-deep, like thunder.

"So what if he is Protestant?" Annie replied, thinking of the strong lines of Albert's jaw, the warmth of his hands. "I'd still attend morning Mass."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Kathleen winced, making the sign of the cross.

Nora shook her head. "If you were to marry him, no one would attend your wedding. Cissy Callahan married an Italian, and no one came, I tell ye. Not a soul."

"Albert is studying medicine to become a doctor," Annie said, annoyed with Nora. "And if he does propose marriage, I'll have a fine home where you'll all be welcome."

Ellen shook her head. "Be careful, Annie. Nothin' is more important than your virtue."

"Ye think I don't know that?" Annie straightened. "Albert is a gentleman."

Kathleen frowned. "Doctor or not, there's plenty of suitable Irish fellows right here at church. You ought to join us for a dance."

Annie had been to the Irish dances on Thursday nights, every maid's night off, and enjoyed the sounds of home-the fiddles, accordions, and singing. But if she were to do what she intended, to bring all of her siblings to America, and to become lace curtain Irish, not shanty Irish, she would need to marry well. The other girls were content to settle for butchers and factory workers. But not Annie. She had her sights set on Albert.