Bleak Landing

by Terrie Todd

  I guessed all was forgiven.

  The two church experiences were a study in contrast, but as Mr. Ross had reminded us at the supper table before we left the house, “We’re all celebrating the birth of the same Savior.” The earlier service at Pinehaven Fellowship featured lively singing of “Joy to the World” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” The children, dressed in bathrobes and towels, acted out the Nativity story, and the pastor talked about God’s love, so great that he sent his son so we could be called children of God. Afterward, some men handed out bags of peanuts and candy to all the children and even the teens.

  Midnight Mass was more subdued but felt just as meaningful. The glow of the candles and the voices of the nuns’ choir harmonizing on “Adeste Fidelis” stirred something inside me as we made our way inside. I attentively observed the congregation and followed their patterns of sitting and standing, awkwardly aware that the Ross family was looking to me for guidance. Arnie had been right. It was mostly in Latin, and the little bit of Latin Miss Johansen had taught us was just enough for me to recognize words like “Christus” and “Dominus.” It didn’t matter. It was a beautiful setting, and a feeling of awe and a reverent sense of majesty filled my heart as I surveyed my surroundings.

  That night, after Maxine’s words finally faded into snoring, I lay awake a long time pondering all I’d seen and heard and felt. The longings provoked by the softness of that green velvet dress on my skin. The peace in the Ross home, their voices raised in praise to their Savior—even as they grieved the loss of their dear daughter and sister. Vague memories surfaced within me of my mother kneeling by her bed with her rosary. For the first time in years, I felt something deep in my heart beginning to awaken. If God really loved all of us as the Ross family believed, then that included me.

  I fell asleep hoping desperately that it was true.

  Chapter 12

  The Monday after Christmas, Maxine and I boarded the train and returned to Winnipeg. We’d been in such a rush when we left town before Christmas that I hadn’t taken time to look around at Union Station. Now I stood gawking like a little kid at the tiled floor with a circular pattern that reflected the domed ceiling above—a magnificent display of architecture. How had they built such a thing? What held it up? People scurried past a gigantic Christmas tree that adorned the center of the station, everyone headed somewhere in a hurry. Everyone but me. I’d never seen such a big tree.

  Maxine shouted at me from the front door. “Bridget! Hurry up, we’ll miss our bus!”

  But it was too late. The bus took off without us and we had to wait for the next one.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, though I was secretly glad to have extra time to take in the sights around me.

  Maxine sat on a bench and pouted. She’d been quiet on the train—unusual for Maxine. She was even more subdued as we climbed aboard the next bus and rode past the city sidewalks toward our home away from home. I enjoyed the peace and quiet until we had almost reached our destination. Yet the fact that something was bothering Maxine bothered me.

  “I’m sorry I made us miss the bus.”

  “It’s not that.” She sighed.

  “Then what?”

  She shrugged and gazed out the window. “Our family’s not the same without Ruthie.”

  I nodded. I could relate to the feeling, but I’d never told Maxine that I had lost a brother. Nor did I want to go into it now. “Seems like everyone’s doing all right, though.”

  Maxine looked me in the eye. “Why wouldn’t you accept Ruthie’s dress? You know you wanted to.”

  I turned and watched the world go by on the other side of the window, trying to answer her question for myself. She was right. Part of me would have loved to keep that beautiful dress. But how could I make her understand that no part of me anywhere deserved such a fine thing?

  “Bridget?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think your mother was really ready to part with it.” I swallowed.

  “It would have done her heart good to see you wearing it, Bridget. Mine, too.” She sounded convinced, and convincing. “I mean, yes, it would have been hard. But it would have been a blessing all the same.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. “I’m not your sister, Maxine.”

  “I know.”

  “Then maybe you should stop acting like it.”

  Maxine gazed at me until I had to look away again. “Why do you hold everyone at arm’s length? It took a lot of courage for Mom to get that dress out of the closet—”

  “Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your mother’s feelings. But people lose people all the time. It’s life. You just have to make the best of it.”

  We pulled to a stop in front of Weinberger Textiles. I brushed past Maxine to get off the bus ahead of her. My bag thumped against each seat as I stomped past.

