Hurrying past her father, Sadie collected the next stack of linens. With her head down, she still managed to catch Julian’s eye. Wriggling her fingers beneath the fresh sheets, she smiled at him one more time, then darted from sight.
“No help,” Mr. Zweifel said, stepping into Julian’s line of sight. “And no talking.”
“Yes, sir.” No help and no talking; he could do both. At least he hadn’t said no looking, because Julian wasn’t sure that was possible.
Twelve
Zora reached for the pencil behind her ear, scowling at the column of numbers in front of her.
Neat stacks of receipts and promise notes covered the table. They ringed the oversize ledger like spectators at a boxing match. It was a fairly violent match at that, because she was trying to find the money to hire a farmhand.
Flipping a scrap of paper, Zora copied a few entries from the ledger. The pencil slipped down the rows as she worked the arithmetic again. One column, then the next, the numbers played peekaboo until the sum revealed itself.
Since Charlie’s wife was in earshot, Zora cursed under her breath instead of aloud.
“Everything all right, Mother Birch?” Marjorie asked.
Back stiffening, Zora had to paste on a smile. As a matter of fact, nothing was all right.
All her sons were gone and she had no reassurance that any of them were safe.
The asparagus had come in, but she and Em could only pick so fast between them. Their tomatoes rotted on the vine, and the alfalfa needed mowing.
And she wasn’t nearly old enough to have a daughter-in-law, let alone one that called her Mother. What was this, a fairy tale? Was she some cousin to Hubbard, sister to Goose? Those venerable ladies had never gone skinny- dipping, Zora was sure. They hadn’t given in to infatuation and chased their husbands down in a field of wildflowers.
Not that she would ever say such a thing to Marjorie, who was mild and quiet and doing her best. Zora painted on a bit of sweetness and said, “Everything’s fine. But if you’re wondering about that million dollars we don’t have, we still don’t have it.”
“Blame the bank.” Marjorie said. She spooned chow-chow relish into the last Mason jar, then capped it with a lid. The relish’s tangy scent lingered in the kitchen, but the steam from the double boiler diluted it. “Daddy says that the First National Bank of His Mattress is the only institution he trusts with his money.”
Zora waved the pencil at her. “I don’t know about that. I get excellent dividends from the Laundry Basket Savings and Loan.”
Amused, they both went back to work until footsteps sounded on the porch. Leaving the ledgers on the table, Zora walked to the back door, then murmured in surprise.
“Josephine Regan, what are you wearing?”
Most of the time, Josephine was the fashionable creature who played the organ at church on Sundays. She’d graduated with Charlie and Marjorie, then married two weeks later. It wasn’t so small a town that everyone knew everyone, but they all knew Josephine.
When patriotic buntings went up to celebrate the Fourth of July, Josephine was the one who put them there. Anyone ill, elderly, or infirm in Connersville could expect to get a casserole plus a dinner plate from her at some point in time. She sewed all her own clothes from McCall’s patterns and made extras for the factory girls who couldn’t afford anything extraneous. There was no civic celebration too small, no potluck too large, no need so obscure that Josephine Regan couldn’t find a way to make herself useful in it.
At this particular moment, however, she wore a bulky blue uniform and a massive canvas bag at her hip. Though it had to be heavy, Josephine bore its weight proudly and smiled. “I’m delivering your mail, Mrs. Birch.”
Marjorie abandoned the canning for a moment to come look. Laughing in surprise, she covered her mouth with her hand, then turned back to look Josephine over. Though completely incredulous, Marjorie couldn’t hide her delight. “Did you steal that?”
Sorting through the bag, Josephine shook her head. “Of course not. Mr. Travis got word from the postmaster that he could hire ladies to run the routes.”
“And you applied?”
“Obviously.” Josephine’s nose crinkled, then she added, “It’s only while the war’s on. They won’t need us once the boys come home.”
Marjorie leaned against the door. “Does Hugh know?”
