by Kathy Kacer
Sara harbored a secret fantasy that the Seven would stay together forever, though that was something she had never said aloud. Sometimes, she even imagined that Mrs. Hazelton would be the one who would look after them, as she had been doing all these years. Everything was changing, Sara realized. None of it felt good.
As if reading her mind, Miss Webster gazed at the girls, taking them in one by one. “That’s all I can say for now. I don’t know much more than you do.” Her voice was tired. Sara realized that Miss Webster was just as homeless as the rest of them. “Now is the time to sleep—even if it’s only for a short time. In a few hours, Mrs. Hazelton will want to have a conversation with each of you. There are important things to talk about.” She stopped there, letting her words and her waving finger hang in the air and settle on each of the girls. Sara, her body dead tired, looked up. She was about to open her mouth to ask for more details when Miss Webster spoke again.
“Don’t even ask me any more questions. Rest. This is the start of a new day and a new time. We’re all safe. That’s what’s most important.” With that, she turned and left the chapel. The girls looked at one another.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Dot said.
Betty was the one who replied. “Let’s just try and get some sleep. We won’t have any answers now, so we might as well do as Miss Webster says.”
Sara settled back down onto the pew, reached for her tin of money and stared into the darkened chapel. There was still no sign of Luke. Did he even care that she had just survived a fire?
Three
THOUGH LORETTA’S WAS usually closed on Sundays—the Lord’s Day—Mrs. Clifford, the owner of the diner, had let it be known that she was going to open up this one time, so that folks who had helped out with the fire could come by for a meal. Even Reverend Messervey had given his blessing to the Sunday opening. And nothing, not even the destruction of the orphanage, stopped Sara from showing up at Loretta’s on time the next morning. She had started working at the diner when she was sixteen. Mrs. Hazelton hadn’t objected to her desire to get some work in town. As long as Sara kept up with her studies and chores at the orphanage, and didn’t get home too late, it was fine with the matron. Sara bicycled into town to Loretta’s four times a week, on the old rickety bike that Ed Sparling, the orphanage’s handyman, tried to keep oiled and working. And every morning, her route took her past the welcome sign leading into town that read:
Hope
Population: 1,428
It was such a ridiculous name for a town that never seemed to change, neither moving forward nor back. Hope was small and insignificant and would probably always stay that way. Sara had never felt particularly attached to the town, and she certainly had never felt inspired by its name.
She parked her bicycle behind the diner and entered through the back door. Even the milkman was helping out on this Sunday and had already been there with his usual 6:00 AM delivery. Sara lugged the heavy glass bottles inside and paused in front of the mirror that hung next to the walk-in refrigerator, inspecting herself. Her steely blue eyes, like two round spots of crystal-clear sky, reflected back, looking weary from lack of sleep and the worry about her future that shrouded her. She grimaced. No way to get rid of the apprehension, but she had to do something to pull herself together before customers started to arrive. She’d simply fall apart—or snap—if anyone asked her any questions about the fire. She pulled her long dark curls into a ponytail and applied a thin layer of pink lipstick, rubbing her lips back and forth to move the color around. Then she added a couple of dabs to her cheeks, smoothing out the color with her fingers and pinching the apples of her cheeks for good measure. She stood back and inspected herself once more. Better!
Next, Sara stored the milk bottles inside the refrigerator and entered the dining area, flipping on the lights beside the door. The neon sign behind the counter snapped and buzzed a couple of times before the name—Loretta’s—burst into pink fluorescent light. No one knew why the diner was called Loretta’s or, for that matter, who Loretta was. That was just the name it had always had.
It was Loretta’s when I bought it thirty years ago, and I’ve kept it that way ever since, Mrs. Clifford always said. Why mess with something that works? It was a popular stop for townsfolk and people passing through.
Sara moved around the diner, setting the chairs down from the tops of tables and filling the sugar jars and salt and pepper shakers. Had Mrs. Clifford felt sorry for her? Sara wondered briefly. Is that why she had hired her two years earlier? Whatever her reason, Mrs. Clifford was a fair and generous boss, and Sara tried hard not to take advantage of that. That’s why she had arrived that morning to help open up.
