The Second Life of Mirielle West

by Amanda Skenandore

  Or so she resolved to convince Charlie, when three more days passed without a letter. She brought her stationery box into the living room after supper and uncapped her pen. It seemed positively archaic that the colony didn’t have a telephone. It would be so much easier to broach this issue with Charlie over the line. To be able to judge from his voice the extent of the damage. She’d heard that Dr. Ross had a telephone in his office in the big house. But she’d have to sneak past the hedgerow and break inside if she wanted to use it. A feasible option, were the sisters not housed on the second floor. If Sister Verena spied her with as much as a toe beyond the hedge, Mirielle could count her job at the hospital gone.

  She did wonder what it was like in the sisters’ quarters. Did they wear their habits until bed or did they unpin their huge hats and shake their hair free as soon as they were up the stairs? Did they spend their free hours kneeling in prayer or did they draw or knit or play cards like other women? It was hard to imagine Sister Verena at a card table playing hearts or rummy. Harder still to imagine her puffing a cigarette and raising the ante in a cutthroat game of poker.

  Mirielle chuckled at the thought. The page before her was still blank. She wrote a few lines, crossed them out, and started again. A few more lines and her pen flagged. Better just to start anew. She crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. Her legs, still healing from the boils and lesions that had erupted during her reaction, itched, and she tucked them under the chair to keep from scratching as she wrote.

  She’d managed only to write the date and Dear Charlie when Jean bounded into the room. She opened the record cabinet built into the base of the phonograph and thumbed through the discs.

  “Which ones do we want?” Jean seemed to have only two volumes: mute and loud.

  Irene came into the living room dressed in a green-and-white-checked apron dress. They’d spent the afternoon in the pharmacy together, but Irene had since remade her hair and painted her lips. “Oh, let’s just bring them all.”

  Jean began pulling the records from the cabinet.

  “Careful now.” Irene bent down to help her, reading the names of the records aloud as she pulled them out, along with comments like, “oh yeah, that’s a goodie,” and “here’s a peppy one.”

  Mirielle couldn’t write with all the noise, but at least they seemed to be taking the records somewhere else to play them. She heard the record cabinet door shut and Irene’s knee joints pop as she stood.

  “Say, I bet Mrs. Marvin’s a swell dancer,” Irene said to Jean. “Why don’t you ask her to come along?”

  Mirielle swiveled around in her chair as Jean approached.

  “Wanna come?” Jean asked.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Mrs. Hardee’s gonna learn me to dance for the party.”

  “Teach me,” Irene corrected.

  “Teach me.” Jean leaned closer to Mirielle. “She’s too old to know any of the flapper dances, though. Do you know ’em?”

  Mirielle laughed. “I may have danced the Charleston and the shimmy a time or two.”

  “Hot dog! You’ll come along then?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got a letter to write.”

  Jean frowned. “You’re always writing damned letters.”

  “Don’t use that word,” Irene said.

  “You say it all the time.”

  “That’s the privilege of being a grown-up. Ain’t much else to recommend it. Now come on, let’s leave Mrs. Marvin alone.”

  Jean dragged her feet from the room. Irene followed, stopping in the doorjamb and saying over her shoulder, “We’ll be up in the observation tower if you change your mind.”

  Mirielle turned back to the writing desk. It wasn’t that she was always writing letters, but that she was so slow—damned slow, as Jean would say—that it seemed like she never finished. Irene’s and Jean’s voices rang from the walkway, followed by a peal of laughter.

  How long had it been since Mirielle last danced? Christmas, she supposed. An obligatory party with all the studio bigwigs. Charlie had made her promise she would dance and smile, not just mope about the bar all night. Dance she had—two songs were sufficient for keeping up appearances—and smile too, but anyone could see it was a pinned-on smile, an accessory no different from her string of pearls or feather hair clip.

  But before that, before Felix’s death, she’d loved to dance. Dinner parties and society balls and downtown cabarets. She loved the music, the commingled scent of sweat and perfume, the rush of air over her skin as she whirled. It was a chance to clear her mind and exist only in the physical. In the here and now.

