That's My Baby

by Frances Itani

  THE train raced south. She looked beyond her reflection to watch shadows leaping through darkness, silhouettes of branches, trees felled by winter. Ice lined the edge of the track. She pulled down the blind, and hung her skirt and blouse over a hook beside the window. The train was slowing, coming to a stop, perhaps to dump ashes, take on coal. The whistle wheezed, a thin, reedy noise, as if the sound had become stuck while trying to escape.

  She had brought a copy of Collier’s with her, and she slid the magazine across the top sheet. She stifled a shriek when three grey fingers emerged from beneath the cover. Her own glove. She tucked the glove away, picked up the magazine and checked the list of contributors. She had sent one article to Collier’s, but it was returned in short order. She was disappointed until she’d seen that the response was from no other than William Chenery. He had scrawled a note in pen across the top of the first page: This is promising. Please try us again.

  The wheels of the train began to clack and rumble beneath the bed again. So loudly, she felt that she could reach through the floor and touch the tracks. She had been travelling on trains since childhood, mostly day trips to Belleville with her mother or Aunt Grania, sometimes with Breeda, or overnight trips to Toronto to visit relatives. The past summer, while she was staying with an aunt and uncle in Toronto, Tobe arrived and took her to the CNE Tent to dance to Tommy Dorsey’s swing music. The year before that, they had danced to Guy Lombardo. They’d have danced all night if her aunt and uncle hadn’t been waiting up for her.

  She felt a rush of panic, of regret. Earlier in the day, Tobe had accompanied her as far as Montreal to see her off on the New York train. Before she climbed aboard, he made a solemn announcement that if war was declared, he was joining up. She refused to take this seriously, found it impossible to imagine him in uniform, his thick hair shorn. And why would he wait until she was about to board before imparting news like that? Crazily, hopefully, she told herself that war would be prevented. The world was not going to allow it to happen. She wondered, given Tobe’s propensity to solve problems peaceably, how he would fare in the midst of violence. She could not think of anyone less warlike.

  On her knees now, she wriggled out of the last of her underwear and jammed it into her locker. Naked except for the locket, she propped pillows behind her, pulled on a nightgown and slid between the sheets. The compartment was warm; she had no need of a blanket. She reached for the locket—a habit now—and smoothed her fingers over its surface. During the December trip to Toronto, the trip she thought of as the true beginnings of her search, she’d consulted a jeweller. He’d checked the locket thoroughly and assured her it was made of gold. Because of the design, he identified its origin, with some certainty, as European. It was impossible to be more accurate without other markings on the locket itself. The style of the letter H—its loops and curls—indicated central or eastern Europe; perhaps the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but that was a guess. He could not be certain of age. All exciting clues, none of which led to answers.

  Hanora dug into her shoulder bag and checked her passport and money to ensure that she had both. She dug deeper and pulled out two small black-and-white photos. She placed them on the ledge of her compartment.

  AUNT ZEL’S PHOTO

  THE FIRST HAD BEEN PUT INTO HER HAND THE previous day. She had walked to the rooming house to say goodbye, and stayed for a cup of tea. Just before she left, Zel handed her a small envelope containing a five-dollar bill, to “buy yourself a treat.” Tucked into the envelope along with the bill was a black-and-white photo of two women, one of whom was Zel. She had removed it from her own album, she said, because she didn’t want to be forgotten while Hanora was out gallivanting around the big wide world.

  “There isn’t a photo of me alone in existence,” she said. She was speaking more rapidly than usual, perhaps embarrassed at presenting a photo of herself. “In fact, there aren’t many photos of me at all. I can’t remember who took this, but it was before you were born. Someone from town, for sure. You’ll recognize the bay. I’m on skates and in costume, and I’m with a friend who moved to the States a long time ago. I haven’t skated since arthritis took hold of my joints. You and I skated together when you were a child, do you remember? You’ve always been good on ice because your parents started you early. It didn’t hurt that the rink was an extension of your backyard.”

