by Anna Schmidt
They ate a quiet supper. Outside, the neighbors had strung lights to celebrate the Christmas season. Multicolored clotheslines stretched between buildings, the gay colors brightening the darkness. The Szepanskis had put their tree in their front window as always, a postcard-perfect display of Christmas cheer, a childhood memory his mother had copied in their front window.
He hadn’t brought up the topic of a tree, and Mary Lynn hadn’t asked. Their front window stood unadorned, framed by the green embossed drapes his mother loved, but those drapes provided a border for the pretty display across the street, and that made their place even more austere.
“Do you have homework?”
Mary Lynn nodded. “A ton. We’ve got our senior paper due in mid-January, and I’ve got a stack of research books from the library. Plus the regular stuff. And I’m glad I had all my Regents work done by last year so I could take some business classes this year. If I decide to keep the baby, I’m going to need a job. The business courses will help me with that.”
“A job?” Mike carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it. “Instead of college?” He shook his head, grim, and retook his seat. “Mom was excited about the thought of you being the first girl in our family to get a college degree. You’ve done so well in school.”
“Until now.”
She meant that she’d messed up totally by getting pregnant and Mike couldn’t disagree, but giving up her dream of a college education?
No. He’d promised to look after her. He’d made a pledge, a solemn oath. Yes, they’d messed up, but that just meant they needed to try harder. “There will be a way. I’m not sure how, but I know that your dream was to go to college. And that was Mom’s dream, too. So we’re not going to worry about a job. I have a job and I’m doing all right with money, and there’s the insurance money, too. You’re going to school, Mary Lynn. End of discussion.”
She gripped his hand. “I can’t use the insurance money to cover up what I’ve done.”
Mike leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Sure you can. That’s what money’s for. And Mom and Dad would be the first to make sure you and the baby are taken care of. One thing I learned in that war, sis: take each day and rejoice in it. We’ve lost a lot these past three years.”
Sorrow shadowed her face. “Yes.”
“Now we need to regroup. And we’ll do it, Mare. I promise.” He wasn’t sure how, and no answers fell at his feet that day, but he’d pledged his help, and Mike never went back on his word.
His words calmed her gaze. “I’ll do dishes.”
“Nope. You study. I’ll clean up the kitchen and then do a little research of my own.”
The doorbell rang as he put away the last dish. He tossed the towel onto the table and crossed the living room to open the door. “Mrs. Szepanski.”
Their across-the-street neighbor smiled as she handed him a foil-wrapped loaf. “I made bread today. I thought you and Mary Lynn might enjoy a bite. I noticed she was looking peaked these last few weeks, and there’s nothing like homemade bread to stick to the ribs.”
A part of him longed to confide in his mother’s friend. Maybe she could offer advice on a discreet doctor, an office that wouldn’t make Mary Lynn more guilt-ridden than she already was.
But would the neighbor keep their predicament quiet?
Mike sighed inside.
Jana Szepanski was a talker and she might pretend to mean well, but she’d have Mary Lynn’s plight all over the old neighborhood in record time. Mike smiled, kept his counsel, and held the loaf of bread aloft. “Thank you for this. We’ll enjoy it.”
“Good!” She smiled up at him, then noted the sparse look of the home behind him with a glance. “It’s hard to gussy things up for Christmas when you’re grieving, isn’t it?”
Hard?
Impossible, Mike thought. He shrugged, silent.
“If you decide to decorate, call me. Packy and I will come help. But Michael, if you leave it for this year, that’s okay too. Although I’d get your mother’s szopka out of storage. That nativity scene made by her mother was your mama’s pride and joy. Other than you two kids, of course.”
The crèche, handmade in turn-of-the-century Poland, was carefully stored each year. It had caused a family rift over a decade ago, when his grandmother passed the jewel-toned scene to his mother. Aunt Frannie thought it should come to her, but she’d gotten Grandmother’s wedding ring instead. She’d even offered a trade to Irina, but Mike’s mother had clung to the ornate, handmade Christmas scene. She’d even fashioned extra figures of her own over the last years, a way to fill the time while he and his father fought overseas.
