by Cat Winters
“Pfft. I’m not Margery. Single girls need that sort of thing now and then, no matter what the prudes say. You’re a perfectly normal woman, Alice. A normal woman who shouldn’t ever feel ashamed.”
I bit down hard on my back molars to stave off more tears. “Thank you, Bea. You’ve made me feel much better.”
“You’re not being sarcastic, are you?”
“No, you truly are. Just hearing you say, ‘You’re not a murderer from the past century,’ is a much-needed slap across the face, to wake me up; to make me realize how foolish I’m being.” I chewed the nail of my right pinkie. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“And you’re coming home for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Of course.”
“You had better be there to help protect me against Mother and Margery.”
I laughed. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be bringing respectable, middle-aged bachelors for the both of us.”
“Those ‘bachelors’ of theirs are almost always queers. Or ex-husbands whom other women tossed out like last week’s garbage.”
I drew my hand away from Mr. O’Daire’s desk.
Bea made a kissing sound through the receiver. “Take care of yourself, Nell. I . . . I mean Alice.”
“You, too, Bea. I’ll see you Thanksgiving.”
“I love you, funny face.”
I smiled. “I love you, too.”
She hung up with a click that sounded like a door closing deep within the recesses of my head.
Part II
VIOLET
CHAPTER 16
November 25, 1925
On the evening before Thanksgiving, I boarded a train in Salem, Oregon, elbow-to-elbow with political men and lawyers who, like me, journeyed from the state capitol to northbound relatives. The gentleman next to me repeatedly told me he was traveling to his “ancestral home” in Portland’s West Hills for “feasting,” as though he were a British lord returning to his manor. I simply smiled and closed my eyes, exhausted from the final days of testing in Gordon Bay and an ensuing trip to complete paperwork at the Department of Education. The intermingling aromas of colognes and newspapers and cigars made me feel I was traveling in a boardroom on wheels.
At my own “ancestral home” on the east side of the city—a gray and maroon Victorian, sandwiched between newer bungalows from the present century—I lugged my suitcases through the front doorway and inhaled the divine fragrance of pumpkin pie. Murmurs of parental excitement twittered from the back sitting room, and before long, both my mother and father bustled my way with broad smiles and shimmering eyes, their hair dusted with more gray than I remembered from my last stop at the house. Pop always seemed to be getting thinner; Mother, plumper, and broader in the hips.
“The first one’s here!” said my mother in her little singsong voice she always used around us girls when excited. She clasped me to her chest, and her glasses bumped the top of my right ear. My father embraced me, too, although he stood taller, so his spectacles inflicted no harm.
Pop picked up my bags and hoisted them up the staircase while my mother brushed her fingers through my bangs as if I were two years old. She asked how I was eating and keeping my health with “that nomadic job of mine.”
“I’m well into my twenties, Mother,” I said. “I know how to take care of myself.”
“When we encouraged all three of you girls to attend college, I didn’t realize it would mean so many years of worrying about two of you running about on your own. And so few grandchildren.”
I ducked away from her hand. “Margery gave you four grandchildren, don’t forget. Much more than that, and you’ll start forgetting everyone’s birthdays.”
“At least consider settling down in another year or so, like I did. A few years spent working is good for a woman, but husbands and babies are wonderful, too.”
I moved down to the narrow side table where my parents collected my mail in a tidy pile. “Did a letter from Kansas arrive, by chance?”
“Are you expecting Dorothy to write you, like when you were little?” asked my father with a winded chuckle. He plodded down the staircase, his cheeks red from lugging my bags, his nose whistling. “Or the Tin Man?”
“No . . .” I smiled and sifted through letters from old friends and my newest issue of the American Journal of Psychology. “I wrote a letter on behalf of a student I was testing. If correspondence arrives from a town called Friendly, will you please immediately send me a telegram? I’ll leave a list of all the schools where I’ll be working over the next few weeks, and you can send the telegram there. Or, if the letter arrives at the beginning of my assignment, simply mail it to me. I’ll pay for any postage or telegram fees required.”
“Yes, of course,” said my mother, “if it’s that important . . .”
“It’s highly important, Mother.”
“All right, then. No need to snap.”
“I’m not . . .” I drew a deep breath and put a hand on my hip. “I’m not snapping. I’ve been working quite hard these past few weeks and would like to finish up with a case that’s been perplexing me.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?” asked my father, tucking his hands into his pockets, a twinkle in his eyes.
“The father of one of his students is a minister,” said my mother, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, all traces of offense now vanished. “He snuck your father a bottle of sacramental wine. He told him he deserved it for dealing with all of those high school hooligans.”
“A glass would be nice.” I unwound my woolen scarf from my neck. “But first I think I’ll take a bath. That train this evening smelled like a pool hall, and now I smell like a pool hall.”
“Yes, I was wondering if you’d taken up cigars.” Mother fussed with a string on the left shoulder of my sweater. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your oldest sister smokes them. She’s wearing trousers this fall. That’s her latest thing.”
I shrugged. “If it makes her happy . . .”
“But . . . trousers, Alice. And her hair’s cropped as short as a man’s.”
