by Jim Nelson
“Put it on the tray with the coffee,” Erica said. “You carry the cookies.”
When Erica had the coffee tray in two hands and Hanna had the smaller tray of cookies and napkins in hers, Erica nodded for her to follow. Erica pushed through the swinging door and held it open for Hanna, who was having trouble balancing the tray of plates. They proceeded to the living room, Erica leading, and set the refreshments on the table running before the couch. Hanna grew redfaced whe she realized her mother and Mrs. Grimond were discussing runaway bridge daughters.
“She had taught her bridge daughter to read and write,” Mrs. Grimond said, scandalized. “When the girl ran off, she was shocked, even though everyone had told her she was playing with fire. You wouldn’t do that, now would you dear?”
Hanna looked between Mrs. Grimond and her mother, attempting to decode the situation. She shook her head once, for appearances.
“Very good,” Mrs. Grimond said to Erica. “We’ll be ready for sandwiches in about thirty minutes.” The women resumed their conversation. Hanna stood waiting for some recognition from her mother. None arrived. Erica took Hanna by the arm and led her out of the living room.
“You’re welcome,” Hanna muttered.
Erica smushed a finger over her lips indicating silence. She led Hanna back to the kitchen and through a pocket door in the rear corner. It hid a narrow windowless hall that smelled of dog food and bleach. Sure enough, the shelving on the walls stored various household goods, cans and jars and plastic bottles, along with economy-sized bags of dry kibble and laundry detergent.
Hanna followed Erica into a dark room off the hallway. It had no door. Erica flicked on the light to reveal a twin bed covered with gray wool blankets and a hardbacked chair jammed in the corner. The carpet was not the luxurious shag of the living room but stiff bristle, the kind marketed for its easy-to-clean features. A few toys were lined up on the floor against the wall, simple dolls and a coloring book and a big box of crayons with a safety sharpener built in the side. There was no radio, no shelf of books. A doorway lacking a door led to a bare bathroom. It was nothing more than a showerhead sticking out from the wall, a floor drain, a toilet, and a hardware store vanity.
Erica faced Hanna with a grim expression, as though challenging her to say something about her living quarters. Hanna, aghast, stared back.
“What do you want to do?” Erica finally said.
“I don’t know,” Hanna said. “Can we watch television?”
Erica made a scoffing snort. “Are you joking?” She flopped into the bed. “That’s right. You get to do what you want.”
“That’s not true,” Hanna said quietly. “I don’t get to go to school.”
“You’re probably one of those bridge daughters that got to go to bruckegarten when you were little.”
“Everyone goes to bruckegarten.” Only when the words left her mouth did Hanna realize, no, everyone did not go to bruckegarten—only bridge daughters with mothers who raised them differently. “But I didn’t get to go to kindergarten,” Hanna added, thinking that somehow recovered her from the slip.
Erica lay back, hands behind her head, and stared up at the ceiling. “We have twenty minutes,” she said, “then we have to start preparing the lunch.”
“Sandwiches?”
“I’ve taken care of all of it,” Erica said. “We just have to build them. You don’t even have to help, if you don’t want to. I can do it.” Erica twisted on her side to face Hanna. “But you should help serve them. It won’t look good if you don’t do that.”
“Is this what you do all day?” Hanna said. “Make food and sit in here?”
Erica emitted another of her deprecating snorts. “No, I should be doing the wash right now. My mother generously said I could play with you. I think it makes her look better. So you can tell your mother I entertained you.”
“I wash my own sheets,” Hanna said.
“What else?”
“That’s it,” Hanna said, realizing the insignificance.
“That’s. It.” Erica fumed. “Do you mend?”
“Mend what?”
Erica twisted back around to stare at the ceiling.
Hanna didn’t want to be big friends with Erica, but she did want to pass the time as amicably as possible. She felt doubly stung now, and that drove her to think of some commonality between them. She came up empty.
“My mother says you got in big trouble.” Erica twisted around to sit up on the edge of the bed. “What did you do?”
