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All for a Sister Page 3
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“There is no such thing as nothing. You tell me, all of this nothingness. Surely I am not the first to ask?”
Far from the first. There’d been a journalist in Chicago, and even two on the train, pestering her with questions. How did it feel to be free after all this time? What did she want to do? Where did she want to go? What was the connection between herself and the lovely Celeste DuFrane? Their queries pelted her like stones, chipping away at the wall she’d built around her—far higher and stronger than those of Bridewell, though nobody called it that anymore. It was the Chicago House of Corrections, officially. Bridewell, nothing but an old, sentimental term of affection. A nickname carried from those who knew her before the fire. A safer name for a place to put children.
These questions, however, felt different. Ostermann’s office was close and plain and gray, lit only by a small window high up on the opposite wall. Under his scrutiny, she felt the space closing in, and the odd comfort of the confinement frightened her.
“Will you leave the door open? So I can leave if I want?”
“Of course.” His expression lacked any hint of triumph as he stood, walked out from behind his desk, and spoke curtly through the opened door. Within seconds, the capable, sturdy woman who had greeted Dana in the outer office came in, carrying a small notebook and a sharpened pencil. “This is Miss Lynch. She will be taking notes as you speak. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course,” Dana said, purposefully repeating his words, trying to match his tone. She turned to acknowledge Miss Lynch, who sat in a chair to the left and slightly behind her. In the meantime, Werner Ostermann settled himself back behind his messy piles and lit a fresh cigarette.
“Do you mind?” Dana said, emboldened. “I’m not used to the smell, and the smoke burns my eyes.”
He said nothing but stubbed out the offensive thing.
“Thank you.”
“Proceed.” He opened his hands toward her, inviting.
Again the clock ticked silence, the only other sound being the soft clearing of Miss Lynch’s throat.
“Where should I begin?” Dana’s voice was little more than a whisper, so soft she could feel Miss Lynch craning closer.
“I believe it was Oliver Twist who began with his birth, but I don’t think we need to go back that far. Perhaps the night you were arrested?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember much about that.” It was a truth that had not served her well at the time of her arrest, and after all these years, it wasn’t a truth at all.
“Perhaps, then, a memory from before?”
Before she went to prison, he meant, but those memories were equally shrouded. Still, she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, seeing a small, pale hand pushing aside a curtain.
“My mother and I lived in a small apartment on the third floor above a grocer. . . .”
EXTERIOR: A narrow, dark street in an impoverished neighborhood. A woman, young but moving with a stooped gait of fatigue, makes her way, carrying a shopping bag. She stops for a moment, observing a father buying a bag of toasted chestnuts for his daughter. It is a touching scene, and the woman appears wistful before summoning new courage and beginning a tedious climb up a set of narrow steps attached to the alley side of a dark brick building.
INTERIOR: The apartment is shabby and plain but clean. A small table, two chairs, a stove, and a single narrow bed in the corner. A girl, almost a young woman, bustles about, setting the table with two simple plates and two glasses. She pours milk into the glasses, but only until each is less than half-full. She looks with longing, obviously wishing for more, but when the door opens, she puts on a mask of contentment and says, “Mother!” before rushing to embrace the woman from the street scene.
1904
“DARLING!” MAMA CALLED from the doorway. Her voice had the ring of enthusiasm, but one of obvious effort. Her eyes, the same pale blue as Dana’s own, appeared mismatched with the cheerful greeting and the smile. She glanced at the bed in the corner with a touch of wistfulness; then her eyes darted back to Dana and grew a little brighter. Immediately Dana wished she’d poured all of the milk into one glass to give to her.
“How was the party?” Dana asked as she pulled out a chair, eager to see Mama off her feet.
“Too much. So lavish for a boy just seven years old.” Mama still spoke with a trace of her Swedish heritage, though she’d been born right here in America, not ten blocks from this very room. “Toys and toys and toys, and a table twice the size of this room filled with every kind of sweet.”
