Siri Mitchell

by Unrivaled

  “Me? Well . . . I broke a plate once, in the kitchen, as I was trying to get a cookie.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to have one. And I lied about breaking the plate. And then the stable boy got in trouble for it. And I felt really bad about it all and—”

  “Fine. So we have me, who caused another man to die. And we have you, who . . . stole a cookie. Compared to me, you’re an angel.”

  “You might say that, but really, you have to go with what God believes. And He believes we both did the wrong thing. We’re all sinners.”

  “But that’s just it! How can people say that I just have to . . . what is it people have to do?” I was trying to remember what it was that Honest Andy always said. “Pray? Ask God to forgive me? When that’s all you have to do too? It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Fair to whom? I’d say it’s more than fair to you. Why are you complaining?”

  “Because there should be more.”

  “More what?”

  “More required.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m worse than you are.”

  She was shaking her head before I’d even finished talking. “Not to God. To Him we’re both the same.”

  “But that’s just it! How can I believe in a God who believes that you’re just as bad as me?”

  “Well . . . actually, He probably believes that you’re just as bad as I am.”

  “It doesn’t matter! The point is, it’s nonsense.”

  I should have kept my opinions to myself. She was looking at me, brows furrowed, eyes clouded with confusion. But then they cleared. “You’re saying it’s nonsense because you feel like you should have to do more than I should in order to feel forgiven.”

  That was one way of saying it. “Exactly.”

  She was smiling now. “But that’s just it!”

  “What’s . . . it?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  I waited for her to explain, but she didn’t, she was watching the people in the lobby, lips curled into a smile. I’d just told her religion was foolish and she was smiling? “What am I wrong about?”

  She glanced up at me, startled. “Why . . . the whole thing!”

  I watched the crowd for a while too, but I couldn’t keep myself from wondering what, in particular, I was wrong about. “Could you be more specific? What exactly am I wrong about?”

  “The part about you. And the part about God.”

  Which was just about all of it . . . which was what she’d said in the first place. For pete’s sake! I was starting to think just like Winnie. “Could you . . . explain?”

  “About . . . ?”

  “About God.”

  “Well, it’s just that you’re looking at it wrong, that’s all.”

  “How!”

  She blinked as she took a step back.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just . . . want to know how.”

  “I’m not sure how exactly. I mean, I don’t know who told you the wrong thing to begin with. But the truth is, it’s not about what you have to do to at all.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  She shrugged. “God. It’s about God.”

  “How?” If I had to say that word one more time, I was going to wring her pale little neck. And then I really would be a murderer.

  She sighed a deep, long sigh. “It’s about God, Charles Clarke, and what He’s done. It’s not about you. It’s never been about you. Because you’re not good enough and you never will be.”

  So much for flattery.

  “And neither will I ever be. God is the one who says how, and He says the same thing to you as well as to me. So neither of us have to do anything at all but say we’re sorry and ask for His forgiveness.”

  Which brought me back to the same thought I’d always had. “That just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter what you believe, does it?”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “No. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s not about you and how you believe you have to make things right. It’s about God.”

  “That’s it? Just let Him . . . take care of it? That’s all?”

  “Mostly.” She frowned. “I wish you’d listen in church once in a while. There’s more. But mostly, that’s it.”

  “Just leave it up to Him . . .”

  “It can’t be worse than what you’ve been trying. You haven’t been able to make things any better by yourself, have you?”

  I wasn’t able to spend very long thinking about it. As Winnie walked away, Lucy took her place.

  “I don’t know how you found out about this!” She was waving a package of Fancy Crunch in my face.

  I grabbed her by the hand and took it from her. The package looked different than I was used to seeing. The nuts were wrapped in clear cellophane and there were ribbons tied around the ends. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “My idea. We’re talking about my idea. My idea to make a fancier package so we could charge more. Only you did it first and now Fancy Crunch is overpriced and we’re—humiliated! Thanks to you.”

  “You’re not the only one who can come up with ideas. City Confectionery isn’t the only company that can tie candy up in ribbons.”

  “No—but we’re not the ones who sell candy to the entire nation. We’re the ones who have to count every penny in order to survive. I hope you’re happy, Charlie Clarke!”

  I wasn’t, in fact. In spite of what she thought, I wasn’t happy that we’d beat them at their own game because my instincts were telling me that more was going on than either of us knew. And that there is no such thing as coincidence.

  25

  The Queen of Love and Beauty was wanted everywhere by everyone for everything. Mr. Arthur had somehow become my constant companion at these functions, although Sam filled in when he wasn’t available. Sam came again the morning of December first to deliver me to Stix so I could open their Christmas window display. As he helped me up into the carriage, he offered me a package of Fancy Crunch. “Just in case you get hungry.”

  I smiled my thanks, putting it into my handbag as he settled onto the seat across from me.

  Once at Stix, the manager met us on the sidewalk. He led us through the people who had gathered to witness the unveiling of the window and then escorted us inside. As we approached the furrier’s department, he gestured to the employees who had lined the aisles and said, “Behold: our Queen of Love and Beauty!”

