by Belva Plain
“After the war,” said Angelique, “came the yellow fever epidemic, when my mother died. After that, we came north.”
“Tell me about it again.”
Angelique was pleased with the boy’s attention. “Well, I remember that cannon crashed all over the city. It was thought that cannon fire would kill the germs. They thought night air was poisonous, too, so the windows were kept shut all night. It was so hot, it was terrible. In the morning, when the windows were opened, you could smell burning tar; that, too, was supposed to kill germs.”
“Go on,” said Freddy.
A romantic. He feeds on these tales, Paul thought.
“My mother told the family she was going to die.” Angelique always sat straight, but she could make herself still straighter, and did so whenever the narration required a show of pride, as now.
“From the window of her room, I watched the carts pass, loaded with coffins, and I remember thinking of being dead, jolted through the streets like that, as my mother soon would be. I remember thinking that the people inside the coffins didn’t know, and was glad of that.
“We had an old butler, a very old Negro man named Sisyphus; he went outside when she died and tacked the funeral notice, a card with a black border, on a tree at the gate in front of the house. It was raining. When he came inside he told me, ‘Going to storm bad. Always a storm after the death of an old woman.’ Funny thing, my mother wasn’t an old woman at all. The things you remember.”
For a moment the grandmother and the boy were silent, each of them musing into some private distance.
Then Freddy spoke abruptly. “I wish I’d lived then. It seems so sort of brave and beautiful, like a story.”
Paul felt a surge of anger toward his grandmother and toward Freddy too. Bravery was what Hennie had endured today, in a righteous cause.
“No, it wasn’t, Freddy!” Paul spoke his mind. “It was a time of great wrong in a narrow-minded, backward place. You can be glad you weren’t alive then.”
“You weren’t there, so you don’t know,” Angelique retorted. “People exaggerate and condemn without knowing. It was a gracious culture. Standards. And we had heroes of the kind you don’t see these days. Certainly not around here,” she said contemptuously, fanning herself with a handkerchief.
Paul had no taste for futile argument. “Well, it’s all theory anyway, since we can’t turn time back. You know what the best time of anybody’s life is, Freddy?”
“No, when?”
“I’ll tell you: now. Yesterday’s gone and tomorrow hasn’t come, so now is the only time there is. Right?”
“I guess so.”
A moody kid, too easily swayed. Paul was irritated and sorry at the same time.
“Would you like to visit me at Yale sometime? You could spend a weekend and see whether you’d like to go there, too, someday. Maybe study science, the things your father works on. Or music, since you play so well, or economics; that’s what I’m going to do.”
“My father says I’m to go to City College. He says the finest minds in the country go there.”
“That’s one way I agree with you, Paul,” Angelique said quickly. “Dan has the most ridiculous pseudodemocratic ideas, as if there were something evil about a private college.”
Paul frowned. She ought to know better than to criticize the boy’s father in front of the boy.
“You know what? You’ve got homework to do. Better go to your room and do it,” Paul said.
Freddy got up without protest. An obedient child. It would be better if he were sometimes not so obedient, Paul reflected.
When they were alone, his grandmother turned to him. “Well, and what do you think of this mess today?” And, without waiting for an answer, poured forth her complaint. “I can’t for the life of me understand it! My own daughter under arrest! So different from your mother, you wouldn’t think they were sisters! This whole household is so foreign to me that I might as well live among Zulus or Hottentots!”
Paul didn’t answer.
“Surely you don’t approve of what happened today?”
“I understand what she did,” Paul said quietly. “And sometimes I’m ashamed that I don’t have the same conviction or courage, and maybe never will have.”
“Nonsense! You come of a courageous family. You heard what we in the South endured during the war. That’s character. It’s in the blood. Have you forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Paul said wearily.
And he thought of Freddy. What was to become of the boy, pulled as he was in two directions, whipped daily into a socialist fervor by his parents and at the same time set upon—and enthralled by—his grandmother’s aristocratic, romantic pap?