“You look so tired. They should have let you go home. I could have come and taken care of the baby.”
“You know how particular Mrs. DuFrane is,” Mama said, running an absent finger along the edge of the empty plate.
“And how is the baby?” Dana had only caught the quickest glimpse of her—a pink-faced thing—as Mrs. DuFrane carried her in a brief tour around the festivities.
“Sweet.” But it took her a while to say it, only after closing her eyes and opening them to focus on the plate in front of her. The sight of it proved to be invigorating, as a new cheerfulness took hold. “And speaking of sweet, I’ve brought home several little things left over from the party. Chocolate-filled crepes and fruit tarts and a dozen cinnamon-dusted cookies.”
“For supper?”
“Why not? Even paupers ought to be able to eat like kings every now and again.”
Dana eyed the shopping bag, imagining the treats within, and unrolled the top, extracting three paper-wrapped packages. “Which are the crepes?”
“That long, flat one, I think.” But she was hardly paying attention.
“Which would you like then, m’lady? Crepe or tart or—?”
“You know, I am not very hungry.”
Though it might have been a trick of the rapidly fading light, Dana noticed that her mother was not only pale, but slightly green.
“Can I get you something else, then? There’s bread left, and a little butter.”
“No. I think I need to just lie down for a while.”
“You don’t have to go back to the house?” Though not a regular occurrence, Mama was often required to sleep in the small room off the baby’s nursery, mostly on nights when one of the DuFranes’ social engagements would render Mrs. DuFrane incapable of rising in the night to care for the child’s needs. Dana hated those nights, when she was left alone in the apartment, no matter how safe and cozy a home Mama had created. It would be so much easier if they could simply live in one of the rooms in the vast, sprawling house. But Mama promised, always: “Not much longer. Just until the baby isn’t a baby. And then I’ll find us something better.”
Now Mama shook her head, her lips held especially tight. “No going back tonight. It’s a staff holiday in honor of the boy’s birthday.”
“How nice.” Dana grasped her growling stomach in anticipation of the treat, and her mother almost laughed.
“Here.” Mama poured her milk into the other glass. “We will get another bottle tomorrow morning.”
After finally removing her hat, Mama made a slow trek to the bed in the corner of the room and curled up on it. Her eyes almost immediately fluttered closed.
Meanwhile, Dana happily, hungrily indulged in the treats—one of each—before reluctantly wrapping the rest in the paper bag to be put away until later. By now the room was growing dim, and she took a match from the matchbox, prepared to light the lamp, but took one look across the room to where her mother rested so peacefully. Reconsidering, she replaced the match, set the lamp down, and retrieved a thick but worn quilt from a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. This she spread out on the floor alongside the bed, then lay herself down upon it, flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. After a few moments, her mother’s hand came into her frame of view, beckoning, and Dana rose first to her elbows, then straight up. She moved to the foot of the bed and gently removed her mother’s shoes before curling up beside her, spreading the quilt over both o
f them, and waiting for the room to grow dark.
“Are you even listening to me?”
Ostermann’s eyes had closed soon into her narrative, but Dana had continued to speak. She’d all but blocked memories of her mother. Useless things, serving only to mire her in the competing agony of resentment and guilt.
“Crêpes au chocolat, apple tarts, and some sort of cookie.” He counted them off on his fingers as he spoke, pausing on the third. He opened one eye to look past Dana to Miss Lynch. “What kind of cookie, exactly?”
Miss Lynch flipped back a page in her notebook, brow furrowed. “Cinnamon-dusted,” she said with all the authority of having been in the little apartment that evening.
Both eyes were open now, so dark and brown as to make Dana wish he’d close them again.
“It is Miss Lynch’s job to listen. It is my job to see. When you speak, do you not see everything laid out as if on a stage before you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, wondering for the first time whatever had happened to all those modest furnishings, those few possessions that had made their apartment a home. Perhaps even today strangers ate supper on those very dishes, sat at that table so long ago abandoned.
