by Sarah Jio
She pointed to a desk just ahead. “You can pay over there.”
He pulled a dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to a man behind the desk.
“And your change is—”
“Keep it,” Charles said.
“Thank you, sir,” the man said, looking at Charles in astonishment. “Did Alice tell you the rules?”
He shook his head.
“We cut off admission in five minutes, so you just made it. Rules are as follows: No sitting. No eating. No drinking. Dancers must not stop dancing or stand in one place longer than three seconds or face elimination. The last couple to remain dancing wins the kitty here.” He pointed to a glass canning jar filled with nickels. “Photos are just to your left.”
Charles and I walked a few paces and stood side by side against a white curtain.
“Smile now,” the photographer called out from behind his camera with an elaborate flash. It was easy to smile with Charles by my side.
“There,” the photographer said. “If you come back next Friday, the photo will be waiting for you.”
We approached the dance floor timidly. Charles clasped his hands around my waist and began moving his feet clumsily. I smiled, taking his hands in mine and showing him the basic swing step.
“Like this,” I said, moving my feet in time with the music. I waved at Lola, a former schoolmate, in the distance. She looked shocked seeing me in Charles’s arms. Shocked and jealous, maybe.
“This is harder than it looks,” he said, attempting the move again and landing on my right foot. “Sorry.”
“You’re doing well,” I said. It felt good being the one teaching him something.
After a while, Charles got the hang of swing, and he twirled me around the floor with the confidence of an old pro.
“I can see why you like this better than the waltz,” he said, grinning. “It’s a heck of a lot more fun.”
I felt a bead of sweat on my brow. “So what do people like you do for fun?”
He flashed a half grin. “You act like I’m from a different planet.”
“Well,” I said, wiping my brow, “you are, in a sense.” I gazed out at the regular folks on the dance floor—sons of factory workers, daughters of dressmakers. And then there was Charles, the son of one of the wealthiest families in the city, and perhaps in the country, by Caroline’s estimation.
“Oh, come now,” he said. “Don’t you think that’s being a bit dramatic?”
A diminutive figure entered the gymnasium, and I recognized her instantly: Ginger Clayton, an old friend. Her younger sister had died six months before because her family couldn’t afford the medicine to save her. Suddenly I didn’t feel like dancing anymore. How could I dine on oysters and caviar while people like little Emma Clayton had lost their lives?
I let go of his hand. “Don’t you see?”
He tucked my hand in his again. “Careful,” he said. “We’ll be disqualified if we stop. What was it again? The three-second rule?”
I looked away.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” I said. “Well, yes. I just wish the poor didn’t have to suffer so.”
The band slowed its tempo, and I was glad for it. It felt strange to be having such a serious conversation when dancing at such a frenetic pace.
“Listen,” I continued, seeing concern register in his eyes, “I do believe you care, and I know you’re different than most people in your position. I just wish more people with your privileged background cared about the plight of the poor. Times are tough. The widow who lives on the floor below me has to leave her children alone all day while she works because there’s no one to care for them. Perfectly respectable people are out on the street, begging for handouts. All this while the rich…”
“While the rich do nothing about it?” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, nodding.
“Well, you’re right,” he said with a look of conviction. “We’re a despicable lot. I’m the first to admit that. My own parents won’t even pay the household help a living wage. Most have to take second jobs just to feed their families. It’s not right. I’ve tried to speak to my father. He won’t hear of it. He himself came from poverty. Worked his way up from a farming town in Eastern Washington. He’s a self-made man. He believes that hard work and discipline is the ticket out of poverty. In his mind, anyone can make their fortune.”
I shook my head. “But that’s not always true.”
“I know.”
“What he doesn’t realize is that decent, hardworking people are down on their luck,” I continued. “There aren’t enough jobs to go around. People who want to work can’t.”
Charles looked away. “I don’t know what to tell you, Vera. I don’t like it any more than you do.”
“I don’t mean to sound like I’m blaming you, or your father,” I said, worrying I’d overstepped my bounds. It’s just that I was taught that if you have two of something, you share it with someone else. Why can’t the privileged do more to help the needy?”
Charles nodded. “That widow you spoke of, what’s her name?”
“Laura,” I said. “Her name’s Laura.”
“Where does she work?”
“In a garment factory in the industrial district.”
“How many children does she have?”
The band began playing a faster song, so we picked up the pace. “At least five,” I said. “The eldest is barely nine years old. It’s a terrible situation. I brought a loaf of bread down to her last week. The place was an awful mess. Squalor, really.”
Charles looked at me tenderly. “I want to help her.”
“How?”
“For one, let’s get her out of that wretched factory job so she can care for her family,” he said.
“To do that she’ll need—”
“Funds, yes. I’ll take care of it.”
I smiled from a place deep inside. “You will?”
“Yes,” he said. “But she must not know of my involvement.”
“I can help,” I offered.
“Good.”
I nestled my head on his lapel. “That’s an honorable thing to do.”
“No,” he said, stroking my hair, “it’s the right thing to do, and I’m ashamed I haven’t done more things like it.”
