Magnolia came down, too. A comely face, but plain in comparison. She kissed the girls and then her husband, who immediately repaid her with another kiss. Victoria let out a few tears.
The apartment was smaller than the girls remembered it, but quite comfortable and equipped with all sorts of modern appliances: electricity and central heating, hot and cold running water; even a telephone line.
Magnolia showed the girls to their room. Small, too, and they would have to share a bed, but it had a magnificent view of downtown and the river.
“How do you like it?” Harris asked.
“It is beautiful!” the girls cried at once.
“We are so thankful!”
“We are not used to such kindness.”
“Our parents always gave the best things to our little sister. For us, there were only beatings.”
After supper the four of them went for an ice cream, and then for a long stroll downtown. It was a warm night, perfumed—how appropriately!—by the monkshoods and the sweet magnolias in the park. There were many good-looking families outside, but theirs, the girls decided, was the happiest and the best looking. Especially because of Harris. He drew everyone’s attention, but he only had eyes for his wife, and Magnolia had eyes for no one else but her husband. They called each other ridiculous names: My Dove, My Angel, and every time their eyes met, they winked at each other or blew a kiss.
“Pay attention, for this is what true love looks like,” Victoria said to her sister. “We need to find each other a husband. One just like Harris.”
Rosa opened her mouth to remind her sister that they were already married—to the Devil; but then she remembered that they had agreed not to ever talk about that, so she remained silent.
“We need to pray,” Victoria continued, guessing what her sister had left unsaid. “Every day. And to be good. So we can be forgiven.”
In Venice, their youngest sister sought refuge in prayer, too. What else could she have done? She knew well that she was evil, her mother had never let her believe otherwise. The gates of Heaven wouldn’t open for her, especially not after what she had done to her poor mother’s curtains, unless she repented. Those curtains were not the type you want your children to play with, not with their chubby, greasy, messy fingers. Burning inside a pit of pitch for all eternity sounded worse than what she had already endured during her first decade on this Earth, although she was no more afraid of the goat coming back for her than, say, her putative father coming home behind the cork every evening. Thankfully, he was getting older, and the older he got, the weaker, and the less abusive.
She went to church every Sunday, and continued working at the freak show, folding her small body inside a box, pretending to be a human spider. The drunkard never got a job, and with her mother and sisters gone, the young girl became the household’s sole provider.
She didn’t do too badly. Tourists felt pity for her and left as many tips in her box as for the sword swallower. However, she couldn’t save much of what she earned, for she had to send a monthly stipend to her two sisters. It would be quite unfair for poor Harris to have to take care of all our expenses, Rosa wrote her. Hence, insofar as money, there was never too much, just enough for some bread and coffee, sometimes sugar, and for her father’s medicine: a bottle of the strongest liquor.
One afternoon, a year or so after the mother’s passing, the young girl was in the kitchen washing dishes while the man she called father napped in the living room when she heard someone knocking on the front door. She crossed the room to open the door but found no one. When she turned around, she saw a well-upholstered gentleman, elegantly dressed, sitting next to the drunkard. The stranger grinned at her and waved hello with a heavily jeweled hand. The young girl curtsied and then, too shy to do anything else, rushed out of the living room back to the kitchen.
The man was her godfather.
She knew well it was him because after her sisters had left she had found a newspaper scrap with his picture inside her mother’s bureau drawers. Why else would her mother keep a picture of a rich man living in New York if the man wasn’t her godfather? The picture was from 1903, but he looked exactly the same as he did in that old photograph; not one single hair was different: a handsome, middle aged man; rather stout, but graceful in his movements—if that’s a quality that could be guessed from a smirk in a picture.
The young girl’s heart pounded so fast that she almost fainted. Leading a sad existence didn’t mean she had no faith in a better future. All those months, the hope that her godfather would come to her rescue had grown inside her mangled little heart like a tree growing from a seed that had fallen between cracks of pavement. Harris and his wife had taken her two elder sisters to live with them. The fairy had sent that magnificent dress made of spider silk. Why, if her mean sisters’ godfathers had proved to be so generous, would hers be the exception?
He would come for her one day. She had dreamed of it. He would show up in a silver carriage pulled by eight horses and he would take her to a palace built of white marble. He would invite her to live with him. They would have a ball, every night, and she would invite her sisters to live with them too, and they wouldn’t be mean to her; they would actually be quite pleasant, impressed by the luxury of her new home and her newly acquired refinements. And on her wedding day, to some handsome prince from an exotic, faraway land, her godfather would walk her down the aisle and give her his blessing. Or maybe he would be the one to marry her—could you marry your own godfather? If you could, she would say yes, yes, I do, by all means, I love you and I want to be your wife and I will give you a dozen babies. All of them would survive, she thought, she wouldn’t kill any, like her mother had, and they would live happily ever after…
After finding the photograph she had managed to piece some more facts together. The vampire lived between London and New York, but he had property in Southern California. He was an important man in both the realms of the dead and the living, with plenty of power and money. His name appeared often in the newspapers, attending some charity ball or the inauguration of a bank or a new factory.
