by Lyn Cote
“We didn’t go to the creek!” Rory, who was fair like Chloe, announced in his boyish soprano. “We went to see Mr. Granger’s horses.”
In the background, the news came onto the radio. A broadcaster announced in a smooth professional voice, “Today Secretary of State Cordell Hull again urged that the US aid Polish Jews. Labor chiefs join 350,000 American Jews in asking for a protest to Warsaw persecution.”
Bette watched a shadow pass over Gretel’s face. The news from Europe was never good if it was about Jews.
“Mr. Granger, he let us comb the horses,” Thompson, who was dark-haired, continued their conversation. “It was really swell.”
“When are we going to get a horse, Mom?” Rory asked.
“Unfortunately that isn’t on our current list of priorities,” Chloe replied mildly. “Now, go wash your hands and tell your father supper’s ready and it’s time to gather in the dining room.”
Rory and Thompson crowded around the sink and then pelted out into the hall, calling, “Dad! Dad!”
Soon all six of them sat around the long table. Thinking about becoming an adult and leaving home made Bette look around at her family differently tonight. Roarke, with his bent arm that had been injured in the Great War, sat at the head of the table and Chloe at the foot. Gretel and she sat opposite Rory and Thompson, who were five and six years old respectively. Bette loved them all more than words could express.
As her stepfather finished saying grace, another familiar face appeared at the kitchen doorway. “Uncle Ira!” Gretel sprang up and rushed to him.
The short, balding man opened his arms and clasped Gretel to his thin chest. “Liebchen,” he murmured, looking meaningfully at Bette’s parents over his niece’s head.
Seeing the worry there, Bette’s mother spoke up. “Everyone, but Bette and Gretel slept—”
“Hey, Mr. Sachs, did you know that somebody burned a cross on our lawn last night?” Rory asked.
There was a shocked silence. Then Roarke cleared his throat. “We thought you boys slept through that.”
“Everybody at school knew about it,” Rory declared. “I told them that you had a gun and they better watch out.”
“I hear about it also,” Uncle Ira said. Gently urging Gretel back into her place, he pulled out a chair and sat beside his niece. “Good evening, Mrs. McCaslin, Mister.” He nodded politely at them. Ira Sachs showing up for supper on Fridays had become a weekly ritual. Gretel stayed with Bette during the week so she could ride to school with Bette. On Fridays, Uncle Ira came for Gretel and took her home to spend the rest of the weekend with him in Baltimore. The routine had begun nearly a year ago when Gretel’s family had sent her from Germany to live with Ira Sachs, her great-uncle.
They’d met because Bette’s mother sold their excess eggs to Mr. Sachs, who gathered eggs and then drove them to the Washington, D.C., and Baltimore grocery stores he supplied. On one of his stops in the early summer of 1935, Chloe had seen the new girl sitting in his faded pickup truck and talked to her. She’d invited Gretel to spend time with Bette and improve her broken English before school started in the fall. It had been hard at first for Gretel to adjust to living with a Gentile family, but her uncle wasn’t Orthodox so he didn’t keep Kosher—as he called it—anyway. In the end, Gretel had settled in as Bette’s first and only close girlfriend.
Again, Bette glanced around the table. The cross-burning was just one nasty event in a continuing conflict between the majority of people in northern Anne Arundel County and her parents. No doubt Mary and Ruth would never invite the Jewish egg man to dinner and no doubt their mothers would never take in an orphan like Thompson. Chloe had explained to her why people didn’t adopt orphans. They thought that most of them were bastards, children who had been conceived in sin and who even their fathers and mothers had rejected. Chloe had called it foolish, mean-hearted prejudice. She’d used the same words to explain why people called Gretel and Mr. Sachs names.
“I’m so sorry that you had to suffer this cross business,” Mr. Sachs said in his thin voice, which still held a trace of German. But he passed the bowl of mashed potatoes to Chloe as if nothing untoward had happened.