“Life’s far too short to try to conform to everyone else’s idea of fashion, Mother. Or, at least”—I sifted through the letters one more time—“I believe it may be short. And final.”
Mother proceeded to complain about Bea, and in the mirror above the side table, I caught sight of the reflection of a framed photograph of my sisters and me from about 1903, when I was four, Margery six, and Bea eight. The image hung from a picture rail on the chestnut-colored wall behind me, just next to where Pop was standing, brushing lint from his sweater vest. All three pairs of eyes on our round childish faces peered across the hallway at me. Mother had put me in a dark dress with a sailor collar, and I wore a bow on one side of my long brown hair, which Mother parted on my right. Margery and Bea wore white dresses and ringlets, and they smiled for the camera, their teeth showing, little dimples like Mr. O’Daire’s on prominent display.
I didn’t smile. In fact, my expression carried an unnatural severity to it. A brutality. A coldness. Such a piercing stare—such hardened lips—did not belong on the face of a four-year-old child.
“I said, ‘What’s wrong, Alice?’” asked Mother, her voice suddenly loud. “Can’t you hear me?”
I blinked. “Yes, of course. You’re barking in my ear.”
“Then why weren’t you answering me?”
“I told you, it was a tiring journey. A tiring few weeks.” I grabbed the handle of my briefcase, which hadn’t yet made it upstairs. “I’ll take a rain check for that glass of wine, if you don’t mind, Pop.”
“Did you even eat any supper?” asked Mother.
“I ate a sandwich before I boarded the train. I’m fine. I just need to bathe and get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll be fit and fresh for Thanksgiving, I promise you.”
I lowered my eyes and hu
rried past the photograph.
LATER THAT NIGHT, tucked under all my familiar bedding, including my beloved red and turquoise Pendleton wool blanket, I thought back to my parting conversation with Michael O’Daire.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I receive any new information related to my investigation,” I had said on the platform of the little log depot. The train bound for the inland cities breathed plumes of steam against the backs of my legs, and the air smelled of grease and machinery, of travel and promises.
“Now you sound like a police detective,” Mr. O’Daire had replied with a half-smile.
“No . . . as I mentioned before, I’m trying an experiment, and if anything comes of it, I’ll telephone immediately.”
He wiggled his tweed cap farther down over his head. “And . . . if nothing comes of it?”
“I’ll still help Janie.”
“How?”
“I’ll speak with one of my former professors, a clinical child psychologist . . .”
“Do you think this is a form of insanity?” He tilted his head to his right. “Is that what you honestly believe?”
“I’ve been trained to investigate disturbances of the mind, Mr. O’Daire. That’s why you were so keen on having me speak to Janie in the first place.”
“I was keen on having you speak to her because I was curious if you would rule out all possible psychological explanations—which I believe you have. I believe you know in your heart what’s happening with my daughter.”
Down the way, the conductor called out, “All aboard!”
I shifted my head in the man’s direction and observed, out of the corner of my eye, Mr. O’Daire lowering his face and clasping his hands around the back of his neck.
“I’m not a parapsychologist, Michael,” I said, my gaze still averted from his. “I can only help her if there’s something within her mind that’s reachable by therapy.”
He lifted his head. “Why did you just call me ‘Michael’?”
“Because I’m worried there won’t be anything else I can do for Janie.” I swallowed and met his eyes. “If you’re not willing to receive help from a person who possesses more experience in child psychology than I . . . if reincarnation is your only hope . . . then I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can accomplish with this case.” I offered my hand. “This may need to be good-bye.”
His jaw tightened. He kept his hands on his neck.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I want to help her, desperately, but I’m not sure how.”
“Well . . . at least you’re being honest.”
“I don’t want to offer any promises I can’t keep.”
He gritted his teeth and gave a short nod, while my hand remained outstretched.
“Will you at least shake my hand?” I asked. “I’d hate to part in anger.”
He reached out and wrapped his warm fingers around mine, giving them a firm squeeze. “You’re breaking my heart, Alice.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I had so much hope when you first arrived.”
“Please, don’t give up hope.” I squeezed his hand in return, noting the smoothness of his fingers, the thickness of his high school ring. “You have a brilliant daughter with a remarkable future ahead of her.” I withdrew my hand from his. “Allow her to receive as much education as possible, and she’ll likely end up all right in the end. As a child, I myself experienced”—I cleared my throat—“quirks. And terrible nightmares, as a matter of fact. Both of my parents fully supported my education, however, and here I am today, a successful modern woman.”
He nodded with his lips pressed together, his eyes damp.
I glanced over my shoulder at the awaiting locomotive. Wind shook through my skirt and my hair. “I had better get going.”
“I wish you a safe journey.”
“Thank you. Good-bye, Mr. O’Daire.”
“Good-bye, Miss Lind.”
I turned and left him behind on the platform.
