Miller's Secret

by Tess Thompson

  The two men, each carrying a box, and the little girl stepped out of sight, under the awning over the front door. Miller crept from his hiding place, tiptoeing to the door of the boys’ sleeping quarters. He turned the knob silently, and stepped into the hallway. Holding his breath, he made his way to the top of the stairs and looked down into the foyer. Their chauffeur and the boxes were out of sight, presumably being delivered into the common room and placed under the tree, but the man and little girl huddled with Sister Catherine, talking in hushed voices. Miller made out every word. “Mr. Bennett, I was afraid you wouldn’t make it with all the ice covering the roads. Sister Rosie and I have been beside ourselves with worry.”

  “Thanks to Mac, we made it just fine. He’s driven in worse,” said Mr. Bennett, taking off his top hat and holding it in two hands. “We would’ve walked if we had to. I cannot disappoint Mrs. Bennett. She was also beside herself with worry.”

  “Bless her,” said Sister Catherine. “And who have we here? Is this Miss Caroline?”

  The little girl curtsied. “Yes, ma’am. My mother let me come this year. I had to beg her. Because of the roads, she was worried Mac would crash the car and we’d all be lost forever. Well, that and this year I learned the truth about Santa, so Mother allowed me to help shop for the gifts.” She had a clear, almost musical voice.

  Sister Catherine chuckled. “I’m sorry to hear about Santa, but I’m glad you’ve come and that you didn’t crash.”

  “Caroline and her mother spent many hours shopping for what they hoped would please the children,” said Mr. Bennett. “They were appreciative of the letters to Santa with their specific requests. I think we managed to find everything.”

  Caroline tugged on her father’s sleeve. “No, Father, we didn’t. We couldn’t find mothers and fathers for them. They had that in their letters.” Her voice had the shaky quality that happened when girls were trying not to cry. Girls in the orphanage were crying all the livelong day, so he knew. “I’m so very sorry for them, Sister.”

  “Ah, well, God has a plan for them all,” said Sister Catherine. “So don’t you fret.” She turned to look at Mr. Bennett. “Edmund, without your contributions, we would surely have shut down by now. We can’t thank you enough.” She gestured toward the door. “Now, you best be off before it gets any colder.”

  They exchanged several other pleasantries, but Miller had stopped listening. I’m so very sorry for them. The fat little brat. How dare she pity them? He filled with anger, the kind that raged like the color red, burning his face as if he stood before a great fire. How easy it must be to have everything in the world, sipping cream from a silver spoon. He hated her. Gripping the spokes of the railing he imagined kicking her face, stomping on her fingers until she cried.

  The chauffer had come back to the foyer. Mr. Bennett said they must go now, and Merry Christmas, and God bless, and all the other absurdities people said on this fake day. Sister Catherine followed the men out, but Caroline, falling slightly behind, looked up to where he crouched by the railing. Her eyes widened. She stared at him. He stared back, not daring to move, for fear she would betray him. Then, in a moment of genius, he put his finger to his lips to indicate she must be quiet. She nodded, put her finger to her lips, and slipped out the door. He ran back to the boys’ room on tiptoes, his toes cold and achy, and went to the window. Caroline climbed into the car first, followed by her father. Miller watched their car turn out of the driveway and head down the road until it disappeared from sight.

  The next morning, like the other children, he opened his present. It was a telescope, just as he’d asked for. There were also blank notebooks for all of the children. Sister Catherine encouraged them all to keep journals or use it as a place to put their mementos. “If you write down your thoughts and feelings, your life will have clarity and purpose.” He wanted to laugh. What mementos, clarity, or purpose did any of them have exactly? He kept the question to himself. Last time he’d been cheeky, Mother Maria had smacked his knuckles with a ruler until she drew blood.

  That night, he sat in bed, running his fingers over the velvet fabric that covered the outside of the journal pages and envisioned the little girl and her father. With a pen he’d found on the floor in Mother Maria’s office and had stashed under his mattress, he wrote on the first page.

