Between Before and After

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  When Elaine and Stephen arrived at noon, picnic baskets and presents were being loaded into one of two cars in the driveway. May directed while Mr. Gossley helped his fatherin-law into one of the cars.

  Stephen’s hand crept into hers and she was glad of the contact. “Lainey, do you think we’re really supposed to be here?”

  “Of course. We’re invited, aren’t we?” But no one took any notice of them as they approached the drive. People she didn’t recognize sat in the wicker chairs on the porch. Just when she felt like turning and running away, Howie emerged.

  In a navy blue flannel blazer with patch pockets and brass buttons, paired with pants pressed to sharp creases, this was a different Howard than the one she ate with in the kitchen. As soon as he spotted them, he came running down the steps.

  “Elaine, Stephen, over here. Wait ’til the old man sees the bird!”

  “I want to see the mynah!” Stephen dropped Lainey’s hand. Had he remembered to stuff the pigeon post in his pocket?

  “And so you shall! Follow me!” Howie led them around to the kitchen entrance where they almost collided with Mrs. Theilen, her arms piled with blankets. On the kitchen table, a towel draped a large cage. From under the towel a muffled voice implored, “Save the bird! Save the bird!” and then it wailed like a siren.

  Howie edged up a corner of the towel. “Take a look.”

  Stephen thrust his head under.

  “Attack! Attack!” the bird shrilled. Stephen squeaked and jumped back. Elaine laughed so hard that tears sprang to her eyes.

  “We’re going to Fort Greene Park. You can ride with me in the second car.” Howie picked up the birdcage. “The old man’s already gone off in the first car with my father.”

  Elaine grabbed Stephen by the hand and climbed into a new Nash sedan with Howie, an elderly lady introduced as Great Aunt Myra, and May. Happily squashed between Stephen and Howie with the noisy mynah on his lap, Elaine tried to relax. The bird kept up a running commentary of “Bless my buttons!” and “Save the bird!”

  “Don’t you children look nice.” May was all brightness and bustle. “Mr. Parks, Father’s solicitor, will be driving us.”

  Elaine noticed every detail. Mr. Parks was short and solid like a fire hydrant. In a bold-striped jacket and with his rollicking laugh, he resembled a carnival barker. Elaine liked him immediately.

  With the top down, they glided past the familiar stores on Myrtle Avenue, past the Sunday strollers dressed in church clothes, and past a gang of children playing kick the can. And everyone glanced their way. Howie’s thigh was pressed hard against hers. Did he feel the same pulse of heat that ran from her hip to her ankle? If he did, he didn’t show it. But he didn’t move his leg away.

  The road into Fort Greene Park was lined with chestnut trees turning to gold. Beyond them a white granite pillar, taller than any tree in the park, balanced an urn on its tip.

  “What’s that?” asked Stephen.

  “It’s the Prison Ship Martyrs’ Monument,” began May.

  “And there are dead people buried under it.” Howie laughed ghoulishly.

  “Dead people?” Stephen’s voice went up a notch.

  “Dead people from the Revolutionary War, in a crypt under the monument.”

  A thrilling shudder ran up Elaine’s spine.

  “Everyone out. Croquet lawn up ahead.” Mr. Parks bounced out of the car and held the door open. The croquet lawn was a wide green tabletop bordered by trees. From the far end of the lawn, they could see Mr. Gossley waving. Mr. Seward, in his wheelchair, was surrounded by a patchwork of picnic blankets and baskets. Howie helped his mother from the car, and then offered Elaine his hand, but Stephen sprang down by himself, dashing off toward Mr. Seward.

  There were at least fifteen people sprawled on the sea of blankets. Every blanket had a picnic basket filled with cold fried chicken and ham, cakes, and apples. There were cups of cider and the loaves of bread she had bought at the market. Elaine soon learned May’s sister and her five young children had surprised them all by coming on the train from New Jersey. Howie’s cousins ran in and out between the picnickers, laughing and chasing a large blue ball. Mr. Seward presided over them all with a bottle of root beer in one hand and a chicken leg in the other.