“Oh, no. No, he’d never have it,” Josephine said. Producing a bundle of letters from the bag, she thumbed through them one by one. “But he’s on the Italian front right now, and the house is lonely without him. I thought . . . why shouldn’t I?”
“Why shouldn’t you, indeed?” Marjorie laughed.
It was like they’d forgotten Zora was there. So she returned to the farm’s books. Though numbers never lied, she was determined to rebalance them until they did her bidding. There would be money for a farmhand.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Birch,” Josephine called. She waved through the screen door before bounding down the steps.
Wheeling round, Marjorie sorted the mail as she approached the table. Suddenly, she squeaked, a soft, startled sound that drew Zora’s attention. Hurrying over, Marjorie started to hand over a letter, but then snatched it back. Breathlessly, she said, “It’s from Julian.”
From Julian. From. Not about—not that Marjorie could have known a letter was about him without opening it. The wild, pounding rush of Zora’s heartbeat made her feel a bit dizzy, but she thrust out her hand. “Let me see it.”
“Oh, Mother Birch, you’re not going to faint, are you?”
Taking the letter, Zora valiantly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She tore the envelope open. It smelled like Julian, the air inside the envelope, the paper filling it. Pressing it to her nose, Zora breathed it in. He was alive, still alive, and out there somewhere!
Unfolding the letter, Zora blinked when a bundle of ten-dollar bills fell to the table. Picking them up quickly, she folded them in one hand and shook the letter out with the other. Julian’s handwriting had always been questionable at best, but Zora had never been so happy to try to decipher it.
“What does it say?” Marjorie asked.
Zora skimmed the lines, the first time to herself. Then, the second time, she read aloud for Marjorie’s benefit.
“Dear Mama and Papa, I hope this finds you well. I’m fine; I’m writing from my room in Los Angeles. The weather’s fair and the food isn’t as good as yours. But I like the city so far, and I’m finding my way around.
“I thought it was time for me to make a go of it on my own. I wasn’t ever going to be able to work the farm like Charlie does, and that’s his legacy anyway. The last thing I wanted was to be the baby the rest of my life. So I headed out west like you did, and hopefully I’ll find my place.
“But I have to apologize. Not for leaving, but the way I did it. I should have said goodbye, and I shouldn’t have taken your money. I’m awfully sorry, and I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m returning all but twenty dollars of it with this letter. I’ll send the rest soon.
“I love you, and I miss you. Please write back when you can.” Zora swept away a tear, waving the letter and the money at once. “He signed it and put in his address.”
Marjorie caught her breath. “This is such good news; I’m so glad to hear it.”
Leaping up, Zora gave Marjorie a quick hug, then hurried outside. Their farm was a vast expanse in green, but Zora didn’t need to cut through the fields to find Emerson. She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing up a ghostly vision of all the water that surrounded her. It ran beneath the earth; it flowed through every living thing growing in it.
And then she pushed. With her mind and her will and her body—a subtle gesture of power. Ripples flowed away from her, through the trees and the corn, along the creek that cut through their land. Pulsing with her heartbeat, her touch spread into the distance.
It was a finicky thing, mastering water and being its mistress. But it was an unmistakable thing too, for those who
knew how to read the signs. Drifting into the yard, Zora warmed her face in the sun, and she waited.
The corn turned, the stalks twisting subtly as if stretching toward a new sun. And then a faint tremor passed beneath Zora’s feet. It startled the chickens and made the screen door rattle.
At once, Marjorie ran onto the porch. Clutching the rail, she asked, “Did you feel that, Mother Birch?”
“I wouldn’t be concerned, Marjorie. I’m sure it’s nothing. Why don’t you get back to your canning?” Zora shooed her away, and waited. When Em was close enough, when she could feel the amber spark of his presence on her skin, Zora would walk into the fields to meet him.
She’d push him down and kiss him until he pulled the pins out of her hair and let it fall in a veil to cover them both. Whatever else passed between them would pass between them, but it would be beautiful, and alive, and theirs.
They both knew enough to celebrate when they could, because perfect moments never lasted.