  “Bridget, wait up—!”

  I heard Maxine call, but I hopped down from the bus—and then noticed a fancy car parked in front of it. To my horror, a little girl had climbed out of the car on the street side and stood in the road, right in the bus’s path. She was so small, I feared the driver wouldn’t see her. I dropped my bag and dashed toward the child as the bus pulled away. I swept her up and ran around the front of the car. I had deposited her safely on the sidewalk before I even realized what had happened. When I looked up, the tail end of the bus was passing us. Maxine stood frozen to the sidewalk, watching the whole thing. The little girl cried as a man in a swanky suit marched toward us.

  “Cynthia!” The man scooped up the little girl. “Are you all right, precious?”

  “D-daddy!” The girl pointed an accusing finger at me. “That lady grabbed me!”

  “That lady saved you, Cynthia.” He held her tight to himself. “Oh, thank God you’re all right.”

  He turned to me.

  “Young lady, are you all right?”

  “Yes, sir. Mostly.” I could feel myself trembling as the reality of what just happened set in. Maxine had picked up my bag and stood next to me.

  “What’s your name?”

  I was nearly too stunned to speak. “B-Bridget. Sullivan.”

  “Do you work here, Miss Sullivan?”

  I glanced at Maxine and back again. “Yes, sir.”

  The man set his daughter down and held tightly to her hand while he put out his other hand to shake mine. “How do you, Bridget Sullivan. My name is Sol Weinberger. This is my factory. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving my daughter’s life.”

  I’m sure my mouth hung open, but I felt powerless to move.

  Maxine spoke up. “It’s true, Bridget. You really did save her! I saw the whole thing! You were amazing!”

  Mr. Weinberger knelt down to his daughter’s height. “Darling, you must obey when Daddy says to stay in the car. You must never, ever climb out on the street side, do you understand?” The little girl nodded and her father hugged her to his chest again, then picked her up once more.

  “You ladies come with me. Let’s get out of the cold.” He led the way up the steps and held the front doors open while we passed through. “Please come to my office, Miss Sullivan. Your friend can come, too, if you like.”

  Maxine and I exchanged looks but said nothing. We followed Mr. Weinberger past the reception desk, past Mr. Thompson’s office, and past Miss Brenner’s office, still carrying our bags. Mr. Weinberger pushed open a door with his name on it, and we followed him through. This, apparently, was simply his outer office.

  A secretary took his coat and hat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Weinberger. Hello there, Cynthia!”

  “Hi, Miss Pritchard. I almost got hit by a bus!” Cynthia said proudly.

  The secretary raised her eyebrows and looked up at her boss.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said. “Please entertain Cynthia for a few minutes, will you?” He opened another door and turned toward us. “Ladies? Follow me, please.”

  His office was bigger than Mr. Thompson’s, and his desk much tidier.
The walls were covered with framed photographs of the factory, the sewing room, and smiling men posing together in various locations around the factory.

  I could feel my heart pounding. I didn’t understand what was going on, but Maxine was grinning like an idiot so I figured she must know something I didn’t, and it must be good.

  “Have a seat,” Mr. Weinberger said. “Can I get you anything? Tea? A glass of water?”

  “Oh, yes. Tea, please!” Maxine said. How could she be so bold? Had she lost her mind? We took the two wooden chairs facing his desk.

  “I-I’ll have a glass of water, if that’s all right.” My throat was parched.

  Mr. Weinberger leaned through the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. “Miss Pritchard, please bring one tea and one glass of water.” He walked around his desk and sat in the big leather chair behind it. He pulled a cigar out of a box on the corner of the desk and lit it.

  “Now, then. How long have you been with us, Miss Sullivan?”

  “Since last April, sir.”

  Mr. Weinberger counted on his fingers. “So, eight months. Have you received a raise in that time?”

  “Yes, sir. At my six-month date I was raised to seven dollars a week.”

  “Do you like this job, Miss Sullivan?” He blew a long puff of cigar smoke toward the closed window.