  Mirielle capped her pen and placed the sheet of paper—still blank save for the date and Charlie’s name—back in her stationery box. She was in no mood to dredge up apologies for someone else’s venomous pen. Unstable for years, the Picture-Play article had said of her. A real Hollywood tragedy. She’d read the article a dozen times over the past days. Each time the words stung anew. The humiliation. Couldn’t she be free of it for just one evening?

  * * *

  The observation tower was a rickety structure that stood just inside the fence between the Protestant chapel and hedgerow. Mirielle had never climbed the thing. The wooden framework looked soft and weathered. It creaked with the slightest breeze. She’d been told the view from atop was worth the trouble of its two dozen stairs and that just last year a government surveyor had pronounced the structure sound. Mirielle, however, remained skeptical.

  The setting sun hung orange above the horizon, and the air felt like a sponge. A breeze ruffled the tops of the nearby trees. Music and laughter drifted down from the deck above. Mirielle grasped the handrail and climbed.

  The view was more spectacular than the others had described. Mounting the last few steps, she could see the entire colony spread before her—the long parallel walkways and attached houses, the quadrangles of green lawn in between, the tangle of medical and utility buildings, the broad roofs of the dining and rec halls. Beyond the neatly trimmed hedgerow lay the big house with its antebellum façade and farther on two rows of cottages for the personnel. At the far end of the colony, the dairy barn and silos were visible and the ring of pecan trees that stood guard over the cemetery. When she reached the deck and looked in the opposite direction, the wide, smooth surface of the Mississippi glimmered in the waning light. It bounded Carville on three sides like the sinuous body of a snake, the steep levee, rutted road, and wire fence curving alongside it.

  Though she’d lived beside it for months, this was her first glimpse of the mighty river. The play of fading light off its glassy surface reminded her of the ocean. But the smell was different, the sound, and her chest squeezed. She’d forgotten how much she missed the briny air, the caw of seagulls, the white-capped waves rushing to the shore.

  “You came!” Jean said, pulling Mirielle back to Carville before she could fully remember the feel of hot sand beneath her feet.

  Jean and Irene weren’t alone in their escapade. The young twins were there as well, dancing with Frank and Mr. Li, the colony’s resident handyman, to the lively song. They paid no mind to the shudder their clomping feet sent through the old wood. Jean grabbed her hand and tugged her to the center of the deck.

  A foxtrot played from the portable phonograph someone had lugged up. It took Mirielle’s feet only a moment to find their place in the song. She placed a hand on Jean’s shoulder before remembering she was to dance the part of the man and moved it to the small of her back. Jean knew only a few steps and leaned clumsily into Mirielle’s lead. She tromped on Mirielle’s toes and twirled right when she should have spun left. But the smile on Jean’s face—wider than Mirielle had yet seen—was worth all the lurching and twisting of arms and scuffing of shoes.

  The air wasn’t any cooler here than it had been below, but the occasional breeze rolled over them, providing some relief. The deck’s planking felt more solid than Mirielle had first thought, and when the next song played, a quickstep, she turned and
chasséd without worrying her feet would break through the ancient wood. She coached Jean through the basic steps, then allowed her simply to follow, laughing with her when their legs tangled. They danced the waltz and the Charleston and the shimmy and the shag. They switched partners, and Mirielle danced with the twins, Mr. Li, and even a playful one-step with Irene.

  Though she winded more quickly than she had before her leprous reaction, and hadn’t danced many of these steps in nearly two years, Mirielle felt fully alive for the first time since coming to Carville. The music hummed through her limbs from the tips of her fingers to her toes. The breeze tickled her sweat-dappled skin.

  After a dozen or more songs, she begged off the next dance to catch her breath. A waist-high railing enclosed the deck with a bench jutting out from two sides. She sat down and leaned against the rail. The sun had set, but a full moon had taken its place, casting a bright, silvery glow on the river and surrounding trees.

