Julian had been missing for a week. No letter, no telegram . . . the only relief so far was no word of a body found in a creek or runoff ditch. They couldn’t stop their lives for him. The army wasn’t about to wait for its new doughboys. The fields needed water; the chickens wanted feed.
“Dad,” Charlie said, starting up the porch steps. “We’ve been talking, and we don’t want you to worry about the farm. We’re going to send home as much as we can.”
Leaning against the counter, Emerson shook his head. “We’ll mind the farm.”
“You can’t do it alone.” Charlie brushed his fingers against the screen, instead of opening the door. It was like confession when he said, “I didn’t know they were going to do this.”
“Didn’t think you did,” Emerson reassured him.
Pressing a hand against the door frame, Charlie closed his eyes, then finally said, “Marjorie and I can go to the city-county building. She’s going to want a real wedding afterward anyway, and it doesn’t seem right . . .”
Zora straightened the tablecloth. “You’re not taking back your wedding day, Charlie. Let’s try to enjoy it.”
“Mama . . .”
Warning, Zora said, “Charlie.”
“Mind your mother,” Emerson said.
His being the oldest showed, in the way he hesitated, and the way he made himself walk away instead of arguing. They could tell him not to think about it, but he would. He had two well-meaning idiots for brothers, going off to Europe with him . . . and he was missing one stupid spoiled brat who should have stayed home.
Julian had always been his, sort of. Being seven years older, Charlie felt like an extra father. He taught Julian to walk twice, once when he was a fat baby with a rooster comb of thin gold hair. And again when he was a skinny, wobbly boy down to one leg and a pair of crutches.
Maybe he should have pushed more about what happened in the barn on Julian’s birthday. Or he should have heard him leaving the house. How far could he get on his own? Charlie’d driven to Indianapolis looking for him; Henry and Sam got as far as Zionsville before coming back without him.
Reading Charlie’s face, Emerson gently kicked the door to get his attention. “I said mind your mother, Charlie. It is what it is.”
Charlie dragged a hand down his face. “Yes, sir.”
“It is what it is,” Zora repeated once Charlie had rejoined his brothers in the yard.
Carrying the buttercream to the counter, Emerson reached for the cake. His hands, so rough from working the land, were gentle when it came to frosting. Long fingers turned in elegant shapes, and he spoke deliberately.
“They’re all grown, Zo. It was going to break our hearts no matter how they proved it.”
“I’m glad you can be philosophical,” she said.
“It’s not philosophy, it’s a fact. We can cry later when it’s the two of us.”
Taking up her scissors again, Zora attacked the bundle of daisies in the basin waiting to be trimmed and tied with ribbon. Flatly, she said, “I’ve already cried.”
Emerson put his spatula aside. With careful scoops, he spooned icing into a cone of paper. His lips barely moved when he replied.
“Well, I haven’t, so get ready.”
***
Los Angeles wasn’t quite what Kate expected.
They’d found a room to share at The Ems right away; it wasn’t very expensive on account of the constant waft of garlic from a restaurant around the way. And jobs came quickly too, because Mollie knew where to ask.
The golden glow of the Los Angeles in Kate’s mind and imagination faded after a few days. As she hurried from work to fetch Mollie, Kate couldn’t help but notice all the things that made it a new city instead of an old fortress.
Orange and lemon groves surrounded the borders, and a bustling amusement park glittered on its shores.
But the city itself was a jumble of poured concrete and Spanish Mission architecture. Hand-painted advertisements abounded, competing with signs on top of signs on top of scaffolds bearing lighted signs.
The constant glow, exhilarating at first, devoured the nights, and automobiles roared away the silence. It was a city by the sea, but the only waves Kate noticed were tides of people, filling sidewalks and crossing streets. Each time the red streetcar passed, it shuddered to a stop and people gushed out in all directions.
To herself—only to herself—Kate admitted she was a bit disappointed. She’d grown up in well-worn lands, places that still stood but once had borne other names. Londinium, Lutetia Parisiorum, Athēnai.
She’d slept in ancient towers, bought pomegranates in bazaars that used to sell them to pharaohs and emperors and queens. Those cities bore new lights with dignity. Their narrow streets encouraged walking; they were paths first for human beings.
