Rust & Stardust

by T. Greenwood

  “At the shore. With a girlfriend.”

  Susan looked up, surprised. Despite being such a sweet, happy girl, she knew Sally didn’t really have many friends. She spent most of her time reading books. On the weekends she and Al took her to the movies with them. If Sally hadn’t seemed so content, Susan might have felt sorry for her.

  “What friend?” she asked.

  “Vivi Peterson,” Ella said. “From her grade at school. Now come sit down. Supper’s ready.”

  They ate dinner quietly, the Windsor chimes marking the quarter hour and then the half. Susan shifted uncomfortably in the hard-backed chair. The baby’s foot or elbow pressed at her side, and she pushed back gently at whatever appendage it was that was poking her from the inside out.

  “When will Sally be home?” Al asked. “I promised her I’d take her over to the Farnham pool one afternoon this summer. She’s old enough to go in the deep end now.”

  “I got a call from her today, said they’re staying on another week to see the Ice Follies.”

  “Who’s this friend again? I’ve never heard her talk about anyone named Vivi,” Susan said.

  “Peterson,” Ella said again. “Vivi Peterson. Her father seemed like a very nice man. Even paid her bus fare, escorted her himself.”

  “Hmm,” Susan said, pushing her potatoes around her plate. Every swallow was difficult, acid rising up. She’d have heartburn later, have to sleep propped up. “Wonder how they can afford that?”

  She couldn’t imagine how a family from this neighborhood could manage to bring another child on vacation with them. Especially on a trip to Atlantic City. She and Al had gone to the shore for their honeymoon, and between the hotel and the food and entertainment, it had cost them almost every dime they got from their wedding.

  “It’s vulgar to talk about money.” Ella tsked, wincing, but Susan didn’t know if it was due to the pain of her bones or the pain of her own financial situation. Of course, she and Al helped her out, as much as they could, anyway. But because Ella rented this house, it was as though she had an endless mortgage. Susan and Al had bought their place. Susan was determined not to fund a greedy landlord her whole life.

  “She went with the girl’s father, you said?” asked Al.

  “Yes, he and a lovely woman assistant of his.”

  “Oh, what sort of business is he in?” Susan asked.

  “Well, I don’t know that,” Ella answered. “I told you, it’s rude to ask those sorts of questions. I got a postcard from her yesterday, said she was having a wonderful time.”

  Susan scowled. It seemed to her that if Sally were her own daughter, she’d have asked a few questions before sending her child off with a stranger.

  Ella, probably sensing Susan’s consternation, got up from the table and went to the other room. She came back with a postcard that said GREETINGS FROM ATLANTIC CITY on the front, with a picture of the beach. She slapped it down on the table almost angrily.

  Susan took the postcard and studied the writing on the back.

  Dear Mama, I am writing to tell you how much fun I’m having here in Atlantic City. We are staying at a fancy hotel called the Hotel Clarendon right near the beach. Today I got to meet Mr. Peanut at the Planters shop on the boardwalk. I even got my photo taken with him, and Mr. Peterson bought me a paper cone filled with hot peanuts.

  “She doesn’t like peanuts,” Susan said, feeling her stomach flip (or maybe it was just the baby that tumbled like an acrobat after a meal). Something about this filled her with unease.

  “I’m sure she was just being polite,” Ella said defensively. “I told her to mind her manners.”

  Still, Susan studied the postcard; she saw an odd tremble to the handwriting, which usually was so clear and smooth, like stitches in fabric.

  I miss you. Love to you and Susan and Al.

  “See, she’s having a lovely time…,” Ella said, but Susan could hear the worry in her mother’s voice. It was the same thing she’d heard every time Russell was late coming home from Daly’s.

  They ate the rhubarb pie in silence. After several minutes, Ella set her fork down. Pursing her lips before wiping at them with a napkin, she said, “Awfully tart. You know it’d be sweeter with some strawberries.”

  Susan sighed.

  After coffee, Susan felt her eyelids growing heavy. Her body growing heavy. The heat outside, the muggy air, was relentless. Al clasped her hand, nodded.