  Several records rested upright against the phonograph. The more classical orchestra records Mirielle recognized as Irene’s. The rest were a motley assortment of ragtime, jazz, and hillbilly music. Some of the bands she recognized. Others, like Fiddlin’ John Carson or the Skillet Lickers, were as foreign as Chef’s gumbo had been the first time she’d seen it on her plate.

  When Frank sat down beside her, she held out one of the records. “I’ve got a stirring suspicion this honky-tonk music belongs to you.”

  He took the record from her and smiled down at it. “Don’t knock it till ya try it.”

  “This phonograph yours too?”

  Frank nodded. “I reckon this ain’t like them fancy, fancy ballrooms you’re used to, but ya can’t beat the view.”

  He was right. A bird landed on the river, causing a shimmering ripple across its surface. Outcroppings of trees and a patchwork of farmland spread out in the distance, painted shades of deep blue and purple in the moonlight. The air smelled of earth and foliage and the faintest hint of jasmine.

  “Good to be outta the sisters’ sight too,” he said.

  “They don’t approve of dancing? What a surprise.”

  “Inviting in the devil, I believe is how Sister Verena puts it.”

  They both smiled. The song ended, and Frank lifted the tonearm. He replaced the jazz record with the hillbilly one she’d handed him. A lively mix of fiddle and steel guitar played, soon joined by a rough, nasally voice. The lyrics—something about a turkey hiding in the straw—were absurd, but Mirielle couldn’t help tapping her heel in time with the jaunty beat.

  “Yeehaw,” Irene shouted, and whirled one of the twins about the deck. Jean and the other twin locked hands with Mr. Li and spun about in a high-stepped dance of their own improvising.

  “How ’bout it?” Frank said, standing and extending his hand.

  Mirielle’s foot stilled. She gaped at his shrunken, curled fingers too long before remembering herself and muttering some excuse about still catching her breath. Frank shrugged and went to join Mr. Li and the girls. But she’d caught the flash of hurt in his eyes before he turned away.

  She swiveled on the bench, turning her back to the stomping and hooting dancers, and looked over the railing. What was wrong with her? In her work at the dressing clinic and infirmary, Mirielle had cared for deformities far worse than Frank’s. Dancing with him wouldn’t make her any more a leper than she already was. Why, the sicklier of the twins had hands like rough mittens, her fingers almost fully absorbed into her scarred and lumpy palms. Mirielle hadn’t hesitated to dance with her.

  Perhaps it was the echo of shock from her first day at the facility, the horror Frank’s hands had seemed to her then.

  He didn’t ask her to dance again. Mirielle was glad for it, still uncertain she could bring herself to accept his hand. But the shine of the night was gone. Troublesome thoughts crept back into her brain.

  Soon, mosquitos chased them from the tower. Irene’s lipstick had settled into the cracks and corners of her mouth. The twins’ braids had turned frizzy. Jean’s cheeks were flushed. Mr. Li carried the records and Frank the phonograph. They parted at the first fork in the walkway—the twins to one of the three colored houses; Frank and Mr. Li to the small cluster of detached cottages at the far end of the colony; she, Jean, and Irene to house eighteen.

  Frank didn’t look at her when they said their goodbyes, his eyes sliding past as if she weren’t there. She’d refused men dances before—though with a bit more grace—and afterward not thought a wink about it. But tonight’s incident stayed with her as they trudged home along the deserted walkway. His fingers bent like talons. His skin like melted wax. His handsome face earnest and then stung.

  She wished he hadn’t soured the night by asking. What if she’d been too winded or simply didn’t like the hillbilly tunes—either could have been true as far as Frank was concerned. But Mirielle knew vanity and fear had gotten the better of her. Frank knew it too.

  June 22, 1926

  Dear Mirielle,

  You’ll understand my delay in writing when you hear my great news! I’m to star in a feature production set to be released next spring. It’s a full seven-reeler, and sure to be a great financial success. Mr. Schulberg was reluctant at first to have me for the part, owing no doubt to the disappointing reception of The Man from King Street, but Cecil won him over. Set construction is already underway at the lot. I am to play opposite Gloria Thorne. She’s rumored around the studio to be quite irascible and demanding on the set, but she’s such a doll at parties I cannot imagine it so. At any rate, I’m glad to have her name attached to the picture as it can only further assure our success. Filming’s set to start in three weeks, and I’ve been terrifically busy with preparations.