  Elaine watched from the edge of the crowd. Where was she supposed to sit? Stephen was already shouting in a game of keep away. Howie was talking to his aunt Sarah, who balanced an infant on her lap.

  “Elaine, come sit over here,” Mr. Gossley called to her from his father-in-law’s side. “Arthur has been asking for you.”

  Relieved, Elaine joined Mr. Seward and Mr. Gossley.

  “Have you had anything to eat yet? How about the gingerbread?” Mr. Seward asked.

  When Mr. Gossley handed her a plate, she was sure nothing had ever tasted so good. As cloud shadows ran across the blankets, it was easy to imagine that she and Stephen were part of this large family, two more of the children out celebrating their grandfather’s birthday.

  “Time for presents!” When May called, Stephen and the other children came running. A tower of wrapped packages emerged from the trunk in Mr. Park’s arms and, one by one, each present was opened and exclaimed over.

  After the last gift was opened, Stephen stepped forward. “Happy birthday, Mr. Seward.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the crumpled roll of paper. He took Mr. Seward’s freckled hand in his own small one and pressed the paper into his palm. Then he closed the fingers over it so that the paper wouldn’t drop and be lost in the grass.

  Mr. Seward crinkled his leathery brow. “What’s this?”

  “Pigeon post! It says, ‘Happy Birthday’ and it was carried by a real pigeon named Gabriel.”

  “Pigeon post, eh, delivered by an angel?” Mr. Seward roared with laughter. Tears stood out in his sightless eyes. “I have never had a birthday greeting delivered by a bird before. Thank you very much.”

  “And speaking of birds—” Howie’s lips twitched. “I’ve got the very thing for you!” He pulled the towel off from the cage and swung the bird up as high as his head. This made the mynah squawk and whistle. “Give me a kiss!” The cousins shrieked with delight.

  “Is that my grandson asking for a kiss from his grandfather?”

  Howie turned red. “No, sir, it’s a mynah bird that wants kissing.”

  “Then kiss the bird, son. Kiss the bird!”

  “Kiss the bird!” everyone cheered.

  Howie shrugged his shoulders and made a mock bow. He leaned in to the cage and made a loud kissing noise.

  The bird squawked, “Attack! Attack!” The audience clapped and shouted. Howie set the cage on Mr. Seward’s lap.

  Mr. Seward wrinkled his nose. “Smells like birdseed. Never expected I’d have a talking animal living in my house.”

  But Elaine could tell he was pleased.

  May lit candles on a three-layer red velvet cake, but the wind had drifted in from the bay and blew them out each time. So they sang “Happy Birthday” without candles. Elaine waited until the talk turned to the annual croquet game before she dared approach Mr. Seward.

  “I have something for you too,” she said. “It’s not very good, only something I wrote myself.”

  “Let’s hear it then.”

  Elaine unfolded the paper she’d kept in her pocket all morning. In a small voice she began to read the poem. It was the first time she’d ever read anything she wrote out loud to someone else.

  Mr. Seward listened with his eyes closed. When she had finished, he was quiet for a few seconds. Elaine was sure she’d made a fool of herself. What had she been thinking? She wasn’t a poet.

  Mr. Seward cleared his throat. “I think it the nicest birthday present I have ever received. Thank you. I suppose you will give me a copy of it, even if I can’t read it myself?”

  “Really?” Elaine blinked back tears. “I know I’m not a real poet.”

  “Really.”

  She refolded the poem and put it in Mr. S
eward’s freckled hand. “Here you go.”

  He tucked the poem into the pocket of his tweed coat. “I will keep this close, Elaine.”

  With those words it felt as if Mr. Seward had crossed a line from employer to friend. Someone she could count on.

  “Come on, Lainey! It’s time for croquet!” Stephen was at her elbow holding a wooden mallet.

  “Yes, come on! You’re on our team.” Howie was right behind holding two mallets, extending one in her direction.