“It’s just a few KKK, probably liquored up,” Roarke dismissed it. “Gretel, you shouldn’t let it hit you too hard. They’re just ignorant men, cowards.”
“Hitler would like them,” Gretel put in, sounding unhappy. She stirred her greens with her fork, staring downward. Gretel’s parents remained in Germany, trying to keep the long-held family business. In letter after letter, Gretel had begged her parents to join her here. But visas were hard to get.
“But they wouldn’t like Hitler,” Chloe said. “That’s what’s so . . . odd. Burning a cross is just nastiness. But they wouldn’t hurt you.”
Bette didn’t know if she agreed with her mother. Mary and Ruth had malice enough.
“I don’t want you children to be afraid. Nothing is going to happen to you,” Roarke said firmly.
Bette ate and watched everyone around the table in silence. By telephone this morning, her stepfather had reported the cross-burning to the sheriff—even though identifying the culprits would probably be impossible. And, after all, they were only guilty of trespassing. People here could be hateful to Gretel, although if they did more than talk, Gretel could prefer charges against them. At least it was better than the situation in Germany, where Jews no longer had legal rights. The idea boggled Bette’s mind. What did Hitler have against Jews?
Then she recalled what the bulletin notice had announced—that she and Curt would be working together. When Mary’s clique heard about this change, they’d be spurred on to new heights of nastiness. She’d seen both of them “mooning” over Curt.
I’ll have to call the sponsor of the dance and ask to be removed from the list. Hope sparked inside her at this thought. Dad always said that discretion was the better part of valor. Perhaps she’d be rewarded.
She and Gretel were carrying dishes to the kitchen when the front door knocker sounded. When she reentered the dining room to get another armful, she stopped and stared.
“Good evening, Bette,” Curt said.
“Maybe you’d like to introduce your friend?” Chloe asked politely. All the adults were staring at her.
Shock held Bette in place. Her tongue wanted to stick to the roof of her mouth. Somehow she cleared her throat. “Mother, this is Curtis Sinclair, a new student at high school.” Waves of hot embarrassment flowed through her. She went on making the introductions while Curt nodded and shook hands. He was well dressed and looked like he belonged in this dining room more than she did. Suddenly, she wished she could burn her faded dress and card-boarded Oxfords.
“Do you know how to ride a horse?” Rory blurted out.
Bette’s face warmed more. How could she get Curt out of here before she was embarrassed further? Who knew what might come out of Rory’s mouth next?
“Sorry, I don’t,” Curt admitted with a grin.
“Bette, why don’t you take Mr. Sinclair,” Chloe suggested, “into the parlor where you two can talk uninterrupted?”
“Mom, it’s almost time for Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy!” Rory objected.
Chloe glanced at her wristwatch. “Jack won’t be on the radio for ten more minutes.”
Throwing her mother a grateful glance, she walked out the door to the hallway and opened the pocket doors into the parlor. Curt followed her and then they were alone. What can I say if he brings up this afternoon?
Curt looked around the formal parlor and sat down when Bette did. He hadn’t expected Bette to live in a house like this. “You have a really nice place.” His mouth was dry with the shock of it.
“My family’s been at Ivy Manor . . . a long time.”
A very long time, he agreed silently. Well, he’d come here, and he’d have to go through with it now. “Did you see the notice on the bulletin board?”
“Yes, I did.” She was blushing. “I’ll understand if you want me
. . . I’ll be glad to resign—”
“I don’t want you to resign.” Curt’s quick answer snapped between them like a crack of lightning.
“You don’t?” Bette stared at him. “Then why did you come tonight?”
Well, no going back now. “I’m glad I was moved up from member to co-chair of the graduation dance committee with you.” He gazed at Bette. Her ears were dainty. Her nose was just right and sprinkled with the tiniest freckles though her complexion was elegantly white, like something out of a poem. Her gray eyes were large and luminous with honesty. She was such a sweet kid. And so pretty. And she didn’t deserve the guff she got from people around here.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve been watching you, Bette. You’re not foolish-acting like so many girls at school. The world is being taken over by communists and fascists and they act like it’s nothing. I admire you for befriending Gretel.”