  “I remember someone’s mittened hand holding mine tightly. I remember how my ankles ached from collapsing inside my skates while I was learning. Not to mention cold fingers inside mittens.”

  “That’s the Canadian winter story,” said Zel. “Cold fingers inside mittens. Your mother—or maybe your father—would have been holding your hand.” She pointed to the photo. “I hope this will help to keep you connected to town while you’re away. If you look at it now and then . . . well, you won’t forget me. It’s taken from a bit of a distance, but it’s the best I can offer.”

  Hanora hugged her, assured her that she was not going to be forgotten. If Zel wanted her to keep the photo with her, she would honour that request. She loved this honorary aunt who was more than a generation older than her parents, and who had been a part of her life since she was a baby. Zel, with her wonderfully dusky voice, her ability to listen, was someone she’d been able to confide in through the years. She had not, however, told her about being adopted. Even though she trusted Zel, she didn’t want speculation going on in the background while she was figuring things out on her own. Any time she made inquiries, she ensured that news of her search would not get back to her parents.

  But every lead had been blocked by a dead end.

  She settled back against the pillows and examined the photo more closely. Zel had been in her fifties when it was taken. Every winter, people in town dreamed up an assortment of costumes for the outdoor masquerade on ice. Tress had created her share during Hanora’s childhood: quite contrary Mary, Canadian autumn, the hurdy-gurdy man. One year, Hanora and Tobe went as Betty Boop and Popeye. Another year, Hanora and Breeda dressed as Jack and Jill. When they were seventeen, they were Little Lulu sisters, complete with careful ringlets they created from black yarn. The winter before that, they’d dressed as hula dancers and wore heavy leggings under grass skirts. It was one of the coldest days of the year, but freezing temperatures did not dampen their spirits.

  On the back of the photo, Zel had written “Maggie and me.” Her friend Maggie was the younger of the two. Poised, slender, she was dressed in an angel costume. She was laughing, the occasion one of happiness. The word “Peace” was printed across a sign that hung from a double ribbon around Maggie’s neck. There was no mistaking the message. The photo was undated, and Hanora assumed it had been taken immediately after the Great War. Or perhaps after the Treaty of Versailles, when people believed that another war could not possibly be on the horizon. Civilization was given those few years of hope. But that was before the invasion of Manchuria. Before the bombing of Guernica. Before Anschluss. Before the madman named Hitler occupied Prague—and that, only a week ago. The warmongers were restless. Three weeks earlier, France and Great Britain had recognized the fascist dictatorship of Francisco Franco as the legitimate government of Spain. She thought of Julian again, his mother sobbing as she held the article from the Star. Hanora wanted to write more articles, and more.

  She returned to the photo. Maggie’s partially visible wings were oversized, long and delicate, constructed from soft cloth, probably wired to keep their shape. Zel, the taller of the two, was dressed as a jester, or joker. She was wearing pantaloons with a multi-patterned tunic overtop. She was thick at the waist, but the costume was flattering to her figure. An elaborate feathered ruff was twined about her neck. Her cloth hat had three extensions, a bell hanging from the tip of each and dangling over the ruff. Arm in arm, the two friends posed in the sun, challenging the viewer. Was “peace” anything beyond a jest?

  The town judges must have liked the costumes, because the women held between them a banner that proclaimed th
em to be winners of first prize. A first prize that would have been announced in the weekly Post. Every year, Calhoun ran a double layout of masquerade photos at the beginning of February. She wondered if he would miss her reporting. She’d promised to send articles from time to time.

  She switched off the overhead light and turned on the night light, which cast a soft glow. This leg of the journey would last until morning. She was headed for New York. The next day, she and Billie would board the SS Champlain. In twenty-four hours, they’d be sleeping in a cabin at sea.

