by Terrie Todd
If only I could find him.
I had carefully set aside half of my first pay envelope so I could redeem my locket at the first opportunity. When the other half wasn’t enough to cover my uniforms, however, I needed to dip into my locket money to cover the two plain blue dresses with my name embroidered on the front. By the second payday, I had enough money set aside for Mr. Nilsen, plus extra to repay Maxine for the soap and hand cream she loaned me. With my third pay, I bought soap and hand cream of my own and splurged on a motion picture on a Saturday night. Rosa, Maxine, and I saw The Good Earth, starring Paul Muni and Luise Rainer, at the Bijou Theater on Main Street. I tried not to let on that it was my first time at the movies, but the other girls saw right through me. I guess I was gawking, but I couldn’t help it. The theater was decorated with plaster relief figures and trimmed with gold! We bought popcorn, too, and I loved it. I had read Pearl Buck’s book in Grade Seven, and to be honest, the book was better than the movie. It’s a mostly sad tale, but it was still glorious fun.
It felt strange to have these girls being friendly to me, especially since they were eighteen. I remained vague about my own age, but I think they suspected I was a lot younger than I let on. Maxine treated me like a little sister who needed to be shown the ropes. We spent our free time exploring the neighborhood, and I was adapting to city life. Though I didn’t care for the noise, it was less dusty than Bleak Landing and a whole heap more interesting. The sight of lines at the soup kitchen and tramps begging for food bothered me at first. But Maxine kept saying things like “I’m so thankful I’m not in that line,” and “God’s been so good to me.” She talked about God as if she knew him, even though she wasn’t a Catholic. Reminded me of Victor Harrison’s mother, and I wondered if Maxine had a mother like Victor’s. I didn’t ask, though, because I didn’t want to be asked back.
Maxine kept begging to do things with my hair, and I kept telling her no, thanks.
“C’mon, just let me brush it,” she’d say.
“I’m fine,” I’d tell her. I could usually count on one of the other girls begging for Maxine to do theirs, distracting her from mine.
My hair stayed in some kind of braid or bun all the time, and it hung to my waist when I let it down for washing, another chore Maxine kept offering to do no matter how often I refused. She kept up a running monologue while she watched me wash it, though, and I didn’t mind. Saved me from having to talk, and I liked hearing her stories. She talked about her two big brothers, for whom she held boundless affection in spite of the tall tales they told her. When she was a little kid, they had her believing bears lived in haystacks. Later she figured out that had been their way of keeping her away from the haystack they hid behind to smoke cigarettes.
Maxine went home for the weekend about once a month and kept insisting I should go with her. I told her I couldn’t go until after I got my locket back, in case Mr. Nilsen came around the factory looking for me while I was gone. It was the truth, but the bigger truth was that I had no desire to get closer to Maxine Ross. The last thing I needed was her pestering me about visiting my home.
I saw Mr. Thompson, the personnel manager, breezing through the production room a few times but I hadn’t spoken with him since our meeting in his office on my first day. Once I had enough money to redeem my locket, I went straight to his office every day when the lunch bell rang. He was never there. Finally, after five tries, I caught him just outside his door. He was heading away from me.
“Mr. Thompson!”
When he turned around, I could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t remember me. But then, why should he? With all the girls coming and going here, we probably all looked alike to him. “Yes?”
“I’m Bridget. Bridget Sullivan?”
He looked down the hall beyond where I stood. “Yes?”
I put on my sweetest voice. “Mr. Thompson, I need to find Lars Nilsen. The man who brought me here? I was hoping you could tell me how to get in touch with him.”
“Lars Nilsen? I’d like to get in touch with that shyster myself. He owes me fifty bucks.” He turned and headed down the hallway.
“Oh. Wait! Mr. Thompson?”
The man turned with an impatient sigh.
“Don’t you at least have a telephone number? An address here in the city?”
