by Peg Cochran
“What was your impression of Noeleen?” Kaminsky said.
Charlotte shrugged and brushed a dried leaf that had fallen from one of the hanging plants off the table.
“She was rather quiet, but I thought she had a nice smile.”
“She was quite religious, wasn’t she?” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte’s leg swung faster. She wrinkled her nose. “She went to church every morning. I would rather sleep in myself.” She yawned and stretched her arms overhead.
“Was Noeleen happy, do you think?” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte frowned. “I’ve never thought about that. She didn’t have much to be happy about, if you ask me—working here all day and visiting that cousin of hers on Sundays.”
“Would you be surprised to know that Noeleen had a boyfriend?” Kaminsky said.
Charlotte gave a laugh that sounded like a hoot.
“Noeleen? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“She was in the family way,” Kaminsky said bluntly.
“I don’t believe you.” Charlotte’s large dark eyes opened even wider. “Not Noeleen.”
“It’s true,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder if that’s why…”
“Yes?” Elizabeth prompted.
Charlotte began swinging her leg again. “Noeleen was getting dreadfully thin.” She laughed. “At first I was envious—she was becoming as slender as a fashion model.” She stared down at her hands for a moment. “Then I began to wonder why she wasn’t eating. I heard her tell Mrs. Brown that she only took one meal a day. It was as if she was doing…penance for something. Like the saints used to do.” She looked at Elizabeth. “Maybe she was.”
They were quiet for a moment and Elizabeth could hear the melodic tinkle of the fountain in the center of the room.
Elizabeth leaned toward Charlotte. “Maybe you can tell us about the young man I saw sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Brown yesterday. Does he work for your family?”
Charlotte made a face. “That’s Killian. He’s Mrs. Brown’s son and he’s been here since Mrs. Brown came to us years and years ago. He was only a little boy. Apparently Mother decided he could live here with Mrs. Brown.”
“Does he do any work?” Kaminsky said.
Charlotte shrugged. “Supposedly he helps Mrs. Brown in the kitchen, but I don’t think he does anything really. He’s rather…strange.”
“Strange how?” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte twirled a finger around her ear. “There’s something wrong with him mentally. Always talking to himself and staring off into space.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “When we were younger mother once made me invite him to one of my birthday parties. He sat in the corner the entire time rocking back and forth.”
“Does he frighten you?” Kaminsky said.
“Not really. I’m used to him by now. But Noeleen was frightened of him. She said he gave her the creeps.”
“Did he ever try to…hurt Noeleen?” Elizabeth said.
“I don’t think so. It was only that she wasn’t used to him like I am. I mean, I’ve known him practically all my life.”
“Would you mind if I took your picture?” Elizabeth said, reaching for her camera case.
“Oh.” Charlotte’s hand flew to her hair.
“You look fine,” Elizabeth said, as she began snapping photographs.
“There you are!” A young girl’s voice rang out from the entrance to the conservatory.
Two young women burst into the room, giggling. They were Charlotte’s age and dressed similarly in cashmere twinsets, although one was wearing a skirt and the other had on a pair of gray flannel trousers with a high waist and wide legs.
“Doris, Betty, darlings,” Charlotte exclaimed, jumping up from her chair and running over to embrace the girls. She pointed to Elizabeth and Kaminsky. “They’re from the Daily Trumpet and we’ve been talking for simply ages. I’ve even had my picture taken. It’s been too exciting! They’ve asked positively tons of questions about Killian. I told them he wasn’t a bit frightening, don’t you agree?”
The girl wearing pants rolled her eyes. “Darling, you know full well I was absolutely terrified of him the first time I met him.”
Charlotte spun around to face Elizabeth and Kaminsky.
“I’m sorry—I almost forgot. You wanted to see Mrs. Brown?”
“If it’s convenient, yes,” Kaminsky said.
“I’ll show you the way.”
Charlotte linked arms with the other two girls and led them to the kitchen stairs.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky thanked her and made their way down to the basement.
Mrs. Brown was sitting at the table peeling potatoes, cutting them up and then rounding the ends of the smaller pieces. The light from the fixture hanging from the ceiling glanced off the blade of her knife as she whittled the vegetables as quickly and surely as a wood carver.
She looked up when she heard Elizabeth and Kaminsky enter.
“You were here before,” she said bluntly.
“We wanted to ask you a few more questions,” Kaminsky said, pulling out a chair.
“I don’t have time. I’m busy.” Mrs. Brown scowled at them. She continued cutting up the potatoes.
“That’s a very attractive presentation,” Elizabeth said, pointing at the potatoes.
Mrs. Brown’s face lightened ever so slightly but then immediately darkened again.
“I told you. I don’t have time to talk to you. I am preparing dinner for the family. They are having guests tonight.”
She picked up another potato and began peeling it with sharp, jerky movements.
Elizabeth slid the photograph of Killian out of her purse and put it down on the table. She pushed it toward Mrs. Brown.
“Do you know who this is?”