And now he was here, sitting in her living room, wearing a tweed suit and a Panama hat, next to the man she called father. What else could he be here for if not to take with him his goddaughter?
She pushed the kitchen door ajar and peeked into the living room.
“My dear friend, let bygones be bygones,” she heard the vampire comfort the drunkard. “You were a better husband than I was ever a friend to your wife.”
“Me?” the drunkard asked. He was barefoot, wearing red flannel long johns. He looked groggy, annoyed by the unexpected visitor, but, as it happens with friends of wine and spirits, the urge to share his pain was bigger in him than his lack of trust in strangers.
“I never visited, did I?” the vampire asked. “I kept promising Antonia I would, but I never came. Anyhow,” he waved his hand, as if trying to dispel a bad thought, “about my cheeky goddaughter—”
My goddaughter, he said? The legs of the young girl softened as if made out of butter.
“What about her?” the man asked.
“Her future, of which”—the vampire rolled his eyes and giggled coyly—“I am doubtlessly responsible. I was hoping you would consider…”
He stopped talking. The young girl had pushed the door an inch further, making the hinges squeak.
“What’s going on in there?” the father asked.
The young girl closed the door. Her father was angry. And when he got angry, he got violent. And when he got violent… She had to hide! Where? As soon as the vampire left, the drunkard would grab a shoe and… But, no—her godfather had come to get her! She had just heard it! He was not going to let the man beat her. She felt a pain in her chest. Happiness hurts! she reckoned. She held to the stove to avoid collapsing. What should she do now? Wait? Step out and give him a thousand kisses? Wash his feet w
ith her tears and promise to be ever grateful? She had waited for so long, but she couldn’t wait any longer! It would be better to start packing. She needed a sack, maybe her mother’s old suitcase. But—what to pack? She had nothing! The dress and the shoes she was wearing, a change of underwear she had inherited from Victoria, and a blue apron. She grabbed the latter from inside a drawer. Her second change of knickers was hanging from the line in the backyard. No need for luggage, she could wear both. She put on the apron, stepped out through the back door, pulled down the wet underpants and slipped her legs inside. They felt cold. But they would dry in a few hours. Now, maybe she could take one of her mother’s dresses as well; Daddy would have no use for them now… Maybe she could enter the room through the window, go through her stuff, step out and then get back in the kitchen… But how foolish of her—she wouldn’t need them! Not in her godfather’s mansion! Or did he live in a palace? Most probably he had a trunk full of freshly laundered clothes waiting for her. She needed stockings though, for the trip. She wouldn’t want the maids of her godfather’s palace to think she couldn’t afford good stockings, they would lose all respect for her and then she wouldn’t be able to give them orders…
The drunkard entered the kitchen.
“What the hell are you doing there?”
The young girl’s first reaction was to try to escape. She turned around to the alley.
“Your godfather wants to talk to you.”
He does? The young girl’s face brightened. She dashed into the living room.
The vampire waited for her with an ear to ear smile. “Sit down,” he patted the armrest of his chair. “How old are you, girl? Eleven?”
“The devil knows,” the drunkard responded in her place. “Fourteen—fifteen? I can’t remember.”
The young girl nodded.
“You look younger,” the vampire let go a silly laugh. “Fifteen, huh? That makes me—how old are her sisters now?”
“Rosa is seventeen now; Victoria will be nineteen in November.”
“Nineteen? My goodness!” The vampire made a brief pause. His expression turned glum, remembering events from another era. “How do twenty years pass by so fast?” He put a hand on his chest. “That’s how long ago I met your mother. She was expecting your oldest sister. Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked the girl.
Boyfriend? The girl started as if she had been asked if she had ever killed a man. She shook her head rapidly.
“She is not the marrying type, sir,” the drunkard intervened. “She comes back from work and takes care of her old Pa. That’s it. Her sisters—those are the pretty ones. Victoria looks like an angel and my Rosa, gee, she used to drive mad all the boys in Venice.”
“There’s a lid for every pot,” the vampire replied coldly. “Anyway,” he turned to the girl with a kittenish tone, “you know who I am, don’t you? I am your godfather.” His eyes had such an intense shine that the girl couldn’t look at them directly. “Your mother and I were close friends—so terribly close that she put a curse on me. I know that wherever she is, Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory, she worries about you and your sisters. She would have liked that you had a better life than she had. That you grew to be a successful woman.”
He paused, then turned to his right, as if interested to see the effect that his words caused in the drunkard, but the man seemed to be dozing off.
“I know that you’re working right now, that you’re an attraction at the House of Freaks and World Marvels on the boardwalk. That’s not the best place for a young girl, I think. Then again, there is nothing to be embarrassed about it. I grew up poor too, many, many years ago. Knock on wood—I don’t like poor people,” he stole a glance from the drunkard. “I’m so disgustingly rich now,” he chuckled, “I wouldn’t know what to do if I ever had to use a pitchfork again. Anyhow, it’s not that you’re selling yourself on the streets for a few dollars, is it? Being an attraction in a freak show may not be the best place to be, but it’s honest. What I mean to say is that I’ve been thinking about you. As your godfather, it is my responsibility to look after you. I came here to—how should I phrase it? I have a proposal…”
The young girl raised her head and looked at his eyes directly, about to explode in tears of gratitude.