Mrs. Clifford was surprised to see her. “You don’t have to be here today, Sara,” she said when she walked in an hour after Sara’s arrival. She clucked sympathetically as Sara briefly described the fire.
Mrs. Clifford was a tiny wisp of a woman, barely reaching Sara’s shoulder. Her age was a mystery to everyone in town. “I’ll manage fine if you want to take some time,” she continued, peering up at Sara from behind her oversized black horn-rimmed glasses. “Rest up for a few days. It must be a shock to lose that home of yours.”
This kind of scrutiny was what Sara had dreaded. The word shock cut deeply into her, and she swallowed hard before replying. “It’s okay, ma’am. I like being here. It helps clear my head.”
That part was true. Anything that kept her busy would help keep her mind off her anxiety about what was going to happen to her and the other girls. It had been her last thought before she finally drifted off for a few hours of sleep at the church and her first thought as she awoke. Working at Loretta’s was a great distraction. And she was proud of her ability to earn an income. She had been squirreling away her wages ever since she got this job—planning for a future that she hadn’t yet figured out. All she knew was that it made her feel as if she didn’t always have to depend on others. And that was enough for now.
In the early hours of the morning in the chapel, after all the other girls were asleep, Sara had pulled out her tin box, opened it and finally counted the money she had collected. Her wages were good—almost a dollar an hour. And the tips were pretty good too, especially when Mrs. Clifford had her work the dinner shift. Just a week earlier, Dr. Blunt and his wife had been in to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary. They had felt particularly generous and left Sara a whole dollar! That wasn’t always the case; mostly, the customers left ten-cent tips, sometimes a quarter. Still, Sara knew that the money had to have added up over the two years that she had worked. But she never imagined how much was actually there—close to three hundred dollars. A fortune! The money was burning a hole in her pocket right now. It was one thing to keep it under her bed in the orphanage and know that no one would ever touch it. The church, even though everyone called it the House of God, was unknown territory. She hadn’t wanted to leave it where a stranger wandering through might get his or her hands on it.
The door opened with a soft jingle from the bell above it, announcing someone’s arrival. Sara quickly adjusted the apron around her waist. She was wearing a blouse and skirt that a woman at the church had given her the night before. The shirt was a bit snug, and she pulled self-consciously at the front of it, trying to get it to close over the skimpy bra that had been a donation from Guthrie’s Bridal and Delicates shop. She couldn’t complain though. All the girls’ clothing had been lost in the fire. At least she’d had something to put on, not just the nightgown in which she had fled from the burning building. But she wished there was a sewing machine somewhere that she could get her hands on. The one from the orphanage was gone, along with all the material that had been stored in the common room. Give her a piece of fabric and she could create instant fashion. She dreamed one day of being a great designer like Mary Quant, who had just introduced the miniskirt. Sara even fantasized now and then that Coco Chanel might have been her real mother—well, perhaps her grandmother or great-grandmother,
since the famous fashion designer was probably over eighty years old! All the magazines wrote about Chanel’s ambition and the fact that both of her parents had died when she was only twelve, making her a young orphan like Sara. It never stopped Chanel from pursuing her passion. Sara had all kinds of ideas for designs. What was going to happen to those dreams now?
She looked up to see Luke enter the diner. He ambled over to the counter and sat down right in front of her, reaching across to nuzzle her cheek. Sara shrugged him away, glancing over her shoulder to see if Mrs. Clifford was watching. A troublesome feeling started to build in the pit of her stomach. She was still upset that Luke hadn’t shown up at the fire or at the church. Should she say something? She wanted to, but…
“Hey, you’re looking good.” Luke checked out her too-tight blouse, letting his eyes rest a bit too long on her chest and on the lacy bra that was peeking through. She pulled on the front of her shirt again, her face burning, and then reached behind her to fill a cup with coffee, setting it down in front of Luke.
“I heard about the fire.”
So, he did know. That made it almost worse that he hadn’t shown up.