  “The sea,” she said aloud. “The cold March sea.” She wanted to try out the words; she wanted to create a picture of herself boarding. She had never seen an ocean liner except in photographs. Famous people might be on board, maybe even movie stars. Spencer Tracy? Bette Davis? They’d won Oscars a few weeks earlier, for Boys Town and Jezebel. No matter who was aboard, she and Billie would be there, heading for a continent across the width of an ocean. Her cousin would be at Grand Central to meet her in the morning; she would know what to do and how to act. Billie was used to living in the big city. She was now working as a receptionist at the offices of Tangee, which was becoming known for rouge as well as lipstick in the cosmetic industry.

  Of course, I’ll come to Europe with you, she wrote, after Hanora had suggested the trip the previous fall. Save every penny, and so will I. Tell your parents I’ll arrange tickets from New York to Le Havre. (The best cabin we can afford!) I want to go to England, which means you and I will have to part ways after the first week—let’s spend that first week in Paris. We could meet later in London, if at all possible. I want to sail on the French Line because I’ve heard wonderful stories about the SS Champlain. I probably won’t stay more than a few weeks in all—I might be able to beg a full month, but I’ll have to return to my job. I’m lucky to have this position and don’t want to give it up yet. I’ll bring samples with me. A whole range of colours in those tiny sample tubes I get free.

  Eventually, who knows, I might go back to school and move away. I’ve been thinking of escaping my ties here. I know you said you wanted to travel to the South of France after we land in Europe; I know you want to get closer to the Spanish refugee situation for your work, but I plan to stay away from trouble as long as I can. Maybe, when I’m in England, I’ll get to see the king and queen!

  Think of the fun we’ll have aboard an ocean liner. I hope Hallman will be sorry I’m crossing the ocean. It will be good for him to know that I’m capable of saying goodbye. I’ve always, always wanted to sail the Atlantic. Love you everly, Billie.

  HANORA was grateful to Billie for referring to her work. She was glad they would be together during the first week in Paris. After that, Hanora would be on her own, a thought that frightened and exhilarated.

  “Goodnight, Irene” started up in her head again. The refrain had lodged in her brain when she walked past the caramel shoes and royal-blue socks, and she willed the tune to fade into the noises of the train. She wondered if she’d ever sleep. Not with clattering wheels beneath her bed. Relax, she told herself. You are out in the big world Aunt Zel talked about, and the world is going to get bigger. Don’t be afraid, but don’t fool yourself, either. Focus on the journey. Anything can happen. Keep your notebook ready. Write about everything. Ominous events are happening in the world, but this is a beginning for you. Facts are facts and cannot be meddled with. Write what you see. Send back the news. If you write well enough, people will buy your work. Now try to get some sleep.

  But she wasn’t ready for sleep. She picked up the second photo and held it near the night light. She turned it over in her palm.

  KENAN’S PHOTO

  KENAN HAD DEVELOPED THE PHOTO, ONE Hanora knew well. She’d given him a camera on Christmas Day 1937, and it soon became clear that he valued it as he did no other possession. She had worked hard to save the dollar it cost, and Billie’s older brother, Ned, in Rochester, sent it directly from his workplace at Eastman Kodak. That same Christmas, Tress had given Kenan rolls of 127 film. He had been taking photos ever since. He taught himself to develop film at home, in the unused and dark cold cellar. Kenan was entirely comfortable in the dark.

  He was putting together an album of photos, his own private discoveries. The photo Hanora carried in her purse was taken the day she was told of her adoption. She’d carried it with her from the moment it emerged from the darkroom.

  Unlike Zel’s photo, Kenan’s was dated. From earliest childhood, Hanora knew that her father was methodical and organized. She and her mother had adjusted to the order he needed around him. For a long time, she had believed that all fathers were precise in the way Kenan was. As she grew older, alert to slips of conversation between her mother and Aunt Grania, she learned that Kenan had also been carefree, a charmer, intensely loyal, a dancer, a man who could make others laugh. The war had changed him in some ways, but not all. He was a loving man to his wife and daughter, a good friend to Aunt Grania and Uncle Jim.