MARGERY AND BEA planned to arrive late in the morning on Thanksgiving Day, which meant Mother and I were to be the sole cooks in the kitchen bright and early that Thursday. I strapped a ruffled apron around my waist and threw myself into stuffing, basting, stirring, seasoning, and baking. Mother gave her usual reports on all of the neighbors’ latest health problems, and I did my best to use her gossip as a distraction to that unfinished business in Gordon Bay. Every once in a while I caught myself wondering what all of the O’Daires were doing at the moment—whether Janie spent any time with Michael on Thanksgiving or if she stayed with her mother and aunt. My own mother’s voice would promptly startle me out of my ponderings, however, and send me straight back into tales of goiter and croup.
Margery and her brood arrived first.
“We brought vegetables,” said my sister as she hugged me in front of the doorway. Beneath her right arm dangled both a sack of groceries and Baby Warren. “Prepare to be frightened, Alice.”
“Why is Auntie Alice frightened by vegetables?” asked her round-eyed five-year-old, Bernie.
“Because she’s a silly goose. She doesn’t know what’s good for her.” Margery smiled with a show of her teeth, which were always a tad too large for her mouth, but not enough to detract from her pretty dark eyes and hair. She then leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Are you behaving yourself, Alice?”
“Please don’t always ask me that,” I said under my breath.
“I worry about you.”
“You’re ashamed of me.”
“That’s not true. I just wish you would track down a husband and settle down.”
“Husband hunting season hasn’t yet gone into effect this year, Margie. I’ve checked with the Oregon State Game Commission.”
She rolled her eyes and handed to me Baby Warren, who smelled of strained carrots and soiled diapers. A bright-orange stain on the child’s upper lip set off my gag reflex, so I swiftly swooped the child over to his father, Dr. Donald Osterman, a gangly fellow with squinty gray eyes and a thin mustache. Donald could never quite look me in the face after Margery asked if he would fit me for a diaphragm two years earlier—a request he vehemently denied due to my status as an unmarried woman.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Alice,” he told me, speaking in the direction of Warren’s bald head. “Work going well?”
“Quite.”
“How nice.”
“Yes.”
I ducked back into the kitchen until Margery’s oldest, Geraldine, shouted from the parlor, “Auntie Bea is here! And she’s dressed like a man again!”
I sprinted back out to the front hall in time to see my oldest sister traipsing up the front path in a tan blazer, a bowtie, and loud checkered trousers. She wore her dark curls cropped so short and so slicked against her head, I would have, indeed, mistaken her for a man if I’d first seen her from behind. She carried a round cookie tin, as well as the large wicker handbag she used for toting around her wallet and books.
I scooted myself past Geraldine to be the first to greet Bea, who threw out her arms when she saw me and said, “There’s the kid!”
“Hello, Bea.” I wrapped her up in a hug, smelling perfume that wasn’t hers, and pulled her toward the house by her elbow. “No potential suitors today,” I whispered, “but I’ve received no less than two jabs at my lack of a husband since I first walked through the door.”
“Are you feeling better than when I last talked to you?”
“Yes, but let’s not bring that up right now.” I took her cookie tin and yanked her into the house so I would no longer be the sole member of the family scrutinized for her questionable choices in life.
FEASTING COMMENCED AT a quarter past three, and everyone immersed themselves in conversations about childhood escapades and remembered grandparents and the time the roof leaked and rain flooded the attic. Margery handed me a bowl full of snap peas, which I promptly passed along to Bea, holding my breath as I did so. Peapods always reminded me of plump green fingers that had wiggled
their way out of cold garden dirt. They smelled of rot. Of decay.
“Just eat them, Alice,” said Margery through a strained smile, her voice lowered. “My children are watching. They’ll wonder why they need to eat their vegetables and not you.”
“I’m a grown-up, Margery,” I replied with my own taut grin. “I don’t need you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t eat.”
Aside from that one squabble, the meal sailed along on an even course, and I even managed to forget about Janie O’Daire and Violet Sunday and the nefarious Man from the Other House. Pop asked me once if I had come across any interesting students in my recent examinations, but I merely answered, “No. No one worth noting.”
Only once did my thoughts glide back to Gordon Bay, to Michael O’Daire. I remembered the two of us watching the rain pelt his windshield as the wind knocked us about in the car. I recalled holding his fuzzy plaid blanket up to my chin and wondering if we’d get washed out to sea.
In some ways, I believed we had.
LONG AFTER MY sisters, mother, and I scrubbed the dishes clean, after the men returned the spare chairs to the sitting room and Margery and Donald swept out the front door with the children, Bea joined me up in my room. We both lounged on my bed, she with her shoulders slouched against the damask wallpaper, her checkered legs crossed in front of her, and I against my headboard, an elbow sinking deep into my goose-down pillow.
“Here . . .” Bea unearthed a gleaming silver flask from the depths of her wicker handbag. “Don’t ask how I obtained it, but I figured you could use a swig of juice.”
“Oh!” I reached for the flask, which smelled of gin. “Bless you, bless you, Beatrice Lind!”
She snickered and handed over the metal container, which I unscrewed as fast as my fingers would allow. The gin burned down my throat like an antiseptic, but, oh, how sublime it tasted, like pine trees. Like Christmas. I licked excess drops from my lips, luxuriating in both the sweetness and the sting.
“I’d never call myself a lush,” I said, “but I started craving hooch the moment I first stepped off the train out on that damn soggy coast.”
