So Hansel and Gretel made their way into the woods and obediently gathered firewood all the long afternoon. As the shadows drew close, their stepmother told them to eat their piece of bread and rest by the fire while their father finished cutting wood. The warm fire and good bread lulled them to drowsiness and they soon fell asleep to the sound of the axe. When Gretel awoke, it was dark and the two children were alone. She began to whimper. Hansel woke with a start and begged his sister not to cry. “Wait until moonrise. The stones are our clues. They will lead us home.” And sure enough, when the moon rode high in the sky, the chips of stone glowed like fallen stars and led the children back to the woodcutter’s house where they lived.
Their stepmother met them at the door and rebuked them for staying so long in the forest. But their father met them with joy, for his conscience had not given him a moment’s peace since he left the children alone in the woods.
Chapter Fifteen
WOODWARD SCHOOL
SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA—JUNE 1955
Molly
The first thing I did the next morning was look out my bedroom window. No blue car. I sat crossed-legged on the floor in my pajamas and read over my notes from the night before, then added a few more questions for Mom’s biography box. I pictured myself telling Angus and Ari all about Uncle Stephen’s miracle. Then a peculiar kind of shyness came over me. Maybe this was not the kind of thing you bragged about. Maybe God wouldn’t like it. I wasn’t too sure what I thought about God either, having heard both sides of the story my entire life from Mom and Uncle Stephen. Worrying about God was complicating my life.
When the mail came, I could take care of another complication. An envelope from Lincoln High School was mixed in with the bills and advertisements. I tucked it away and then riffled through my few dresses, piles of shorts, and a Halloween costume I’d outgrown, until I reached the back shelf of my bedroom closet where I hid my journal. Without opening the envelope, I set it on the shelf. Looking at the C in the space next to English would only depress me. With any luck, Mom would never ask.
There was no response from my ad in The New York Times.
At the end of every school year, it was our tradition to help Uncle Stephen pack up his classroom. It was also a way to earn a little summer spending money. He paid Angus and me a dollar each to spend half a day boxing books, making an inventory, wiping down shelves, and cleaning windows.
The high school smelled of old chalk and dusty books and a tinge of mold, an aroma I preferred over the familiar pong of old school lunches and overheated locker rooms at my high school.
Today, Angus had brought his book on Leonardo da Vinci with him. “Molly, did you know da Vinci made a flying machine?”
I could tell by the gleam in his eye he was winding up for one of his long explanations. So could Uncle Stephen.
“Angus, I want you to pack up the bookshelf. Molly, I’ve made an inventory list, and you need to check off everything that is here.” Uncle Stephen seemed more at home in a classroom than in any other place. His stature grew in front of orderly rows of desks like an actor commanding the stage. He handed me a four-page list written in his small, cramped script. I had my own agenda: find out more about Mom’s life in Brooklyn.
“Why don’t I get to do the inventory?” Angus furrowed his brow, and when his chin jutted forward I noticed how much he looked like Mom.
“Because whoever packs the books has to lift the boxes, and they’re heavy,” Uncle Stephen explained and then added, “Besides, Molly is more meticulous than you when it comes to keeping track of things.”
Angus scowled, but didn’t complain again. “Are we going to listen to the baseball game?” The San Francisco Seals were playing the Los Angeles Angels, and it was all everyone seemed to be able to talk about.
“Later. The game doesn’t start until one,” Uncle Stephen said. He handed Angus a large packing box.
I began checking off the books in Angus’s bookcase first, and then moved to the shelves in the back of the room.
Uncle Stephen whistled as he began to file the tower of papers looming on his desk. Now, while he was half distracted, was the time to start asking questions.
“Uncle Stephen, where did you go to high school?”
“Holy Cross in Brooklyn, and I can tell you it was a tougher place than this school. We had nuns who rapped our knuckles if we didn’t study hard enough.”
“Didn’t they get in trouble for it?” Angus asked with a kind of fascination.
“Not in those days. Teachers had more authority then. Of course, not all of them used it well.”
“Did you ever get your knuckles rapped?” Angus was sitting cross-legged on the floor, piling books from the bottom shelf into the box.
Uncle Stephen laughed, a great, booming sound. “More than a few times. And I’ve still got a few scars to prove it.” He looked at his knuckles. “I wasn’t like your mother. She always did her homework.”
I saw my chance and dove in. “Where did she go to high school?”
I noticed a brief hesitation in his response. “Lainey didn’t go to my school. She went to an all-girls’ school.”
“What was it called?” I persisted.
“I think it was called Woodward. Now don’t be missing anything on the list, Molly.”
Aha! The name in the newspaper headline. The school that closed. I was relentless. “But I bet she helped you with your homework like I help Angus.”
“I help you with your math,” Angus said matter-of-factly.
Again, that beat of hesitation. “It was a boarding school, so I didn’t get the benefit of her good habits.” And he began whistling again, burying his head in the file cabinet.
A boarding school! I hugged this new tidbit of information close. “But I thought you were poor! Who paid for her to go there?”
“Oh, her employer saw to it, a lady named May Gossley. We lived with the family for a few years. They were always good to me. She gave your mother her first real job. The one she told you about.”
