So when will you be going to school, Mrs. Ronan from next door asked. Pretty soon, Margaret answered, ever adroit, intriguing them with detail while revealing nothing: as soon as the papers came from their last school. Well, it hadn’t even been a school, not a real one like the Burleigh, but private in a way. They’d had their own teacher and there’d only been the three of them, her brother, herself. And Jesse-boy. Of course, he always had to be in his wheelchair. Everyone called him Jesse-boy, which was strange because he wasn’t really a boy anymore. Not like Thomas, that is. And so off she went every day, outside to play, happy to have so many friends clamoring for her attention while all the while she managed to hold herself remote enough that there was nothing of her they could possess.
Thomas sulked inside, drawing floor plans of enormous mansions. In addition to the ordinary rooms for living, his homes had rooms devoted exclusively to the closeting of shoes, the maintenance of tools, the storage of books. Shoe-Room, he penciled in tiny letters, below it, the Book-Room. In this rendition the Tool-Room was on the third floor. He drew a tiny square to indicate the sink where the gore could be washed from his father’s tools.
“Book-Room,” Irene said, looking over his shoulder. “You mean the library, don’t you?”
He didn’t know what he meant.
“That’s what it’s called,” she said, pulling on long gray leather gloves, another gift brought yesterday. “Mr. Dexter has a library. In his house. All the walls are lined with books. The shelves go right up to the ceiling. And the furniture’s all red leather. Except for the reading table, of course. That has big brass lamps with green glass shades.”
The pencil lead dug into the paper. It was the most she’d said in days. Her silence had reminded him of her last bleak months at home. Even Margaret’s brightest efforts hadn’t been able to pierce her melancholy. Until now.
“Were you there?” he made himself ask, both hating and having to know. “In the library?”
“Yes.” She jammed one finger between the other to work the glove down as far as it would go. “Just once though.”
“Oh.”
“To see about a job. Mr. Dexter thought I might like working there. Keeping track of things for the family. Household accounts, things like that.”
He waited. “Did you get the job?” he asked carefully. Just her speaking to him was wonderful, even if it had to be about that snake, Dexter. However, hearing that he had brought her into his home frightened Thomas. That would have been worse, having to share her not just with Mr. Dexter, but with his family. With five other children.
“No,” she sighed and picked up her purse. “She didn’t want me. His wife, that is.”
Was she smiling? Yes. She was. With what? The irony of it? Or in some sense of triumph, that in the end, she’d still managed to be available to him. Her touch was light on his shoulder. “Just so you’ll know, Thomas. I can’t say this to Margaret. She’s too young, she doesn’t understand. But I had to leave. It wasn’t right, I knew it wasn’t. I knew how awful it would be for you and your sister, but I still had to: I was so afraid, but I knew if I stayed something terrible would happen.”
Something terrible, him hating her, that’s what she meant. That’s what had driven her away. Every bad thing he’d ever done and said to her. To his sister, his father, everyone. He held his breath as she continued. “It was like … like dying inside.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” he whispered, but she didn’t seem to hear, so determined was she to explain.
“Always pretending. Always wanting something else and feeling so trapped. It really was. Oh, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’m sorry. But I just want you to know, not a day went by that I didn’t think of you. Not a day. Not one single day.” She squeezed his shoulder, then kissed the top of his head. He wanted to leap up and hug her, so that she would hold him back, but she was telling him that she was going to get her hair done. He was to find Margaret and tell her to come inside until she got back from the beauty parlor. It wouldn’t take more than an hour or so.
“She said that?” Still in her coat and hat Margaret sat at his feet, hugging her knees. “That we’re gonna stay here?”
“No, but that’s what she meant. That she’s tired of pretending.”
“Of pretending what?”
“Tired of us not being with her.” His mind raced through the magnitude of her few words. How annoying that Margaret, of all people, expected exact quotes, every word and nuance perfect. “She said she was always thinking of us, every day. The whole time.”