The handmade foil, paper, and bejeweled Krakow nativity might make them miss their mother less. They certainly couldn’t miss her more than they did right now. “That’s a great idea. We’ll see to it, Mrs. Szepanski. And thank you for the bread.”
She peeked around him as if looking for something. Mary Lynn, perhaps?
But then she smiled and waved before she walked back across the street to her decorated home.
Mary Lynn appeared at his side once Mrs. Szepanski had gone. She indicated the festive neighborhood with a dip of her chin. “During the war, no one used decorations. Or lights. And the storefronts were filled with books and things about how to be a better war wife. How to make do. There was no tin foil or metal, so everything seemed darker, even at holiday time.”
“Longest nights of the year,” Mike remarked as he shut the door. He held out the loaf of bread. “Mrs. Szepanski was kind enough to bring this by. She said you looked peaked when she saw you.”
“She came over because she suspects,” Mary Lynn corrected him. “I got sick coming up the street from school a few days ago. She saw me. I said it was the stomach bug going around, but I could tell from her eyes that she knew, Mike. Or at least suspected.”
“Oh, Mare.” He pulled her into his arms, knowing he could only protect her from so much. Loose talk, neighborhood snipes, cruel looks . . . he had no way to control those. If he could, he would tuck her away someplace safe, away from the questioning glances and the backyard gossip. Maybe he should look into that, to find her a place where her secret and shame could be hidden away for six months, more or less.
Would that be better for her? Worse?
Reason said he should do anything he could to allay her fears and discomfort. The question was, what should he do?
He wasn’t sure, and since he and God had fallen out awhile back, he wasn’t about to bring his concerns to the altar. His father had raised him to be decisive once he’d chosen a course of action. Right now he didn’t know which path to take, but he’d examine the options and figure it out. He always did.
Chapter Seven
• • • • • • • • • • • •
“I brought your coffee today. But Arnie said the bagel is his gift to you.”
The husky warmth of Mike’s voice negated every mental barrier Karen had erected since the previous afternoon. She turned, trying to hide her pleasure, but the moment their eyes met, she recognized the impossibility.
He saw it too. And he smiled, his gaze drawing hers, his steadiness grounding her. “I shouldn’t eat so much, and not while I’m working,” she said. Talking about food shouldn’t get her into too much trouble, and the streets weren’t too busy with shoppers yet. The work rush had abated nearly an hour before and stores were just opening, so this was the perfect time for Mike to stop by. She suspected he knew that.
“From the size of you, I don’t think eating too much is ever a problem.” Mike’s tone said he didn’t find her size unappealing, and that made her smile grow wider.
“Thank you. I think. And while normally I wouldn’t agree with you, we were swamped at work last night, and I’d delivered three babies by five o’clock this morning. That meant I ran from room to room, helping.”
“You’re a nurse.”
She saw his expression and tilted her head. “You thought I only rang the
bell?”
He frowned and scrubbed a hand to his jaw. “No, well . . .” He hemmed and hawed and shrugged. “I had no idea. I didn’t know they even had women bell ringers until I came across you on Thanksgiving. They had guys dressed up as Santa when I was little.”
She nodded. “Those were often clients who had been helped by the services the army provides. But I would look ridiculous in a Santa suit.”
“I’m not so sure that’s true.” Flirtation layered Mike’s comment. Not flirting back was getting more difficult by the day. “I can’t believe what a coincidence this is, though. I’ve been trying to help a friend find an obstetrician.”
“Your friend is expecting?”
“Yes.”
Karen heard the single word of affirmation, but what she saw was anxiety in his eyes. “And she hasn’t seen a doctor as of yet. How far along is she?”
“Nearly three months. Is that bad?”