Charles twirled me across the floor before I rebounded like a fire hose back into his arms. The music stopped for a moment as I looked into his eyes. His gaze made me feel tingly everywhere, and when he leaned toward me, I let my lips meet his.
“There you are!” a shrill female voice echoed across the dance floor. I took a step back from Charles and watched as a woman approached. Her tan silk dress and hat trimmed with white feathers looked like a page torn from one of the discarded Vogue magazines Georgia sometimes brought home from her housekeeping job. In the ragtag gymnasium, this woman stood out like a swan in a coal mine.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Charles,” she continued with a chastising tone.
He divided his attention between the approaching woman and a man who appeared before us wagging his finger. “I’m afraid you’ve paused too long,” he said. “Please step off the dance floor. You’ve been disqualified.”
“Sorry, Vera,” Charles said to me. “It was my fault.”
The woman pushed through a crowd of people, and Charles and I followed. “Why is my sister here?” he said under his breath.
Away from the dancers, he folded his arms. “Josie?” His tone wasn’t exactly welcoming.
“Wow, I didn’t think I’d actually find you here,” she said, annoyed. She tucked a lock of her perfectly coiffed brown hair under her hat before smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress. “I went looking for you over at the Blue Palms and Delores said”—she looked at me with disapproving eyes and took a deep, frustrated breath—“anyway, there isn’t much time. It’s Mother. She’s taken ill.”
Charles dropped my hand. “Oh no,” he said. “What happened?”<
br />
“The doctor’s with her now,” she replied. “But you need to come quick.”
Charles turned to me. “I’m sorry, Vera, I have to go. I’ll…I’ll call on you soon.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “Go.”
I watched Charles and Josie walk briskly out of the gymnasium. They disappeared in the shadows of the night before I turned back to the other dancers on the floor. Only a few dozen remained. Beads of sweat dripped from their brows. We would have won, Charles and I. We would have danced until dawn.
“My, aren’t you a vision, Vera!” Lon exclaimed when he saw me in the lobby. I hardly recognized my own name on his breath. And when I caught a glimpse of myself in the gilded mirror on the wall to my left, a society girl stared back. My waist looked inches thinner, suctioned in by the fancy undergarments beneath the blue silk dress. My breasts brimmed out of the bodice in a way that made me feel like a roast turkey on a platter, buttered and browned and ready to be devoured. I held my hand to my chest self-consciously.
“Your beauty is dizzying,” Lon said, slipping a possessive arm around my waist.
I didn’t like his hand there, or anywhere. I swallowed hard. I can do this. For Daniel. If I played my cards right, Lon might use his resources to help me find my son. I would be his dinner guest. I would smile and look pretty. I would do anything, really, if it brought Daniel home.
Chapter 12
CLAIRE
I ducked my head as I stepped out of the elevator at the office the next day, purposely taking the long, winding route through the sea of gray cubicles. It seemed silly to take such extreme measures to avoid my own husband, but after last night’s exchange, I didn’t have the heart, or the strength, to face him. Besides, I’d slept in an empty bed again. I knew he probably had stayed at the hospital with Warren, but still, he hadn’t even called to let me know. Since when had he become the husband who considered coming home optional?
The sun had returned to Seattle, and the warmer weather had Frank particularly agitated. “How’s the story coming?” he asked from the doorway of my cubicle a mere ten seconds after I’d planted my butt in the chair.
I swiveled around to face him. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” he said, pointing to the window, “but the snow has melted. Before readers forget about the storm entirely, I was kinda hoping to get your story to press. You told me you’d have it to me today, but that’s obviously not going to happen, so maybe I can get it, I dunno, before Thanksgiving?” He plucked a gnawed pencil from his shirt pocket and inserted it in his mouth. He remained the only boss whom I found adorable when he was mad at me.
“Listen, Frank,” I said, folding my arms with deliberation. “You knew this story was going to be a goose chase going into it.”
He put the pencil back in his shirt pocket. “You’re right,” he said. “But I didn’t think it would be such an epic goose chase.”
I glanced at my notebook, wishing I had more to show for the past days’ research. “Frank, it’s like someone erased this little boy from history.”
“So you’re saying you don’t have a single lead?” he said with a sigh.
“Well,” I continued, “I found a child’s drawing with the name Eva Morelandsteed written on the back.”
“A child’s drawing?” By the look on his face, I gathered he wasn’t thrilled.
“I think she might be related to the missing boy, somehow. Perhaps a sister, or a friend.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m taking you off the story.”
“What?”
“Claire, you’re my best reporter. I can’t keep you on a story that’s not going to pan out.” He set a file on my desk. “We have a lot of stuff to cover this month.”
I looked at the green file folder begrudgingly. “What is this?”
He spoke to the tabletop. “A press kit for Seattle Cultural Days. I want you to write the promo pieces.”
“You have to be kidding me, Frank,” I said. “An advertorial?” Frank knew very well that any self-respecting reporter would rather gouge her eyes out than write ad copy.