***
Instead of sharing a seat on the red car with Kate, Mollie sat across the aisle on her own bench. Packed in with a pair of very solidly built ladies, Mollie had to perch on the edge to keep her place. At each stop, she pulled her feet out of the way for new riders, a brief, bright gargoyle.
The awkwardness didn’t keep her from craning round to look at boys on the street and men in motorcars. “Oh, look at him,” she said, pointing out the front window. “He’s a treat, don’t you think?”
Kate tugged the brim of her cap and hunched clown. It was savagely hot, and sweat already soaked her clothes from the inside. The rubbish bins at The Pike promised to be especially foul with all their contents being roasted by the heat wave. Lucky Mollie would spend the day bathed in ice and couldn’t leave well enough alone. Kate muttered, “Yes, he’s delicious.”
“Even better than the Bicycle Boy, and he was really something. Is it me or is Los Angeles positively packed with beautiful people?”
With a sigh, Kate pulled the hat over her eyes. For three days straight, Mollie had been narrating her boygazing in frighteningly minute detail. There was the soldier who bought a soda for himself and one for Mollie too—he had freckles that probably went everywhere. Then it was the waiter at Apffels Coffee, with his sleepy brown eyes and sensual lips.
The Bicycle Boy was mostly notable for—shockingly enough—the old-fashioned bicycle he rode down the pier. Instead of rubberized tires, it had bare metal ones wildly mismatched in size. The hideous thing sounded like a pail full of marbles as it went, and the boy riding it jounced with each rattle. What Mollie could have found fascinating about him would have filled half a postage stamp. He was nothing more than a novelty.
Kate hoped that pretending to sleep would clamp a hand over Mollie’s mouth, but it didn’t. It seemed to make her talk louder, in fact. Impervious to the heat, Mollie waved her hands in greater gesticulations with each comment.
“Now, that one reminds me of Leonard.” All but swooning into the aisle, she leaned toward Kate. “He gave me my first cigarette and my first kiss. I could never smoke again and be a happy lamb, but necking? Oh my, yes, please.”
Stamping her feet and rearranging her meaty arms, the woman next to Mollie made a disapproving sound. But that did nothing to slow the river of chatter, either. Mollie shot the woman a deadly look, then turned back to Kate.
“Have you ever kissed a boy?”
Nerves frayed, Kate pushed her hat back and looked Mollie in the face. “Loads of them. I love kissing boys.”
Only then did Mollie realize her error—as far as the other passengers were concerned, she’d asked a boy that question, and now said boy was going on about the wonders of a very masculine kiss.
“For example, Iskender was a wonderful teacher, he was my first. It was a perfect day, the sky was so blue. We’d had ices—mine was lemon, his was melon. We were sitting under an olive tree with them, and our parents were celebrating. They were so caught up, they had no idea what we were doing. His tongue was cold and sweet—”
“Young man,” barked one of Mollie’s seatmates.
Kate blinked at her innocently. “I’m sorry. Did you want to tell us about your first kiss?”
“Stop it!” Mollie’s dismay couldn’t have been written more clearly. Even her golden skin, usually so bright and sunblessed, had turned ashen.
Sliding back into her seat, Kate shrugged. “I’d never liked the taste of melon until then. His sister tasted like anise, and I do have to say I developed a permanent fondness. One bite of licorice and I’m back in Paphos.”
“Conductor!”
The woman beside Mollie stood abruptly, waving a hand to call one of the attendants.
Kate stretched across the aisle, asking Mollie with a smile, “Have I ever told you about the boy I dream about? I’m standing on a beach watching the sun go down. Then, like a bolt of lightning, I feel him standing behind me. I turn around and . . .”
“You must do something about this churl at once!” the woman shouted. “There are women and children in this car, and the things he’s saying!”
The rear conductor wound his way to them. He put his hand on the back of Kate’s seat and leaned over. He smiled tightly, and he cajoled, “Come on, now. Why are you giving this nice lady a hard time?”
Kate smiled. “I’m not. She’s having a very easy time of eavesdropping. I can’t help what she overhears.”