Bette stared at him. He was right. Most kids in their class barely knew what a fascist was. But what did he mean?
“My family takes an interest in what’s going on in the world. That’s what I miss about living near Philadelphia. It’s so reactionary here I can hardly breathe sometimes.”
Reactionary? She’d have to look that up in the dictionary. “Oh?” she responded cautiously. She tried to concentrate on his words, but his thick brown eyelashes and that hint of blond beard, now more pronounced, made it hard for her to breathe.
“And I wanted to ask you to go to the dance with me.”
Bette tried not to look surprised. Dance? With you? “I’d love that,” she stammered.
“Well, I’ve got to go.” Rising, Curt held out his hand.
Bette took it. The contact of their palms ricocheted through her. It was the first time a young man had shaken her hand. It was like shaking on an agreement.
She had a date for the senior dance.
How wonderful.
How awful.
Bette couldn’t sleep that night. Gretel had left with her uncle without a private moment in which Bette could tell her of the dance invitation. Finally, the little boys had been put to sleep and the house was quiet. Her nerves on edge, Bette tiptoed out of her room and down the hall to her parent’s bedroom. She must tell her mother. Chloe would need to know so that they could figure out how to get ready for the dance only a month away.
Even though the door wasn’t closed completely, she raised her hand to knock on it. Her stepfather’s strained voice halted her.
“I got a letter from Kitty today.”
CHAPTER TWO
She still sends them to the bank?” her mother asked.
“Yes, just her street and state on the return address, no name.”
Bette heard the scrape of wire hangers on the closet pole.
“What did she say?” Chloe asked.
“Not much. Just enclosed a check like she always does.”
A check? Bette thought. Why would Aunt Kitty send them money? Were Mother and Dad in worse financial shape than she thought?
“Oh, Roarke, what are we going to do?” Chloe sounded pained. “How can we get her to understand that we love her, need her in our lives?”
“She doesn’t want to hear that. Doesn’t want to hear anything from us.” Roarke’s voice was clipped, hurt.
Bette peered through the crack between the door and the jamb, almost too shocked to feel guilty about eavesdropping.
“Do you remember telling me that Kitty was the only one the war didn’t change?” Chloe sat in her pale dressing gown in front of her vanity, smoothing cream into her hands.
“Yes, and it wasn’t the war that changed my sister.” In his striped pajamas, Roarke sat on the side of their quilt-covered bed.
“What did?”
“That man.”
Chloe paused as though stung, and then leaned forward and kissed her husband. It was a kiss of comfort, of enduring love. It held Bette mesmerized. Would any man ever kiss her that way?
Bette stood there, her hand curled ready to tap. She was afraid to breathe, afraid of being discovered. Puzzled, she turned back toward her own room. What man were they talking about? And why did Aunt Kitty, the aunt she barely remembered, send checks? And why did that upset her parents? It didn’t make sense.
The next morning, Saturday, after everyone had gone off to do whatever they had to do, Bette drew her mother into her parent’s spacious bedroom. Bette had always loved entering the elegant room with its high ceiling and soothing shades of ivory and light green. The maple four-poster with sheer white draperies dominated the room.
The conversation Bette had overheard in this room chased itself ’round and ’round in her mind, but she couldn’t ask her mother about Aunt Kitty. Besides, she had something else more urgent to discuss. Even though, in light of the cross-burning, she felt guilty bringing up something her mother might think trivial.
“Mother,” her tense voice quavered, “Curt Sinclair asked me to the senior dance.” Saying this out loud to another living person caused her heart to jerk and then race.
“Honey.” Chloe took Bette’s hands in hers. “He seemed like such a nice young man.”
“He is.” Winded without running a step, Bette gathered her courage. “I know a dress for the dance will be expensive, but—”
“Of course you’ll have a new dress for the dance, Bette.” Her mother shook her head. “I apologize. Time has gotten away from me. You’ll need a new dress for graduation, too. And dress shoes as well as everyday shoes and silk stockings. And everything.” She dropped Bette’s hands and began pacing.
