by Terrie Todd
“Whatever for?” she said. “Because you wrote an imbecilic poem about some stupid chicken? Why apologize to me for your ineptitude? I couldn’t care less. Leave me alone.”
He watched her leave the building. I’m sorry, God, he prayed. I’m really, really sorry.
With his heart still heavy, he walked to the front of the room and cleaned the boards. But not before he stopped in front of Webster’s dictionary, opened it up, and read the definition of imbecilic.
Chapter 6
April 1937
On my fifteenth birthday, I woke to the sound of Mr. McNally’s rooster and the smell of his chicken coop wafting through our open window. Spring had come early to Bleak Landing, but the drought and economic depression raged on. The Great Depression, they called it, thanks to former US President Hoover, who’d thought “depression” sounded better than “panic.” To Pa, what Canadians called a depression still seemed like a step up from what he had known back in Ireland. For me, it was simply life.
Pa had declared that once I reached fifteen, I would no longer need school. I begged him to let me continue until the end of June and finish Grade Eight.
“Whatever for? You already know more than the teacher.”
That much was almost true. Miss Johansen had confided to me that she’d completed Grade Nine and then passed an exam that earned her a one-year teaching permit, back in 1928. Every year since, the school board had simply renewed her permit. She was doing a good job, and no one felt inclined to seek out a more qualified teacher. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that Miss Johansen kept agreeing to smaller and smaller salaries as everyone tried to survive the troubled times. Pa told me more than once how grateful I should be for getting to go to school at all, and I knew that much was true. I knew Miss Johansen read widely to stay one step ahead of me, and she passed on every book she studied for me to devour as time allowed.
I’d been the oldest student in the school all year. Next oldest was Bruce Nilsen. He claimed he was going to become a lawyer one day, and I believed it. Somehow, though no one seemed to understand why, his parents defied the economy and continued to live prosperously. That’s why Bruce was still in school. Victor Harrison had left after Grade Seven to help out full time on his father’s farm. Rebecca Olsen had been working at her father’s general store since the end of Grade Six, and Susan Andersen had found a job as a telephone operator around the same time. Rumor had it both girls were on the hunt for husbands.
A husband was the last thing I needed. By fourteen, I’d determined I would make my own way in the world. Trouble was, I hadn’t a cent to my name, and though I’d looked for work, nobody could pay. But today was my fifteenth birthday, the day I would leave Bleak Landing forever. I’d already made arrangements with Mr. Nilsen, Bruce’s pa. The man drove to Winnipeg regularly, returning to Bleak Landing only once a month or so. He’d agreed to give me a ride to the city and introduce me to his friend Mr. Thompson, who managed a textile factory. Mr. Thompson and the owner, Mr. Weinberger, liked to hire country girls because they had a good work ethic and worked for less pay. In exchange, I would pay Mr. Nilsen one half of my first paycheck. The other half would cover my keep in the dormitory on the factory’s top floor.
Mr. Nilsen had no use for my father. I didn’t know what his grudge was, although I suspected it had something to do with a card game. The situation worked in my favor, though. Mr. Nilsen was happy to make arrangements with me secretly, just to spite Pa. He told me to meet him at the Shell, Bleak Landing’s only gas station. The station was closed now, since no one in town besides Mr. Nilsen seemed to have the means to buy fuel. I guess he made sure when he was in Winnipeg that he had enough gas to get himself to Bleak Landing and back again.
I arrived at the Shell before he did and took a seat on the concrete curb in front of the abandoned pump.
The setting seemed appropriate for my last moments in this forlorn little place. It was a warm day for April, and already dusty first thing in the morning. Truth was, we hadn’t seen the sun clearly for weeks thanks to that haze. It did make for pretty sunsets and sunrises, I’ll give it that.