Margaret’s smile was raw with happiness. So they would be going to the Burleigh after all. See? Hadn’t she told him? Hadn’t she been right? Come on, admit it. That’s when she’d known, when Daddy’s letter came. She could just tell. That’s why Mommy had been so quiet these last few days. She was thinking, making up her mind what to do. They’d miss Daddy, of course, poor Daddy, but even if they did go back, he’d still be in jail. This way they’d be with their mother. And pretty soon their father too. When he did get out, because he’d probably come right down here to see them. Yes, that’d be the first thing he’d do. And then he’d see Mommy and she’d see him and they’d both be in love all over again, forever and ever.
“Take off your coat.”
“They will. I know they will. And you do too, Thomas, but you don’t want to admit it, because I said it first.”
He erased Book-Room and printed LIBRARY. He erased two doorways and three windows. Every bit of wall space would be for shelves. Floor to ceiling. Was his father thinking of him every day the way his mother had? Probably not, but that was okay. Someday he’d tell his father about choking on the cigarette Otis had given him. Someday when he was older. When he couldn’t get in trouble. When maybe they could laugh about things.
Margaret lay on the loveseat reading a torn book Ann Ronan had let her borrow. Pages fell out as she turned them. She kept sticking them back in, then finally held up just the page to read it. Someday Margaret would have her own library, every shelf crowded with brand-new books, more than she could ever in a lifetime read. The gate clanged shut. He pushed his blueprint—he had written that above the drawing—to the edge of the table where his mother would see it when she came home. Her key turned in the lock. Margaret ran to meet her.
“Oh.” She stood still, holding the door open. “I thought it was my mother,” she said guiltily.
Louis Dexter looked at her, then in at Thomas. He carried a large bouquet of yellow roses. “I’ve come to see Miss Talcott. Is she here?”
“No,” Margaret said.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
Margaret shrugged. She looked back at her brother.
“Pretty soon,” he said.
“Well, I might wait for her then. If you don’t mind, that is.”
Again, Margaret looked at her brother.
“Okay,” he said.
“Good then!” Mr. Dexter came in. “I’ll just sit down a minute. See if she comes. I’m Mr. Dexter,” he said as he laid the roses on one side of the loveseat. He removed his hat and unbuttoned his coat, then sat with his hands on his knees, smiling at them.
Not knowing what to say, they lowered their gaze to the floor. When he spoke each looked at the other, in alarm. He asked their names. Margaret and Thomas, Thomas answered for both. He asked old they were. Twelve and eight, Thomas told him. Where did they live?
Belton, Vermont, Thomas said.
“Oh, of course. That’s where Miss Talcott’s from.” He smiled. “And how long are you here for?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said.
Mr. Dexter checked his watch. “Did Miss Talcott say when she’d be back?”
Too dry to speak, Thomas’s mouth could only open. Now he shrugged.
“She went to the beauty parlor,” Margaret said softly.
“Yes. Well, that’ll probably take some time then, won’t it?” He stood, holding his fine gray hat lightly by its crease. A dia
mond glinted in his wide gold wedding band. “A lady having her hair done, that’s no brief excursion, now is it?” He went to the door then turned to say the flowers were for Miss Talcott. “Tell her they’re from a very fond admirer.” He winked at Margaret.
If the gate had even creaked, no one had heard it, but suddenly the door opened and Irene rushed in, hair tightly waved, her face white with dread. What was he doing here? He knew she wouldn’t be here. She’d told him she wouldn’t. Why had he come? Why did he do this? Why?
To surprise her. See? The roses. It had been eight months. He was going to leave them inside for her to find. He was about to let himself in, but her young visitors had been kind enough to let him in. He touched her cheek and brought his face close to hers. “You look so tired. Very beautiful, but tired.”
“Go upstairs! Now!” she told them.
