The Light of Luna Park

by Addison Armstrong

  “Stella. Althea was the most devoted mother I’ve known. She took you everywhere, stayed up with you all night when you were sick, put you first in every decision she ever made. Sometimes I worried about her own well-being, she was so concerned with you. Your mom hardly had any money for your baptism, but she went without buying her own food—ate your leftover purées for a week—to save up for your gown. She was so proud of you, Stella.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I have so many memories . . . but what I’m trying to say is that, if your mother did lie to you about who your father was—or even who she was—she had good reason to do so.”

  The Althea the doctor describes sounds like the mother I knew. Selfless almost to the point of weakness.

  Or so I thought. Maybe she was selfish to the point of strength.

  “But she lied to me.”

  “Oh, Stella.” Dr. Morrison circles the desk to crouch before me. “Stella. She lied to me, too. But it doesn’t change how I feel about her.”

  “And how do you feel about her?”

  “I loved her.” He doesn’t play coy. “I still do, even if she’s gone.” His voice breaks. “Even if I didn’t know her story. Even if . . .” His mouth twists in pain. “Even if she walked out of my life the day I asked her to marry me.”

  “To marry you!” I gasp, nearly forgetting my own saga in the midst of his.

  “I thought she loved me too.”

  It isn’t impossible to believe my mom loved this man. His eyes have a magnetism to them, an intensity quite unlike my father’s. I can see how my focused mother would have been attracted to Dr. Morrison’s passion. And his love is genuine. His grief is no act; his body slumped when he realized Mom was dead, and he has yet to straighten.

  “Why did she marry my father?” I murmur. “Or—Horace Johnson. I suppose he wasn’t my father.”

  “He was your father,” Dr. Morrison says gently. “If you saw him as such.”

  There’s a question in his eyes I don’t know how to answer. Did Althea see Horace Johnson as a husband the way I saw him as a father? Did she love him?

  I don’t know. They weren’t passionate or even romantic. But they lived in peace together for decades.

  “I don’t know anything anymore,” I admit. “I don’t know who my parents are or if they loved each other or who I belong to.”

  “There’s a lot I don’t know, too,” Dr. Morrison says. “But I knew Althea. She was smart and brave and always certain of what was right. She was careful and caring and protective. And no number of lies can change that, Stella. No secrets can.” He’s crying, and it occurs to me for the first time that I never saw my father cry. But Dr. Morrison’s tears don’t seem a sign of weakness. They’re signs of love. He’s one of the few people still alive, I realize, who still loves and grieves my mother like I do. He understands.

  And he’s right. My mother was kind and selfless to a fault. I never once doubted her devotion over the years, even when I was a bratty teenager out for a fight. Biological mother or not, lying or not, she was my mother.

  But I’m still desperate to know with certainty who I am. “She never told you the truth about me?” I plead. “You never saw her again?”

  “I don’t know anything else.” He shakes his head, as mournful as I. “And—” He falters. “I never saw her again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Althea Anderson, April 1927

  I craft an ad for employment as Stella sleeps. Twenty-six words take two hours to write, but I deliberate over each one. I reread the results: Widow with young daughter. Experience as nurse. Seeking live-in work with invalid, family, or single woman. Full-time. Apply to Althea Anderson, c/o Mrs. Wallace, Times Square.

  Nothing astounding, but I suppose it will do. I pick up a paper I’d discarded earlier in the week and flip through its chalky pages. Running my eyes down the personals, I check to ensure I didn’t skip anything important. Age, experience, position wanted, and contact. Satisfied, I move to put down the paper and pause. There, mixed in with the employment advertisements is a word that could have been mine: matrimony.

  Don’t look, Althea. Any wedding-related advertisement will merely upset me, after what I’ve turned down. I don’t want to read about the flowers I could have ordered or the beautiful gown I could have worn walking down the aisle toward Charlie.