The brown skirt and white blouse I wore may not have been the best choice for the day, but it’s not as though I had a lot of options. The canvas duffel bag I carried held my entire wardrobe: two dresses, a work shirt and pair of overalls, a nightgown and some underthings, and the good winter coat that had mysteriously appeared on our doorstep the December before last. I’d tried to put my hair up to look older, but it was hopeless. In the end, I’d simply tied it at the back of my head with the hair ribbon Miss Johansen had given me for winning a spelling bee two years before. At least it was a step up from the two braids I’d learned to do myself at the age of seven and worn all my life since.
I looked around at the dusty gravel road and the tumbledown buildings across the street. The grass was dead except where weeds sprouted through the broken concrete. So many people had left Bleak Landing, seeking work in bigger cities. It felt like a ghost town, especially early in the morning. I’d managed to leave the house without disturbing Pa, and all I could think about was ridding myself of this place forever. From today on, the word bleak would no longer be part of my vocabulary. I wasn’t naive enough to think life was going to be easy, but it would certainly be different. It had to be.
Mr. Nilsen pulled up in his gray-and-black car. He rolled down his window. “Hop in. You can throw your bag in the backseat.”
I did as I was told and climbed in beside him. “Thanks, Mr. Nilsen, I really appreciate this.” I smoothed my skirt and brushed some of the dust from my sleeves, mostly for something to do. My heart pounded at the knowledge that I was actually making my escape.
“About that.” Mr. Nilsen paused to light a cigarette. “I know we agreed on your first paycheck—”
“Half my first paycheck.”
“Right. Half. Here’s the thing. I’m going to need a little collateral.”
I looked at him in disbelief.
He blew smoke out his window. “Collateral means—”
“I know what collateral means.” Did the man think I was born yesterday? That I’d never read a book? “That was not part of our deal.”
“Well, it is now. How do I know for sure Thompson will hire you for the garment factory? He might take one look at your sorry hide and say you’re too skinny or something. And if he does hire you, how do I know you won’t take your money and run?”
“Where would I run? Please, Mr. Nilsen.”
“And how do I know that shylock will even pay you?”
Now I was really confused. What did any of this have to do with a Shakespeare character? “Shylock?”
“I mean the owner, Mr. Weinberger. He’s a shylock.”
I stared at him, not comprehending.
“You know, a Yid? An Abe? They’re even worse than the greaseballs and the micks, like you and your pa.”
I sighed. No wonder his son was so narrow-minded.
“Mr. Nilsen, I don’t have anything for collateral. I’ll earn the money and pay you back, I promise.”
“Oh, but you do have something.” His eyes went to the locket at my throat. “You think there’s anybody in Bleak Landing who doesn’t notice that necklace you wear all the time? Anybody who doesn’t know it’s worth a good price, even in these lean times? I’m surprised you’ve managed to hang on to it, knowing that daddy of yours.”
I covered the locket with my hand, wishing I’d packed it in my bag. “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have.”
“And you’ll get it back, no problem. All I’m asking is that you let me hold on to it for you, just for a while. As soon as you make good on the money, you can have mommy’s little trinket back. Shoot, it’ll be safer with me than if you keep wearing it.”
I studied the man’s face. His light blond hair and fair complexion contrasted with the darkness of his expression and the cold glint in his eyes. “Please don’t do this, Mr. Nilsen.”
“It’s your ch
oice, girl. You can hop out and go home to daddy right now if you prefer to hang on to your bauble. But I can’t wait much longer, so make up your mind. There’s a job for you in the city, and a roof to go over your head, too, but they won’t wait long. Girls are flocking to Winnipeg looking for work, and not all of them are ignorant little immigrants like you.”
I looked out the side window, my eyes beginning to sting. If I returned home now, Pa would discover what I had planned and make me pay. And just as soon as I healed from whatever bruises he inflicted, I’d be expected to earn my keep in a manner I was not prepared to accept. Surely Ma would understand. And I’d get her locket back as soon as possible—in a month, at most.
“Well? Come on, girl. Wait any longer and somebody’s going to see you leaving town with me.”
Slowly, I removed my mother’s locket and held it out to him without a word.
“Good choice.” Mr. Nilsen slid the locket into an inside pocket of his coat. “You won’t regret it, you’ll see.” He started the car, and we rolled down the road.