“Wow, that was nice of her.” I rested the clipboard on his desk, thinking I’d hit the mother lode of information. May Gossley was the next clue for the biography box.
He snorted then from the depths of his files. “I’m not sure kindness came into it. She probably did what she thought was best.”
“Was she very rich?”
“Yes, Molly, very rich. But she didn’t know everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we knew nothing was not enough, but she didn’t know that everything was not enough either. It never could be.”
Sometimes Uncle Stephen talked like that, in riddles. Before I could fire off the next question, he continued. “I don’t think she was a happy person.”
“Who, Mom?”
“I was speaking of Mrs. Gossley, but maybe your mother too.”
The door to the classroom swung open. The priest who had come to our house, Monsignor Martin, walked in.
“I see you have helpers. Hello, Angus and Molly.”
I smiled in response.
“Stephen, can I speak with you in my office?”
Uncle Stephen nodded. “Keep up the good work, you two. Lunch break soon.” And Uncle Stephen followed him out of the room.
“Molly, why do you always ask so many questions?” Angus was looking at me, his face in a knot of puzzlement, or maybe it was annoyance.
“That’s what writers do. It’s how they gather information.”
“You’re not a writer. You’re fourteen.” Angus could be so literal.
“Almost fifteen.” My birthday was only a month away. “And why do you have to be so annoying?” I threw an eraser that hit him square in the chest, sending up a puff of chalky powder. I should have known better. Angus had a continual supply of rubber bands in every pocket. For the next ten minutes, there was a truly satisfying war.
When the door opened again, Angus and I stopped mid-attack. We were covered with the white mark
s of our battle. I felt an explanation rise in my throat, but before I could say anything, Uncle Stephen cut me off. His face was paler than usual and his left eye was twitching.
“Some things have developed that I think you should hear first from me.”
This was not the way he usually talked to us. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back as if he was delivering a lecture.
“I mentioned that I’m testifying about a miracle, but it looks like I’ll be investigated as well.”
“Are you going to be arrested?” Angus’s eyes sparked like exclamation marks.
“For doing a miracle? Don’t be stupid!” I said.
“Both of you, stop!” He held up his hands. I could see wet marks peeking out like dark eyes from underneath his shirtsleeves. A vein throbbed in his temple.
I worried that everything in our lives was about to change.
Chapter Sixteen
RAYMOND STREET
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK—JUNE 1919
ELAINE
While Stephen scooped the coins from the ground, Elaine watched Pop’s back recede. He walked with his shoulders thrown back, arms swinging as if he was out for a stroll, not being led away by a policeman.
“Come on.” Elaine tugged Stephen’s arm. “We’ve got to follow them.”
“Where’s he taking Pop?”
“Stop sniveling. It won’t help anything.”
Stephen blinked up at her through wet eyes.
She regretted her words as soon as she’d said them, but she couldn’t find any kindness inside. She was too busy wondering what Pop had done.
They followed Pop for six long blocks, dodging pedestrians and street carts down the length of Dekalb, past Fort Greene Park to Raymond Street past the Brooklyn City Hospital. Pop never looked back. They passed the police station and unfamiliar brownstones until stopping at the corner of Raymond and Willoughby Streets, where Pop climbed the steps to a bleak gray-stone building that quashed any hope just by looking at it. The sign over the entrance read Raymond Street Jail. All this time, Stephen had remained quiet, but when the door closed behind Pop, his sniffles turned to shrieks. Elaine grabbed his arm.
“Stop it. People are staring. It’s probably a mistake.” Pop had a job, he’d been home most nights . . . If she couldn’t convince herself, how would she convince Stephen? What did someone have to do to be taken to jail? She looked down at her brother, and realized it did no good to stand in the street and wonder while Stephen cried.
“We’re going home. Pop will be back before bedtime. You’ll see.” She wouldn’t let Stephen see her fear. Gossip spread fast as the plague in Brooklyn. It wouldn’t take long to ferret out the truth.
By the time they reached their flat, Stephen had stopped crying. Elaine sent him outside to join a group of neighborhood kids playing stoop ball.
“Don’t say anything about Pop. I’ll see what I can find out from Mrs. Malloy, then I’ll make us some supper.”
Instead of going to the Malloys, however, she dropped into the reading chair and stared into space. How do you help someone in jail? She didn’t have any money to bail Pop out. He’d almost been arrested once before for fighting, but had gotten off with a warning. She rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes. What would happen if the Gossleys found out?
Elaine was stirring a pot of potato soup when the door banged open.
“Go wash your hands!”
“Since when does my daughter tell me what to do?”
She spun around. Pop dumped a half pound of salt pork and half a loaf of bread on the table.
“Get rid of that long face. It was only a case of mistaken identity.” He sat at the table, tipping the chair back.
“That’s it?” She put her hand on the table to steady herself.
Stephen crashed through the door, saw Pop, and hurled himself into his lap. Why was it always so easy for her brother to show what he felt?
During supper, Pop told stories about what he saw at the jail. But Elaine saw shadows moving in his face, a tremor in his hands, and noticed he drank only water. In the morning he’d already left to help with Harry’s horses by the time she was up.
