Between Before and After

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “Can’t believe people with a lick of sense would pay good money and sit in the hot sun to watch two criminals fight! Ever seen a boxing match?”

  Elaine shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see it and said, “No, but my father has. He tried for the Golden Gloves once.”

  “Did he now? Your father’s a fighter, is he? I used to enjoy a good clean fight. They’re all engineered now.”

  She discovered Mr. Seward had an opinion about nearly everything she read.

  “The Bolshevists will be running New York and we’ll all be taken over by Russia. Do you know what a Bolshevist is?”

  She’d heard the word, but no clear definition came to mind. “No, sir.”

  “I thought you were educated. A Bolshevist is someone who wants something for nothing. They want everyone to be the same; they want revolution. They’re out to destroy us. Take my daughter, for example. She’s great for causes, always giving my money away. She’s being manipulated by the Bolshi and she’s too pigheaded to see it!”

  Elaine wondered if she should defend May, but decided it might be better to say nothing.

  “They’re infiltrating our government even as we speak. Government run by short-haired women and long-haired men. How’d you like that?” He wheezed. “You don’t have short hair, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Come over here and let me feel it.”

  Elaine stiffened when she looked at his curled hands and long fingernails and imagined them touching her hair. But she inched her chair closer.

  “Well?”

  “It’s braided today.” When she held out a braid, her hand trembled.

  He grasped it in both hands and ran it between his fingers. Then he yanked.

  “Ouch!” She pulled back, but he hung on.

  “Had to see if it was real or not,” he said as he passed one hand up the braid until he reached her scalp. Satisfied, he patted her head. “See that you keep it long while you’re employed in my household.”

  Angry words boiled on the tip of her tongue, but she pressed her lips together. Without this money, they’d be dependent on Pop showing up for Harry Ames’s horses every day. And she knew how likely that was.

  “What color is it?”

  “What?”

  “A simple question, young lady. What color is your hair?”

  “Red.”

  And then he laughed, a deeper, fuller laugh than a dried-up old man should be able to produce. “Red? I’ve always been partial to red-haired women.” When his laugh sputtered to a cough, Elaine poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.

  “A redhead, my Bolshevik daughter brings me a redhead!” A bit of the water dribbled down his chin. “Do you have breasts yet? Anything for a man to look at?”

  Elaine folded her arms across her chest. Then remembered again that Mr. Seward couldn’t see. It didn’t matter; her face still burned. She stood up and shoved the chair back. In seconds she could cross the floor and be out the door.

  “Sit down. I’m trying to determine how much of a distraction you’ll be for my grandson. He has no morals.”

  On the outside she stood completely still, but inside her heart jackknifed and her brain chattered. Walk out now or stay and finish today’s job? Without the job, she’d live her life taking care of Pop and Stephen, never go back to school, never make it to college.

  “I can see I’ve offended you. All women grow them eventually.”

  When she still didn’t speak or move, his voice gentled. “Well, get back to reading. What are we paying you for?”

  She hated him. After righting the chair and making sure it was well out of Mr. Seward’s reach, she picked up the paper and prepared to read. But different words sprang from her mouth than were on the page, the words that had piled on her tongue. “It doesn’t matter how rich you are, you can’t treat people that way. I don’t belong to you.” She took a shuddering breath. “I’m here for a job. To read. You’ve no right to make comments about my person.”

  “I’ve offended your sensibilities. Said more than I should have.” He coughed into a handkerchief. “I speak my mind plainly. I can see you do too. I like that. In the future I will be more circumspect, Elaine Margaret.”

  It wasn’t an apology, not quite, but he’d heard what she said. And she wasn’t fired, yet. Elaine began again.

  This time she read about the bombings that had happened earlier that week in eight US cities.

  “Anarchists! They’re trying to destroy our country.”

  Elaine stopped mid-sentence.

  “Did I tell you to stop reading?” He swiped the air with one hand, knocking over the glass of water. She grabbed a cloth napkin and began wiping the table and floor.