  “But I don’t know how to play.”

  “What, you’ve never played croquet?” Howie swiveled his head from Elaine to Stephen. “Well, you’ll both have to learn, and fast—I hate to lose.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  IN THE BRAMBLES

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK—SEPTEMBER 1919

  ELAINE

  The leaves rustled in the chestnut trees, and shadows swept more quickly across the lawn now. Shivering, Elaine was glad for a chance to move. Stephen had eagerly grabbed a mallet and with a satisfying thunk struck a wooden ball. If only she could be more like her brother, less interested in what people thought of her.

  Mr. Parks captained their team and proved to be a more patient teacher than Howie, who was only as helpful as suited his mood. The rest of the time he was in constant motion, giving advice, running between the players, his face a signpost for his team’s status.

  When Elaine had whacked her ball through the third wicket, it rolled into Howie’s ten-year-old cousin Laurie’s and stopped.

  “Too bad I’m going to send you away!” Gleefully, Laurie put her small foot on her ball and smacked it against Elaine’s with all her might.

  Elaine’s ball shot to the side, and following a dip in the lawn, rolled down a ravine into a thicket of barberry bushes. She groaned. She was already well behind the rest of her team. Elaine ran down the slope, and as she pushed the spiny branches aside, their small, round leaves fluttered to the ground around her like tiny red wings. The yellow ball was just beyond her reach. Maybe if she got down on her hands and knees and used her mallet to increase the length of her arm . . .

  “Need some help?”

  Elaine turned at the sound of Howie’s voice. “Yes, please! I can’t quite reach it.”

  “Allow me.” He crouched down and crawled sideways into the bushes, snagging the ball with one long reach.

  Elaine brushed the hair from her face. “Thanks. I’m so far behind the others—” She grabbed for the ball, but Howie pulled it away.

  “It’s going to cost you, you know.” His eyes laughed at her. Red leaves glittered in his hair.

  “What do you mean?” There was a strange catch in her voice.

  He pinned her in place with his eyes. Her pulse sped, as if she’d been running. A rush of heat.

  He moved closer.

  “A kiss. I think that’s a fair price.” He kept the ball slightly beyond her reach. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. Every time I look at you.”

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t imagined kissing him, especially nights in her small bed on Steuben Street while she lay awake listening for Pop to come home. But now panic seized her. Should she protest? Was that expected?

  Stepping forward again, Howard slipped one hand behind her head. “Come here.” He drew her toward him, all the while looking straight into her eyes.

  The ground dropped away. Even though his eyes made her dizzy, she couldn’t look away, even when his face drew so close that everything blurred except one tiny red leaf caught in a curl right above his eyebrow. His lips were softer than she expected and slightly salty. Elaine closed her eyes and let her head rest in his hand.

  In the stories she read, girls swooned when they were kissed. This didn’t happen. Even with her eyes closed, her mind kept working. She smelled his cologne, spicy and sharp, felt the warmth of his breath and the slight stubble of his cheek as it moved against hers. Were his eyes open? Was she doing it right, this kissing thing she had read about?

  Howard pressed closer, and her thoughts broke apart. She was one large nerve ending, breathing hard and fast. One hand tangled in her hair, the other ran down her neck. Elaine pushed away.

  Howie laughed and handed her the croquet ball. “Your ball, Madam.”

  Not daring to look him in the eye, Elaine reached out and took it.

  “Come on. They’ll be wondering where we are.” And he grabbed her hand, pulling her up the ravine, back into the circle of the party, and left her beside his mother.

  May continued talking to Great Aunt Myra. No one looked at Elaine, even though she was sure her face was changed. With both hands she smoothed her hair, ran a finger across her lips. Overhead, boiling clouds turned the sky the color of wet cement. A few fat drops sent the picnickers gathering blankets and baskets.

  Elaine searched for Stephen while her thoughts churned. As they hurried to the cars, she looked for Howard, but he had disappeared into the crowd.