  December 25, 1921

  This is Miller Dreeser. I am here even though no one sees me. Someday I will be visible. I will be like Edmund Bennett and wear fancy clothes and have more than enough to eat.

  When he wrote it down, he knew exactly what it was he wanted. Perhaps Mrs. Bennett understood something he hadn’t.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Caroline

  CHRISTMAS EVE, HER PARENTS SURPRISED CAROLINE when they said that, yes, she could accompany her father to drop the gifts at the orphanage. The roads, slick with ice from the unexpected freeze, made the journey slower than expected, but Caroline didn’t mind. Sitting next to Father in the backseat of their car, she was a princess dressed in her new dress and stockings, plus the delightful fur coat Mother had let her open early so that she might wear it for their festivities tonight. She wanted to wave to her imaginary subjects like she’d seen photos of real princesses do. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining that she was adored by the masses. Father wore his top hat and formal evening suit. She wriggled closer to him and lay her cheek against the rough material of his jacket. “Thank you for letting me come, Father,” she said. “I feel so grownup.”

  “I’m delighted to have such a worthy traveling companion.” He kissed the top of her head. “But don’t grow up too fast.”

  When they arrived, Father said she could come inside with him to meet Sister Catherine. Once she was out of the car, she stood, looking up at the building that loomed large and almost creepy in the dark. She suspected it was cold inside and shivered despite her fur coat. The stars above shone with an intensity she had not seen before, as if the heavens acknowledged the awesomeness of this night before Jesus’s birth. She was about to follow Father inside when a movement in one of the upstairs windows caught her eye. Was it a boy, standing in the window? She couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to be an outline of a boy. She looked away. It was strange to be watched. Dread washed over her. She shivered. Don’t think of it. Pretend you didn’t see him.

  They went inside. Sister Catherine greeted them and they chatted for a few minutes in the foyer, which seemed no warmer than outside. They were about to go when she happened to glance up. A boy crouched low at the top of the stairs, looking down at them. His eyes, the color of coal, stared at her, unblinking. She was about to say something to him when he put his finger to his lips. He didn’t want her to speak and let it be known he was there. Perhaps he would get in trouble for being out of bed. She nodded, to let him know she understood, and followed Father out the door.

  After their late-night delivery, Mac drove them to the Christmas Eve mass at their local parish. Mother arrived before them and had saved them seats near the front. Like Easter, every seat in the church was taken, forcing men to stand in the back of the church in clumps. Women were dressed in their finest: long, flowing dresses slack at the middle and head pieces with plumes in rich colors. The men were in dark suits, holding fedoras in their hands. The air smelled of incense and ladies’ perfume. A silence fell over the parish as the service began, but Caroline didn’t pay close attention. Instead, she prayed for the motherless children with so much silent vigor that she worried it might be apparent to others. When she looked around, though, between the kneeling and the chants and the story of Jesus’s birth, no one seemed to notice her. She was safe and warm, with more gifts waiting under the tree than most children had in a lifetime. Since the Santa letters, her world had opened. There were children without hope, without a family or a home. She could not stop thinking of them and their letters. Haunted by the phrases in the letters, a heaviness had settled onto her shoulders over the last few weeks. And tonight at the orphanage, the boy stand
ing at the top of the stairs had hollow cheeks that matched his empty eyes, like nothing good had ever filled him, neither food nor love.

  As Christmas Eve Mass ended, however, she had sudden clarity. Guilt. She was guilty. For whom much is given, much is expected. Mother and Father conducted themselves in a manner worthy of the directive to their daughter. Yet, somehow it didn’t feel like enough. She was a child of privilege. There were others who suffered, while she, Caroline, thrived. She could not understand why. Kneeling in the pew one last time, she vowed to God, “I will do my best to lessen the burden of others, however I can. Please show me the way.”

  After Mass ended, she accompanied Mother and Father to their club for a late supper. Garlands hung in the windows. A massive tree near the fireplace, decorated with shiny bulbs and red bows, made the lobby smell of pine. In the dining room, a band played Christmas music. Waiters walking around with trays, gave her parents glasses of champagne, and the three of them were enveloped into a swarm of friends. She held on to her mother’s hand, afraid to be swallowed by the crowd. Ladies’ bare shoulders glistened under the lights, and their perfumes made Caroline’s eyes itch. She stifled a yawn. Her bladder was full. “I have to use the ladies’ room, Mother.”