  But my eyes jump quickly to the advertisement despite my best effort. WANTED—Female companion; single; about 35 years for single business man; object matrimony. J.J., Times Office.

  Not an advertisement for wedding-related services, then.

  An advertisement looking for a bride.

  The chemical smell of the newsprint ink nauseates me as I reach for another old paper. I run my finger down the line, not sure whether I do or do not want to find more advertisements in the same vein. For a while I don’t, but then here is one: Young man wishes the acquaintance of beautiful girl, age about 25 years: I like hiking and theaters, do not dance: anyone interested please answer; object matrimony. Box 3251.

  Shaking my head, I turn the pages. The ads go both ways; here is one for a woman seeking a man. Neat-appearing widow, past 40, refined, good housekeeper and cook. Wishes to meet gentleman who can give good home, object matrimony; best references. I cringe—good housekeeper and cook? The ad befits a prospective employee more than a prospective wife.

  My stomach turns the way it did that long-ago day at Coney Island as I watched the kids on the roller coaster scream. If a woman can put this sort of advertisement in the paper, couldn’t I?

  I turn the pages quickly. They seem to be everywhere. Here is another.

  Another.

  Another.

  I set the papers down, the tips of my thumbs and pointer fingers black like soot. Turning my palm away, I knead the bone of my wrist against my forehead and look to Stella. She sleeps on her tummy, her bum in the air like a baby bear.

  A baby bear without a father.

  I stagger to the bathroom as my thoughts crystallize. Stella needs a father. She needs a father and—the thought is sour—she needs someone who can support her. Without a nursing position, and now that I must give notice to Mrs. Wallace, I won’t be able to do it. Being a woman alone in this world is a dangerous gamble. Alone, Stella and I would barely stay afloat in the best of times, and if one of us gets sick—if she has complications from being born premature or I end up with the same cancer that killed my father—we’ll sink.

  And if I have one job, it’s to keep my baby girl afloat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Stella Wright, January 1951

  I do one final sweep of the apartment before leaving. I’ve packed my valise and filled a box with things to take home—china plates, a few pieces of jewelry, a blanket. The charm box I place in my purse. I want it safe and close to me. It started all of this, after all.

  The train ride home is long, and I pick through Mom’s box with new eyes. This time, I look at the flower and wonder if it could have been from Dr. Morrison. I look at the note and marvel at the thought that that fingerprint—its tiny whorls and smudge of impatience—is my own.

  When I tuck the note away and see the print from the newspaper clipping, it hits me. I know now where I’d heard Mrs. Wallace’s name before.

  Young widow, 24, mother of infant girl. Seeking kind man; object, matrimony. Direct letters to A., c/o M. Wallace, Times Square.

  I stare at it in shock. So that was where my mother met my father, twenty years her senior. But why? Why on earth would she leave Dr. Morrison, a doctor her own age who truly loved her, when she was willing to settle for a stranger?

  I close my eyes. Marriage is complicated; I know that well enough. I may never understand why my mother married my father, but he was that. He was my father, like Dr. Morrison said.

  I left Dr. Morrison my Poughkeepsie address before leaving this morning. “If you can pass a c
opy to Hattie, too,” I whispered, “safely? I’d appreciate that.”

  I hope the doctor reaches out. I’m hungry for the pieces of my mother he can return to me: What did she wear to my baptism? What was her relationship with Mrs. Wallace? Did she read poetry even then? What was her favorite flower? Did she still talk about nursing when the doctor knew her? Did she feel about it the way I feel about teaching?

  I’m also hungry for someone who can understand my grief. Hungry to connect with someone who loved my mother as much as I do.

  * * *

  —

  Jack is not yet home when I get back; he’ll work until five p.m. I leave my box of things behind the desk at the train station, promising to come back for it with my husband and the car later, and then walk home with my purse and my valise.

  I let myself in, change into a fresh skirt and blouse, and head to the town library. I’ve spent so much time untangling my mother’s life; it’s time now to untangle mine.