Mrs. Brown glanced at the picture. She uttered a cry and dropped her knife into the metal bowl where it landed with a clang that echoed around the room.
“Where did you get that?” She wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the photograph.
“I took it this afternoon,” Elizabeth said softly.
Mrs. Brown looked at Elizabeth then at Kaminsky then back at Elizabeth, her head swiveling between them like an oscillating fan.
“Why did you take my son’s picture?” Mrs. Brown crossed her arms over her chest.
Elizabeth hesitated. She didn’t want to antagonize Mrs. Brown.
“A woman claimed he tried to steal her purse.”
Mrs. Brown slammed her hand down on the table. The metal bowl rocked back and forth.
“Killian is a good boy. He wouldn’t do that.”
Elizabeth and Kaminsky were quiet.
Mrs. Brown sighed and slumped in her seat. “Ever since he was born…” she began.
Elizabeth became very still, barely breathing, hoping Mrs. Brown would forget they were there and keep talking.
“I had no trouble carrying him,” Mrs. Brown said almost as if she was speaking to herself. “My mother gave birth to eight children—although only seven survived—so I didn’t worry too much. He was a fussy baby, but you expect that, don’t you?” She looked at Elizabeth, who nodded.
“It was when he started school that I knew something was wrong.” Mrs. Brown knit her fingers together, the knuckles gnarled by arthritis. “And with no father…”
“His father?” Elizabeth said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“His father died when he was only three years old.” Mrs. Brown clenched the fabric of her apron in both hands. “It was the mustard gas you see—during the war.”
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Brown nodded. “I think it was losing his father that made him…the way he is.” She sighed and wiped a hand across her brow. “The docto
r recommended vitamins and all kinds of pills and therapies, but nothing helped. Killian would get these dark moods that swept over him like a storm. And then the anger would come. It wasn’t until we found Dr. Crocker two years ago that he made any progress.”
“What did Dr. Crocker do?”
“It was a brand-new procedure, only just invented. A surgical procedure.”
“A lobotomy?” Kaminsky said suddenly.
Mrs. Brown nodded. “Yes. That’s what the doctor called it.”
Elizabeth looked at Kaminsky.
“They drill into your brain,” Kaminsky said bluntly. “I read about it in the paper.”
Mrs. Brown appeared distressed, clutching her hands together as if she was praying. “The doctor swore it wouldn’t be painful. Killian never made so much as a whimper while the doctor was doing it.”
“And it helped?” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Brown plucked at a loose thread on her apron. “Yes. He’s been much calmer since…since the doctor did that to him, although he hasn’t really seemed like himself.”
“How did he get along with everyone here?” Kaminsky said, his voice sounding loud in the quiet kitchen.
“Fine. The Posts…they understood.”
“And what about Noeleen? How did she and your son get along?”
Mrs. Brown frowned at Kaminsky. “What do you mean?”
Kaminsky held up a hand. “They were about the same age. I wondered if they’d become friends. It would seem natural that they would.”
“I know what you’re insinuating,” Mrs. Brown said, her eyes narrowed. Elizabeth could see the muscle working in her jaw. “The police were around wanting to know the same thing—insinuating horrible, dirty things about my boy and poor Noeleen.” She clenched the edge of the table with both hands. “I told Mr. Post about it, and he said he wasn’t having any of it. He said he’s going to call his lawyer if they don’t stop.”
“I’m sorry if we’ve disturbed you,” Elizabeth said, putting a hand on Mrs. Brown’s arm.
Mrs. Brown shrugged it off and looked at Elizabeth, her eyes hard. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” She looked at the clock, then jumped up from the table and carried the bowl of potatoes to the counter.
“I have to get on with dinner or it will be late.” She opened a brown paper bag and poured the contents—fresh green beans—into a colander in the sink. “I can’t afford to lose my position. Not many employers would allow me to keep my son with me.”
Kaminsky and Elizabeth stood up. “We’ll be going then.”
Mrs. Brown didn’t appear to notice they were leaving—she was busy washing the beans.
* * *
—
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief when the door to the Posts’ house shut behind her.
“There’s something very oppressive about the atmosphere in there—in that kitchen.”
“I agree.” Kaminsky pulled out his pack of Camels and shook out a cigarette. It was slightly bent from being in his pocket. He ignored that fact and put it to his lips anyway.
For some reason the bent cigarette struck Elizabeth as incredibly funny, and she began to laugh.
Kaminsky transferred the cigarette to the corner of his mouth and glanced at her with a look of amusement.
“What’s so funny?”
By now Elizabeth was consumed with laughter. She pointed to Kaminsky’s cigarette.
“It’s bent,” she gasped before she began to laugh again.
“I think you need a shot of Old Schenley,” Kaminsky said.
Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
“No, I’ll be okay,” she said, striving to maintain a sober expression.
“Are you up to paying a visit to Noeleen’s cousin Orla then?”
“Yes.”
“So no date tonight? No spiffy young fella taking you to El Morocco or the Stork Club?”