  “All right, darling. Meet us in the dining room,” said Mother, waving to a friend standing across the room.

  The ladies’ lounge was quiet compared the bustle of the lobby. An attendant with skin the color of dark tea stood near the sink. Caroline said hello, politely, as Mother had taught her, before finding an open toilet. She closed the door and sat, delighted to empty her bladder. Voices of two women outside the door reached her. Caroline recognized her friend Elizabeth’s mother by her unusual voice. Mrs. Beale had a particularly low timbre for a woman. It could be mistaken for a man’s. When she mentioned this to her mother one time, she had pretended to puff an imaginary cigarette and told Caroline she must never smoke, as it made you sound hoarse and gave you wrinkles. This was one of Mother’s strange notions. No one else seemed to believe this, as most women smoked. Mrs. Beale was almost never without a cigarette dangling from one of those long holders, the ash always about to drop. “Goodness, did you see the size of Caroline Bennett?” asked Mrs. Beale.

  “It’s such a shame. Terrible thing to have a beautiful mother and be so homely. And fat! My God, it’s like she ate her twin.” Caroline did not recognize this brittle voice that sounded like squeaking curds. “Do you think she was adopted?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. It’s hard to believe she came from Edmund and Sophie,” said Mrs. Beale.

  Caroline stood, pulling her stockings up and her dress back into place, shivering. She should have kept her coat and hat on. It was frigid in the club, like it had been in the orphanage. She walked out to the dressing tables where the two women sat, looking at themselves in the mirror. I will stand in front of them. Make them see me. Shame them for their cruelty.

  Mrs. Beale’s eyes met Caroline’s and she made a circle with her mouth. She held a lipstick in her hand, but did not use it, like she’d forgotten it was there. “Caroline, what’re you doing here so late? Elizabeth’s home in bed.”

  “My mother and father allow me to stay up as late as them on Christmas Eve. It’s important to my mother that I attend Mass.” Caroline’s voice shook and her cheeks were damp. Had she been crying without knowing? She pulled out her handkerchief from the little pocket of her dress and patted under her eyes.

  The other woman’s eyes skirted to Mrs. Beale, then back to Caroline. She looked properly ashamed. They knew she’d heard them. Good. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Beale.”

  “Merry Christmas, Caroline. Give my best to your mother.”

  Caroline washed her hands at the basin. Her fingers were like sausages and her cheeks as round as apples. How had she not noticed before? Her thighs pressed against each other. She pushed into her middle, feeling several rolls there, like jelly. She was fat. The attendant handed her a towel. After she was finished drying, Caroline handed the attendant a coin. Good manners were important, Mother always said, and these poor women work for tips only.

  Caroline found her parents near the entrance to the dining room. A pain stabbed her stomach, yet she was ravenous, like she hadn’t eaten in days. “Mother, will they have pudding?” Pudding and cream. Butter spread over rolls. A thick cut of roast beef. Thinking of the meal ahead made her mouth water, but with that feeling came shame. She was a fat girl, like a pig. No one should have to look at her.

  “I believe they will,” said Mother. “I’m famished.” She held out her hand. “Come along, darling, let’s eat.”

  The next afternoon, she and her mother stood in front of the mirror in her dressing room. They both wore their new Christmas dresses, matching dark blue taffeta. Mother, slim and tall, smiled into the mirror. “I suppose it’s a sin to love these dresses as much as I do.”

  Caroline didn’t answer. She stared at herself in the mirror. Mrs. Beale was right. Caroline had been adopted. Perhaps from the orphanage when she was too young to remember? Why else would she look so different from her mother?

  “Mother, did you find me at the orphanage when I was a baby?” She met her mother’s gaze in the mirror.

  Mother turned away from the mirror to look directly at her. “What would make you think such a thing?”

  “Because I’m fat and you’re not.” She pinched the sides of her face. “And I’m homely and you’re beautiful.”