“You have the benefit of memory. I have the gift of vision. You remember; I create.”
“Should I be writing this down?” Miss Lynch interjected from the corner.
Ostermann arched an eyebrow in response, prompting Miss Lynch to quietly tuck the pencil behind her ear.
“There’s a lot I don’t remember. And I’m afraid—”
He held up a finger, interrupting her, and ordered Miss Lynch back out to her desk.
“What is this? You are afraid? Are you not safe now, with a home?”
She was, though she didn’t know what she was meant to do here in this bright, sun-filled place when she’d known little more than shadows for the better part of her life. What she feared most was the phenomenon of mere minutes ago, when she spoke aloud of things she’d long denied herself permission to remember. How real it all was—the softness of the quilt, the heaviness of her mother’s eyes, the sweet burst of sugar. If she continued to tell her story, other memories would take on such dimension, none so pleasant. She would be once again cold and damp, helpless and hungry. Thin with illness and bent with fatigue. All those things they’d said to put behind her would spring to life in this little office, her fidgeting releasing the creaks in the chair.
Ostermann must have grown impatient for an answer, because he’d walked out from behind his desk and now crouched next to her, folding his tall frame until his dark eyes looked up into hers.
“Were there times,” he said, “ever, when you wanted to scream?”
She nodded, muted by the same timidity and fear that had always plagued her.
“Well then—” he took her hand within both of his, a touch she couldn’t have anticipated, and so unfamiliar she couldn’t think to pull away—“we will shout together.”
CELESTE, AGE 5
1910
DADDY SAID THE HOUSE looked like a palace, but Celeste didn’t see it that way. There was nothing tall or pointy, and no forest or land or tall, narrow windows for a princess to look out of.
She told him so, and he said, “Not a castle, my dear. A palace. Like from Arabian Nights. Someplace a sheikh might live, all spread out with plenty of room for his harem.”
“What’s a harem?”
Celeste’s question drew a disapproving look from her mother. Not for her so much as for Daddy. “There’s been quite enough of that, I daresay.”
“Come on,” Daddy said, drawing the word out and lifting Celeste up into his arms. They’d taken a train from Chicago and a car from the train station and now stood under the blazing sun, its light glancing blindingly off the whiteness of the house. “Land of milk and honey, this is, and we’re going to make more money than you ever thought about.”
“Unless you’re getting some hidden increase in salary,” Mother said, “I don’t see how much will change. And besides, you know it’s garish to speak of such things.”
Mother was trying to sound like money didn’t matter, but Celeste knew that couldn’t be true. She knew they had lots of it.
From her perch near her father’s shoulder, she could better see the grounds between the house and the low, stone wall surrounding it.
“What kinds of trees are those?”
“They’re palm trees, stupid.” This from her older brother, Calvin, who at nearly thirteen was an expert on just about everything.
“They’re too little to be palm trees.” She’d seen palm trees before, in picture books, and they were always tall up to the sky.
“So they’re short palm trees.” He walked with his head held low and his cap pulled over his eyes. He’d been complaining since the day Daddy said they were leaving Chicago, no matter how much their parents tried to convince him that there would be new friends to play baseball with in California.
“Are they going to grow tall?” She leaned close to whisper her question in Daddy’s ear so Calvin wouldn’t call her stupid again.
“We’ll have to wait and watch and see.”
They’d arrived at the front doors—two of them, side by side, with big, silver nails poking out in patterns. One of them swung open before her very eyes, revealing a dark-skinned woman with a single thick, black braid wound around her head like a crown. She wore a dark dress with a starched, high-necked white pinafore.
“Bienvenido, señor.” She dipped her head toward Celeste’s father. “Y señora,” her mother.