He got up and walked to the window. Families! They bred you, fed you, and loved you, and baffled you so that you got to a point where you didn’t know what to think. Even his own household, which was certainly far less contradictory than this one, was confusing. Already he looked forward to being back at college, not because he was unhappy at home—because he wasn’t—but because, among his friends, he could say whatever he thought without offending any sensibilities. He turned back to the room.
“The snow’s let up, Grandmother. And if they don’t need us anymore, let’s go. I’ll drive you home.”
“Very well. Automobiles make me nervous, but I’d better get used to them. I’d better get used to a lot of things, the way it looks.”
Hadn’t we all, Paul thought, but did not say it.
“I drew a picture, Mama,” Leah said. “Want to see?”
Out of her skirt pocket came a creased sheet of copybook paper. Carefully she unfolded it, flattened it with her palms, and presented it to her mother.
“It’s a princess. Can you tell?”
“Certainly. You’ve made such a wonderful crown. Of course, she could even be a queen with that crown, couldn’t she?”
“She’s too young. She’s a princess, waiting for the prince. And her dress is pink. I didn’t have the right crayon, but it’s sort of pink, anyway.”
“It’s lovely. You do make lovely pictures.”
The mother sat with her chin in her hands, watching the child eat her meager supper: a slice of dried herring, a boiled potato, and some bread. The child ate, nevertheless, with enjoyment; she was hungry. Charity fare, the mother thought, a gift from those others who were still at the machines in the front room. Surely they must know there was no possibility of repayment! It was a gift from the poor to the poorer.
“I wish you would make me a pink dress,” Leah said.
Olga trembled. Her child’s simple wish, the slight petulance, the direct gaze, all turned a knife in her heart. With what was she to buy cloth? Or how get the use of a sewing machine, since these, here, were in constant use? To say nothing of finding the energy—
“You’re shivering, Mama! And it’s hot here in front of the stove.”
The kitchen was so small that the table and two chairs were almost flush with the coal stove. Thank heaven the place was at least warm; the stench of fish and the sight of the greasy sink you could put up with.
“I said, you’re shivering, Mama.”
“I’m all right. It just takes me a while to get warm sometimes.”
The child looked up sharply, as if to make sure that Olga was telling the truth. Then, seemingly satisfied, she turned back to herself.
“Will you really make me a pink dress?”
Olga said gently, “It seems to me that I should first try to get you a winter coat. Your wrists are sticking out of your sleeves, you’ve grown so.”
“I don’t care about that! I want a dress! Hannah’s mother made one for her, she wore it today, why can’t you ever—” Leah clapped her hand to her mouth, then corrected herself. “I forgot you’re sick. When you get better, I mean.”
How kind she is, thought Olga. She gives me orders, she demands, and quickly remembering, is kind. Such a little thing, a baby!
“I’ll tell you, L
eah darling. Pink is a summer color. It would look foolish now. But when summer comes, I’ll see that you have a pink dress. I promise.”
Dear God, somehow, I don’t know how, she’ll have it.
“Drink your milk, Leah. You need it.”
Even milk was expensive. In Russia, in the poorest village, one could keep a cow. It ate grass that cost nothing and gave you milk in return. Here—Olga stared at the window, which looked almost directly into another window a few feet distant—here there wasn’t a blade of grass. It was so dark and grim that the geranium on the windowsill last summer had died for lack of sunlight.
Still, that wasn’t fair. America had villages too, and cows and flowers. But they were far from this place. Her gaze returned to the little girl, who, with both hands on the tumbler, was dawdling and dreaming.
“What are you thinking of, Leah, so far away?”
The child smiled, dimpling her cheeks. “I was thinking about that lady, your friend who came in the auto. I wish I could go for a ride in it.”
This innocent desire for a trivial pleasure, this total ignorance of what was lying ahead, were enough to make one weep. But it was necessary to be quite calm. And Olga replied evenly,
“That would be fun for you, I suppose.”
