All for a Sister

by Allison Pittman

  “What do you think, princess?” Daddy, hat in hand, filled the doorway.

  Celeste spun in a slow circle, taking it all in. The forest mural painted on the wall. The freestanding easel with a real chalk tray and eraser. The lavender toy chest with who knew what treasures within. And her favorite dolls, all sitting pretty on the upholstered window seat. It was all too wonderful for words, so she simply ran and wrapped her arms around her father’s cedar-trunk legs and then approached her mother with a more restrained, ladylike embrace.

  “Go look out the window, darling,” Mother said, and Celeste obeyed, her feet barely touching the rose-colored carpet. She clambered up onto the seat and pushed the sheer covering aside. The backyard below looked like some sort of fairies’ meadow, with lush green carpet and fountains and flower beds. Best of all, a small, pale-yellow house in the corner, with a real picket fence and a tiny cobblestone walkway.

  She clapped her hands in rapture. “A playhouse!”

  “And one you can play in all year round,” Daddy said, “because there’s never any snow.”

  That gave her a little bit of a pang because it was fun to play in snow, sometimes.

  “Enough of this girlie baby stuff,” Calvin complained. “Can I see my room now?”

  “Sure, sport,” Daddy said, and though Celeste was loath to leave her own paradise, she picked up one of her dolls—a lovely, pretty thing with long black hair and bright-blue eyes—and lingered on the outskirts of the family as they huddled in the doorway of her brother’s room, listening to him go on about a new baseball mitt and an electric light for his desk and a special wicker basket for all of his dirty clothes. It was nice to hear him not being grumbly for the first time since the announcement that they were leaving Chicago, but she didn’t want to pretend to care about his things any more than he pretended to care about hers. So step by slow step, she inched her way back down the hall, until she met up with Graciela, quietly shutting the door to the big room at the opposite end of the hallway.

  “What did you think of your room, mija?”

  Celeste looked to the left and the right before approaching. “My name is Celeste, remember?”

  “Oh yes.” They were now both at the top of the stairs. “Mija just means little one—little girl.”

  Celeste took a moment to study the woman’s face. Her eyes were wide and brown, darker than any she’d ever seen, and the brows above them were black, like her hair, and thinned to pretty arches. Her nose had a little hook right at the top of it; her lips were full and pink, like she’d just eaten a strawberry. And her skin—the color of cocoa after Mother had added a generous bit of milk. Graciela looked old enough to be a mother too, but Celeste knew better than to ask if she was one. It made women sad, Mother said, to ask such things.

  “Are you hungry, Celeste?”

  Celeste nodded and clutched her doll.

  “Then why don’t you and I go downstairs to the kitchen and you can help me. Would you like that?”

  Celeste nodded again and reached for Graciela’s hand, as she was never to walk up or down stairs without holding a grown-up’s hand, unless they were the stairs at home, and this didn’t feel like home yet. Graciela seemed reluctant at first, even looking over her shoulder toward Calvin’s room, but then gave a quick squeeze before the two took the first step.

  En route to the kitchen, Celeste got a glimpse of their new parlor, and her father’s office, and a dining room, all with the familiar accoutrements and furnishings of their previous house. It was then, too, that she noticed a particular hitch to Graciela’s step, reminding her of a boy back home who had one leg longer than the other.

  “Why do you walk like that?” After all, Mother never warned against asking that.

  Graciela didn’t stop walking. “My leg was hurt, a very long time ago.”

  “How?”

  “That is not a story for today, mija. Let’s get to know one another better first.”

  “Why do you talk like that?”

  Graciela looked down, amused. “Like what?”

  “You sound different.”

  “I suppose it’s because when I was a little girl, like you, I spoke Spanish. Only Spanish. I didn’t learn to speak English until I was already a grown-up. So the words in my head are one language, but in my heart, they are another, and when they meet in my mouth, I suppose they get all tangled up.”

  “I think it sounds beautiful.”

  Graciela gave her hand another squeeze, then let go, making an abrupt turn. “This way.”