  “Ella, thank you for dinner. But we really need to be getting home,” he offered, helping Susan up. “Saturdays are our busiest day at the greenhouse. Can we bring you a strawberry plant next time, Ma? Maybe whip you up a strawberry rhubarb pie?”

  Susan loved him more than she could say, because for just a moment, her mother’s face softened, the lines between her eyes disappearing. But then a shadow crossed her face. “Russell used to grow strawberries,” she said.

  On the drive home, Al shook his head. “So strange about your sister,” he said.

  Susan nodded, feeling relieved that she wasn’t alone in thinking this was very, very strange. Suddenly, and inexplicably, her eyes began to water. She’d been emotional ever since she got pregnant, but most of the time it was over nothing. She’d even begun to sob once while listening to an episode of The Guiding Light on the radio. But this felt different.

  “Aw, sweetheart,” he said. “I can drive to the shore if you want. Bring her home?”

  Susan shook her head and batted her hand in front of her face. “Oh goodness, I’m such a nervous Nellie. Mama doesn’t seem concerned. I’m sure she’s being well cared for. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be writing home. Right?”

  SALLY

  “This here’s just so she won’t worry about you,” Mr. Warner said, handing Sally a pen, as though he were doing everybody a favor. He bought stacks of postcards, and had her send one to her mother every few days, assuring her everything was okay. He even let her call home once, to tell her mother they’d be staying on a little bit longer to see the Ice Follies, though he never did take her to see them. But as much as Sally hated lying to her mother, she also didn’t want her to be concerned. And so Mr. Warner dictated, and Sally transcribed.

  Dear Mama,

  I am having such a wonderful time. You would love Atlantic City. There are so many things to do and to see. Mr. Peterson took me to the Steel Pier and we watched a revue of performers dancing and singing, and they were all children! One of the girls played the accordion and sang in French. Her name was Concetta Franconero. Isn’t that a pretty name?

  “Can I tell her the rest myself?” Sally asked.

  “So long as you let me read it after,” he said.

  Sometimes I go to Shriver’s to watch the saltwater taffy being pulled. I’m sending some to you real soon. I think you’d like the lemon flavor the most. On Tuesday we went to a museum where there are figures made completely of wax, but they look so real! The Phantom of the Opera and Henry VIII. My favorite was Sleeping Beauty behind glass. She looks just like a real lady, and somehow they even made her breathe!

  “Mr. Peterson let me ride the carousel ten times until I caught the brass ring,” Mr. Warner said, nudging her shoulder, and she wrote it down, adding:

  I miss you so much, but Mr. Peterson is treating me very special. Later today, he’s going to take me for a ride on the diving bell submarine. For 25 cents, you go inside and they drop you thirty feet down into the ocean. I’ve only ever watched it before. If you stand on the pier, they have speakers so you can hear the people inside as they go under the water. Sometimes they laugh, but mostly they scream. I’m a little bit afraid, Mama. What if something goes wrong and I go in but don’t ever come up again?

  Your daughter,

  Sally

  For three weeks, Mr. Warner and Sally waited for the judge to schedule the hearing, and she didn’t see Miss Robinson again. Mr. Warner told her that his assistant had returned to Camden, to attend to business matters there. Sally had so many questions, but most of them went unanswe
red. As generous as Mr. Warner could sometimes be—bringing her paper bags filled with creamy taffy wrapped in waxed paper, taking her to Randy’s Waffle shop for strawberry waffles, buying her trinkets from the boardwalk shops—he also had a temper and didn’t suffer her questions well. At home, at school, she asked questions as soon as she felt them bubbling up on her tongue: What makes thunder? When do birds sleep? How long is infinity? But Mr. Warner didn’t tolerate her curiosity. “What do you think this is, Break the Bank? I look like Bert Parks?” he’d ask, laughing that gunshot laugh of his. And so the questions swelled inside her. Who is the judge? Is he nice? If he does send me to jail, how long before I get to go home? She wondered if this was what Susan must have felt like, with that baby taking up so much space inside her.