“Of course it would! She must be rich, that lady. Is she rich, Mama?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think about things like that. She’s a good friend, that’s all that counts.”
Leah scraped her plate clean and took it to the sink. She dangled a sour, torn dishrag between two fingers, wrinkling her nose with disgust.
“Ugh! Dirty! Everything’s dirty in this place, Mama!”
“Shhh, they’ll hear you.” Anxiously, Olga turned toward the front room. They hadn’t heard; they were all bent over the machines, working the pedals, talking and humming.
“You mustn’t say such things, Leah. They’re such good people, so good to us. They don’t have time to keep things cleaner, that’s all.”
“But our rooms were clean when we lived with Papa,” Leah whispered, persisting.
That was true. There’d been two parents working and only one child; it had been easier for Olga than for this crowded family.
“I miss Papa,” Leah said.
“I know. Oh, I know.”
A silence came between the two of them. The face of the dead young man hovered before the widow’s eyes, and perhaps it rose in the child’s sight also, for she suddenly wailed,
“Oh, Mama, he’ll never come back!”
“No.”
“What if you die too? I’m scared … you could die too, couldn’t you?”
Olga coughed. A fit of coughing strangled and choked her: blood spattered red beads on her handkerchief.
“You are very sick, Mama! I know you are!”
“Yes, I’m sick.” Olga took resolve; one might as well face, at eight, what one would have to face at nine. “It’s possible that I could die, Leah, my darling.”
“I don’t want you to! You can’t! I’ll have nobody then!”
“It’s not up to me, it’s not like that. Listen to me, listen carefully. You’re a big girl now, in third grade, and you can understand grown-up things. I’m going to write down the name and address of the nice lady who was here. Hennie Roth. I’m going to put it in my box, under my clothes. Remember. And—if anything happens to me, you’ll go to her. Or somebody here will be kind enough to go to her for you.”
“Why? Why?”
Olga steadied her wavering voice. “Because—she promised me to look after you. She’ll take you to live with her, I’m sure. You’ll have a good home there.”
Leah plunged upon Olga’s lap. “But I don’t want to live with her! I don’t want to live with anybody but you!”
Gently Olga held her away. “Don’t come near me, I have to cough again. Darling, they’ll be kind to you. I wouldn’t want you to go with them if I didn’t know that, would I?”
The child put her face on the table and wept.
“Leah. You’ll have dresses. Pink, and any other color you want.”
The mother sought words; there was so little time in which to prepare the child.
“Toys, too. Things I can’t give you. Maybe even a dollhouse.”
Out of the muffled, tear-filled mouth came an answer. “I don’t want a dollhouse.”
“You do. You’ve talked about it ever since you saw that picture in a book.”
The little shoulders shook.… Very, very gradually the sobs began to subside.… Presently, Leah looked up, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“And,” Olga said, “they would take you out in an auto now and then, I’m sure.” She heard herself tempting; her voice was sugared; at the same time, it pleaded. “Just as long as you remember you’re a smart girl, Leah. You can make something of yourself. Fight for what you want, for what’s right. And you’re a good girl, you’ll know what’s right, I’ve tried to show you.”
The child’s dark, intelligent eyes seemed to comprehend something, anyway. Yet she muttered, “Still, I don’t want to go there.”
“Well, we needn’t talk about it anymore just now. Take your dress off and I’ll brush your hair.”
Warm hair sprang and curled under the mother’s fingers. And Olga, silently, rhythmically brushing that live hair, kept her anguish to herself.
How strange it is that other hands will tend her! When the first grief is over, slowly, slowly, she will become used to those other hands; the memory of mine will dwindle away; I will be a recollected face, a voice half forgotten, a name to be honored: Mother. Dead mother. It’s not quite real. Not possible.
Death came even sooner than might have been expected. It is merciful, thought Hennie; her suffering is over.