  The employees clapped and smiled.

  He gave me over to the furrier who separated me from Sam, drawing me off into a corner. After taking a quick measure of my dimensions, he scurried behind a curtain, then soon returned, arms filled with what turned out to be a gleaming ankle-length, double-breasted boulevard coat.

  “Coast seal trimmed with Alaskan bear.”

  I’d never seen anything so beautiful. Even its puffed sleeves were elegant.

  The furrier’s assistant removed my sash, handing it to the manager, and helped me into the fur. The furrier himself adjusted the collar and the shoulders. I could gladly have worn it for the rest of my life.

  A second assistant presented a hat box to him.

  The furrier drew from it a Cossack-styled hat. “Russian pony and white fox fur.” He pronounced the words with much satisfaction as he set it gently atop my head. It was wrapped with a black satin ribbon that was secured by a round buckle sparkling with rhinestones.

  “Quite, quite nice.” The manager was admiring the furs. “And all for you to keep after the window display opening. It will be good for advertising.”

  For me? To keep!

  “Oh, but you mustn’t forget—” The manager held my sash out.

  The furrier frowned, but the assistants helped me draw it down over the enormous hat and settle it over my shoulder.

  The furrier was still frowning, but as I looked at him, his face brightened. He summoned an assi
stant with the crook of his finger, then whispered into his ear for a moment. The man nodded and bent to pull out a drawer. When he straightened, he was holding a mass of white fur. As he stepped forward, I gasped as a tail and paws seemed to lunge toward me. Stepping forward, the furrier took it from his assistant and held it up. “White fox fur in the new style.” He poked at the tail, sending it swaying.

  Oh! It was a muff from which all those limbs dangled. I hoped I would be able to keep from laughing while I wore it.

  After they had dressed me, I was led toward the corner of the store where the display window awaited. Though we stood off to the side of the raised platform, I could tell the crowd outside had swelled. I could hear the chatter of voices and the shuffle of footsteps along the sidewalk, and I imagined I could feel their anticipation. Every Christmas, except the last one, I had been out there among them.

  The manager was beaming. “I hope you’re good at playacting, Miss Kendall.”

  “I don’t think . . .” I didn’t think that I was.

  “You’re going to be Santa’s helper. There’s a parlor set up out there, and you’re going to help him put presents around the tree. It’s important that the folks gathered outside see the furs you’re wearing. And important, as well, that they see each present.”

  “So you want me to . . . ?”

  “Exclaim over each one. Hold it up! Make sure everyone sees what it is!”

  That didn’t seem too difficult.

  “And then, when the last present is placed, you’ll be giving your own gift to Santa.” He held out a Royal Taffy to me.

  “Oh. No. No, thank you.” I’d vowed never to touch one again.

  “This is the gift.” He took my hand and pressed the Royal Taffy into it. “This is what you’re going to give Santa.”

  “A Royal Taffy!” He couldn’t be serious.

  “Yes. The entire window has been decorated with Royal Taffy wrappers.”

  I leaned forward to take a look and felt my mouth fall open. Those Royal Taffy wrappers were everywhere. Some clever person had fashioned wreaths and Christmas ornaments out of them. Pieces had been strung together and fastened with bows to make garlands for the Christmas tree. And above the parlor’s hearth, a large advertisement proclaimed that they were Santa’s Sweetest Gift.

  “You do know that my father owns City Confectionery?”

  “Yes. Of course I know that. Everyone knows that. And I do hope he’s feeling better . . . ?”

  “Then how can you ask me to—”

  The manager clamped his hand around my arm. “The Queen of Love and Beauty belongs to the entire city of St. Louis.” He smiled at the employees who stood watching us before whispering into my ear, “Try not to take it personally, Miss Kendall.”

  Try not—!

  “So you’ll hand Santa his Royal Taffy, then you’ll both need to sing along with the band.”

  Wait. “Pardon me?” They wanted me to sing?

  “You should be able to hear the band quite clearly through the window.”

  “What song is it?”

  “Adeste Fideles.”

  “All the verses?” I really only knew the chorus. Some families gathered around their pianos every night at Christmastime and sang carols, but my family had never been one of them. We’d never, all of us, gathered around anything at all.

  Eventually, about ten minutes past the hour, Santa ambled down the central aisle of the store, stuffing a pillow into his red coat as he walked. “Sorry. Couldn’t escape from the jail.”

  Jail?

  The manager put a hand to my shoulder. “It’s Mr. Slater. Superintendent of the city jail.”

  Mr. Slater? Santa was Mr. Slater? Had he always been Mr. Slater?

  “Are you ready?” The store manager was looking at him anxiously.

  “Just give me a minute.”

  He put a hand on his belly and tried out a Ho, ho, ho. It ended in a violent, wracking cough. He cleared his throat, and then looked around wildly for a spittoon.