  During the day, Mr. Warner took her all around Atlantic City, as if they really were on a vacation. He made her hold his hand as they walked along the boardwalk, said this way they would appear as though they were just a father and his daughter. No one would become suspicious. These little outings weren’t allowed by the FBI. They’d both be in a lot of trouble if they were caught. He gripped her hand the way her mother did when they crossed the street.

  “Good morning!” he’d say brightly each day as he rose from the second twin bed where he slept. He’d strung up an extra bedsheet between the beds for privacy, using thumbtacks Mrs. Krauss gave him. (“You know I’d never hurt you, Sally. This is strictly a professional arrangement,” he’d said, though she didn’t really know what he meant.)

  “What would my sweet girl like to do today?” he’d ask, pulling back the heavy blinds from the window.

  I’d like to see the judge, she thought. I’d like to go home, please.

  But every day there was some new delay, and so instead they went to the beach, to the Million Dollar Pier, to the Steel Pier, where they watched the diving horse Miss Robinson had told her about. They sat in the stands, captivated by the horse as it contemplated its fate. Standing on the platform, which hovered forty feet above the pool of water below, the poor horse was unable to back up. It had nowhere to go but down. It hesitated, resisted, but then, inevitably, it became oddly resigned. It was only then, its will and spirit broken, that it lowered its head, put its feet forward, when it slid down the chute, and—for a single terrific and terrifying moment—flew.

  Afterward, he took her to get her portrait taken, in a brand-new dress, and promised she could send the photograph to her mother when it was developed.

  By the time they arrived at the rooming house each night, Sally’s feet ached from all the walking. After supper in Mrs. Krauss’s dining room, she and Mr. Warner retired. She changed into her nightclothes in the lavatory and slipped between the sheets while he was occupied with his own nighttime routine on the other side of the divider.

  If he had to go out again, as he often did, though mostly at night, he tied her up, apologizing for the trouble, explaining it was just part of his job. He always made sure to feed her dinner before he left, and had her use the bathroom. He’d also leave a glass of water on the night table, close enough to reach, with a straw so she wouldn’t need her hands, which he tied to the bedpost, apologizing for having to do so. “Tomorrow I’ll take you to the beach, Sally. To ride the carousel!”

  She hated being tied up, the hours ticking by so slowly. Finally, she got up the courage to ask if he’d mind leaving on the radio real soft, so at least she wouldn’t have to listen to the clock, the second hand beating out each agonizing second. He agreed, though he kept the volume low, and when she closed her eyes she could almost imagine herself at home in her room, listening to the little mint-green Bakelite clock radio Susan had: Dinah Shore singing about rings and things and buttons and bows.

  She didn’t know where he went or what he did, but he always came home stinking of liquor the way her stepfather once had. Sometimes, he had pockets full of money, which he stuffed into one of his socks in the dresser drawer. His eyes were unfocused, his words slippery. Once, when the knot had been too tight and the rope had rubbed her skin raw and red, he dropped down to his knees and pressed his lips against the inside of her wrists. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The feeling of his lips against her skin made her stomach clench. I’m fine, she’d said, startled. It doesn’t even hurt. It scared her when he behaved like this, even more than thinking about jail. When he got close to her, close enough that she could feel the summer heat coming off his skin, close enough that she could smell him, she felt as if he wanted something from her. Hunger, like a dog eyeing a bone.

  They went under the sea in the diving bell, and he took her on the carousel, the enormous one with the thousand painted ponies. He let her ride and ride, buying her enough tickets to ride until she was dizzy. When she finally caught the brass ring, he cupped his hands to his mouth and hollered out, “Make a wish, Sally!”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and made her wish, but instead of redeeming the ring for another ride, she put the ring in her pocket. Back in the hotel, she strung it on a piece of string that she’d found in the rickety dresser drawer. She tried to tie it herself but couldn’t quite reach to make a knot.

  “Here, let me,” Mr. Warner said, and moved behind her. “What did you wish for?”

  She shook her head. You weren’t supposed to tell. Not wishes on stars, not wishes on birthday candles, not wishes on carousel ponies.