  While the rest of the house had the comforting advantage of familiar furnishings, the kitchen was unlike anything she remembered of home. For one thing, it was full of sunshine, with large, paneled windows looking out onto the fantastical backyard. She could see the playhouse from here, and her eyes darted over to the door that would lead straight to it, but she’d promised to help Graciela.

  “What shall I do?” Celeste asked, watching the woman open the door to the largest icebox she’d ever seen and pull out a tray covered by a white cloth.

  “We’re making tortas,” Graciela said. She removed the cloth from the tray, revealing an array of sliced meat and cheese. Then she used the cloth to protect her hands as she opened the shiny oven to pull out a pan filled with delicious-smelling breads—each smaller than a loaf but bigger than a roll. She reached high into a cabinet above to bring down a pretty cut-glass bowl, then left to return shortly with a large jar of floating colors.

  “Verduras encurtidas. Pickles. Cucumbers and carrots and peppers.” She opened a drawer and took out a long-pronged fork. “Fish them out, please, and put them in the bowl.”

  She helped her up onto a tall stool, and Celeste dove in, at first clumsy with the unfamiliar task, but soon pleased with the colorful display. Meanwhile, Graciela sliced the breads and stuffed them with the meats and cheese, making a pyramid on the tray. She hummed a tune as she worked, one Celeste had never heard before, but after a few measures, she picked it up and began to hum along. Graciela seemed startled at first, and paused before smiling encouragingly and continuing on.

  “What are those called again?” Celeste asked when the last of the little loaves had been stuffed.

  “Tortas.”

  “Tortas,” she repeated. “And these?”

  “Verduras encurtidas. Pickled vegetables.” Then, taking the fork from Celeste, she speared a chunk of vinegary carrot. “Zanahorias.”

  Celeste repeated the word, then bit into the delicious, crunchy piece.

  “Pepino,” she said, handing over an herb-crusted piece of cucumber.

  “Pepino.” These were her favorites back home, and the taste linked the two kitchens. Then Graciela offered a long, red, shiny strip of something unfamiliar.

  “Pimiento. A pepper, but it’s sweet, not hot.”

  Celeste held it gingerly between her thumb and first finger. “Pimiento?” The color was vibrant and inviting, and she was about to bring it to her lips when Mother’s voice invaded.

  “Just what are you doing?”

  “Señora DuFrane. Miss Celeste is such a good helper. And so smart.”

  Celeste beamed with pride, hoping some of the praise would warm Mother’s disposition.

  “You shouldn’t run off like that,” Mother said, slightly deflated.

  “I didn’t run off, Mother. This is our home.”

  “Yes, of course it is.” She crossed over into the kitchen and placed a warm, dry kiss on Celeste’s cheek.

  “Pimiento,” Celeste said, dangling the strip of vegetable between them. “It’s a pepper. Only it’s sweet, not hot.”

  Mother’s eyes looked sad for just a second; then she opened her mouth wide, and when Celeste dangled the pepper into it, she snapped it shut, cutting the pepper in half.

  “What does it taste like?”

  Mother was chewing, looking quizzical. “You tell me.”

  Enthralled, Celeste popped the remainder into her mouth, and her senses immediately flooded.r />
  “What do you think, mija?”

  It was new and fresh and sweet. She looked from Graciela to her mother and said, “It tastes like California.”

  DANA GOES FOR A DRIVE AND LEARNS TO HOLD ON TO HER HAT

  1925

  DANA HEARD THE CLATTER of shoes on the marble floor and braced herself.

  “Just a minute! Just one more minute. I can’t find my scarf!”

  Dana smiled but remained silent. She wasn’t one to holler in the house, not the way these walls echoed. And what would she say? It wasn’t her place to grant or deny permission. There was a narrow, upholstered bench in the entryway by the front door. Dana sat down on it and commenced fiddling with her pocketbook. It was a small bag made of some sort of thick, tapestry-like material, with a gold-plated clasp. Nothing in it, really. Just a handkerchief, a drawstring pouch with a few coins, a small mirror, and a new lipstick. But Celeste had insisted that every girl needed to carry such things and that they needed to be carried in a pocketbook. As in everything else, Dana acquiesced.