Karen sent him a look of reassurance. “Women have had babies from the beginning of time. Yes, it’s good to have medical care, but pregnancy isn’t an illness. It’s a natural part of our lives.”
“I don’t know how something so natural can make someone so sick,” he protested, and his expression told Karen he was closer to this woman than he’d let on.
Well then. What she didn’t need was to become involved in some kind of silly love triangle. Mike’s unveiled concern for this woman’s plight meant he was invested in her. Then why was he here, caring for Karen? Flirting with her?
Another girl-in-every-port kind of guy? Like Gilbert?
She pushed that idea aside. Mike wasn’t like that. He couldn’t be.
But a much younger Karen had thought that about Gilbert too. Her naïveté around men appalled her. She took a firm step back, mentally and physically. “The body changes during pregnancy. Those changes can cause nausea. But when you consider the miracle of life, the blessing of a child, a few months of morning sickness isn’t a big trade-off.”
For one brief moment he looked helpless, but then her words registered. “That’s a sensible way of looking at it. I’d never thought of it like that.”
Karen slid the leather gloves over her fingers now that the kettle was properly positioned. She waggled her fingers at him. “My hands are grateful to you daily. What a difference these make.”
“I’m glad, Karen.” He stepped closer, maybe pretending he didn’t notice she’d stepped back deliberately? “Do you know any good baby doctors? Here or in Brooklyn?”
“They’re everywhere, Mike.” She tipped her gaze up, trying to read between the lines and failing, but determined to avoid the drama of messy human relationships. She’d been surrounded by that as a child, and caused her own in youthful indiscretion. Never again. “But I do know that Doctors Fillmore, Fillmore, and Bartlett are in Brooklyn. They’re with Kings County Hospital. Is that close to you?”
“Practically in my back yard. And they’re good?”
She nodded firmly. “Yes, they’re good. I’ve been studying about nurse-midwives, though. If I ever get the chance to go back to school, that’s what I want to do.”
“Be a midwife? Isn’t that kind of an old-fashioned way of doing things now that we’ve got doctors and big, modern hospitals?” he wondered.
“Delivering babies is a specialty, but I sometimes wonder if making birth too antiseptic takes the joy out of it. But for the moment, I’m happy where I am. And because the opportunity for further schooling may never open up, I’ll honor God by doing what I do, the best I’m able.” She turned her gaze outward as she talked, the clear song of the bell tolling rhythmically. “I love working with new mothers. Holding those newborns.” The smile that brightened her gaze came straight from a sincere heart. “Each one a miracle, Mike, no matter how they are delivered into this world. Or by whom.”
Her words made him think hard. Each child a miracle, even when conceived out of wedlock? Was she kind or naïve to see things that way? No matter. She’d given him the best piece of information he could have asked for: the name of a practice to care for Mary Lynn. He’d stop by there on the way home and set up an appointment.
“Thank you for being frank with me. I know things have changed since the war. I forget that sometimes.”
Consternation darkened her profile, an expression that said she understood. She drew in a deep breath, smiled at someone walking by, wished them a merry Christmas, then turned toward him. “There has been a lot of change in little time, all around the world. And you were gone, fighting a war, so it’s hard to come back and find everything different. Some in good ways. Some not. And for you”—she faltered, and the look of concern changed to sympathy as her voice went soft—“things changed more than most. I shouldn’t take offense in any case.”
“The war changed a lot, that’s true.” He raised her hand lightly and gave it gentle pressure from his hand, a silent message of comfort. “But I didn’t mean to offend you, Karen. I would never do that intentionally.”
Her eyes said she longed to believe him.
Her bearing said something else. “Thank you for the coffee.”
He’d been politely dismissed.
So be it.
He turned and strode down the street, eyes sharp, gaze straight, doing his job, but he’d left a portion of his heart back there in front of Macy’s. He hurt her feelings by dismissing midwives. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Still, she’d offered him useful information, and he’d be able to find help for Mary Lynn. Knowing that eased a small part of his dented ego.