I had not left Bleak Landing since our arrival eight years before, but I did not turn around now for a last look.
Chapter 7
I knew my eyes were probably bugging right out of my head, but I couldn’t help it. I’d come through Winnipeg when I was seven years old, but now I wondered if I’d been asleep on the train the entire time. I sure couldn’t recall having seen so many buildings or people in one place before. I started feeling really nervous, and my heart pounded as though it was driving fence posts or something.
Mr. Nilsen’s chuckle grew into a full-blown laugh as he saw me turning my head from side to side to gawk at the new world around me. Did it never end? How would I ever find my way around?
“How many people live here?” I asked.
“Plenty. Around two hundred and twenty thousand, with more coming every year.”
A low whistle escaped my lips as I surrendered any attempt to appear nonchalant. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
Mr. Nilsen pointed out something on our left.
“See that? It’s a hockey rink, come winter. That’s where the Monarchs play. Proud gold medal winners at the World Hockey Championship two years ago. And they won the Memorial Cup this year.”
I didn’t care much about hockey or any sport, and marveled that anyone in the world still found the means to attend games when so many people went without food or work. It seemed like a good sign, though. I was gladder than ever to be somewhere besides Bleak Landing, where even the curling rink had sat abandoned the past winter.
Mr. Nilsen turned down Broadway Avenue. At school, I’d seen pictures of the Manitoba Legislative Building with the shiny Golden Boy on top, but seeing him now was a whole different thing. The bright sun glinted off his bare bottom as he stood balanced on the ball of one foot, his right arm holding a torch high, the other grasping a sheaf of wheat. I knew he was seventeen feet tall, but he looked tiny from where I sat gawking in the car. I craned my neck as we drove by, trying to get a look at some of the other statues on the grounds.
“This here’s the famous Fort Garry,” Mr. Nilsen said. “Better get a good look at the outside, because you’re not likely to ever see the inside.”
I faced forward in my seat and saw what he was talking about. The grand hotel stood like a fortress, its stone walls decorated with fancy carvings. Next came the railroad station, nearly as grand but not as tall. Would I ever see the inside of that? I wondered. Where would I go by train? Not back to Bleak Landing, that’s for sure. Still, I tried to get my bearings and memorize where it was so I’d know, should the need arise.
Mr. Nilsen turned north on Main Street, and I marveled at the cars and trolleys and pedestrians. On some streets, we shared space with streetcars running along little train tracks. On others, trolley buses scooted along, powered by overhead wires that sent sparks shooting out when they turned a corner. Were they safe? Would I ever figure out how to get around on these buses?
As we turned right and left, I lost track of street names I’d been trying to keep straight in my head. I knew I’d never find my way anywhere without guidance. Buildings looked more industrial now, and when I realized Mr. Nilsen was stopping in front of one, I read the sign sweeping across its front: WEINBERGER TEXTILES.
“This is it.” Mr. Nilsen turned off the engine and lit a cigarette. “Might want to stretch your legs a little before we go inside.”
I climbed out of the car and stood beside it, looking up at the big building. It represented my new world, and my heart fluttered like the last leaf clinging to an oak tree on Halloween night.
Mr. Nilsen got out, threw his cigarette butt to the pavement, and ground it out with his foot. “Might as well bring your bag,” he said. “Let’s find Bob Thompson.”
I grabbed my belongings from the backseat and followed Mr. Nilsen up the steps of the factory. Inside, a middle-aged woman sat at a large reception desk, talking on a telephone. I could hear the muted whir of machinery. When someone opened a door off to my left, the sound got much louder, and I caught a glimpse of what lay beyond it: rows and rows of sewing machines.
The woman ended her call, glanced my way, and turned her attention to Mr. Nilsen. “May I help you?”
“Lars Nilsen to see Bob Thompson, please. He’s expecting us.”
The woman led us down a hallway to the right, where she rapped on a door marked ROBERT THOMPSON, PERSONNEL MANAGER. She opened the door without waiting for an answer and ushered us into an office. “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll find him and tell him you’re here.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Nilsen watched her leave and took one of two wooden chairs facing Mr. Thompson’s desk. “Might as well sit down, Bridget.”