  “Yes, sir. I do. I’m very grateful to have it.” I looked down at my shaking fingers and then at Maxine, who grinned like a chimpanzee.

  Mr. Weinberger studied my face a moment. “No higher aspirations? Quite content to keep working here, sewing seams day after day?”

  “Well. I haven’t really thought about it much, sir. I suppose it’s not what I want to do forever. But with the economy and all—”

  I could have died when Maxine jumped in. “She’s really good, Mr. Weinberger. She’s smart and catches on fast and sews a straight seam and she’s got loads of other talents, too. Why—”

  “Excuse me. I didn’t catch your friend’s name.” Mr. Weinberger was still looking at me, but Maxine stood and stretched out a hand toward him.

  “Maxine Ross, sir. I’m from Pinehaven. Bridget came home with me for Christmas and we’re just now getting back—”

  The secretary interrupted us by bringing in our tea and water. I took a long, slow sip and kept the glass in my hands, not sure where I should set it.

  “Thank you, Miss Pritchard.” Mr. Weinberger turned to me again. “Do you know how to cook, Miss Sullivan?”

  What kind of crazy question was that? “Well . . . a little, sir. I used to cook for my father and myself. Eggs and potatoes and Irish soda bread, mostly. Garden vegetables in summer. Venison when my father could get it.”

  “I’d like to reward you for saving my little girl, Miss Sullivan. Our cook’s helper just left us to get married. Mrs. Cohen is an excellent cook, but she gets downright surly when she doesn’t have any kitchen help. My wife is growing weary of her complaints. I can offer you free room and board in our home and ten dollars a week.”

  “Ten dollars a—!” Maxine caught herself and clamped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.” She looked at me, eyes like two giant spindles sticking out of a sewing machine.

  I couldn’t quite take in what was happening. The man was offering me a better job with more pay. In an actual home. What was the catch?

  “You’ll have Saturdays off for Shabbat and a half day on Sunday.”

  Shabbat? “Sir, I’m Catholic.”

  The man flicked his wrist. “So what? You think I’d give my staff Christmas off if I cared about all that? My family and I only go to synagogue on holidays. Sometimes not even then, if we’re on a trip somewhere.”

  “But sir, I wouldn’t know how to cook for you—”

  “—and I haven’t eaten kosher since I was a kid. The last girl we had was a Mennonite, if you can believe that. A Mennonite! She sure could cook.” He chuckled and took another long drag from his cigar. “Mrs. Cohen will teach you all you need to know. What do you say?”

  Miss Pritchard poked her head in the door. “Charles Lipton on the line, Mr. Weinberger. Do you want to take it?”

  “Excuse me a moment, ladies.” Mr. Weinberger picked up his phone and swiveled his chair away from us. “Charles! How was your Christmas?”

  I was still stunned. I looked at Maxine, who nodded her head like a fool. “You have to do it, Bridget!” she practically hissed. “Do you know how long it will take you to earn ten dollars a week if you stay here? And you’ll get to live in some big fancy mansion!”

  I frowned at her.

  “What’s the matter with you? This is your big chance!”

  “If Mr. Nilsen comes around with my necklace and doesn’t find me here—”

  “I’ll be here, Bridget. I’ll tell Mr. Thompson to find me if Mr. Nilsen comes looking for you. You have to do this.”

  “Promise?”

  Maxine nodded. “I promise.” I could tell by the look in her eye that she didn’t believe for one second Mr. Nilsen would ever come looking for me.

  Mr. Weinberger hung up the phone and stubbed out his cigar into a big ashtray. “Well? Do the Weinbergers have a new kitchen maid?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. I guess you do.”

  Chapter 13

  I knew I was staring again, but I couldn’t help it.

  Mr. Weinberger was bringing me to his home in his big fancy car with its plush leather seats. He sat up front with the uniformed chauffeur, while Cynthia sat quietly beside me, casting occasional glances my way as though I couldn’t be trusted. All my possessions had been stuffed into two bags and stashed in the trunk. I’d hardly had a chance to say goodbye to Maxine, which was fine with me because her big teary face was getting on my nerves. The most annoying lump stuck in my throat as we drove away and she stood on the sidewalk, waving. Eventually, I swallowed it down and turned my attention to the wintery city sights outside my window.