  The drops of rain had only been a stutter. For now, the sky held back. Nevertheless, Mr. Parks spread blankets over them as they got into the Nash. This time Stephen slid into the car first, leaving Elaine against the door. At the last minute, Howard appeared and climbed in on the other side of Stephen. He didn’t look at her.

  “Perhaps we should drive you two straight home if it’s going to rain.” May drew her blanket up closer.

  “No, we’ll be fine. I promised my father I’d stop by the market for bread on the way home,” she lied. She didn’t want Howie or his mother to see where they lived.

  “Lainey—” Stephen began, but she jabbed him sharply with her elbow.

  May hesitated. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “Really, I’m sure. Thank you so much for inviting us.” Elaine found she could keep up a conversation while thinking about something entirely different. She wondered if Howie was thinking about her. He didn’t seem to be. Leaning over the front seat, he talked baseball with Mr. Parks. What were the odds the Yankees would beat the Athletics, and would the Reds or the White Sox win the World Series? Elaine noticed every detail. Howie’s red birthmark now brighter in the cold, his eyelashes long, like a girl’s. Would everything be different between them now?

  By the time they reached Clinton Avenue, Stephen was asleep on her shoulder. She shook him awake. And once they were out of the car, Howie disappeared. Mr. Seward came back to their car on Mr. Gossley’s arm to thank both Elaine and Stephen for attending his party. Elaine walked away from the house as slowly as she could, with Stephen whining that he was cold. Moments later, fat drops pelted down.

  They were halfway down the block when she heard footsteps behind. She turned at her name.

  Howard winked. “See you.” Then he turned and jogged back toward his house.

  Elaine stood for a moment in the rain, while Stephen tugged at her arm. A strange new warmth spread through her body. She began to hum.

  There were no lights on in the flat when they arrived home. There was no fire in the stove, no sign that Pop had been home at all. Elaine shivered. Her dress stuck to her skin and water squelched in her shoes.

  “I’m hungry!” Stephen’s voice sliced through her head.

  “You had food all day at the picnic! I’m going to change my clothes.”

  “Where’s Pop?”

  Hands on hips, she looked her brother over. Rain had plastered his hair to his head and the tips of his ears were red with cold. There was almost no food in the house and no warm water. She didn’t want to deal with this now. She went into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. “Dry yourself off!” Then she slammed the bedroom door.

  In the chilly room, she peeled off her wet dress and stockings and draped them over the metal headboard. A draft rattled the window and crept in over the sill. Teeth chattering, she pulled on a sweater and her heavy brown skirt. Then she sat down on the bed and stared into the dark. She’d have to make sure Stephen did his homework. The next day was Monday, and she’d have to be at work herself. But Howard would be waiting fo
r her. There was still a pile of dirty clothes on the floor and dishes in the sink, which meant she’d have to heat water before she did anything else. Instead, she pulled Hansel and Gretel from under her bed. She’d read to herself for a few minutes. It would make up for returning to her black-and-white world, where she only subsisted until she was at the Gossleys’ again.

  The candy house shimmered in the moonlight. Gretel took the first bite. She was so hungry, and the house looked so delectable. She reached up toward a sugar pane window and broke off a piece of the red licorice trim. Following her lead, Hansel cracked off a gingerbread shingle. Soon their mouths were bulging with the unexpected delight. But it wasn’t long until the chocolate door swung open and an aged woman poked her head out. “Nibble, nibble, little mouse, who is nibbling at my house?” Gretel couldn’t speak, as her mouth was full of sugar. She tried to rub her sticky fingers clean on her skirt. Hansel looked at his own chocolate-stained hands. “We have been lost in the woods and without food for a day and a night.”

  “Then you must come in and rest yourselves,” the old woman offered. Above them, the owl in the tree hooted, spread wide wings, and sailed off deeper into the woods. The children, filled with sweets and the promise of warmth, followed the old woman into her house, where a fire burned merrily. They never heard the chocolate door slam shut.

  Chapter Thirty-Three