  “Damn it! Can’t even see a glass of water!”

  If he wanted her to feel sorry for him, it wasn’t working. The sooner she could get out of this house, the better. But as she read, her anger wandered into the stories and got lost. She forgot about everything beyond what was on the page. There was so much in the world she didn’t know about, so much she wanted to know.

  It was some time later when Mr. Seward began to make a funny whistling sound. His head slumped forward on his chest, his mouth opened, and a thin trail of drool connected his chin to the front of his white shirt. He snorted, readjusted himself, and began to snore.

  Elaine looked at the mantel clock above the tall fireplace. It was eleven o’clock. She’d been reading for almost three hours, and her throat was sore. She poured herself some water. Despite Mr. Seward, she couldn’t deny the pure pleasure of reading the paper.

  A bathroom was what she needed now, but she didn’t know where to find it. Where was Mrs. Theilen? After shifting uncomfortably in her chair for several more minutes, she stood and crossed to the window.

  The door behind her swung open. She heard the soft swish as it grazed the carpet. Turning, she was face to face with a tall, brown-haired boy. A strawberry birthmark stood out like an island on his left cheek.

  “Oh, hello there. Thought I’d see who was reading to the old man.” When he smiled a dimple appeared in each cheek. “My name’s Howard, Howard Gossley. I expect you’ve heard about me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE “T”

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK—JUNE TO AUGUST 1919

  ELAINE

  Dinner that night was more of a celebration than anything Elaine had experienced since her mother’s death. Pop purchased a shank of lamb. They ate it boiled over potatoes with cake for dessert sent home compliments of May Gossley. Stephen told about his day with Mrs. Malloy and her grandson. They’d met a new kid on the block who’d moved to Brooklyn from somewhere in the south. When Stephen imitated his accent, Elaine laughed so hard milk squirted from her nose.

  Pop told about Harry Ames’s horses, how the big chestnut, Danny Boy, tried to trick him.

  “Every time I’d draw the cinch up tight around his great belly, the beast’d hold his breath ’til his stomach swelled up like the fattest balloon you ever saw. Then when he’d let his breath out, the saddle could roll right off.”

  “What did you do?” Stephen asked.

  “I punched him in the stomach. It’s the only way to treat a horse of his nature. All the air came out in a blast. He farted so bad I could hardly stand the stink!”

  Now it was Stephen’s turn to roar with laughter. Pop described each horse by name. This is good for him, Elaine thought. Maybe we’ll be a real family now. And he drank only one beer with the entire meal.

  Elaine thought carefully about what to share about the big house. She didn’t want to make Pop feel bad or say anything that might make Stephen feel like he was missing out. So, she told about Mr. Seward. He was an old, dried man who yanked her hair to make sure she wasn’t a Bolshi woman. She told about the preparations for the Dempsey and Willard fight, about the smell of warm bread in the Gossleys’ kitchen. But she didn’t mention Mr. Seward’s other question, the one that almost sent her home, or How
ard with the strawberry birthmark.

  That night as she cleaned the kitchen, she sang one of her mother’s favorite songs, and the words felt good in her mouth. How long had it been since she sang? As she lay in bed listening to Stephen’s regular breaths beside her, she thought about her day and the things she didn’t share. There was no reason to keep secrets, but she liked to have something that was hers alone. In their small flat, the only secrets anyone had were those locked inside themselves.

  Howard was seventeen, three years older than she was. That was intriguing enough, but there was also his grandfather’s warning: Howard has no morals. Those words made her nervous, but there was a thrill buried there too, and his stories made her laugh.

  As the weeks wore on, they ended up eating lunch together at least twice a week. Nothing was ever formally arranged; it just worked out that way. They ate in the kitchen where Kay Baggot cooked, feasting on warm bread right from the oven, and roast chicken or beef sandwiches.