  Clatter. Clatter. Clatter.

  Celeste arrived, a frothy vision in a dress of sea green and a long, gossamer scarf knotted at her throat, flowing down. How one could ever misplace such a thing, Dana didn’t know. But then, for Celeste, things of beauty were not so rare.

  “I’m ready!” Announced as if some great accomplishment. She stopped short in front of the large mirror in the hall for a final inspection. She wore her hair in a bob of soft curls, dark-blonde and perfectly set. She dropped a hat on top of them and tugged it down, studying the result from every angle, then turned. “Well?”

  “You look lovely,” Dana said, as expected.

  Celeste pouted. “Wish I could say the same to you. Honestly, would it kill you to use a little bit of rouge? It’s one thing to be fashionably pale, but you look absolutely dead.”

  Dana shrank under the younger woman’s scrutiny and reached for her long-shorn hair.

  “I’m sorry.” Celeste moved to reach for Dana’s arm, but Dana leaped to her feet before she could be tugged up and made a show of smoothing her dress.

  “I didn’t think,” Dana said. “I don’t know quite what to do, I suppose.”

  She found herself looking in the mirror, Celeste peeking out from behind her.

  “That’s understandable. But I can teach you if you want. Just a little bit to pretty you up. Make you look more modern. Younger, even.”

  “Do I look that old?”

  “Sweetie, you’re thirty-two. You are old. But right now, we’re late. Come on.”

  Celeste took her hand in an inescapable grip and hollered something in Spanish before opening the door and pulling Dana outside, where an automobile waited at the edge of the short-cropped green lawn. It was the color of pale butter with bloodred leather upholstery and chrome trim that reflected the sun.

  Dana eyed the empty seat behind the steering wheel. “Who is going to drive?”

  “Silly-nilly.” Celeste broke free and ran ahead. “I am! I’m twenty years old, you know.”

  Dana followed reluctantly. “Are you sure?” She’d only known Celeste for a short time, and she knew even less of automobiles, but nothing she’d seen of either made it a good idea for them to be joined together. “What about Mr. Lundi? He drove us yesterday.”

  “Roland is otherwise engaged.” By this time she had started the car and was gripping the wheel. “Or that’s what his secretary told me. Otherwise engaged. The coward, unless he’s meeting with someone from Metro-Goldwyn. But we’ll see. Are you ready?”

  Before Dana could respond, Celeste pounced on the accelerator, and the two women careened into the street. Dana clutched her hat to her head, wondering how it was that Celeste’s remained so perfectly perched.

  “Tell me again how he seemed.”

  “Who?” Dana said, distracted by the neighborhood shrubbery that seemed far too close.

  “Funny. Who do you think? Ostermann. Did he seem interested?”

  “He listened quite closely.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She steered the car around a corner, bringing it to a chugging near stop before roaring straight again. “The movie. Do you have any idea what it would mean to me if he went through with it? To have him write and direct a film specifically for me? What am I saying. Of course you don’t. You’ve practically been in a cave—”

  She took her eyes off the road and turned to Dana, reaching out to pat her leg. “You know what I mean, darling.”

  “It’s fine,” Dana said, pointing out the lorry come to a dead stop in front of them.

  “Honestly, it would be hard for anybody to understand—anybody not in the film business. Can you understand, though, how very much I want to be a star?”

  “Like that Mary Pickford?”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and Celeste expressed her disagreement with a sharp swerve to the left and a fresh acceleration. They were out of the neighborhood by now, practically flying down the open road en route to the studio. The speed picked up the gossamer scarf and sent it billowing back and away from Celeste’s neck, like the tail of a kite. Dana clutched at the door lest she fly with it.