“I ran away,” Hanna said. “To San Francisco.” So Mrs. Grimond did know—she was being catty when they served the coffee.
Erica nodded. “And?”
“My parents came and got me.”
“You didn’t have a plan.”
Hanna almost felt stung again, but this time Erica sounded helpful, not deprecating.
“Do you know Marie Devlin?” Erica said. “She goes to our church. She ran away.” Erica’s voice quickened. “She had a plan. She saved up some money and hid food under her bed. It was a pretty good plan. She got San Diego.”
Hanna’s eyes widened. San Diego was hundreds of miles away. “How did she do that?”
“My mother says it was because she could read and organize things in her head. They caught her though and brought her back. She had her finality about a month ago.” Erica shrugged. “What about Michelle Kahn? You know her? She goes to our church too. She ran away last year. No one’s found her yet. Her mother is really upset about it. Michelle should have had her finality by now.”
“Well,” Hanna reasoned, “that means Michelle’s dead.”
“Or she had a bi-graft,” Erica said.
Hanna jolted. “You know about bi-grafts?”
“Of course,” Erica said flippantly.
“Do you know where to get one?” Hanna asked.
“Why?” Erica said.
Hanna suddenly realized this might be a trap—that Erica was under instructions to relay everything said back to her mother, who would then pass it on to Hanna’s mother. Was this part of her punishment, this new way of life? Perhaps it’s common for traditional bridge daughters to rat out other bridge daughters. Hanna, always trusting, experienced a taste of paranoia for the first time.
“I heard about bi-grafts once,” she answered Erica. “But I don’t know what they are.”
“It means no finality,” Erica said. “It means you get to grow up like everyone else.”
Hanna scooted closer to Erica. “I want to talk about Hagar,” referring to the time Erica had hugged her and whispered the name in her ear.
Off in the distance, a dainty bell tinkled. Erica sighed and hopped up from the bed.
“They’re early,” Erica said. “Let’s make those sandwiches.”
*
After replenishing the women’s coffee cups and clearing the plates, Erica led Hanna through the lunch-making process. From the refrigerator Erica produced packages of supermarket cold cuts and cheese slices wrapped in butcher paper. She instructed Hanna to toast the bread, tiny loaves, one white and the other wheat, a size of bread Hanna had never seen before. Meanwhile, Erica took an egg salad from the refrigerator and placed cutting boards on the countertop. With the fillings before them, the duo deftly prepared a stack of finger sandwiches cut into triangle halves. At Erica’s behest, Hanna snapped open a bag of ridged potato chips and poured them into a large bowl.
“No, no, no,” Erica said, “you have to pick out the best ones. No crumbs in there.”
“You’re kidding.”
“For guests,” Erica told her. “We don’t eat like this when people aren’t around.”
Hanna poured the chips back into the bag and dumped the remaining crumbs into the sink. “How do you normally eat?” She began hand-selecting the largest chips from the bag for the bowl.
“You know, normal food,” Erica said, still assembling sandwiches. “We’ll probably have pasta tonight. I’ll use the leftover vegetables from last night to
make a primavera.” She nodded at the chopped lettuce, onions, and tomatoes before them. “A dinner salad from this.”
Hanna didn’t know what primavera meant, but she was more taken aback at the idea of planning meals, from leftovers or otherwise. Erica really was in charge of the kitchen.
“Do you tell your mother what to buy at the supermarket?”
“No,” Erica said. “When we go, I just take what we need and put it in the cart.”
“Does she help?”
Eric shrugged. “She pays.”
Erica poured iced tea in tall glasses with lemon trees painted on their sides. She searched the pantry for straws but they were out. Together they assembled the tray and presented the luncheon together, Erica carrying the tray and Hanna bringing the drinks.
“Lovely,” Mrs. Grimond said. “I hope you like egg salad,” she said to Hanna’s mother, who nodded her approval. “We’ll be finished in thirty minutes,” Mrs. Grimond announced, taking a sandwich from the stack. “You can clear up then.”