“Had one. He was staying at a boardinghouse, but last time I tried to call, the landlady told me he’d moved out and she’d didn’t know where he’d gone.”
“Well, is he still in Winnipeg?”
“Don’t know. Listen, kid, I have a meeting to get to. Come back at the end of the day. I’ll see if I can track him down.”
But when I returned after the finishing bell, Mr. Thompson was not in his office. I returned at lunchtime every day for the next week, and finally caught him at his desk. This time he recognized me.
“You the kid that’s looking for Nilsen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
“He’s got something of mine. A necklace.”
He studied me a moment. “He steal it?”
“No, sir. He’s holding it until I can pay him for the ride to Winnipeg. I can do that now. I’d like to get my necklace back.”
“I see. Must be valuable.”
“Only to me.” I’d been standing the whole time, trying to keep my feet planted firmly in one place. There was a copy of Cosmopolitan floating around the dormitory, and I’d read an article about how to appear confident in order to get what you want. I worked hard to keep my eyes on Mr. Thompson’s face. “The locket’s been in my family for generations.”
Mr. Thompson lit a cigarette and studied me. “Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you can kiss that necklace goodbye.” He scribbled an address and phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “Nilsen was staying at this boardinghouse, but like I said, the landlady told me he moved out a couple of weeks ago. Maybe he went back to wherever he came from.”
I looked down to see an address on Hawthorne Avenue. “What’s the landlady’s name?”
“I forget. Something like Chester. Or Crest. Starts with a C. If you find Nilsen, you let me know.”
That night I took a chance and wrote a short letter:
Mr. Nilsen,
Please contact me. I can pay you for the ride, and I wish to redeem my mother’s locket. I am still at the place where you left me.
Bridget
I mailed the letter to the landlady’s address with hopes that she’d forward it if she knew where he’d gone. I left off a return address, though, in case that somewhere was the place I’d fled. Bleak Landing was much too small and its postmaster much too nosy.
Chapter 11
December 1937
Face it, Bridget.” Maxine looked at me, the twinkle from her eyes gone. “That man is not going to come looking for you just to return your necklace—especially if he owes Mr. Thompson money. You must come home with me for Christmas. I insist. You can’t stay here; they’re closing everything up.”
It was true. The factory would shut down for five whole days. We’d been informed that the dorms must be vacated and the cafeteria would be closed. With nowhere else to go, I had to admit Maxine was right. I’d be foolish to hang around Winnipeg, hoping against all odds that Mr. Nilsen might look for me. There’d been no reply to my letter. The locket was probably hanging around someone else’s neck by now, my great-grandmother’s picture replaced with a photograph of some stranger’s sweetheart. I wondered how much Mr. Nilsen had gotten for it and what he’d done with the money. I felt sick. How could I have been so foolish?
“Your mother will understand,” Maxine said. “She does understand.”
That was the oddest thing about Maxine. She knew my mother was dead, but she talked as though death was just a doorway into another life. When Maxine was thirteen, she lost an older sister to some kind of heart disease. She told me the story one day while she brushed her hair.
“I just can’t see h
er right now, but I will one day. You’ll see your mother, too.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
She paused for a long time. “I suppose I can’t. I just believe it. I just know it.”
Now we sat across from each other on the Thursday morning train, heading for Maxine’s home in Pinehaven. The heat in the train car was minimal, and I was glad for my warm coat—my mystery coat, left on our doorstep as if by mistake but clearly intended for me. I chose to believe that, anyway. Every clickety-clack of the train was carrying me in the opposite direction from Bleak Landing. There’d been times when I felt a pang of guilt for leaving my father the way I had, but I swept those feelings aside and tried to live in the moment.
“You’ll love Pinehaven,” Maxine said. “We’ll get to go skating and watch some curling, and I’ll introduce you to Clara and Fern and Mildred and Grace. Oh, and Joyce. Too bad the school Christmas concert will probably be over already. That’s always fun. And my family always makes homemade Christmas presents . . .”