“Graciela,” Daddy said, and when he did, his tongue trilled in his mouth in a way Celeste had never heard before. He went to put his hand on her shoulder, as if the two of them were cohorts in welcoming the family to the house, then took it away with an air of nervousness Celeste had never seen. “This is my wife, Mrs. DuFrane; and our children, Calvin and Celeste.”
Graciela greeted each, keeping her hands folded primly as she acknowledged Mother, then shaking Calvin’s and softly touching the silkiness of Celeste’s blonde curls.
“So pretty,” Graciela said, smiling, revealing a row of perfect white teeth.
“Thank you.” Celeste drew closer to her mother.
“I assumed I would be in charge of hiring the staff,” Mother said, her words tight.
“Graciela was employed by the previous owners. Practically came with the house.”
“Does she even speak English?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Graciela answered for herself.
“Do you cook?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have a lunch ready for you in the kitchen, whenever you would like.”
Her words flowed like water, like the perfect draw of a warm bath, the syllables splashing and lapping, one into the next. Celeste had to listen close and think back to make sure she understood. Lonsh. Keeshun. Lonshrrrrreadyforrryoueeenthekeeshun. She repeated the phrase softly, trying her best to match Graciela’s pronunciation.
“Stop that.” Mother’s words sounded like hisses. “It’s rude.”
“Oh no, señora. Haven’t you heard that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery?” She reached out softly, placed the backs of her fingers against Celeste’s cheek. “You are quite the little mimic, mija.”
“Don’t touch her.” Mother grabbed Celeste’s arm and yanked her daughter roughly to her side.
“Perdóname.” She sounded gracious, not chastised, though she stepped away. Keeping a distance, she turned to Calvin and smiled brightly. “Are you hungry, young man?”
“Not especially.”
“Liar,” Celeste erupted. “You said your stomach was grumbling on the train.”
“Shut up.”
“You did!” She looked to her parents for justice. “Remember? He wanted to buy a bag of peanuts and you told him no. But then he snuck off anyway—” she turned to Graciela—“and he said he was going to buy a schnitzel with his pocket money, but then he couldn’t find anybody. Don’t they have
those here?”
“That’s enough.” Daddy picked her up and brought his nose to hers. “All that matters now is that we are home. Would you like to see your new room?”
“I liked my old room.”
“You’ll like this one too. I promise.” He turned his head. “Marguerite? Would you like Graciela to show you the kitchen?”
Mother touched her hand to her brow. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d like to lie down for a while.”
“Of course, darling.” He deferred. “Graciela, if you’d go to our room and prepare it for Mrs. DuFrane to take a little siesta?”
He set Celeste down again, took her hand, and led her across a wide, shiny floor of different-colored tiles that made her footsteps echo. She heard Calvin clomping behind them, but when they came to the spiraling staircase in the middle of the entry, he pushed ahead, running up the steps two at a time and, once he got to the top, jumped up and down, begging their father to let him slide on the banister to the bottom.
“Not now,” Daddy said, laughing. “No need to crack your head on our first day here.”
At the landing, he steered them to the left, where two doors, one pink and one blue, waited on either side of the hall.
“Guess which one is yours, silly Cel—”
But she had already broken away and was flying headlong toward the door. She grasped the brass knob and turned, seeking permission to open it when Graciela and Mother came into view.
“Can I open it?”
“And you, too, Calvin,” Mother said, shooing them on. She seemed a bit rejuvenated by their enthusiasm and came to place her hand on the knob too, so they could open it together.
“Oooooooh.” It was all Celeste could say at the vision that awaited. She knew they’d shipped some of their things ahead; she’d had to pack and say good-bye to several of her favorite toys and dresses nearly a month before. But here they were now—her dollhouse and all its furniture, just how she liked it, and a shelf with all her books, and her tea table and chairs. But there was also a sweet, small china cabinet holding her best, most delicate dishes, and a new rocking horse much larger and finer than her other baby one. The bed was a dream, with four tall posts and white, gauzy material draped between them. The coverlet—pink satin with white stitching—and enough pillows to burrow under.