“No,” he called before they could leave. “Irene, don’t be mad at them. They were very nice. But they’re from Belton, Vermont, so of course they’d be lovely children.” He nuzzled his forehead against hers. “Almost as lovely as you,” he whispered.
“They’re my children.” She pulled back and stood rigidly apart from him. “They’re mine.”
He looked at them then, not with the patronizing amusement of moments before, but brokenly, with defeat.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Sorry for what, Thomas wondered as he ran up the stairs after Margaret. For not telling she had children or simply for having these children, poor ragamuffins that they were.
The door to the street closed. She came up a moment later. The powerful engine of his great car roared to life, then was as quickly lost in the distance. Still in her coat, she huddled on the edge of the metal bed with her face in her hands. Stayed there for a long time, but she did not cry. They felt no pity for her, only excitement for what would be theirs again. Her. Their mother.
In the days that followed, she moved quietly through the forced routine of their lives, but with a heaviness that allowed only the most necessary dialogue. She cooked for them though did not seem to eat herself. She hung their wet socks and underwear to dry at night by the glowing stove and in the morning reminded Thomas to get more coal from the bin, though he had already been downstairs before she was even up. He was awake long before sunrise. If his father had six weeks left in jail, then they might be together again by Christmas. It wasn’t that long, but to Margaret it seemed forever. Now that Mr. Dexter was gone, she wanted them to go back home with their mother and if they couldn’t afford the bus tickets right now, then why couldn’t she at least go to school? Ann Ronan said she was going to stay back if she missed any more time. Thomas was constantly telling her to shut up. She was upsetting their mother.
Irene withdrew to her room for long periods of time. If she slept she seldom looked rested. Instead she was always agitated, bumping into the doorway, gasping when one of Margaret’s chattery outbursts broke the silence. She startled easily, as if she were forgetting they were still here. One morning she wrote two more letters, then prepared to walk down the hill to mail them at the post office. Margaret asked to go too. There wouldn’t be anyone to play with until the little girls came home from school. She was as sick of her brother as he was of her. Irene said she had other stops to make. It was too snowy, and Margaret would be tired. Margaret promised not to complain once, no matter how many places she had to go.
Irene was buckling her boots. The snow had started late last night. Thomas had just shoveled the front walk and their sidewalk, but the rest of the sidewalks and the road were already ankle deep.
“Please,” Margaret begged. “I’ll keep up. I promise I will.”
“You don’t have boots and you don’t have leggings so stop, please stop asking me,” she said angrily.
“I don’t care about boots. I don’t need leggings,” Margaret persisted.
“Well you should care!” Irene snapped.
“We could probably get some from the church. Mrs. Ronan got Ann’s there,” Margaret said on her heels to the door. “I know where it is. St. Mary’s, Mrs. Ronan told me.”
Irene looked down, then bit her lip against whatever she had been about to say. “I may be a little late getting back,” she said, then closed the door.
“Little beggars,” the housekeeper muttered, leaving them in the vestibule.
“See!” Thomas said and Margaret covered her mouth, giggling. This was all her idea and they were actually doing it. He hadn’t been able to talk or threaten her out of it. Rather than risk her going off alone, he had become her reluctant accomplice.
The high ceilings, the dark, polished wood, the warm, unnatural quiet was like the Farleys’. The priest seemed to float down the stairs. Tall and graceful in the flowing black cassock, he was more delicate than a man should be, Thomas thought. He knew from the housekeeper why they were here, the priest said. To get some boots and, if they had them, leggings, Margaret said, eager, gloating in her adventure, never happier than when she could be solving a problem, always trying to fill gaps, plug endless holes. Smile and be nice, friendly and sweet, it always worked. Leggings would be nice. Any kind would do. Then she could go sliding too. With Ann and her sister. On the sheets of tin Mr. Ronan had brought home. Her voice died out with the priest’s silence.
“Talcott,” he mused. “Are you in this parish, your family?”