  “I bet I know,” he said. His knobby fingers grazed the back of her neck, and the little hairs there stood up. “And I have a feeling that wish just might come true.”

  “The hearing?” she whispered hopefully, despite the chill running along her back. “Do I get to see the judge?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he said.

  That night on the other side of the sheet, she could hear the sounds of his sleep. The labored breath interrupted by fits of coughing or snoring. She was awake until the sun began to fill the dark room with light, touching the cold brass ring at her neck. Please, she thought. Please let today be the day I get to see the judge.

  ELLA

  Ella was still asleep when Susan called. She’d been dreaming of Russell again, though if she had to explain it, she wouldn’t be able to. The dream was a dark room, only shadows. A haunting sort of melody played under water. Muffled. Suffocated.

  “Mama?” Susan said, and Ella pulled herself from the depths.

  “What’s the matter?” Ella asked, and then fear set in. “Is something wrong with the baby?”

  “No, Mama. The baby is fine.”

  “Then what’s the trouble? The sun’s hardly even up yet.”

  “Mama, it’s about Sally.”

  Ella sat up, her spine a ladder of pain. “What about Sally?”

  “She’s not at that hotel. The Hotel Clarendon. Al got the idea to call last night and ask for a Mr. Peterson, but the clerk said there wasn’t anybody by that name staying there.”

  “Maybe I got the name wrong then, of the hotel,” Ella said, shaking her head, though she recalled that the first letter from Sally had been written on a piece of stationery with the hotel’s name embossed at the top. The Hotel Clarendon. That was the only one, though; the others had been postcards, and the most recent one had been written on a piece of notebook paper with a ragged edge.

  “Maybe it’s against the hotel’s policies,” Ella said, feeling her chest constrict. “All sorts of movie stars and such coming through Atlantic City. I imagine they can’t just give out information about who’s stayin’ there.”

  “Sally is not a movie star, Mama. She’s a regular girl, and there’s nobody at that hotel named Peterson. Al’s dropping me off at the house. I want to see the letters.”

  Ella rolled her shoulders a little, her joints cracking and aching as she did. The pain was so bad that morning, she wasn’t even able to pull her nightgown over her head, and so she stood up and simply put on a robe and her house slippers.

  * * *

  “You okay, Mama?” Susan asked when Al dropped her off an hou
r later, scowling at the ratty robe she wore.

  “Just a little under the weather,” she said, wrapping it tightly around her.

  Susan sat down across from her at the kitchen table, studying the letters that lay spread before them like a pack of fortune-teller cards.

  “This one just came yesterday,” Ella said, pointing at the most recent letter. Susan read through it.

  “But look, Mama,” Susan said, tapping her finger on the page. “She doesn’t make any mention of that girl, Vivi. Not once in any of the letters and postcards you got. It’s just Mr. Peterson this and Mr. Peterson that. It’s been more than three weeks already. It’s time for her to come home.”

  Ella nodded. She still hadn’t been able to shake that dark feeling lingering from her dream.

  “Do any of these have a return address?” Susan asked, peering at the envelopes.

  Ella hadn’t thought to look. Of course the postcards didn’t, but the letters must.

  “Give me that one,” Susan said, and Ella handed her the envelope. She turned it over and over in her hand before holding it up to the light. She gasped loudly.

  “What is it?” Ella asked.

  “Oh, sorry, Mama,” Susan said. “Just the baby kicking.” She put the envelope down on the table, and Ella grabbed it. No return address. Nothing. The postmark said ATLANTIC CITY, NEW JERSEY. That was all.

  Ella swallowed, and it felt like there was a sharp stone in her throat. She needed water, but as she tried to stand, her hip joints resisted, pain shooting down both legs.

  “I need some water,” she managed to say, and Susan stood up, leading the way to the kitchen with her belly, hand pressed against her lower back.

  “Rinse a glass from the rack, and don’t be reaching up into the cupboard. It’ll wrap the baby’s cord right around its neck.” Ella’s own mother had lost two pregnancies this way. (Never mind Levi and Ashur, the two who died before they were even a year old, and little David who only made it to twelve.) It seemed to her a miracle that any child endured into adulthood.