  It’s time to protect my students the way my mother protected me.

  “Good morning.” I greet the older woman behind the circulation desk. “Do you have any volumes on the education of handicapped children?”

  Her eyelids twitch. “Handicapped children?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think so.” She rifles through a card catalog. “Does such a thing even exist?”

  “Education”—I glare—“or the handicapped child?” I’m quick to take offense where my students are concerned; I blame Gardner’s abuse.

  “L-literature about them,” the woman stammers like a scolded child.

  I’m too embarrassed to admit that after a year and a half of teaching special education I don’t know. Embarrassed I never thought to educate myself on this before, to do more for my students than just love them. “They must.”

  “I’m not seeing anything in our catalog. Perhaps you ought to check the Vassar library,” the woman suggests.

  It’s a good idea, and I thank her with a smile.

  I pass several of Jack’s and my favorite college spots as I make my way to Thompson Library. There’s the vast Vassar Farm, which I tilled endlessly during the war but which I remember more for Jack getting kicked by a cow during a milking. I dissolved into laughter at his indignation, until the cow turned its stony gaze toward me. Then Jack was the one laughing through the pain in his side.

  Beyond the farm, I see the tree under which Jack kissed me the first time. The bench on which we shared our first Vassar Devil. The building in which we attended our only shared class, whispering and snickering in the back of the room.

  And now Thompson Memorial Library rises ahead, its white spires out of a European fairy tale. I pull open the heavy wooden doors and step inside, my shoes clomping on the gleaming trapezoid tiles below. I turn left to the circulation desk as the grandfather clock across the room chimes twelve times for the hour. The girl behind the desk cannot be too much younger than I am, but her bare left hand and easy smile widen the gap. “Good afternoon.” I incline my head slightly. “Do you know where the books on teaching students with handicaps are kept?”

  “Of course.” The girl searches the card catalog and reads a number, then points me in the correct direction. I’m headed away from the famed Cornaro Window, and I make a note to return and pay it my respects as I leave. I can’t help but notice as I turn away that the circulation girl’s lips are a perfect Cupid’s bow. Just like Hattie’s. Just like mine.

  I force myself back into the present moment. Only two books sit shelved under the classification given me: last year’s Journal of Exceptional Children and a recently published Education of Handicapped Children.

  “Exceptional.” I taste the word and decide I like it.

  Settling into a seat, I open the first book. It consists of various articles, some of which are relevant and some of which are not. I skim over the various options on visual impairment or private school or infancy, skipping instead to articles that may be of use to the kids I teach. Taught, I correct myself.

  By the time I’m done with both books, I have a long list of notes. Some of them are functional, such as separating desks so students are less distracted by those beside them. Some are academic, like R. N. Walker’s “realistic arithmetic” tips or the suggestion that even nonreaders be taught to recognize common street signs. And some, best of all, are fun. Entire articles sing the praises of teaching children music, puppetry, and crafting to foster expression, communication, and even cooperation. I’ve even sketched a silly little drawing on my notes sheet. Mary Ellen stands in the center, a cheerful Snow White. Judy holds an apple, a defiant grin slashed across her face. Seven kids surround Mary Ellen as the dwarves, and James stands apart to read the narration. Sweet, gentle Robby is the prince waiting in the wings.

  I tuck the clumsy drawing into my purse, clasping it shut with the golden latch, and rise. Before leaving, I pad to the south side of the library where the Cornaro Window filters in rays of colored light. Lady Elena Lucrezia Cornaro-Piscopia commands the center of the stained glass awaiting her crown of leaves; men in shades of yellow and green and blue and purple and red bow down before her. I give the lady a mock salute as my friends and I were wont to do in our college days. As the first woman in the world to receive a doctorate degree in 1678, Lady Elena serves as an inspiration for the women at Vassar riddled with doubt.