“I figured you were all okay,” he said. He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and dug in his jacket for a lighter. Sara grabbed the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it in a nearby ashtray, trying to make light of the gesture. Luke knew how much she hated cigarettes. But today, just a few hours after the fire that had destroyed her home, the smell of the smoke would have made her gag. Why didn’t he think of that? she wondered.
Sara often asked herself what it was she saw in Luke—what kind of spell he had cast over her a few months earlier when he crawled out from under the truck he was repairing at the garage where he worked. Sara had biked there that day to get some air for her tires. She had seen him around town and had secretly taken pleasure in his dark good looks and the muscles that bulged under his tight T-shirts. He was a total hunk, just like Elvis, but even more dangerous. But that day he’d noticed her too, and said that he loved her dark curly hair and blue eyes. “Like Elizabeth Taylor,” he said. “Better than all those blondies I see around here.”
Few people ever paid attention to Sara’s looks. And while she knew she couldn’t come close to resembling the famous actress, she fell hard for Luke’s smooth talk. But beyond being smitten by looks, and his attraction to her, what was there that drew her to him? Betty and Dot always told her that Luke was trouble. And Mrs. Clifford made no secret of the fact that she didn’t care for him. But Sara knew it was a waste of breath to try to explain how it felt to be with Luke. How it felt to find a hand on top of hers or an arm around her shoulder. To be kissed on the neck and have soft words whispered in her ear. To feel beautiful and prized when she was with him. Yes, that was it. No one before Luke had ever really noticed her, let alone adored her. Sara had simply closed her ears to those who warned her about him. She’d heard only Luke’s voice. And when he said he loved her, she could have melted away.
“You weren’t involved with that fire over at the orphanage, were you, Luke?” Mrs. Clifford walked over to stand behind the counter next to Sara.
Luke cocked his head to one side and looked at Mrs. Clifford, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Now, why would you think I had anything to do with that?” he asked.
Luke and Mrs. Clifford stared one another down. “I’ve noticed that when there’s trouble in town, it seems to have your name on it,” she finally said.
“Those are all lies, Mrs. C. Ask Sara here. I’m an honest guy, right, baby?”
Sara felt her cheeks redden. Instinctively, her hands found one another and began to rub together. But before she could say a word, Mrs. Clifford continued.
“I heard you were bothering one of the girls from the orphanage yesterday—the colored one.”
What? Sara quickly raised her eyes. Mrs. Clifford had to be talking about Malou, the youngest of the Seven and the most exotic, her skin the color of chocolate milk. Even Sara had heard the rumors that Luke and his pals sometimes went after Malou, calling her names and bothering her. Sara couldn’t believe—wouldn’t believe—the rumors were true. And Malou had never said a word to her.
“At the drugstore, I heard you were badgering that poor little girl. Mr. Pitt at the pharmacy saw it all. And it wasn’t the first time either,” Mrs. Clifford said.
By now, Sara’s face burned brightly. Her hands moved across one another as if she were trying to start a fire with a stick of wood and a piece of flint. She longed for this conversation to end.
“More lies, Mrs. C.,” Luke replied easily. “I’m just a hard-working guy. I’ve got no time to mess around like that.”
Mrs. Clifford glanced from Luke to Sara. Then, with a loud snort, she turned and walked into the storage room. Luke snickered under his breath. “Now, where were we?” He reached over and pulled Sara toward him, jamming her hips up against the counter. Then he kissed her hard on the lips. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the rough stubble on his chin was like sandpaper against her cheek. She could taste the cigarette on his breath. Again, she pushed him away.
“Stop! Mrs. Clifford might come back.” One of the buttons on her blouse had popped open, and she turned away from Luke, struggling to readjust her clothing.
“So what? You’re my girl, aren’t you? What’s the problem?”
Sara finally secured the button and turned back. “It’s not true, is it?” she asked carefully. “The stuff that Mrs. Clifford said about you…and Malou?”
Just then the doorbell jingled again. Sara turned away to try and get her breathing in check. Her hands shook as she put another pot of coffee on. Luke was drumming some kind of rhythm on the counter behind her.