Los Angeles seemed made for things. It flourished on a grand scale, and so much of it was mechanical. Wires crossed overhead. Iron fire escapes climbed the buildings instead of ivy. Pavement yielded to glass, making way for machines instead of man.
Cramming her hat down a little tighter, Kate hurried through The Pike to find Mollie. Jostled and elbowed, she’d learned to push back.
Train conductors thought nothing of shoving her through doors, men thought nothing of stepping in front of her. Absolutely no one cared that she was Amelia and Nathaniel’s daughter. She wasn’t a pretty bit of porcelain anymore, and that was wonderful.
It was valuable, too, learning to move with authority, speaking up when she needed to be heard. It was, she decided, training her to be a proper director. Though Mollie was biddable enough, another actor might not be. Certainly, she couldn’t ask a producer’s permission to make films.
Weaving between concession wagons, Kate slowed when she finally caught sight of Mollie.
A scarlet confection, Mollie wore red from the plume in her hat to the points of her shoes. She’d even stained her lips to match, which made her teeth gleam like pearls when she threw her head back and laughed.
Two sailors flanked her, smart in their blue uniforms and white scarves. They were supposed to be interested in the iced soda she was selling. But the taller one kept fingering one of her loose curls, while the shorter one stared at her pretty mouth.
Something sharp pierced Kate’s chest. Sweaty, and smelling faintly of spoiled ice cream and sick from the roller coasters, she cut through the crowd deliberately. Her workday emptying rubbish bins was over. Mollie should have been handing off her soda box to the next shift too.
“Hey, fellas,” Kate said, too loud to be friendly. “My sister’s something, isn’t she?”
Both sailors took a step back, and the taller one laced his hands together. “Hey there, pal. Where’d you come from?”
The smile, Kate could tell, was thin and performed, and he spoke to her like she was both a baby and an idiot. The syrup flowed so thickly through his words, she could wade through it. Annoyed, Kate went to tell him exactly where she came from, but Mollie interrupted.
“He works the clean-up crew. Isn’t that adorable?” Mollie laughed and leaned toward the sailor. A strange shadow ran through her expression, tense and specific. It wasn’t for the sailors; it was for Kate.
Uneasy, Kate rubbed the back of her neck. “We’ll miss the next car if we don’t get going.”
The shorter sailor dug a dime from his pocket. “Why don’t you get yourself an Italian ice, kid? We’ll make sure your sister gets home all right.”
There was nothing menacing about them. Smooth faced and neatly pressed, they were just sailors—like the other servicemen who wandered The Pike before shipping off. Young and bright, with a little bit of money to spend and a long journey ahead. Still, Kate hesitated. “We always walk home together.”
“What are you, twelve? Thirteen?”
Crossing her arms, Kate frowned. She didn’t look that young. “Sixteen.”
The taller sailor leaned over, pretending to confide. “Oh, even better. When I was your age, I was sneaking into the dancehalls. Ladies a
re starving for a dance with a gent, kid. Go on, live a little.”
Mollie nodded, and beneath the icebox, she flicked her fingers, as if to shoo Kate away. “You’ll be fine on your own, and so will I. Really. I’ll see you tonight, for dinner.”
“Maybe a little after dinner,” the shorter sailor joked.
Trembling inside, Kate stood there a moment. Of course they treated her like a tagalong kid brother; she looked like one. But she wasn’t about to be dismissed so easily. Shoving her hand out, she looked from Mollie to the sailors and said, “I hope I don’t accidentally tell our Ma about this.”
Mollie drew herself up, her face the same shade of crimson as the plume that brushed her cheek. The sailors, though, burst out laughing, and one dropped a quarter into Kate’s palm. As she closed her fingers around it, he gave her a little shove to send her on her way.
With one last look over her shoulder, Kate saw that Mollie’d already turned away. Hurrying down the boardwalk, Kate didn’t raise her head. Thirty-five cents; they’d paid her a quarter and a dime to go away.