“Are you happy doing what you do?”
The girl shook her head.
“How would you like to leave the show and start over? I got your letter—written on the back of a store receipt, how charming,” he smiled bitterly. “I was touched by your situation. I thought that I needed to do something for you. Anything, but to take you away from your poor, aging father. So I wrote you a letter of recommendation to a friend of mine, Mrs. Lydia Green.” He pulled an envelope out of his jacket and offered it to the young girl. “You’re going to start a career cleaning houses. Won’t that be fantastic?”
The young girl didn’t move.
“Lydia’s husband works at the accounting offices at the Kinney Pier,” the vampire continued. “She needs help—she’s very young, just a couple of years older than you, I think. They recently moved to Venice and she has absolutely zero experience of how to manage a house; nada de nada. She’s overwhelmed by the responsibilities of managing a house all by herself in a strange city. You would be a perfect fit for the couple. You keep this place very clean. I’m astonished. I thought Mexicans were all dirty—tt would be just once or twice a week, but once there, it will be easy for you to find a second or a third job in other houses.”
The young girl remained still.
“You’re welcome,” the vampire said after a moment, attempting to hide his disappointment at the girl’s lack of enthusiasm.
The vampire exchanged a look with the father.
“It is very generous of you, sir,” the drunkard spoke, taking the envelope from the hands of the young girl.
“Don’t even mention it. What else can one do?” the vampire asked, staring at the young girl like one might stare at milk one suspects has gone rancid. “My recommendation will open the doors of all the best houses in Venice for your daughter—my, what time is it?” he interrupted himself. “It is late, isn’t it? Is it already midnight?”
“It’s not yet seven.”
“My goodness, already seven? Time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it? And I’ve had more than plenty. Where’s the entrance?” He glanced around. “It is a shame that you don’t live in New York. I could take you to all these fabulous parties—you wouldn’t have time to clean at all! People are so selfish; they expect me to go to their parties. I shouldn’t, but I don’t have the heart to say no. People take advantage of me all the time—you have no idea what it is like! Now, promise me you will go and see Lydia.”
The young girl couldn’t answer. She had turned into a marble sculpture. It felt as if an invisible hand had torn her chest open and squeezed her heart like a lemon.
“She will go,” the drunkard raised the envelope. “We need the money.”
“Excellent!” the vampire responded. “I must go now. I’ll visit again, I promise. Tomorrow is not a good day for me, but next week, or the next, at the latest. I will return, I promise. Where is the exit?” The vampire turned his head from one side to the other.
The drunkard pointed to the front door and the vampire hurried out of the house without further ado.
“That’s a relief,” the drunkard scratched his groin. “For a moment I thought that that fudge-packer clown was coming to get you.”
If life gives you lemons, you should make lemon juice—and hope one day for sugar. The young girl took the letter to Mrs. Lydia Green, and, as her godfather had told her, Mrs. Green hired her immediately.
“I am so grateful Mr. Wehr sent you, Miss Rivera,” the young wife said, addressing the young girl by the name that her godfather had used for her in the letter, the mother’s maiden name. She took her to the kitchen and pointed to a bunch of unpacke
d boxes. “A few things broke during the move,” she added guiltily.
The young girl spent the day arranging the kitchen cupboards and folding linens. Then she prepared dinner. Mrs. Green’s gratitude was immense. In a day, the young girl achieved what she hadn’t been able to do in weeks. She did not know how to cook, the young woman confessed, and had been feeding Mr. Green with cold meats and pickles.
“My mother says that if I don’t learn how to cook a decent meal, Athanase will get tired and leave me.”
Her appreciation felt the greatest because Lydia Green was one of the most beautiful women the young girl had ever seen: black hair, pale skin, eyes to inspire a sonnet; the young girl had grown to think that all beautiful women were evil. How could Mrs. Green not detest her? However, she remained silent. She did not know how to respond to Mrs. Green’s kindness other than to remain still, awaiting her next order. Sadly, her silence struck Mrs. Green as insolence. Who did this ugly little girl think she was to judge her? the young wife began to wonder, and by the end of the day she stopped being solicitous.
Still, she couldn’t hide her enthusiasm for having found help from her husband.
“I found a servant,” she announced the moment that Mr. Green opened the door that night.
“You did?” Mr. Green asked in reply, dropping his hat and his suitcase on the floor, then lifting up his wife in a hug and giving her a resounding kiss.
What a wonderful man, the young girl thought, spying on the couple from the kitchen. Tall and strong, not at all like an accountant, but more like one of those aerialists she had seen walking on tightropes at the boardwalk.
“She’s going to help me become a better wife for you.”
“But you already are the best wife in the world!” Mr. Green replied, without looking around to confirm if the house was clean. “I love you so much, I’m going to squeeze you!”
And his wife was so beautiful! Mrs. Green couldn’t cook, mend clothes, or do laundry. She didn’t really have any talent. But her skin was so even, her teeth were so white! Our little friend spent many days scrubbing her own so hard, trying to attain the same whiteness, until she made her gums bleed.
Love, or the Witches of Windward Circle Page 9