  An assistant was dispatched to find one. When he finally returned, Santa had gone red in the face. Once he spit, he fluffed up his beard.

  The manager handed him a pair of spectacles, which Mr. Slater set atop his nose. He hitched his belt up over his pillowy girth and drew on a pair of gloves as he stepped up onto the platform.

  Sam offered me a hand and helped me up onto the stage. I stepped out in front of the curtain and paused. There were an awful lot of people out there.

  “Wave!” I turned around to see the manager gesturing me forward. “Smile!”

  I waved and smiled.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” Santa turned toward the street and waved.

  A gaggle of children, faces pressed to the window, waved back.

  He pushed his spectacles farther up his nose. “Where did they say that pack was supposed to be?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” I tried to speak the words through my smile.

  “Ah! There it is.” As he walked across the stage, past the Christmas tree, he tripped on the edge of a rug. “Blasted, blistering bobtails!”

  I felt my brow rise and tugged it down. Thankfully the children couldn’t hear through the glass. I waved again.

  A little girl with saucered eyes waved back.

  “Well . . . let’s get this over with. I’ve a murderer waiting for me back at the jail.” He tugged loose the tie at the top of the bag and peered inside. “What’ve we got? Let’s see . . .” He pulled a doll from his pack and handed it to me.

  Pulling a hand from the muff, I nestled her in the crook of my arm and smoothed her hair as I turned to face the window, smiling once more as I held it up.

  A little girl on the other side of the glass stretched an arm out as if she wanted to hold it.

  “Lift her skirts up.” The direction came from the manager who was still standing at the side of the platform.

  “What?”

  “The skirts! Lift them. It’s got a petticoat beneath.”

  I did as requested.

  “Pull on one of her curls.”

  Still smiling, I grasped one of the curls that had been tied up in a bow, stretching it out and then letting it bounce back into place. I kissed her on the cheek and then set her down beneath the tree.

  Santa handed me a drum.

  I took it from him.

  He followed it with a set of gilded sticks.

  “I don’t . . . I can’t.” How was I supposed to help Santa if I had to hold onto the muff as well? I took it off and clamped it beneath my forearm, but the legs and the tail kept swishing up into my way.

  “Oh, just give me that foolish thing!” Santa took the muff from me and tossed it into the corner.

  I beat on the drum with the sticks for a moment, then deposited them both under the tree. “I was wondering, just because I’m curious, what sort of sentence would a person be given if they covered up a company’s advertising signs?”

  “Ten to twenty, depending.”

  “Months?” Maybe something good could come from Standard’s poster campaign after all. Maybe I could have Charlie locked up in the city jail.

  “Days.”

  Oh. “But . . . what if they were truly meanspirited about it? And covered up every single one?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Advertising is free. You’re talking about putting playbills and such up on lampposts and in alleys?”

  I nodded.

  “Smile!”

  I wished the manager would stop ordering me around! I smiled.

  “Isn’t no law against it. It’s if they put those posters up on public property. That’s what could get them twenty days for defacement. Here.” He shoved a toy train at me.

  I took it from him and held it up.

  “Show them the wheels! Spin them around!” The words came in a hiss from the other side of the curtain.

  I spun the wheels and smiled. “So even if this person covered up all of some other company’s signs, it wouldn’t be a crime?”

  �
��’Course not. All you’d have to do is cover up that company’s signs with signs of your own.” He passed me a phonograph.

  “How am I supposed to—”

  “Keep smiling!” That manager was truly beginning to bother me. “Bend your ear to it and dance!”

  How was I supposed to dance and bend toward it when I could barely keep from dropping it?

  “You’re scowling.” Santa was peering over the tops of his spectacles at me.

  I smiled. Then I staggered over to the tree and dropped the phonograph on the platform.

  I heard a gasp from behind the curtain. “Careful—that goes for thirty dollars!”

  When I turned, Santa was pulling a tricycle from his pack. He mouthed Ho, ho, ho over his shoulder.

  I wrestled the tricycle away from him. The pedal got stuck in the folds of the boulevard coat as I turned. I smiled anyway as I tried to free myself. “Haven’t you got anything smaller in there?”

  “Nothing that I’d want to give anyone.” He pulled out a pipe and handed it to me. “Can’t stand the stuff myself.”

  Neither could I. But I held it up to my face. The scent of tobacco tickled my nose and I nearly burst in the effort to keep from coughing.

  “Twirl!”

  “What?” If that manager said one thing more, I was going to leave and let him do all the holding and demonstrating and smiling.

  “Twirl! So people can see the coat.”

  “The . . . ?”

  “The one you’re wearing.”

  I twirled. And then I set the pipe down atop the drum.

  “Can’t you look any happier?”

  “No, I can’t!” I hissed the words through my smile.

  Santa pulled a pair of beautifully embroidered slippers from his pack.

  I took them from him, looking inside and on the soles to see if I could tell what size they were. Belatedly, I held them up for everyone to see and then made a show of looking down at my feet as if I wanted to keep them. One of the little girls standing at the window giggled.