  “You’re most certainly not homely or fat.” Mother’s blue eyes, the same color as the sapphire necklace around her slim neck, filled with tears. “I don’t want to ever hear you say that again, do you understand?”

  “Other people say it,” said Caroline.

  “What other people?”

  “Elizabeth’s mother. I was in the powder room at the club last night and she was in there with another lady and she said, ‘It’s such a shame about Sophie’s daughter. She’s such a homely thing.’ And the other lady said, ‘Yes, and fat as a little piggy. It’s hard to believe she came from Edmund and Sophie and maybe she’s adopted.’ Or, something like that, anyway.” Caroline looked at the floor, trying not to cry. “It doesn’t bother me, though, Mother, because I want only to be good and smart. I don’t care that I’m not pretty.”

  Mother knelt on the floor, taking Caroline’s hands in her own. “Listen to me, my love. You’re beautiful inside and out. No one, not even awful Anna Beale, can take that from you. She was feeling particularly mean because her husband has made a bad business deal and they’ve lost their fortune. It was probably the last time they’ll ever be at the club. When people are bitter or disappointed, they’re often mean to others.”

  “But why?”

  “Oh, darling, I don’t know. It’s easy to be kind when your life is filled with security and love, as mine has been. Anna Beale was feeling spiteful because she’s jealous of what we have, and it made her unkind. But you, my sweet girl, despite what those women said, look exactly like me.”

  “I do?” Was Mother lying to spare her feelings?

  “Yes, look here now.” Mother lifted Caroline’s chin to look into the mirror. “Do you see? Same blue eyes.”

  It was true. The color of sapphires, Father always said.

  “And do you see our noses? Same little upturn on the end. See there?”

  Yes, it was like a button on the end of their noses. On Mother it looked fashionable, like everyone should have one. Mrs. Beale was probably jealous of her mother’s nose. She had a long, pointy one, and skin the texture of tarnished leather despite layers of powder.

  “And our hair is the same.” Honey blond with curls, although Mother’s was piled on top of her head in an elaborate arrangement, whereas Caroline’s hung in a bob at her chin. “So is our skin. Your father says we have skin like butterscotch candy.” Mother kissed the top of her head. “Someday you’ll grow taller, like me, and you’ll become slimmer. I was just like you when I was your age.”

  “Really?
”

  “Yes, really. And do you think I’m ugly?” asked Mother.

  “No. Not one bit.”

  “So, there you have it.” Mother stood. “Now, come along. Your father will think we’ve run off to the circus if we don’t go down for dinner.”

  She took Caroline’s hand as they entered the dining room. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Julius and his father are going to spend Christmas with us. They’ve come up from the beach.”

  Julius and his father, Doctor Nelson, lived at the beach all year around, not just during the summer like the Bennetts. Occasionally, they came up to the city to stay with her family. Like tonight! Her heart leaped with joy when she saw them, all thoughts of Mrs. Beale slipping from her mind. Julius and Doctor Nelson sat at the table with Father, both dressed in suits. How nice Julius looked. He waved and grinned at her from across the room. Julius. Everything was always better when he was there. She glided across the room, newly light. He looked older than when she’d seen him at Thanksgiving with his light blond hair, bleached from the sun, slicked back and smoothed with pomade. Both men and Julius stood as they approached the table. Mother put both hands out to Doctor Nelson. “So lovely to see you.”

  Doctor Nelson kissed her hand. “Thank you for having us.”

  “You’re looking quite well,” said Mother. It was true. Doctor Nelson looked rested and healthy, less thin than the last time they’d seen him.

  After they all sat, she squeezed Julius’s hand under the table. “I’m happy to see you.”

  He grinned. “Me too. We’re staying the night and everything. I brought you a present.”

  “I have one for you, too.” Mother had found an archery set for him. Ever since they read Robin Hood, they’d both become obsessed with archery. She couldn’t wait to see his face when he opened it. They had played Robin Hood and Maid Marian many times on the beach, with driftwood as the bow and arrow. “I didn’t know you were coming.”