I ignored Maxine and watched the Manitoba countryside go by. The sunshine sparkled on virgin snow, nearly blinding me. Yet I couldn’t take my eyes off the wonderland outside my window. Acres of poplar trees, devoid of their leaves, glistened with hoarfrost, looking like some kind of magical kingdom. The world was cleaner and brighter than I’d ever seen it, and it was easy to believe there was no such thing as drought or depression and that loved ones who’d passed on truly still lived even if we couldn’t see them.
I was surprised when we reached Pinehaven well before noon. Maxine’s mother met us on the platform, though it was only a short walk to their home. She greeted me with a warm smile and then turned her attention to her daughter, and the pair of them didn’t stop talking for the rest of the week. Their home was filled with the warm scents of cinnamon and ginger. I heard “Away in a Manger” playing on a radio and masculine laughter coming from the next room.
Maxine’s brothers, Billy and Arnie, turned out to be tall, blond, and large boned like their sister. They lived at home and worked at a lumber mill along with helping their father on the farm. In anticipation of our visit, they’d cleared snow from their pond for ice skating. After a lunch of chicken noodle soup and bread fresh from the oven, the four of us bundled up and ventured down to the ice.
I’d never owned a pair of skates. But I sat on a straw bale watching Maxine skim around the pond, and it looked like a cinch. At the movies, we’d seen newsreels of Olympic skater Sonja Henie, and I was eager to give it a try. Maxine’s skates were a little big for me, but with extra wool socks and determination, I was sure I’d soon be flying across the ice on one foot. Maxine helped me lace up her skates on my feet, but I quickly discovered it was all I could do just to stand up on the snowy ground! How did Sonja Henie make skating look so easy and graceful? With Maxine on one side and Arnie on the other, I eventually made a wobbly circle around the pond. When they let go, I promptly landed right on my behind. Disappointing though my first skating experience was, I couldn’t stop smiling. Billy pulled me to my feet again and I spent a while longer just trying to stay upright on the ice before giving Maxine another turn.
The sun was going down by the time we went back to the house, where Mrs. Ross had hot chocolate waiting.
“Sorry it’s a little thin,” she said. “But I think there’s just enough for you all to have a cup.”
I don’t know why she apologized. It was the most delicious drink I’d ever tasted.
After the evening barn chores were done and supper had been eaten, the family gathered in the living room. A Christmas tree glimmered in one corner, and a half-finished jigsaw puzzle sat waiting on a wooden table. Maxine’s mother showed me the basics of crocheting, while her siblings and father played Parcheesi on the coffee table. I felt as if I’d walked into some kind of dream where everything was filled with warmth and love and goodness. I wondered what the catch was.
“We’ll be attending the Christmas Eve service at church tomorrow evening, Bridget,” Mrs. Ross said. “You’re welcome to join us.”
Church. There it was. My father’s words returned in full force. You’ll burn in hell, sure, if you set foot in with the Protestants. I had no desire to offend the Ross family when they were being so kind and hospitable to me. But what if my father’s words were true?
“I’m Catholic, ma’am,” I said. I didn’t bother telling her that the last time I’d actually been inside a Catholic church—or any church—was when I was six years old and still in Ireland.
“I see. Well, there is a Catholic church in town.” Mrs. Ross picked up her knitting needles and worked on something bright red while I continued practicing a basic crochet chain stitch. “If you like, I can find out what time they hold Mass. Everyone around town likes Father Michael.”
Mr. Ross piped up. “They always hold a midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. Maybe we could all go. Our service will be over by nine.”
I wasn’t sure who was more shocked, me or Mrs. Ross. She looked up from her red wool and smiled. “Well, wouldn’t that be a fine idea! Something different. Do they allow non-Catholics to attend?”
“We wouldn’t know what was going on,” Arnie said, as he rolled the dice. “I think it’s all in Latin.”