“Hey, Sara,” he said, his voice as smooth as velvet. “Looks like you’ve got a little friend come to visit. A dark shadow. With a curse on her.”
Sara whipped around to see Malou standing at the entrance to the diner. It was as if they had summoned her! Malou took one step toward Sara and then noticed Luke seated at the counter. She froze, and her back stiffened. Then she slowly backed up and stopped. Her eyes shifted between Sara and Luke.
“Malou, what’s wrong?” Sara regretted the question as soon as it was out of her mouth. The look between Malou and Luke said it all. “I mean, you know, why are you—”
“There’s a meeting.” Malou held the door open with her foot as if she was ready to bolt. “We all have to see Mrs. Hazelton today. No excuses. Not even your job.”
With that, Malou turned and fled. Sara had never seen her look so scared. That stuff that Mrs. Clifford had said about Luke and the fire…Sara couldn’t believe that he had had anything to do with that. It was just faulty wiring or old pipes that had caused the disaster. She was absolutely certain of that. But the incident with Malou? That was more disturbing. Mrs. Clifford had even said there was a witness. How could she ignore that?
As the door slammed behind Malou, Luke turned to stare at Sara. “I can’t figure you out. You and her,” he said, not even calling Malou by her name. “You act like she’s your friend.”
“Malou is my friend—more like a sister, really!” Sara’s anxiety was building, churning her insides into a bubbling cauldron.
“Yeah right!” Luke snickered again. “You want to be friends with a blackie? A Sambo?”
Sara’s head throbbed. Should she stand up for Malou? Yes! The answer boomed inside of her. And now was her chance to say something. Luke didn’t understand her relationship with any of the girls at the orphanage—why she was close to them. It was his one shortcoming. Well, she knew he had more than one, but it was the one that was most obvious. He wanted her all to himself. At least, that’s what he always said. She needed to explain all of this to him. So why the hesitation? He loves me, she continued to tell herself. And she knew that she depended on his love, perhaps too much. In the end, she didn’t want to mess with that by confronting him. Coward!
“Okay, I gotta split.” Luke s
et his coffee cup on the counter and rose from the stool. “I’m gonna see you later, right?”
“What? Oh, no, I can’t. I’ve got to go and see Mrs. Hazelton after work.”
“Okay, then after. You can sneak away and come meet me at the garage.”
Usually, that offer would have made her heart pound. “I don’t know, Luke. It’ll probably be late.”
Luke gave Sara an icy stare and said, “Tomorrow then. No excuses.”
Sara nodded quickly and turned away. She heard the door swing shut behind him. Only then did she release her hands. How long could she go on avoiding the problems that were staring her in the face? Not for long, she thought, as she turned to serve a customer who’d just come in. In the jumble of that confusing interaction with Luke, Sara hadn’t even stopped to consider the meeting that Mrs. Hazelton was summoning her to. As she returned to her work, she wondered about her upcoming conversation with the matron.
Four
SARA PASSED WHAT was left of the orphanage on her way to Mrs. Hazelton’s cottage after work. She could barely look—it scared her so to see what fire could do to a building. What had once been an imposing two-story mansion was a charred skeleton of its previous glory. The lingering smell of smoke choked her as she bicycled past.
Miraculously, the shed next to the orphanage was still standing, untouched by the fire. It was where Sara and the other six girls would go to talk about private girl things without worrying that Mrs. Hazelton or one of their teachers might barge in on them. It was reassuring for Sara to see that building intact—at least something hadn’t been destroyed.
She rested her bike against the wall of Mrs. Hazelton’s cottage and walked over the cobblestone steps toward the front door. Her back ached from having slept on the hard wooden pews at the church, and from her long day at the diner, and she stretched her arms overhead and moved her neck from side to side, trying to get the kinks out. Her mind was in free fall, a runaway train of unconnected thoughts. Maybe it was time for her to leave this place anyway and strike out on her own. After all, she was eighteen, a woman, though she didn’t really feel like one. Still, other girls her age were married by now—with children. She had proved that she could earn money. Only a couple of the other girls had part-time jobs. And while she didn’t really know how much money they made, she was certain that no one had a nest egg like her own.