Elizabeth made a very unladylike noise. “No. Not even to the Automat. And don’t even begin to imagine that that bothers me.”
“I like your spirit, Biz.”
That made Elizabeth feel good. She pondered the question why as they made their way to the subway and rode the train up to the Bronx and Westchester Avenue.
A group of boys were playing stickball in front of Mrs. Lis’s boardinghouse when Elizabeth and Kaminsky got there. The children’s excited shouts echoed up and down the street. The air was redolent with the smell of food cooking that wafted from the partially opened windows.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky mounted the steps to the boardinghouse and knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a pleasant-looking young man in suit pants and shirtsleeves with the day’s newspaper tucked under his arm.
“Can I help you?” He smiled at them.
“We’re here to see Miss Orla Cullen. Is she in?” Elizabeth said.
“You’re in luck. She just got home. I’ll get her for you.”
He held the door wider and Elizabeth and Kaminsky stepped into the foyer. They watched as the young man trotted up the stairs to the second floor.
The swinging door to the kitchen opened and the smell of boiled cabbage drifted out. A young girl emerged with a tray laden with dishes and silverware. She began to set the table in the dining room.
The young man reappeared. “Miss Cullen will be right down if you don’t mind waiting.”
Moments later a young woman came down the stairs. She was wearing a flowered housedress, dark slippers and had a scarf tied around her hair. Bright red curls escaped around the edges. Her face was very white and moon-shaped and Elizabeth’s first impression was that she was soft all over—the sort of woman who gained weight easily, especially around the waist.
Her expression was sullen as she walked toward Elizabeth and Kaminsky.
“I just got off work. I was about to change for dinner.”
“We’re sorry to be disturbing you,” Elizabeth said. “We’re from the Daily Trumpet.”
“This is about Noeleen, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth peered into the parlor. The young man who’d fetched Orla for them was seated in one of the armchairs, reading the paper.
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” Elizabeth said.
“Mrs. Lis doesn’t allow us to have guests in our room. I suppose we could go outside and sit on the stoop.”
The stickball game had disbanded and the street was quiet. Elizabeth imagined the children were sitting down to dinner and her own stomach rumbled.
They made themselves as comfortable as possible, Kaminsky bending awkwardly and lowering himself to the step. The sun was lower in the sky and the air was cooler than it had been earlier. Orla shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Elizabeth said when they were all seated.
“Thanks,” Orla said. She cracked the knuckles of her right hand. “Noeleen was like a sister to me. We spent Sundays together. She took the train up after church.”
“You knew she was in the family way?” Kaminsky said.
Orla nodded. “Mrs. Lis told me. Noeleen never said anything about it.” She sniffed loudly.
“Did your cousin talk about her job?” Kaminsky said. He had his notepad open on his lap. “Did she talk about the Posts at all?”
“Sure,” Orla said. “She liked her job.” She scowled. “She spent the summer by the ocean while I was sweating in a factory sewing seams.” She picked at a scab on her arm. “It wasn’t fair.”
“Fair?” Elizabeth said.
Orla’s face closed down, and she stared back at Elizabeth.
Kaminsky cleared his throat. “The Posts’ cook has her son living with her. We met him. He’s an odd young man.”
“Killian?” Orla said. “Noeleen
was terrified of him.”
“His mother says he’s harmless.” Kaminsky pulled out his cigarettes. He offered the pack to Orla.
She took one and leaned forward for Kaminsky to light it. She inhaled deeply and let the smoke trail out her nose.
“Noeleen didn’t think he was harmless. She said he gave her the creeps. Whenever she turned around, there he was watching her with those strange eyes of his. As much as she liked her job, she was thinking about quitting.”
“Because of Killian.”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever do more than stare at her?” Kaminsky said.
Orla took a long drag on her cigarette and very slowly blew out the smoke. She picked a crumb of tobacco off her lip.
“So Noeleen said.”
“What did she say?” Elizabeth said, batting at the smoke that now wreathed her head.
Orla turned her head away and looked down the street where a woman was walking along the sidewalk, her poodle pulling on its leash.
“Noeleen said he tried to touch her once.”
“Touch her?”
“Yes. I asked her if he tried anything else and she said no.”
“Did you believe her?” Kaminsky said.
Orla blew a last mouthful of smoke into the air, rubbed the cigarette out against the step and tossed it over the railing into the strip of grass alongside the stoop.
She looked at Elizabeth and Kaminsky and said, “Noeleen was pregnant, wasn’t she? Someone got her in the family way.”
“But everyone is telling us she didn’t have a boyfriend,” Kaminsky said, tapping his pencil against his notebook.
“Of course, there was Duff,” Orla said with an air of satisfaction.
“Duff?” Both Elizabeth and Kaminsky said at the same time.
Kaminsky’s pencil was at the ready. “Who is Duff? Is that his real name?”
“I don’t know. His family had a house next door to the Posts out on Long Island.” She rolled her eyes. “One of those rich boys who think they own the world, I should imagine.”