Enough for a movie palace matinee. A half-dozen bottles of Coca-Cola. A dinner plate and a piece of pie at Harvey House. Thirty-five cents.
She planned to repeat that over and over until Mollie got home. Now that Kate’d learned what things cost, she could count the things that money would buy.
It could be a prayer or a spell. A bit of ordinary magic, Kate hoped as she stumbled through the crowd. Maybe that would loosen the unforgiving knot inside her.
***
“I don’t need someone to lift me out of the tub,” Julian said.
He couldn’t believe the look the owner of the boarding house gave him. The minute he came in the door, she’d gotten flustered. Rubbing her raw hands in her apron, her gaze kept falling to his leg. Caught staring, she turned a richer shade of red. But she wasn’t so embarrassed that she couldn’t tell him the rules of the house.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do, so I can’t follow around after you,” she said. Fidgeting with her apron again, she tilted her head at a stiff angle. It was like the only way she could look him in the eye was to contort herself. “I’ll do your wash, but that’s extra. Haven’t got a special menu for invalids, but . . .”
“I’m not an invalid!”
She inflated when he raised his voice. “And I expect to be treated right. I’m not your mother. You’re not paying me enough to tolerate sass.”
Vaguely ashamed, Julian dug into his pocket and produced a five-dollar bill. He flattened it on the counter and pushed it toward her. “Sorry, Mrs. Bartow. It’s been a long trip; I’m tired.”
“Aren’t we all?” she asked, plucking the money from his fingers. She rummaged in a cash box beneath the counter but returned a key instead of his change. “Come back Friday if you want your money, or leave your laundry in a bag outside your door. It makes up the difference.”
Julian took the key with a nod. Even though the boarding house had tiled steps that led upstairs, he followed Mrs. Bartow’s directions down the main hall. From an open door, he caught a glimpse of a pretty boy shouting lines from Hamlet at a mirror. Foreign words drifted though a closed door, along with the scent of boiled cabbage.
Then a little rubber ball rolled into the hallway. Julian set his bag down and leaned over to claim it.
“Hey there, could you?”
A thick-faced man stood in the doorway, a baby squirming on his shoulder. He was anchored by a toddler at his ankles. She stared at Julian’s crutch as he returned the ball.
“It won’t hurt you,” Julian reassured her.
“Thank you, lad,” the man said as he nodded at the toddler. “She doesn’t know any better.”
Julian backed into the hallway again and tipped his head toward the man. “No harm done. Suppose we’ll be neighbors. I’m Julian Birch.”
“They don’t hardly cry at all,” the man swore. “Cyril Kiedrowicz. Pleasure.”
With a nod, Julian left Mr. Kiedrowicz to his children and finally found his room. Unlocking the door, he swung it open slowly to take it in. It was dark, with plain plaster walls and an ugly rag rug. Folded linens sat on the foot of the bed. There was a bare electric lamp, a small table and chair, and a bureau for his things.
Not that he had many. A change of clothes, his pocket watch, and a little amber piece of rosin. He didn’t own his own fiddle, and he wasn’t about to steal Dad’s when he left. But it bothered him to leave music behind completely.
So he’d slipped the rosin in his satchel. He liked to rub his fingers tacky on it; its warm scent comforted him. Taking off the satchel, he tossed it onto the bureau. Then he took in the whole of the room.
It wasn’t much. It didn’t smell like spiced apples, and the window let in very little light on account of the building next door.
But for now, it would do. Julian hung his crutches on the hat hook, then his newsboy cap right after. Putting himself to work, he unfurled the linens and made the bed. Rough sheets whispered under his hands. Instead of sunshine, the bedclothes smelled of lye soap. Even the scent burned. When he was finished, Julian opened the window.
At first, there was a hint of flowers on the breeze that slipped into the room. Warm oil and tar followed—not unpleasant, but definitely not like home. Julian heard snatches of conversations from the street. Falling back onto the bed, he tucked his hands beneath his head and listened.
“A million dollars. Can you even imagine?”
“I’m thinking I should powder my face and head down to First National. If Chaplin’s worth a million, I’m worth a thousand at least.”
Julian smiled to hear that, but it faded when new voices floated through his window.