  “You didn’t give up either, did you?” I trace the outline of the woman’s long white robes. “You didn’t, and Dr. Morrison didn’t, and Dr. Couney and Hildegarde and Nurse Recht didn’t.” And my mom, more than anyone, never gave up on me. Like the doctors and the nurses, she fought for me when I was too young and weak to fight for myself. She sacrificed for me, poured love into me, gave me all the chances to pursue the romance and career she never had.

  I can never thank her for what she did, and the pain of that realization is visceral and sharp.

  I breathe deeply. I can’t thank my mother, but I know what she’d want me to do instead. She’d want me to give the gift of love to someone else. To intervene for someone else the way she intervened for me.

  I take a deep breath. The nurses, the doctors, and my mom fought for me. But who is fighting for my kids?

  * * *

  —

  Jack runs to meet me when I open the door to our house that night, and I embrace him. “Something smells good. Did you cook?”

  “No.” He looks sheepish. “I picked up those Italian sandwiches you like as a welcome home.”

  I laugh and kiss him. “Sounds more like you. And yummier, too.” Over our meal, I tell him what I learned from Dr. Morrison. “He loved her, Jack. And I never knew he existed.”

  I expect him to crack a joke—maybe, Our daughter better know I exist. But instead, he reaches out and touches my hand. “He’s loved her for twenty years?”

  “More.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Jack whispers, “not being with you for all that time.”

  I squeeze his hand and wipe my eyes before they can well up with tears. “Me neither. I don’t understand. Why do you think she married my dad, some stranger she met through a newspaper ad?”

  “I have no idea. But with everything else we’ve learned, we can probably assume she did it for you.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, both of us thinking. “Your mom did the same thing for you, in a way. Raised you on her own to keep you safe from your father.”

  He shrugs. “A mother’s love.”

  It’s a testament to how hard he’s trying that he doesn’t mention my becoming a mother, too.

  “How do you feel?” he asks me instead.

  “Overwhelmed, mostly.” I shake my head. “I felt betrayed at first, but after everything I’ve learned I’m grateful to her. She gave me a good life.”

  Jack nods along. “Even when it wasn’t easy for her.”

 
“Exactly.” I lean forward. “Jack, I’ve been thinking. She didn’t let all the opposition get in her way, and I know she wouldn’t want me to, either.” I tell him about what I learned at the library. “I know that the school won’t hire me again this year, what with the new teacher being there, but—”

  “Actually, Stella, I have something to tell you.” Jack puts down his sandwich. “I was afraid to mention it before.”

  “What? What happened?” My head shoots up, hands sending my plate spiraling toward the center of the table.

  “The woman they hired to replace you—Miss Dickerson, I think—she quit.”

  “What?” I jump to my feet. My skin prickles with fury. “After a week? She just left the kids? What are they doing now? Jack—” I grab his shoulders. “What if this is it for them? What if their parents send them off to Willowbrook or Rome State?” I can feel heat starting to gather behind my eyes. The emotions of the last few days are catching up with me, casting my fears for my former students in high relief. “You know what they call that place? Rome State Custodial Asylum for Unteachable Idiots. Unteachable idiots!” I’m sobbing openly now. “Imagine Mary Ellen there. They claim the places are nice, but, God, Jack, I’ve heard things . . .”

  I’ve heard things that would horrify even Michael Perkins. Medical experiments—radiation, vaccination—conducted on nonverbal children unable to say no. Eight-year-olds stranded in cribs like cages. Hundreds of cots crammed into single rooms. Children used for free labor. Infants entirely isolated from their families. Straitjackets, restraints, beatings. Nakedness and cold.

  I picture Judy at Willowbrook or Rome. I don’t doubt she would be the first to go, her behavior “troubled” enough to justify it. No, I want to cry, the more chains you wrap around that girl, the harder she’ll try to break free. And what about Carol and Robby, confined to wheelchairs and incapable of moving on their own? In an overcrowded, understaffed institution, they’d be all but ignored. Would anyone notice Carol’s quiet determination or Robby’s sudden laugh?