Stricken, Margaret looked to her brother. The lark had taken a bewildering turn. Nice, friendly, and sweet weren’t going to be enough.
“Um. I don’t know. Maybe we are.” Thomas glared at her. Here in the low light, by the lovely furnishings, she looked messy and uncared for, feral in her desperation.
“Are you Catholic?”
“Yes.” At least his father was or had been, Thomas was pretty sure.
“Well what school do you go to?”
“We don’t go to school. Not right now anyway. But we will. We’re going to.”
Warning them to hold tight to the railing, the priest led them down to the dusty cellar. Most of the winter clothes were gone now, he said, rooting around in the deep wooden bin in the corner. Let’s see now, some old pieces of cloth. One sock. Here you go! Black rubber boots for Thomas; men’s, but with rags stuffed in the toes, they should fit all right, he grunted, reaching back in. No boots or leggings, nothing for the little girl, his voice called hollowly from the box. What about these? He held up a big pair of boy’s wool pants. There were patches on the knees.
“No, thank you,” Margaret said. She cringed from the orangey tweed. They couldn’t have been more horrible to her than if they contained a boy.
“Good heavy wool,” the priest coaxed, holding them out. “They’ll keep you warm.” The priest persisted, assuring her they were quite good-looking, even rather jaunty with the red-patched knees.
“They’ll be fine. Thank you.” Thomas took them from him. He wanted to go. The priest was asking too many questions. About their mother, their father, again about school. Where did they live?
“Kressey Court,” Thomas said, and with his first direct answer they were finally on their way.
The boots flopped through the falling snow. A coal truck sped by, splashing up a cold, drenching wave of gray slush. Whimpering, Margaret wiped her legs. “See,” he gloated, holding out the pants. “You should’ve put them on.”
She strode ahead.
“Your shoes’re all wet and now your legs are too. What good’s that?”
Walking faster, as fast as she could manage through the deepening snow, she would not answer him.
“There’s nothing wrong with these pants. You’re just spoiled, that’s what’s wrong.” He huffed alongside her through the stinging cold. Two young men struggled down steep stairs under the weight of a wide oak wardrobe. A door flipped open and a silky red dress slid onto the snow.
A gray-haired woman came out of the tenement carrying two bulging valises. She slung the wet dress over her arm, then continued down the street after the men and her w
ardrobe, which seemed now in the distance to be moving of its own accord like an enormous wooden carapace, headed to a cheaper flat or else in with a relative, a son or daughter. Or maybe to see what the junk man might give for her last piece of furniture.
He ran to catch up with his sister, but it was hard with the big boots suctioning into the snow. “You better not fuss either when Mommy says to wear them.” He grabbed her arm.
“Leave me alone!”
“No, because you’re going to make her cry. You can’t get her upset. You have to do what she says. You have to, Margaret. Please?”
A few days later it was early evening when Mr. Dexter came to the door. He asked Irene if she would go for a ride in his car. He was on his way home, but needed to talk to her. She told him she couldn’t leave her children alone at night, but he was welcome to come in if he’d like. Whatever he said in a low voice made her turn from the door and tell them to go upstairs. Quickly!
Even with their ears pressed to the floorboards they couldn’t hear much. Mr. Dexter did most of the talking, but his voice was guarded, his tone indistinct. From time to time their mother answered with a dismal sigh. “I can’t … I’ve already tried … there’s no one …”
Mr. Dexter’s voice rose with impatience. But the wind that had been blowing all day whistled through the eaves, obscuring his words.
“Of course I do! You know I do!” she cried out.
“No, because if you did, if you really did, you’d do something!” he said angrily. The door closed. His car started and then he was gone. Margaret rose giddily. She got as far as the door when their mother’s deep, painful sobs pushed up against the floorboards. Thomas and Margaret sat on the bed, more helpless than if someone had been down there beating her. She moaned and gagged, then shrieked for help, for someone to please help her. They ran down the stairs.
The Lost Mother Page 18