  When we first pulled up to a big black iron gate on Wellington Crescent, I wondered if I’d been duped and was being hauled off to prison for some reason. Then I saw the house at the end of the winding driveway. The Weinberger residence. I tried to maintain my composure, but all the while I was wondering: How can this be someone’s home? How many people live here, anyway? And how on earth am I gonna fit in?

  Of course, I didn’t ask any of those things. I just gawked. The house was three stories high and all white, including the two towering pillars in front. Hefty double doors under a covered porch were flanked by marble pots planted with evergreen shrubs. Massive bay windows graced the first and second stories on either side. So many windows sparkled everywhere, I couldn’t help wondering who cleaned them all and who kept the curtains inside dusted. No wonder the Weinbergers were short-staffed. It would take an army just to maintain this place!

  A butler greeted us at the front door, and Mr. Weinberger introduced him simply as “Stevenson.” Was that a first name or last? I didn’t know, and didn’t think it appropriate to ask. Mr. Weinberger explained my presence and disappeared up the stairs with Cynthia.

  Stevenson led me through a vast entryway where I got a quick glimpse of a gigantic glittering chandelier. A double-width staircase split in two directions, gracefully curving to the bottom like twin sisters in matching ball gowns with long satin trains. A hallway led to the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen, and I felt as if I had accidentally been delivered to a hotel.

  A middle-aged woman stood at a stove that would have filled our entire kitchen in Bleak Landing.

  “Mrs. Cohen,” Stevenson said. The woman turned but kept stirring something in a large stock pot. “This is Bridget Sullivan. Mr. Weinberger has hired her as your new helper. It seems she’s some sort of heroine.” He pivoted and left the room without once lowering his nose to a normal level.

  “Finally,” the woman said. She walked toward me, wiping her hands on a big white apron that covered her ample midsection. “Heroine, eh? What’d you do?”

  “Um. Well, I . . . not
hing anyone else wouldn’t have done, ma’am. Grabbed the little Weinberger girl and lifted her out of the path of a bus. Sort of a fluke, really.”

  “Well, I like your honesty. Can you cook?”

  I told her the same thing I’d told Mr. Weinberger. And added an apology for not having more experience.

  “Not to worry. I prefer helpers who don’t think they know it all. Means I can train you to my liking.” Mrs. Cohen pulled an apron down from a hook on the wall and held it toward me. “Here, put this on and wash your hands at that sink. I’ve got vegetables you can chop. Set your bags down there until we’ve got dinner underway, and then I’ll show you around.” I piled my bags, coat, and purse in an empty corner.

  “And don’t worry about Stevenson. He’s a big snob but he’s got a good heart. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  I spent the next half hour cutting carrots, potatoes, and onions. Mrs. Cohen added these to her pot along with some herbs she carefully selected and snipped from a windowsill container that overlooked a snow-laden, postcard-perfect yard. The stew smelled fantastic and my stomach rumbled. Once the contents of the pot were simmering, Mrs. Cohen placed the lid on top with a firm clunk.

  “All righty, then. Grab your things and follow me.”

  She led me two flights up a narrow back staircase to the third floor, explaining that these were the only stairs I was allowed to use. A long hallway stretched before us with doors on each side, but we stopped at the first. “Since the cooks are the first ones up in the morning, our rooms are closest to the kitchen,” Mrs. Cohen explained. “The good part is, you get a room all to yourself, for the same reason. This one’s mine and you’ll be right across the hall.”

  She opened the white wooden door opposite hers to reveal a room about twelve feet square. Plain white curtains hung over two narrow windows overlooking the pretty backyard. The single bed was draped with an olive-green bedspread. A wooden nightstand held a lamp, and a four-drawer bureau stood waiting for whatever I might wish to place in or upon it. The walls stood bare except for several hooks from which one could hang clothes. A simple wooden chair, painted the same green as the bedspread, and a braided oval rug in shades of olive and gray completed the room.