The girls retreated to Erica’s room once more. They sat cross-legged on the bristle carpeting facing each other.
“What was San Francisco like?” Erica asked.
“It was great,” Hanna breathed. “I saw my uncle and aunt.”
“Your uncle and aunt?” Erica extended her arms in exasperation. “No wonder you were caught!”
“I didn’t really run away,” Hanna said. “I just wanted to be alone for a little bit. They’re always hovering over me. My parents, I mean.”
Erica nodded. She fully understood that feeling.
“It’s private back here,” Hanna said. “That’s nice.”
“But I always have to listen for that bell, or the front door,” Erica said. “Or one of my little brothers hollering he’s hungry.”
Hanna knew the twins Jason and Jed would be at kindergarten right now. Kindergarten, the bruckegarten for normal children. “Do you play with them?” Hanna asked.
“It’s more like I have to watch them,” Erica said, digging a finger into the bristle carpet. “It’s okay. They’re not that bad. I guess.”
“It’s like you run this house. You’re the boss.” She hurried to add, “My grandmother, Ma Cynthia, she told me that in this country the people who get the work done are never recognized. They’re invisible.”
Erica dug her finger deeper into the carpet. Hanna knew it was the kind of cheap carpet that left rug burns if you slid across it barekneed.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Erica said.
“Yeah.” Hanna scooted closer.
“You can tell no one,” she said. “No one. Promise?”
“Promise.”
Erica wiped the back of her wrist across her nose. “I know where to get a bi-graft,” she whispered. “I’m going to get one.” She swallowed hard. “And when I run away, I’m not going to visit my uncle and get caught. Because I have a plan. Just like Hagar.”
Fifteen
“What kind of plan?” Hanna asked, mesmerized.
“You promise you’re not going to tell your mother, right?”
Hanna nodded, still taking in Erica’s revelation. Could this be a trap of some kind? And how could Erica know where to get a bi-graft?
“Where can you get one?” Hanna asked.
“You have to have money.” Erica paused for effect. “One thousand dollars.”
Hanna almost jumped up. “A thousand dollars? Where would I get a thousand dollars?” she said, forgetting she was trying to be coy. Then: “Where did you get a thousand dollars?”
“I don’t have all of it right now,” Erica said, motioning for Hanna to lower her voice. “But I’m not due for over a year now.“ She ventured, “When is your finality?”
“They told me six months. Probably five by now.”
Erica nodded at Hanna’s midsection. “Can I see?”
Hanna hesitated, shy about letting Erica see her in her underwear. Maureen was strong. It was time to be strong too. She lifted her new bridge dress up past her waist. Her oval bump had grown pronounced, her belly button a bit off-center.
“You can touch it,” Hanna said.
Erica tenderly placed her fingers on Hanna’s belly. “You have to get a bi-graft soon,” Erica said. “If you wait until the last month of your pons anno, it’s too late.”
“Why?”
“The baby has grown too much by then.”
Hanna felt the skin on her face grow hot and well up. She was going to cry. How could she collect a thousand dollars in time? Maybe she could sell each of her origami cranes for a dollar—but no one would buy the little things for that amount, and even if they did, her parents would collect the money and keep it from her.
Hanna let the dress fall back into place. “How do you know all this?”
“Church,” Erica said. “There’s a lot of us bridge daughters. We talk when the mothers aren’t around.”
“Like in Sunday school?” Although Hanna had never attended church, she knew about Sunday school. Other girls talked about it, including Cheryl Vannberg.
“We don’t get our own Sunday school classes,” Erica said. “We have to sit behind our mothers’ while they’re in class.”
“Your mother goes to Sunday school?” Wasn’t it only for children?
“Sure,” Erica said. “My father too. At our church, everybody goes to Sunday school. It’s like real school, everyone goes to a different room depending on their age.” She added, “Except us. The bridge daughters. They don’t want us out of their sights.”