On Monday morning at eight a.m., Elaine stood at the Gossleys’ front door in a dress with the sleeves rolled because they no longer met her wrists and a hem that was too short to do much about. She’d woven her hair into two braids that slapped against her shoulder blades as she ran the last few blocks. Despite her best persuasion techniques and the promise of two stories at bedtime, it was still almost impossible to get Stephen over to the Malloys for the day. The fear of being late for her first job had also made it impossible to eat, and her eyes felt hollowed with sleeplessness.
As she waited for someone to answer the door, she smoothed her skirt, trying to smooth her worries with the same small gesture. What if she misunderstood and they really didn’t want her after all? Or worse yet, what if she couldn’t read well enough for the old man and was sent away?
The black door swung inward. A maid in striped apron and dust cap blocked the entrance to the foyer.
“There you are. Better come in, then. Punctual, that’s good.”
As she moved aside, Elaine hoped for a smile, but the woman’s face was as still and placid as the river in summer. Black-and-white tiles checkered the floor, and a large mirror edged with gilt framed Elaine’s tight face and shadowed eyes.
“Mrs. Gossley will be down in a minute. I’m Pat Theilen. Missus Theilen to you. Don’t fidget.”
Elaine stilled her hand, which she realized had been twisting the folds of her skirt, and let her eyes roam. A dark wood banister ran up the stairs, and two doors opened off the entry hall. A thick Oriental carpet sat like a prize in the middle of it all. When May, dressed in a dove gray suit, descended the stairs, Mrs. Theilen disappeared behind one of the doors.
“Elaine Marie Fitzgerald,” she beamed, “and right on time.”
“Margaret,” Elaine said. “Elaine Margaret.”
May continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Father’s in the morning room drinking his coffee.” She pushed open the second door and motioned Elaine to follow. “Don’t stare at his eyes. He’ll know.”
Chapter Seventeen
A REAL JOB
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK—JUNE/JULY 1919
ELAINE
The walls were buttercream. Blue curtains with patterns of flowers and birds were tied back to let the morning sun flood the room. At a long cherry table, a very old man sat holding a cup of coffee. His bald head topped the folds of a thick red shawl like a white marble statue, and it startled Elaine when he moved. As they entered the room, he turned his head toward them. Pale blue eyes latched on to Elaine’s face. Could they be mistaken about his blindness?
“Dad, Elaine has come to read to you, like I promised.”
She stood quite still, pinned by those cloudless eyes, unsure what to do next.
“Go over to him and introduce yourself,” May whispered.
Not knowing where to look, Elaine inched forward. She tried not to stare at his eyes. It was impossible. She extended her hand as a test, and when he didn’t move, drew it back again. “I’m Elaine Margaret Fitzgerald.”
The old man cleared his throat. “Can you read?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, get busy then. I’m a day behind because my daughter is always gallivanting about after some cause or another. And don’t leave anything out. I’ll know if you do.”
“When you’re done, Elaine, let Mrs. Theilen know. She’ll see to your lunch. I’ve got to leave now.” She pecked her father on the cheek, tossed Elaine a smile, and sped out the door as if she couldn’t exit fast enough.
Elaine considered the stack of newspapers on the table. Unsure where to begin, she rifled through the pile. “Which one do you want to hear first?”
“Start with the Tribune first, Sunday edition. It has the real news, not sensationalism like the others. Don’t stutter, do you?” And he leaned for
ward and widened his sightless eyes.
“N-n-no, sir.” But the ns tripped from her lips in a nervous staccato as his blank eyes searched her. A thin trickle of perspiration crawled down her spine. Settling into a high-backed chair, she searched through The New York Sun, The New York Herald and The New York Daily for the Sunday copy of The Tribune.
She hadn’t known that New York had more than one newspaper. The only one her father ever read was The Herald, and only when someone else had discarded it. She decided to begin with the headlines and willed her voice to hold steady.
“Congress Passes the Nineteenth Amendment.” Elaine had heard of the Nineteenth Amendment. It would give women the right to vote. Pop had said nothing’d make him prouder then seeing his daughter voting like a good Democrat one day.
“Does that mean women can vote now?”
“It has to go to the states for ratification.” May Gossley’s father snorted. “Cursed Russians! They’re behind this suffrage business!” His pale face infused with red. “Women don’t have the mind for politics.”
“I’d like to vote one day.” She swallowed. Maybe this wasn’t the way to start, contradicting her new employer. She gripped the paper tighter.
“So you speak your mind. Same as my daughter.”
She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to respond or not.
“And how old do you think I am, young lady?”
Elaine regarded the freckles on his pale head, his wrinkled hands that curved in like pigeon feet. Ancient, but she couldn’t say that. She couldn’t lie, either.
“I’d say seventy, sir.”
“Seventy-eight. At least you didn’t try to flatter me. A man my age has experience. I know how the world works.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded as if they’d agreed upon something, but Elaine wasn’t sure what it was. “Keep reading.”
Elaine read about profiteering landlords and the rise in milk prices, and most interesting to Mr. Seward, the upcoming fight between Jess Willard and Jack Dempsey.
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