  He told her he’d been sent home for pranks. Twice. The twenty mice loose in the Latin classroom had made old Hayes scream like a girl. Glue in the drawer lock where his math teacher kept his flask made the man cuss in front of the nuns. Each time, May made him promise he’d never do it again. He always agreed. Doing the same prank more than once would spoil the pleasure of it.

  After his stories, Elaine knew his world. Sally Ann, who always wore her skirt tantalizingly higher than midcalf, had the best legs in school. His buddy, Teddy Schwartzman, got caught kissing Agnes in the cloakroom with one hand under her shirt. Agnes’s father had threatened to shoot Teddy if he ever talked to his daughter again. Howie impersonated every teacher. Elaine was his audience. He never tired of performing; she never tired of listening.

  “Elaine, my newspaper princess, I’ve got something to show you in the side yard.” Howard leered at her.

  Elaine felt blood rush to her face.

  “Ah, I see what you’re thinking, and can’t believe you’d consider me so debased. What I have to show you is a simple matter of mechanical ability.”

  “That makes it sound worse.”

  “My intent exactly.”

  Howie grabbed her hand and pulled her to the gravel drive where his father’s new 1919 Model T gleamed in the sun. The T was totally enclosed, unlike most of the rare cars on the roads. She knew Mr. Gossley worked in banking and had something to do with the stock market. He left for work early and came home late. But occasionally he came home at lunchtime and napped in the middle of the day. Then the T sat in the driveway, ostentatious as an oversized diamond in a ring. According to Howie, he washed the car every Sunday and then buffed it with a special cloth. No one else could clean it.

  “Care for a spin in the T?” Howie’s eyes challenged her.

  “And who’s going to drive us?” Elaine crossed her arms and tried to look stern. Her brain voice whispered this was not a smart thing to do. But her heart spun like a Ferris wheel.

  “I am, of course.” Howie climbed in the left door to set the spark and throttle.

  The Ferris wheel spun faster. “What if we get caught?”

  “Worried? Then we won’t get caught.” He climbed back out and with two hands circled the crank. The engine sputtered, then roared.

  She could lose her job over this. Gravel crunched under her feet as she took a few steps back toward the house. “He’ll hear you and wake up.”

  Howie was instantly at her side. He took her hand.

  “A carriage for the newspaper princess.” His brown eyes locked with hers. They were his best feature: almost girlish eyes, with long, curling lashes. She didn’t want to pull her hand away, and wasn’t sure she even could as it was now melting into his. Her brain shouted to walk away but she let him lead her to the car.

  “Do you know how to drive?” Her voice was a whisper.

  The seats smelled like new leather, felt like the shoes she touched in stores when no one was looking. Howie released the hand brake and the car slowly began to roll. Every muscle in her body clenched. Howie’s thigh was inches from her own. His long hands slid across the steering wheel. As he pressed his left foot on the slow speed pedal, they glided from the drive to the street.

  “Isn’t this far enough?” She imagined she could feel Mr. Gossley’s eyes drilling into them from the bedroom window. She was afraid to turn her head to check.

  “Once around the block and no one will be the wiser. What’s the matter—don’t you trust me?” A grin split his face.

  “Give me one reason I should.” Then, “It’s not that, but if we get caught.”

  Just as quickly, his grin disappeared. “That’s what’s wrong with you, you know. You don’t know how to have fun.”

  Fun. The small word bristled with barbs. What did he know about her life? She blinked back startled tears and turned her head away so he wouldn’t see. Howie was right; she didn’t know how to have fun. She could barely remember peace.

  The car was pointed south, toward Myrtle Avenue. The afternoon sun was warm on her face. She allowed her shoulders to relax. As Howie accelerated, Elaine let herself feel an exhilarating rush. It must be the same thing Pete’s pigeons felt when they launched into the sky.

  The next moment a car rounded the corner from Myrtle and shot straight toward them, blowing its horn. Howie pulled his foot off the pedal and swerved. The car lurched toward the hedge. He slammed his foot on the reverse pedal. The car shot back and smacked into the brick post at the edge of the drive.