“Please stop.” Mollie shielded her face from the staring passengers with one hand.
Infuriated, the woman pointed at Kate. “I demand you eject him from this car at once!”
“I demand you eject her,” Kate retorted. She stood up too, hands on hips and chin raised imperiously. “She’s the one causing a commotion.”
Now the passengers murmured behind them, a drone that drowned the clatter of the red car as it slowed. They could only speculate about what lewd things had been said, and no doubt their imaginations served them quite handily.
Meanwhile, Mollie tried to compress herself in mortification. Though she could be quite compact when she wished to be, no one could miss her brilliant scarlet uniform.
Pulling the bell cord, the conductor rocked as the streetcar stopped. Then he clamped a hand on Kate’s shoulder and marched her toward the front. “If I were your father, I’d stripe your hide.”
“No you wouldn’t. My father doesn’t believe in corporal punishment.”
“Off!” the conductor snapped.
Catching the handrail, Kate swung around to call to Mollie. “I know you find a man in uniform very distinguished, but I couldn’t disagree more. I’d rather kiss an actor six days a week. Twice on Sunday.”
At that, the conductor grabbed Kate’s collar. He didn’t pretend to be gentle. The collar strangled, and only stopped when the conductor physically threw her from the car.
She stumbled in the road, pinwheeling around. A chorus of angry goose-honks sounded. Nimble black cars swerved around her, so close their wake pulled at her clothes. Leaping back, Kate bounded for the sidewalk. Crackling overhead, the electric wires seemed to taunt her.
Another kind of buzzing ran through Kate, and she threw a hand up to wave as the red car drove away. She was loose-limbed with it and felt dangerous. Then, underneath, there was a pounding of her heart, and a ripple in her belly that left her queasy.
It would be a long walk to The Pike if she couldn’t catch another red car, but she didn’t care. She was tired of caring; she was exhausted with it. She prayed the developed film would come soon, because The Lady of Shalott was their masterpiece. If Mollie could only see the art they’d made together, it would mend things between them. It had to.
Trying to cage her distress, Kate suffered the one thought that escaped: There was no such thing as a director without a star.
***
Though the heat never ceased, Julian found he enjoyed his job when there was something to look forward to at the end of the day. Instead of singing to pass the time, he sang to get S
adie’s attention. He sang when she rewarded him with subtle smiles.
And he sang to amuse himself while a hired mechanic climbed into the ceiling to fix the belt that would automate the dryer again. Since he couldn’t help with the machinery, Julian busied himself at the folding tables.
The long linen swaths snapped like pennants in the air when he shook them out. Much quicker than the little kids at the table, he tried to move from pile to pile so no one would get too far ahead of the others. The littlest ones, who couldn’t run a machine, got paid by the piece.
Reaching for the next sheet, Julian stopped when a sharp whistle sounded. Turning around, he saw Mr. Zweifel by his office door. He pointed at Julian with his clipboard. Then, with an exaggerated motion, he beckoned him to come, and walked into the office to wait for him.
“I think he wants to talk to you,” Dottie whispered.
Whispering back, Julian said, “I think you’re right.”
Julian scraped the feet of his crutches on the floor to dry them, then hurried to the office, readying an argument. Mr. Zweifel had told him he couldn’t accept any help. He’d said nothing about giving it. And he had to agree it was better to work than to stand idle.
But he didn’t get a chance to say any of it. As soon as he reached the office, Mr. Zweifel handed him an envelope. “A week’s pay, plus an extra day so you don’t go hungry.”
Confused, Julian stood there. “I don’t understand.”
Mr. Zweifel folded the envelope in half, then tucked it into Julian’s front pocket. “Now that the dryer’s fixed, I don’t have a place for you.”
With confusion slowly turning to shock, Julian swung back on his crutches, then forward again so no one could overhear their conversation. “Not at all? No disrespect to you, sir, but you’ve got five-year-olds ironing in the back. I couldn’t do that?”
Firm, Mr. Zweifel herded him toward the front door. “I have them doing the job they can do. I pay them less than I pay you.”
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