“Yes,” he said blankly. “I just got word from advertising. It’s a two-page spread. It needs to run by next week.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe this.”
He took a step closer. “I’m worried about you, Claire. You haven’t been yourself for a long time.”
I shook my head. “Why would you say that?”
“Well,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it’s just that you’ve never failed to meet a deadline.”
I ran my fingers through my hair. He was right. I’d feared I’d lost my reporter’s instinct, my edge, and Frank had confirmed it. What’s happening to me?
I picked up the green folder and opened it. “Don’t worry,” I said, turning to face my computer. “I’ll get this done. Just give me the weekend and I promise you’ll have it on Monday.”
“Claire, listen,” Frank began, “I didn’t mean to hurt you; I was just—”
“It’s fine,” I said stiffly, clenching my fists under my desk. “I’m sorry I let you down. I thought I could write it. I thought I could find that little boy.”
Frank nodded and walked out to the hallway.
A few moments later I heard footsteps approaching. “Knock, knock.” I turned to see Abby at the door, with a big box in her hands. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I said, punctuating the word with an exaggerated sigh.
“Oh, no,” she said. “What is it?”
“I think my career may be over, and Ethan didn’t come home last night,” I replied, unable to take my eyes off the green folder.
“Your career is not over,” she said. “You’re one of, if not the best reporter on staff. And as far as your husband goes, fill me in.”
I sighed. “Thanks, but I’d rather not talk about it right now. I might lose it. You remember our rule about not crying at work.”
Abby smiled, holding out the box to me. “Here.”
“What is it?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it has your name on it. Jenna brought it to my office by mistake.”
I set the box on my desk and reached for the scissors in my drawer to release the tape, which is when I noticed the return address. “Abby, this is from Swedish Hospital.” I felt my heartbeat’s pace quicken. “What could they possibly be sending me?”
I hated that something as simple as the hospital’s logo on the mailing label could create such a visceral response in me. I could hear the beeping of the blood pressure monitor on my arm, see the vivid blue of the curtain in the emergency room, taste the salty tears streaming from my eyes. In an instant, I felt the horror of the accident all over again. I closed my eyes, trying to block the memories, to shut them out, sending them back to the hospital, where I had left them. But when I opened my eyes again, they were there before me, waiting to be confronted.
“Claire,” Abby said quietly, “what is it?”
Anger surged through me as I yanked one flap of cardboard open, then another. What are they sending me? They’d called repeatedly for follow-up appointments, but I never returned the messages. Don’t they know that every call, every damn bill in the mail, is a reminder of my loss? And now this? Can’t they just leave me alone? An envelope was taped to the inside flap of the box. I tore it open.
Dear Ms. Aldridge,
We’ve tried to reach you multiple times about picking up personal items left behind during your hospital stay. The only address we had on record was your employer’s. It is our policy to return belongings to our patients.
Best wishes,
Katie Morelandsteed
I cautiously peered inside the box and pulled out a ribbed gray sweatshirt. It was a mangled mess, ripped at the side by the ambulance driver—a vague memory that came full focus again—with a bloodstain along the sleeve. I remembered the moment I’d purchased it. Ethan
and I had gone shopping for maternity clothes at the Gap. I’d strapped on one of those prosthetic stuffed bellies and paraded out of the fitting room, giving him the shock of his life.
“Your stomach!” he exclaimed. “It looks…”
“Huge?” I grinned, lifting up the edge of the sweatshirt to reveal the padding underneath. “Did I fool you?”
“You did,” he said, a bit relieved. “For a second there, I thought we might be having twins.”
That day, I bought the sweatshirt in three colors, several pairs of pants, all with thick, stretchy elastic waistbands, and a black wraparound dress that Fit Pregnancy magazine had claimed to be the most flattering look for moms-to-be. I winced at the memory, setting the sweatshirt aside before pulling out a pair of black leggings with a jagged hole in the knee. Underneath were my underwear and sports bra, neatly folded into a bundle. Why did they even bother returning this stuff? Why couldn’t they just…burn it? At the bottom of the box lay my running shoes. I had others in my closet, but these had been my favorite pair. Mud-stained, perfectly broken in, they’d traveled with me down miles of rainy Seattle streets, across the finish line of several grueling races, but I couldn’t look at them then. They’d betrayed me.
I tossed the shoes and ragged clothing back into the box, and looked up at Abby. “Is there a Dumpster outside somewhere?”
Abby knelt down next to me. “Claire,” she whispered, “maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to throw all of this away.”
My eyes burned, and I quickly wiped a stray tear from my cheek, annoyed by its presence.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “Come here.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, and I leaned against her, breathing in her lavender perfume. “You used to love to run,” she continued. “Why don’t you try again?”
“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I won’t.”
She reached into the box and pulled out my old running shoes. “Just the same,” she said, “let’s keep these. Toss the clothes if you like, but these shoes need to stay.” She tucked them under my desk. “When you’re ready, put them on.”
“I’ll never be ready,” I said.
