by Gwen Bristow
There was nothing more she could do now. Nothing but sit here, staring at the curtains.
But she suddenly remembered that this was not true. There was still something she could do, something she must do at once. She must get Margaret.
Elizabeth sprang up. At the idea of Margaret, alone again in her desolate little world, she found that she was not quite as numb as she had thought. She had to get Margaret now, before the child began to feel utterly abandoned. She began to hurry into her clothes.
When she reached Kessler’s apartment she found that Spratt had been there and gone, to attend to the last arrangements somebody had to attend to. The housekeeper was very busy, answering the telephone and carrying out the various instructions Spratt had given her. Margaret was curled up in a big chair in the corner where the tree had stood last Christmas. She had put on her clothes in a haphazard fashion very different from her usual neatness—yesterday’s crumpled dress, one shoelace untied, the parting between her pigtails carelessly awry. When Elizabeth approached her Margaret looked up, showing a streaky little face worn out with her having cried too much.
Elizabeth did not say anything. She sat down in the big chair, for Margaret did not take up much room and there was space for her at the edge of the seat. She put her arms around Margaret and drew the untidy little head to rest against her. For a moment Margaret clung to her without speaking, then she gave another choking little sob.
“He died,” she said brokenly. “Everybody that belongs to me dies.”
Elizabeth felt like sobbing too. She was not used to hating anybody. But with Margaret in her arms she felt that if all the words of hate in every language could be rolled into one they could not express how much she hated fascists and what they accomplished.
“Not everybody, Margaret,” she said gently. “We belong to you too.”
Margaret looked up at her again. She shook her head slowly.
“No, you don’t belong to me.”
“Don’t you want us to belong to you?”
Margaret was puzzled. “You?” she asked. “You and who else?”
“My husband, and all our family. We want you to belong to us. And we won’t leave you. You’ll stay with us always.”
“With you?” Margaret did not understand. “You want me to stay with you?”
“Yes, we want you to come to us today. Right now. Wouldn’t you like to have me be your mother?”
“You’re not my mother,” Margaret answered hopelessly. “My mother is dead.”
“I’m not your mother, but I’d like to be. I love you, don’t you know that? And I’ve wanted another little girl. My daughter is so big now, she’s nearly grown, and I’ve wished so often I had a little girl to play with. Don’t you want to come with me, and let me be your mother?”
Margaret considered. She scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “You mean,” she asked incredulously, “you want me to come live with you?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“For how long?”
“For always.”
“And be just like yours? Like other girls and their mothers?”
“Just like that.”
“What will Mr. Herlong do?”
“He’ll be your father.”
Margaret began to smile a little bit. “Does he like little girls?”
“Oh yes. And he likes you especially.”
“And I’ll live with you—in that big house with the swimming pool?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Will Brian let me go swimming?”
“Why of course. Whenever you please.”
“Would he show me his bugs and things, do you think?”
“I’m sure he would.”
Margaret smiled again, shyly but more happily this time. “That would be nice. Living at your house, Mrs. Herlong.”
“You needn’t call me Mrs. Herlong any more, if I’m going to be your mother.”
“What do I call you, then?”
“If I’m your mother, don’t you want to call me that?”
But Margaret shook her head, with a frightened look. “Oh no, do I have to? My mother died, and my father died, and I called Mr. Kessler father, and he died. If I called you mother, you—” She stopped, appalled by the enormity of it.
Elizabeth did not insist. “All right, you don’t have to. My name is Elizabeth, would you like to call me that?”
“Elizabeth,” Margaret repeated. “It seems funny.” She paused a moment to think, and asked, “When do I go over to your house?”
“Right now. I’ll drive you there, and I can come back to get your things. Unless you’d rather show me now where they are.”
“I’ll show you.” Margaret scrambled down from the chair. She stood in the middle of the floor, still confused by this second re-orientation of her world. “It’s funny,” she said slowly. “It’s all funny. Yesterday he was here, and now he’s dead. And now I’m going to live with you. Can I bring the microscope?”
“You can bring anything you want.” Elizabeth took her hand and they started for Margaret’s room. “I’m going to like having you with me,” Elizabeth assured her.
“I’ll like it too,” said Margaret. She stopped and looked up seriously. “Mrs. Herlong—Elizabeth,” she said, “I’ll be good.”
“Of course you will, darling. Were you afraid I thought you wouldn’t be good?”
But Margaret was in earnest. “I’m a refugee,” she said quietly.
Elizabeth drew in her breath sharply. “So what, Margaret?”
“Some people don’t like refugees,” Margaret reminded her.
Damn some people, Elizabeth thought savagely. Aloud she said, “They must be very silly people.”
“Some of the girls at school don’t like refugees. One girl said her mother said there were too many of them in this country already and she wished all the refugees could be put on the boat and sent back where they came from.”
“Her mother must be a fool. What is that girl’s name?”
“Lillian Farnsworth.”
Elizabeth remembered Mrs. Farnsworth babbling, “But don’t you want to do anything for the war?” She said, “Margaret, Lillian Farnsworth’s mother is a fat stupid fool. If she ever says anything like that to you again, you tell her that, and you can tell her I said so.”