No sooner had I set my bag on the floor than a short man with a bald head rushed in. “You made good time, Nilsen.” The men shook hands over the desk, and Mr. Thompson looked at me. “I take it this is the young lady you told me about?”
“Bob, this is Bridget O’Sullivan. Bleak Landing’s finest.”
“How do you do, Mr. Thompson?” My voice trembled and my cheeks felt warm.
“Pleased to meet you, Bridget.” The man nodded and sat in the chair behind his desk. “I’m glad you’re here. We just lost one of our seamstresses this morning, and I need to replace her as soon as possible. Ever operate a sewing machine?”
“N-no, sir.” I hesitated for only a moment. “But I’m a fast learner.”
“Well, you’ll have to be. I’ve got time for a quick tour, and then we want to get you started—provided you don’t change your mind.” He chuckled and handed me a form. “I’ll need you to fill this out and hand it in to Miss Brenner before the end of the day.”
I took the paper. I’d never filled out a form in my life. I didn’t even own a pen!
“I’m sure Miss Brenner will be happy to assist you with it at her desk,” he added. “Now follow me. You coming, Lars?”
“Not this time, Bob. My job here is done.”
“Know any other girls looking for work?”
“No. Just the one.”
The men shook hands again, and Mr. Nilsen moved toward the door.
“Mr. Nilsen!” I cleared my throat. “How will I get ahold of you?”
“You’ll see me around.” He placed his hat on his head and opened the door.
“But—”
“Unless I see you first.” He laughed and walked out the door and down the hallway, my mother’s locket still in his coat pocket.
I had no time to fret about that, though. “Follow me,” Mr. Thompson said. He took off so fast I had to grab my bag and half run to catch up. He opened an office door down the hall from his and poked his head through it. “Miss Brenner? This is Bridget O’Sullivan. Can you take her upstairs, please?”
A short, stocky woman in a gray skirt and white blouse looked up. “Certainly.” She marched around to the front of her desk while I peered over Mr. Thompson’s shoulder at her.
“I’ll leave you in Miss Brenner’s capable hands.” Mr. Thompson turned and headed back to his office. I felt like the bucket in a bucket brigade.
Miss Brenner looked at me without smiling. “Come with me.” She led me through a door to a stairwell. “Might as well start at the top so you can leave your bag.” As we climbed two flights, she kept talking. “We’ve got dorm space for forty-eight young ladies, divided into four rooms of twelve beds each. Each room is assigned a resident assistant, usually the oldest but not always. She earns a penny more per hour than the others and sees to it that rules are followed. She’ll make sure you get a uniform with your name embroidered on it.” She looked down at my worn shoes. “And proper footwear. Of course, the cost of the clothing will come out of your pay, but we take it out in installments, over several months, to make it manageable. We expect uniforms to be kept clean and pressed. You’ll find a washtub, clothesline, and ironing board in the washroom. You can start your training today dressed as you are.”
We stopped on the third floor. I saw a set of double doors on each side of a hallway, all of them wide open, and another door on the opposite end.
“Shared bathrooms are on the end,” Miss Brenner said, pointing. “You’ll be in here.” She led me through the first set of double doors and I knew instantly why they stood open. The stifling air descended on us like a heavy cloak. Two narrow windows remained open on the far wall, their thin curtains pulled aside—someone’s vain attempt to freshen the rooms. I saw twelve narrow cots lined up, six on each side. Beside each bed stood a small chest with two drawers. Most were cluttered with handheld mirrors, hairbrushes, and books. All the beds were carefully made, except for one near the middle with a bare mattress. On the stand next to it sat some neatly folded bedding, a towel, and washcloth. Miss Brenner led me to that bed.
“This will be yours. You can place your bag under the bed for now and settle in this evening. The workday ends at six p.m. and the evening is yours, but you’ll find the five a.m. wake-up alarm will have you heading for bed early. Any questions so far?”