  “America’s sweetheart, my aunt Pansy. She’s not even American, you know. She’s Canadian. Those sausage curls, like she’s some sort of stunted schoolgirl. And I swear, if Lundi books me to play one more wide-eyed farmer’s daughter—”

  The blare of an approaching vehicle’s horn kept Celeste from finishing the thought. Dana’s stomach flipped over, and since she couldn’t leap out of the car to save herself, she’d try to save the conversation instead.

  “I’ll tell him everything. And when I do, he’ll want to tell everybody.”

  By the time they arrived at the studio gate, Dana felt a thin sheen of sweat on the back of her neck, and she took the blessed moment when Celeste chatted with the guard to exhale the breath she’d been holding for most of the twenty-minute drive. As Celeste maneuvered the car through the studio grounds, a host of people either waved in greeting or dove out of the way—or both. She parked the car in front of the low-ceilinged, plain white building labeled Offices of Rolling Arts Entertainment, Werner Ostermann’s production company.

  Celeste took a mirror from her purse and checked her lipstick and her hair, smiling at different angles while batting her eyes. In a spirit of camaraderie, Dana did the same, holding her little square mirror far enough away to be able to see most of her face. The brisk ride had brought a hint of color to her cheeks, and her hat managed to drift a bit to a most becoming angle. With an unsteady hand, she pulled the lid off the tube of lipstick and touched it to the center of her bottom lip.

  “That’s it,” Celeste said with a gentleness Dana had never heard from her before. “Just at the bottom, where your lips are their fullest? And then the top. Then do this.” She mashed her own vermilion lips together, hiding them into one thin line, then popped them out again. Dana followed suit, feeling more self-conscious about this act than she had the actual application.

  “Perfect,” Celeste said, and a quick check to her reflection brought Dana to the same conclusion. Maybe not perfect, but better. Brighter.

  She almost smiled, saying, “Thank you,” as she fastened the clasp on her pocketbook.

  A young man wearing something like a uniform had arrived to open the car door for Dana, then ran to the opposite side to do the same for Celeste, who acknowledged him with a singular movement that encapsulated a wink and a shrug and a curtsy. He tipped his hat and waggled his eyebrows and muttered something about getting behind the wheel of that chassis sometime, prompting her to slap him playfully on the shoulder before beckoning Dana to follow.

  “Ma’am,” he said with all the deference a young man would have for his elder. Still, Dana kept a wide berth as she passed.

  Inside the tidy office, Miss Lynch looked up from her typewriter, her expression not changing in the least.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Lundgren.” Then, noticing Celeste,
her face lit up. “And Miss DuFrane! What a wonderful surprise to see you here.”

  “Hello, Kippy.” Celeste extended her hand. “We’re here to see Mr. Ostermann. Is he in?”

  “Just one moment.” She stood, tucked a pencil behind her ear, and made brisk work of walking from her desk to the door with his name printed in thick, black letters on the clouded glass.

  We? The thought of telling her story, in all its detail, in the presence of this girl of all people was enough to freeze every unspoken word. Dana swallowed, summoning her courage. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come in with me.”

  “Really? I think it would be marvelous. Especially if he decides to let me star in the picture. I’m a part of it, after all.”

  “You’re not a part of what I’m telling him. These are things—events—before you were born. And after, I suppose. Still, they’ve nothing to do with you.”

  “But if I’m to play you—”

  “Eager as ever, I see.” Werner Ostermann stood in the doorway to his office. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and an unlit cigarette dangled from his fingers. “Casting yourself before there is even a script?”

  “Well, a girl can’t wait around forever, can she?” She held out her hand, sending a cascade of bangles clattering toward her elbow as Ostermann brought it to his lips.

  Dana offered no such opportunity, but he greeted her with no less warmth before returning his attentions to Celeste.

  “I had lunch with Frank Borzage yesterday, you know. He said you did fine work in The Dixie Merchant.”

  “Just a bit part,” Celeste said, pouting. “But I know I could do more, given the opportunity.”

  “Time will tell.” He spoke with the gentleness of a father, closing the conversation but leaving plenty of room for hope, as was evidenced by Celeste’s triumphant grin.