He stopped by Arnie’s at the end of his beat. Stan appeared busy in the back kitchen, doing the daily wash-down. Arnie repeated the process at the display case. “You are done this day?” Arnie straightened to face Mike, and even though Arnie wasn’t old, fatigue weighted his eyes.
Mike moved closer, concerned. “Arnie, are you feeling all right?”
The older man waved his question off. “These days I begin in the dark and end in the dark. I miss the longer days of summer. The light.”
Mike nodded, understanding. “I think the Christmas lights shine brighter because of those long, dark nights.”
“And our eight nights do as well,” Arnie agreed. “Did you want something, Mike?”
“Three bagels for supper. Plain ones.”
“I’ve got them right here.” Arnie rinsed his hands and reached for a waxed paper bag. He chose three bagels, put them in a small sack, and handed them over. “Here you go. And did our little bell ringer enjoy her coffee today? And her bagel?” Mike’s slow reaction hiked the baker’s brow. “She didn’t?”
“I’m sure she did. I think I insulted her without meaning to.”
“Men should talk less,” Arnie scolded. “Nod more. My father taught me this.”
Mike couldn’t find fault with the theory. “My father would have agreed.”
“I miss your father, Mike.”
An ache in Mike’s gut rose up to choke him. “Me too.”
“He was a good man, raised by a good man. And you know this, but did you know that your grandfather was a very bad boy?”
Mike frowned. “Jaja?”
Arnie smiled at the deliberate mispronunciation of dziadzia, the Polish word for grandfather. “Got himself in with a bunch of bad boys from the old neighborhood and landed in a mess of trouble. Of course he came over on his own, just him and his sister, to meet your great-grandfather here. And he was working all the time.”
“Like everyone, I suppose.”
Arnie nodded and shrugged. “But when kids are faced with so much change at once, they need extra time. With no mother around—”
Mike’s great-grandmother feared water and change. She refused to get on the ship to America, but once his great-grandfather had settled in Brooklyn, she sent their oldest two children to be new Americans. “It had to be tough.”
“Yes. But your jaja got straightened out by a cop who saw the good in him. Became his mensch. His advisor.”
�
�And that’s what drew him to the force later.”
Arnie nodded. “It was rare to have a Polish cop in those days. But he married his mensch’s Irish daughter and that gave him an inside track.”
“Which led to a family tradition, it seems.”
“Leadership. Kindness. Understanding. Fearlessness.” Arnie accepted Mike’s money and tucked it into his back pocket. “These are Wolzak qualities. Yours were refined in war, early, much like your father’s.”
Mike heaved a sigh. “He didn’t have to go back, Arnie. If he hadn’t . . .”
His father had served in World War I. He’d survived the war, the great flu outbreak, the crazy twenties, and the Great Depression. Why had he felt the need to return to the front while he had a wife and daughter back home?
“A man does what he must, always. For your father, there was never a question, Mike. You are like him.”
Mike wasn’t convinced that was a good thing. Sometimes he felt too much, worried too long, tried too hard. He wanted goodness and righteousness to rule the world, but he surrounded himself with crime and greed. What did that say about him?
“You take those bagels home and relax tonight,” Arnie instructed him. “Then tomorrow you bring something nice for our bell ringer. Make amends. She looked tired today when she walked by.”
She had looked tired, and her words about working all night struck Mike hard.
She worked all night, cared for a child, then came to Midtown to raise money for the poor? When did she sleep? The shadows under her eyes answered that question: not as often as she should.
Protectiveness welled within Mike, a consummate warmth that made him long to protect and defend the industrious bell ringer. An idea sprang to mind, a good idea. He smiled at Arnie, went home, cooked bland scrambled eggs and plain bagels for dinner, a supper that might be easy on Mary Lynn’s stomach, and planned what he’d do on his next day off.
His mother always said the best gifts cost no money but employ heart and time.