“She thinks—” Margaret stopped, and squeezed Elizabeth’s hand with sudden terror. “You’re not going to send me back, are you?”
“Come here with me, Margaret.” Elizabeth led her back to the big chair. She sat down, and took Margaret to sit on her lap. “Darling, I told you I wanted you for my little girl. No matter what you want to call us, I’m going to be your mother and my husband is going to be your father. We’re Americans, and we’re going to take you into an American court and get some papers that will make you just as American as we are, and just as much our daughter as Cherry is. Then nobody can ever, ever send you back to Germany.”
“You can do that?” Margaret exclaimed.
“You bet we can. Refugees can be as American as anybody else. Why Margaret, my people were refugees.”
“Were they, honestly?” Margaret cried in the delight of a burden shared. “Where did they come from?”
“Oh, Scotland, France, Holland, lots of places, and one of my great-great grandmothers came from Germany, just like you. They all came here for the same reason you came here, because they weren’t happy in the places where they lived and they wanted to be in a new free country where everybody could be friends. And Lillian Farnsworth’s people were refugees too.”
“They were! Then why does she say things like that?”
“Because she’s forgotten about it, or maybe she doesn’t know. All Americans are refugees, Margaret, except the Indians. They came from all over the world, some of them a long time ago,
some of them just lately. Most of us are rather nice people, don’t you think? We make mistakes, but we try to be nice people.”
“You’re nice people,” Margaret qualified it.
“Well, everywhere, even in this country,” Elizabeth continued, “there are people who are not nice. We have to learn to put up with them, even when they say insulting things. Most of the girls at school are nice to you, aren’t they?”
“Oh yes. We don’t eat lunch with Lillian Farnsworth,” Margaret confided.
“I hope you don’t. If she bothers you again, you can tell her Mr. Spratt Herlong liked you so much he made you his daughter, and only the girls you invite can come with you to go swimming in your pool.”
“In my pool?”
“Of course, if you’re our daughter won’t it be your pool as much as ours?”
“Oh-h-h!” Margaret sighed rapturously. “Can I go swimming today?”
“It’s still rather chilly, but we’ll see. Now let’s go get your clothes.”
When she brought Margaret home with her, Elizabeth gave her a little room next to Cherry’s, which Cherry had been accustomed to using as a sort of private refuge where she and her schoolmates could gather to eat fudge and do their lessons together. It had a single bed which, covered with an Indian blanket and some bright pillows, had served the girls as a couch. By bringing in Margaret’s possessions, and adding some little-girl furnishings Cherry had given up, Elizabeth turned it into a welcoming little bedroom.
She was glad of the occupation. It kept her from thinking of Kessler too much.
At first she had very little time to think of him, and as often before she was thankful for the immediate demands which saved her from introspection. Kessler had left a brief will, giving his few possessions to Margaret, and requesting cremation. Spratt attended to the essential details.
Brian and Cherry, as well as Dick when the news reached him at San Diego, were appalled at losing their friend. They had virtually no knowledge of death. Faced by it, they were almost inarticulate. “But he was such a good man!” Cherry protested, as though this should be a reason for his living forever. Brian said, “It doesn’t seem possible. He was—well, he was such a pal of mine, just like Peter. Gee.” From boot-camp Dick wrote, “I tell you, I don’t get it. A great guy like that, and Hitler and Tojo go right on flourishing. But Kessler—I guess I just don’t know what to say.”
In a later letter he added, “By the way, it was swell of you folks to take Kessler’s youngster. Where have you put her to sleep? In my room? If you have I guess it’s all right, but I may be getting off for a Sunday soon and when I do I hope she won’t mind moving out for the night. I’d sort of like to be in the same old place, been there so long I wouldn’t feel at home anywhere else, I guess. Just a soft-hearted sap after all.”
Elizabeth hurried to write him that she felt about his room exactly as he did, and when he came home he would find nothing changed. She got back a rather embarrassed little note, thanking her.
But Brian and Cherry, since they still lived at home, found it very odd that Margaret should be established as a member of their household. She was a nice enough child, but after all, she was a stranger. She wasn’t one of them. And it was their home. Did they have to have somebody else in it?
Spratt told Elizabeth not to argue with them until a good occasion presented itself. The chance came one morning when the newspaper carried an article in which an official was quoted as saying the Japanese were preparing to invade the United States. Cherry and Brian asked their father if he thought the Japs could do so. Spratt did not laugh at the possibility. But he told them what he knew about the coast defenses, and when he had persuaded them that there was no need to be overly frightened, he added,
“We’re mighty lucky in this country, aren’t we? We still don’t have to be much worried about our house being burned and ourselves being on the charity of strangers. Pretty lucky, aren’t we?”
“I’ll say we are,” Brian agreed.
Spratt addressed him and Cherry with a humorous candor. “You know, when I was a kid going to Sunday School, and the preacher took the Bible and read, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive,’ I thought it meant everybody should put a dime in the collection plate. But I guess the Bible is a pretty profound book. You have to do a lot of thinking before you know what it’s all about.”