They had come directly back from the funeral to collect Leah’s possessions: a few clothes, a shabby doll, some equally worn books, and a drawing pad with crayons. Now, in the front room, among the sewing machines that had been deserted that morning so that their owners could follow Olga to the Brooklyn cemetery, they stood in the awkward attitude of people who are in a hurry to separate and are not sure how to do it without being abrupt.
Dan and Freddy stood apart in the doorway. Freddy was solemn; he had been scared; this was his first contact with death. Hennie hadn’t wanted to bring him, but Dan had insisted that, at eleven, the boy was old enough to know realities; besides, since she was determined to invite a stranger into their family, he ought at least to be familiar with the situation from the beginning. Perhaps that did make sense. Anyway, there they stood observing, Freddy obviously very moved, while Dan was reluctant, polite, and silent.
Hennie opened her purse.
“Who among you collected the money?” she inquired.
One of the men answered that he had, that they had gotten a group to chip in, since certainly they wouldn’t have allowed the poor woman to go to potter’s field.
“I have enough to cover the cost, with some left over for you people here.” It was hard to keep her voice from breaking, and she finished quickly. “You were all so good to her.”
The mother of the house grasped Hennie’s free hand.
“You’re an angel,” she said. “An angel.”
“No, not I. It’s my sister’s money, hers and her husband’s. When they heard about this they wanted to do something.”
“You hear, Leah?” The woman lifted Leah’s chin, revealing the full face, swollen, frightened eyes, chapped cheeks, and wet nose. “You’re going with nice people. Your mother knew what she was doing. But you won’t forget us, will you?” And before the child could answer, she assured Hennie, “She’s a good girl, won’t be a trouble to you. And smart, she’s very smart for her age, you won’t be sorry. In a few years she’ll go to work. Have you got all your things, Leah? It won’t do to keep these people waiting.”
Hennie understood that they were anxious, having lost half a day, to get back to work. She took Leah’s hand; it clutched hers tightly
in return; the child knew enough to grasp a lifeline.
“Well, then,” she cried, feigning cheer, “well, then, off we go!”
They took the streetcar home. Leah’s worldly goods were in a cardboard box on the floor between Hennie and Dan. Freddy and Leah sat across the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye, while Dan, still silent, read his newspaper, Hennie watched the two.
That dreadful coat, she thought. We’ll go shopping tomorrow afternoon. I must get a pretty bedspread. Lucky that we have the little back room. I can fix it up. Yellow will make it sunny. And a shelf for dolls. We’ll have to give her some dolls. She’ll think she’s in fairyland after that place. Look, now, Freddy is telling her something, making her smile a bit. She must be terrified. But Freddy feels for her already.
He understands. He won’t be jealous, won’t resent her. Gentle Freddy. I saw his face while she was crying so at the grave. That pathetic funeral, just a small band of strangers in a hurry to get it over with. Cold clods flung into the hole, thud on the coffin. Will she remember that? And the sparrows noisy in the trees?
They walked home from the trolley stop. The April day, which earlier had been dismal, now turned lively; clouds and sunshine shifted in turns across the sky. In Washington Square behind iron railings, pools of white and yellow jonquils rippled in a quick wind.
Leah stopped to look. “I never saw so many flowers before,” she whispered, and stood still, gazing.
Then came a nursemaid pushing a carriage in which an infant lay surrounded by white frills and taffeta bows. Leah’s eyes were astonished. From side to side went her head as if on a swivel, while wonders passed through the square: two gentlemen wearing striped trousers and silk hats, a barouche with a coachman in maroon livery, a large old lady upon whose head there rested a tower of black ostrich feathers. Wonder upon wonder.
How eager she is! Hennie thought. And strong; she’ll find her way in this new life before very long. And she urged gently, “Come. We’ll go for a long walk tomorrow. I’ll show you the neighborhood and your new school. Right now we need to get home so I can make dinner. Are you hungry at all?”