  Her father kept himself behind the camera, never in front. There were no photos of him in his new album or in anyone else’s, as far as Hanora knew. Except the one she’d seen of him as a young man, taken long before the war. The one in Aunt Grania’s album.

  The photo in her hand contained a caption on the back, as did all of Kenan’s photos. His captions meant something personal to him. Hanora had given the photo her own title, not the one written by her father. For her, it was Invisible 1938. Because, at first glance, there was nothing to be seen.

  She tried to recreate her last birthday from Kenan’s point of view.

  She had rowed out into the bay with Breeda. She heard the buzz in the sky before turning the boat and heading for shore. Kenan, who reacted to all sound as if trained to listen, heard the same buzz from inside the house. He leapt from his chair, grabbed his cap from the nail beside the door and took long strides out to the street. The peak of his cap was tilted over his left eye, which was permanently sealed. His dead hand was tucked deep into the dead-hand pocket, to keep the arm from swinging wildly. Hanora knew that people in town referred to his wounds as “Flanders disease.” He was received by men on the street with a respectful nod of the head. After he passed by, there was an occasional muttering of “the Somme.” In the town’s eyes, no distinction was made between Belgium and France or any other place he might have served. There was no real information to be had because Kenan said nothing about that time. If a question had been posed—but a question was never posed—two words would have sufficed as the answer: the war.

  The last war. The world seemed to be heading pell-mell into another.

  She went back to the buzz in the sky, Kenan in the street. He flipped up the viewfinder with his thumb, the Brownie a perfect fit inside his right hand. The camera’s movements were controlled by the five fingers of his good hand.

  He pointed the lens to the sky. Did he aim blindly? Did the Brownie lens take the place of his sealed eye? He pushed the shutter at the bottom edge and heard it click back. Snapped the viewfinder into place, returned to the house, tossed his cap over the nail. Checked the circular window at the back of the camera, went directly to his notebook and wrote, Moving aeroplane, Sep. 23, 1938, H’s birthday.

  Only after he developed the film, looked through history books and checked atlases, only then did he complete his notes, his version of what September 23 presented to his mind.

  Beneath the words “Moving aeroplane,” he had written in minuscule letters and enclosed in brackets: (Sep. 23, 1835, HMS Beagle sails to Charles Island, Galapagos, Darwin aboard).

  Recent past did not interest Kenan. For him, recent past meant war. Perhaps, when he wrote the caption on the back, he’d been acknowledging Hanora’s desire for adventure. Or maybe he was creating a memory for himself. He would have experienced loss that day. And Tress. All three had lost something vital and important on September 23, 1938. Months had passed before Hanora allowed herself to realize how difficult the day had been for her parents.

 
She turned back to the photo, searching for what Kenan might have seen. The edges were worn from repeated inspections, the surface glossy but dim, more grey than white. At the upper edge, she spotted the tiniest cross imaginable. The cross might have been planted at the top of an invisible hill, the destination of pilgrims who made impossible treks and wore themselves out trying to reach the summit to kneel before it. But this was not a cross. It was an aeroplane, exciting to see in the nothingness of its surrounds. She knew that people still came out of their houses and barns, stopped work in the fields or errands in the streets, to look up to the sky when they heard the telltale buzz overhead. In town that day, Kenan had taken the trouble to capture the image on film.

  Hanora understood nothing of her father’s intent. He chronicled his way through life, inventing ciphers, connecting present with distant past. A speck of aeroplane in the sky was linked to an event that had taken place more than a hundred years earlier. Perhaps he wondered what Darwin would have thought of flying machines. Kenan predicted that aeroplanes would eventually be bigger, faster, more useful. He was emphatic about the importance of inventions of the future. No one, he emphasized, knew what these inventions would be. Otherwise, wouldn’t the idea of future be meaningless?

  Hanora pushed the photo back down into her bag. She was not certain what the image meant. What mattered was that her father had given the photo to her. She pulled up the blanket and lay on her side, facing the compartment window. And fell into instant sleep.