Puzzled, Cherry asked, “What’s that got to do with the Japs, boss?”
“Well, sometimes I wonder,” said Spratt, “what we’d be doing now if the Japs had started this war first, instead of the Germans. We weren’t very well prepared back in ’39 when it all began. If the Japs had attacked then I guess they could have invaded California, and if they had we’d be refugees now in the Middle West or maybe some foreign country, that is, if we’d been able to get there. Scary notion, isn’t it?”
Brian whistled. Cherry exclaimed, “For pity’s sake, boss!”
“We would have, wouldn’t we?” said Spratt. “But instead, because it started on the other side, we’ve still got everything we ever had, and we can take care of Margaret instead of having to ask foreigners to take care of us.”
They looked uncomfortable. Spratt grinned at them and continued,
“You know, I’m finally beginning to get what that fellow in Sunday School was talking about. ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ You’re mighty right it is—it’s a sight more blessed to be able to give than it is to have to receive.”
Their eyes opened wide. Cherry began to laugh. Her father chuckled as he asked her,
“Get it, Cherry?”
She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I guess—I do,” she assented with some reluctance.
Half under his breath Brian was repeating, “It’s more blessed to be able to give than it is to have to receive. Gee, boss, you’re funny.”
“Okay, maybe I am,” said Spratt. “But it’s not funny to be on the receiving end. I hope you never have to try it.”
Brian scowled at the newspaper, which still lay half open before him. “Gee,” he said, “everybody’s in so much trouble.”
As that statement was incontrovertible, Spratt let him reflect without interruption. After awhile Brian concluded,
“I guess it’s all right for Margaret to live with us. I guess it just seems funny for her to be living here instead of with Kessler. It sure is bad about him. I miss him.”
“You and me both,” said Cherry.
They made no more audible objection to Margaret’s being with them. But both of them, especially Brian, found it hard to get used to the fact of Kessler’s death.
With Margaret it was different. She had been uprooted once, and was not incredulous at having it happen again. She had loved Kessler more than the Herlong children and had needed him more, she sorrowed for him more than they did, but she did not share their surprise. Margaret knew about death. She was not astonished at it, but she was afraid of it.
Margaret was afraid. Fear went through her whole personality and gave her foster-parents a problem for which their experience had not prepared them. Elizabeth and Spratt knew how to cope with childish faults, but their children had not known the meaning of insecurity. Margaret knew that better than she knew anything else.
Living in their home, she made very little trouble for anybody, for she was a good-tempered child and a very bright one. She picked up her playthings, studied her lessons and asked permission to do what she wanted—she was a good little girl, but she had not lived with them two weeks before Spratt and Elizabeth were saying to each other that her goodness, rather than any lack of it, gave them concern. A child who tried so hard to please everybody was not natural. But Margaret had spoken a simple truth when she said to Elizabeth that everybody who had belonged to her had died. In spite of all the reassurance Elizabeth was trying to give her, both in words and in a general attitude of affection, Margaret
was still not at ease. She was happy with them, but happiness threatened her with its own loss. It was as though she felt herself in paradise on probation, and thought that by being very good she could make a pact with destiny.
Before long such excellence of behavior had won unqualified approval from Brian and Cherry. She was much easier to have around than they had expected, they said. Brian showed her his collections and Cherry let Margaret come in and look at all her clothes, for it was fun to display their treasures for a spectator who was so delighted at receiving attention and who never touched anything out of turn. But their parents found Margaret’s attitude ominous.
“I don’t know how to deal with it!” Elizabeth said to Spratt. “Impertinence or bad manners I could handle. But this is new to me. Our children were perfectly unacquainted with fear.”
Spratt spoke through his teeth in a low angry voice. “My God, Elizabeth, those brutes! This is what ‘mental cruelty’ means, not a convenient phrase to get divorced with. Margaret got out of there with a whole body, but what they did to her mind!”
“And there are millions like her,” Elizabeth said savagely. “I go cold and sick thinking of them.”
“Thinking of millions won’t help Margaret,” said Spratt, who customarily moved from the general to the particular with all possible speed. “Let her see you love her and like having her around. Don’t pet her, just make her feel wanted. Don’t ask her about Germany, or Kessler either. If she ever talks just let her do it, as you said Kessler did when you were prettying up her Christmas tree. She’ll get it out of her eventually—it may take years, but she’ll talk if she knows you want to listen.”
“Make her feel wanted,” Elizabeth repeated. “Yes, I believe I can do that.”
The next day she said, “I have a problem, Margaret, and I need you to help me.”
“Me? Help you?” Margaret came and sat down by her. “Have you got some trouble, Elizabeth?”
She was still afraid to use a title that would have suggested to fate that Elizabeth was her mother. By this time she called Spratt “boss” as the other children did, for that title had no threatening connotation for her, as “father” had, but she continued to address Elizabeth by her first name. Knowing how Margaret felt about it, Elizabeth did not suggest a change.