Billy cuffed him on the shoulder. “How would you know?”
“He went there once, when he was chasing Miranda Hotchkins.” Maxine said the name in a teasing singsong. “Wasn’t that a wild goose chase?”
“Oh, pipe down.” Arnie moved his playing piece around the board. “I could tell of a lot worse things you did chasing Henry Newton.”
“Pipe down, both of you.” Mr. Ross placed his final piece in the center square of the game board and rose from his armchair. “If they allow the likes of Arnie in, they’re sure to welcome us all. Bridget, how about you come to church with us at seven, and we’ll all go to midnight Mass together. What do you say?”
I had no idea what to say, but I figured I was in no position to argue. “All right.”
Five faces smiled back at me, as if I’d just capped their heads with royal crowns. I had not felt this much a part of something since Miss Johansen picked me to read stories to the little kids back at Bleak Landing School. I didn’t say anything more for the rest of the evening, but I didn’t need to. The Ross family did enough talking for three families. All I had to do was sit back and soak it up.
And hope I wouldn’t burn in hell for joining them at their church.
Friday afternoon, Maxine and I were sitting on her bed with copies of Chatelaine magazine. I was trying to read an article called “Men Don’t Want Clever Wives.” Maxine was filling out one of those personality quizzes and annoying me by reading all the questions aloud.
“Number one. Are you typically late for appointments or work?” She made a mark in the magazine with her pencil. “No.”
“Number two. What is your favorite color? Raspberry red.” She wrote it in.
“Number three. What words do you tend to overuse?” She paused. “What words do I overuse, Bridge?”
“All of them,” I muttered, flipping a page in my own magazine.
We laid the magazines aside when Mrs. Ross walked in carrying a green dress.
“Bridget?”
I looked up at her smiling face.
“It occurred to me that you might be the same size as our Ruthie.”
I looked at Maxine, not understanding.
“My sister,” Maxine said. “She was sixteen.”
I’d forgotten about Maxine’s sister. I turned back to her mother.
“Would you like to try this on? If it works for you, you could have it. If you like. I think it would look wonderful with your red hair.”
I didn’t know what to say. No one had offered me anything so beautiful in my life. The dress was velvety and grown-up looking, and it clearly had been made for someone much slimmer than Maxine.
I stared at the lovely garment. “Oh, I . . . I couldn’t.”
“We’d be honored,” Mrs. Ross said. Her head nodded, and her eyes glistened. “Really.”
“Try it on,” Maxine said.
So I did. When I saw my reflection in the mirror, I was convinced it was someone else’s at first. The dress was a perfect fit, falling below my knees with a gentle flare. The elbow-length sleeves and lacy collar made me feel feminine in a way I never had before.
“Oh, Bridget!” Maxine gushed. “It’s perfect for you! You’re beautiful!”
I smiled and did a little twirl, admiring my reflection. But when I saw the tears on Mrs. Ross’s cheeks as she stood smiling at me, I knew I couldn’t do it. I was not part of this family, and no dress was going to change that. I looked back at my image and frowned.
“Thanks, Mrs. Ross. I appreciate the gesture, but this isn’t really me. And it’s a little tight.”
“Not you? What do you mean, not you?” Maxine’s voice rose half an octave. “Look at yourself!”
“Besides, where would I wear it?” I asked.
“Well, for starters, to church tomorrow night!”
I shook my head. “No. Thank you. I . . . can’t.”
Maxine was about to protest again when her mother raised her hand to quiet her. “Maxine. It’s all right.”
I slipped out of the dress and handed it back to Mrs. Ross, who carried it away gently without another word. Maxine pouted and stopped talking to me, but within half an hour she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Personally, I’m going to wear my red blouse and black skirt. Or should I go with that royal blue dress? It would look great with the new string of beads Dorie gave me. Well, not new, exactly. New to me. Right? What do you think?”