“Silk stockings?” Bette’s mouth opened in shock. She leaned back against the foot of the high bed for support.
“Of course. You can’t wear anklets and knee socks for the rest of your life.” Chloe paused, looking Bette up and down. “When you graduate, you will be a woman, not a girl anymore.” She looked pensive, one finger pressed against her cheek. “Don’t give this another thought.”
Bette felt hope inflate like a balloon inside her. “Will we go to Baltimore or Washington to shop?” She’d overheard girls at school planning such shopping trips and had thought they were beyond her parents’ means.
“No, I think I have a better idea.” Her mother grinned suddenly and then chuckled. “I know just what to do. Oh, she’ll be thrilled when I ask her.”
Bette wondered who the “she” was, but was too tongue-tied to ask. It still felt too good to be true. A new dress and silk stockings . . . Wow.
From the bureau top, Chloe lifted her ancient maple-wood sewing box and took out a frayed cloth measuring tape. “Yes, it’s time for you to make your debut.”
Bette knew her mother had been a debutante and had attended the debutante’s ball in Annapolis. But after Bette’s grandmother died two days after Bette’s twelfth birthday, Chloe had decided that Bette wouldn’t like that or going away to finishing school. Even so, sometimes Bette wondered—if she’d been to finishing school and been a debutante, would the girls from high school treat her the way they did?
With both hands, Chloe reached around her with the tape, measuring her bustline. “You’re growing into a beautiful woman, Bette Leigh.” Then she measured her waist and hips and noted the numbers down on a scrap of paper. “Your father would be so proud of you.”
The mention of the father who’d died before she was born gave Bette a warm feeling. Her mother always said things like that about her father. They must have loved each other very much and Bette thought the story of their romance wonderful, almost like a movie. But looking at her mother reminded her of her own shortcomings. “I’m not beautiful like you.”
Chloe turned her blue eyes onto Bette. “Honey, you are the kind of woman who will grow more beautiful with every year. You aren’t cute. You have a subtle, classical beauty that isn’t appreciated until you gain some maturity. But”—she gave Bette a roguish smile—“evidently, Mr. Sinclair has eyes in his head. He sees you better than the children you’ve grown up with.”
> Bette pondered her mother’s words. She’d heard them often enough, but after the way she was treated at school, she’d had a hard time actually believing in them. But now that she thought of it, she mustn’t be that bad or why would Curt have chosen her as his date? Oh, dear, when the clique at school finds out, they’ll be mad as fire. Cold fingers of dread tingled through Bette.
“I’m afraid . . . I’m sorry that your stepfather and I make you an object of curiosity.”
How did she know what I was thinking? But, then, her mother was more perceptive than most other mothers. She often seemed to understand how Bette felt.
Chloe’s voice had sobered. “But your stepfather and I must live the way we think is right, the way we think God wants us to live. We decided to ride out this Depression and keep our people on the land—land their families have tilled for almost a century—not throw them off in these bad times. And Gretel needed our help. I can’t be bothered with the small-town prejudices here.”
Bette tried to absorb this, tried to deal with the fact that her mother was speaking to her as if they were equals.
“And because I won’t go along with their prejudices, it makes people want to tell me off. But they can’t. I’m a Carlyle and Roarke’s family owns the bank. So what people think about me, they mutter at home and their children overhear bits and pieces. And being human, they want to use it to tear you down and, they think, build themselves up. In reality, it only makes them look smaller and meaner.”
Bette thought about Curt’s opinion of the attitudes here. Reactionary?
Chloe ran her fingers through Bette’s shoulder-length hair, lifting it, letting her love touch Bette. “Not long from now, you will enter the larger world and leave all this behind you. And your experience here will make you stronger and kinder than you would have been otherwise.”
Her solemn tone impressed Bette. She had never spoken to her like this before. “I’m not going far, Mother. Just secretarial school in Baltimore.”