“Did you know Cheryl Vannberg?”
Erica pished and waved the name away with a dismissive hand. “Oh, she got to go to Sunday school by herself. She even went to church camp by herself.”
“How?”
“They’re Unitarians.”
One more term for Hanna to look up in her encyclopedia when she returned home. “How much money do you have?” she asked Erica.
“Some.” Erica’s tone of voice shifted between defensive, authoritative, and secretive so often, Hanna had trouble making inferences. “Enough.”
“A thousand?”
“I’ll have a thousand when the time comes.” She added, “I have about four hundred dollars right now.”
Four hundred? “Where did you get all that?”
“Our church has a Wednesday evening supper,” Erica said. “It’s a Susanna dinner. Our church has the bridge daughters put it on.”
“Susanna?”
“Don’t you ever read the Bible?” Erica said a bit haughtily. “Mary’s bridge daughter? Susanna gave birth to Jesus.”
Hanna was thoroughly out of her depth. The more she heard about bridge daughters from the past, the more she wanted to read about them.
“What does Susanna have to do with any of this?” she asked Erica.
“We put on a dinner every Wednesday,” Erica said. “People have to buy a ticket to get their meal. One of us sells the tickets at the front door. Then the people wait in line and give the ticket to one of us serving food at the kitchen counter. I save some of the tickets I get in the kitchen and add them to the cash box the next week. Then I can pocket as much money as I want.”
It sounded sacrilegious to Hanna, stealing from a church, but she could see how Erica would raise four hundred dollars if they held these dinners every week. And she certainly understood why Erica would do it, be it stealing or sacrilege or otherwise.
Erica crawled on hands and knees to the meager line of toys on the floor against the wall. She extracted a crayon from the box and returned to Hanna with it and the coloring book. In the back cover she’d drawn short strokes in assorted colors, an organized but abstract jumble of tiny, carefully crayoned lines boxed into sections. Erica explained her system.
“These are the times I’ve brought home money, and this is the amount I made each time. I should have a thousand dollars a year from now. Right?”
Decoding Erica’s expression, Hanna realized Erica’s abundant confidenc
e had reached a ledge. She only thought she would have enough money, but she was not certain, not as certain as she was of the other details she’d relayed to Hanna so far. Hanna checked the numbers, did some quick mental arithmetic, and shook her head.
“I can’t believe you can bring home this much money each week,” Hanna said.
“They’re dumb,” Erica said. “The church people, they’re just happy to raise enough money to pay for the food we’re cooking. I’m careful, though. I never take too much.”
Forty dollars in one week seemed a lot to Hanna, but maybe the church brought in so much money at once it could easily be missed. Or the church assumed the bridge daughters had miscounted, easily true if they weren’t schooled. Hanna turned to an uncolored page in the coloring book and performed some quick crayon arithmetic in the margins. Erica watched closely, lost in the process, confused when Erica carried values from the bottom of one column to the top of the next.
“You won’t have a thousand dollars a year from today,” Hanna announced.
“No?” Erica said, stunned.
“You’ll have over two thousand,” Hanna said, pointing to a crayon figure on the page. “But only if you don’t get caught.”
Erica sat back wide-eyed. “That means when I get the bi-graft, I should have money left over.”
“You’ll need it. You’ll have to run away.” Just like Maureen.
Erica jumped up and jumped around. She danced like a marionette on tangled strings, a little girl who wants to dance out of sheer joy but doesn’t know how.
Hanna smiled at the awkward celebration. Looking about the sparse room, she said, “Where did they go? The cranes I gave you?”
“My mother threw them away,” Erica said, grinning for the first time in Hanna’s presence.
Hanna felt bitten hearing it. As long as she made a thousand of them, she reasoned, she would get her wish, no matter how silly that sounded, the idea of paper birds granting wishes.
*
Back at home, Hanna’s mother told her to sit at the kitchen table so they could talk.
“Well,” she said, “what do you think.”