  Elaine snapped back and forth in her seat. Biting down hard, she tasted blood on her tongue.

  “Of all the blasted bad luck!” Howie pounded the steering wheel. He looked at Elaine. His face was white, but a flicker in his eyes made her think he was enjoying it.

  Pieces of hedge poked in through the open window. Howie leaned his head back on the seat and laughed.

  Elaine closed her eyes and imagined telling Pop how she’d lost her job.

  “It’s the best fun I’ve had all week!”

  “Fun? We’ve crashed your father’s car.” She swallowed. “I need this job.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s only a scratch.”

  By then Kay was puffing down the driveway. Mr. Gossley followed, still in his shirtsleeves.

  “Are ya all right?” Kay peered in the window, her face as red as a tomato from her garden.

  Mr. Gossley had yanked open the door. His nostrils flared, and he made a strange clicking sound with his teeth.

  “Get out.”

  Elaine couldn’t catch her breath. She stepped down to the street, followed by Howie.

  “Father, a thousand apologies. It was all my fault. I persuaded the young lady to be my accomplice.”

  “What in tarnation do you think you’re up to?” Mr. Gossley’s voice shook. “I should get out my belt and beat you black and blue.”

  Her head throbbed where she’d knocked it on the window. The tang of blood was still sharp in her mouth.

  “You’re the young lady who reads to my father-in-law. I trust my son hasn’t brought you to any harm.” Mr. Gossley didn’t look at her or even wait for an answer. Instead his nod was like a period to a conversation.

  Elaine knew what that nod meant. She was dismissed. Her job was over. Howie caught her eye and winked. Should she leave? What would happen to Howie? He’d been showing off and she could have stopped him. But neither Howie nor his father looked at her again. Instead, they examined every inch of the car.

  The brilliance of the September afternoon faded. Head down, eyes locked on the pavement, Elaine walked away. How had she managed to destroy the one good thing that was handed to her? She should have stopped Howie. Instead, she would be banished, never allowed to see him again. At home, they wouldn’t make the rent on Pop’s salary alone. Which fate was worse? She wasn’t sure. Either way, her new life was ended.

  But the difficult times were not yet over for Hansel and Gretel and their family. The famine continued to plague the land. Once agai
n, their stepmother spoke vehemently about returning the children to the woods, so that they might not all starve. And their father, having been persuaded once before, now toppled quite quickly under the force of her words.

  Hansel was not caught unawares. His vigilance never relaxed; he had been waiting for the second shoe to drop, and when it did, he was prepared. Their safety hinged on a loaf of bread he had hidden in advance. When his stepmother again urged them to return to the heart of the forest, he brought the loaf concealed under his jacket.

  As they trudged the narrow path into the woods, he worried pieces of bread from the loaf and dropped them on the forest floor. Hansel was certain the crumbs would lead them home again, as surely as the white stones had done before. The rest of the loaf would sustain them on their journey. For just as he predicted, this time they would be led deeper into the woods.

  Chapter Nineteen

  PROOF

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA—JUNE 1955

  Molly

  Everything looked the same, but everything felt different, as if we had walked into a classroom on the other side of the looking glass. Without being told to, Angus and I each sat at a desk as if we were Uncle Stephen’s students. Angus busily picked at a scab on his knee, a leftover from the last time he went roller skating.

  “Some things have developed that I think you should hear first from me,” Uncle Stephen said again. “I think Molly may already know what I’m going to say.”

  He shot me a look that pierced me like an arrow. I sat up straight and wondered how much he knew about my eavesdropping.

  “As I mentioned when we were at dinner, it seems I’ve fallen into what might be one of God’s miracles.”

  I could no longer restrain myself. “So, are you a miracle worker?” I half expected him to levitate right then and there to prove his point.

  “It’s God’s business,” Uncle Stephen said. “It doesn’t really have very much to do with me, except that I may need to answer a few questions about what occurred.”

  “What did you do?” I asked for Angus’s benefit, but I hoped the question might deflect the issue of my eavesdropping.