A woman, sharp and angry, tossed out words like broken glass. “I don’t care who hears me, Ruth. I’d look Wilson in the eye and say it. Show me a mother happy to send her boy to war, and I’ll show you a communist.”
Julian felt the faintest pang beneath his breast, one that flared when he stopped to think about his family. His brothers were on their way to that war; his parents sat alone in the white farmhouse.
It wasn’t the leaving that gave Julian pause. It was the way he’d gone: in the middle of the night. Without a note. And sinfully, stealing the money his mother saved for emergencies. What if the hay cutter threw a tooth? What if Old Joe dropped dead? They needed a horse all year round for the farm to work properly.
Guilt blossomed in Julian until it pushed him off the bed. Grabbing his key and his crutches, he hurried into the hall. Julian almost asked Mr. Kiedrowicz if he had stationery but thought better of it.
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” Julian heard his mother say, her voice a silky memory in his thoughts.
Mrs. Bartow didn’t look happy to see him again so soon. “Something the matter?”
“No, ma’am.” Julian shook his head. “Is there any chance I could buy paper and an envelope?”
Suspicion narrowed Mrs. Bartow’s eyes, but she opened an unseen drawer. Producing a bit of stationery, she held it out to him. “You can have these, but don’t make a habit of it. Sun Drug’s right around the corner if you need more.”
“I’ll head that way after supper,” Julian said, and went back to his room.
The lamp table wasn’t an ideal writing desk, but it would do. Then Julian realized he didn’t have a pencil. Or a stamp. He felt stupid, really—there were so many things he needed, and he’d planned for none of them.
Rather than wallow, though, he decided to fix it for himself. Without any help.
Julian put his hat back on. He locked the door carefully and avoided Mrs. Bartow’s dumbstruck stare when he came through the lobby yet again. She’d said the drugstore was around the corner.
Stepping into the sunlight. Julian waited for an opening in the people who walked by, then melted into them.
He was on his own in the city. He would decide when to wake up and how far he could walk. Dinner was whatever he wished it to be. Unless he w
anted to snap beans, he’d never have to snap them again. It was thrilling to be independent, though still tinged with regret.
He needed to repay his parents. Only then could he celebrate his freedom without reserve.
Ten
Rolling the quarter between her fingers, Kate jerked her head up when the door finally swung open.
Black feathers splayed out to fill the room; Handsome stretched his wings and turned in a slow, deliberate way. A crackling sound rolled from his gullet, and then in Mollie’s own voice, he said, “Nevermore!”
Mollie ignored him, sailing past in a merry flash. She smelled of pipe tobacco, something sweet and roasted. Spinning round, she laughed and dropped herself into the chair across from Kate. With a great, satisfied sigh, she sprawled back. “I’m home!”
“So I see,” Kate replied.
“Cheer up, you!” Unsnapping her purse, Mollie pulled out a bundle wrapped in paper and pushed it toward Kate. “I swear, I had a miserable time without you, so I brought you a treat.”
Kate touched the packet; the slightest warmth radiated from it. “What is it?”
“Half my steak and potato. It’s delicious. And!” Mollie dug into her purse again. This time, she emerged with two dollar bills. Brushing it against her own nose, she smiled behind them, as if they were a fan and she, a debutante. “To see myself home. Isn’t that dear?”
Curiously numb, Kate stared at the money. “That’s a lot for a ride home.”
“It was for a cab, not a streetcar. I told them they couldn’t escort me.” Mollie tugged Kate’s sleeve playfully. “You know how our imaginary ma loses her temper and beats us when she’s drinking.”
“Mmm.” Kate couldn’t find it in herself to go along. “Where did you go?”
Mollie hopped up to change. “Oh, here and there. I let them buy me dinner; they insisted on a couple of dances. Nothing terribly exciting.”
Quiet, Kate picked at Mollie’s wrapped leftovers. It’s not as though they were starving. Hot dinners every night, so far; muffins in the morning, and whatever struck their fancy at work. True, most of what they ate at The Pike was garbage, but ice cream and hot honeyed peanuts made for a delicious lunch all the same.
The Elementals Page 9