  I’ll write you again once we begin production with all the news. You mustn’t share too much for I suppose word can leak even from a leper colony. Evie sends her love, and I imagine Helen would too if she could rightly speak. She’s walking now even without the nanny’s hand to steady her and soon I think shall be running, so eager she is to keep up with her sister.

  I hope you are well and getting the proper rest.

  Your Husband,

  Charlie

  P. S. I couldn’t make sense of your request for fireworks. What could someone in your situation want with such things? Perhaps you meant it as a joke. Surely it would be dangerous for people not in full possession of their extremities to operate anything with fire.

  CHAPTER 27

  Charlie’s letter arrived five days before the Fourth of July celebration. She read the last line and stared at the paper dumbly before reading it all again. A joke? Too dangerous for people not in full possession of their extremities? What did he imagine Carville to be—a place for spastics and idiots? Clearly, he hadn’t understood when she’d written about the disease, about how the tiny germs attack the nerves and can leave people’s extremities insensitive to touch. She hadn’t meant to imply it affected a person all over or it happened to everyone. Certainly not that it rendered them incapable of striking a match, lighting a fuse, and stepping away. If Charlie could see the daily feats of the patients here—wheeling themselves around when they’d lost their legs, playing baseball with only stumps for hands, growing flower gardens without the benefit of sight—he’d have sent the fireworks in a jiffy.

  His letter hadn’t even mentioned the toys and trinkets and lollipops she’d asked him to send for the children. Did he think that was a joke also? What good was a treasure hunt if there were not booty at the end?

  Her only consolation was that he hadn’t mentioned the scandalous article in Picture-Play. The date of his letter—almost two weeks after the magazine’s release—ensured that he’d at least heard of the story. Likely he’d been plagued by telephone calls and harassed by reporters. Is it true? they’d have hollered, swarming his car as he left the lot. Has your wife really gone insane? Lost her mind? Fallen mad? At least, it didn’t seem to have hurt his reputation at the studio.

  Was it out of kind
ness that he didn’t mention the story? Perhaps he thought she didn’t know. In his mind, Carville must be a desolate and dreary place populated by those not yet dead, but close enough to the grave to smell the freshly exhumed dirt.

  It wasn’t an entirely unfair assumption. She’d certainly thought it desolate and depressing herself at first. And there were plenty of residents who thought it so still. The Fourth of July party was meant to help change that. And now they wouldn’t have fireworks to celebrate as the rest of the country did. They wouldn’t even have lollipops.

  The edge of the letter crumpled as Mirielle’s fingers tightened. She’d promised fireworks. What would the other residents think of her? And how disappointed Jean and the other children would be when they got to the end of their treasure hunt and found no treasure. If Mirielle were at home, she could direct her driver to the best sweet shops downtown and return with a smorgasbord of candy sticks, butterscotch patties, gumdrops, coconut bonbons, fruit jellies, and chocolate kisses. They’d stop by the pier too for lollipops of every flavor. Here, all Mirielle had was the rinky-dink canteen. But it would have to do.

  Without bothering to smooth its edges, she stuffed Charlie’s letter back into the envelope and grabbed her purse. Two dollars and five cents jangled inside. Hardly enough for a smorgasbord. Maybe Frank would let her put the rest on credit—not that she relished asking him, or seeing him at all. This money business was maddening. She’d never given a wink about what things cost before coming to Carville. But it wasn’t as if she could just walk into a bank anymore or pluck a few clams from Charlie’s billfold.

  As she left the house, she could hear Jean playing with her Lincoln Logs in the living room. She liked to build high towers only to topple them with the lob of a tennis ball. More than once, Mirielle had stepped on one of the scattered logs, but it beat finding toothpaste in her slippers or slugs in her pockets. Since their chat in the oak tree, Jean’s behavior had greatly improved. She was talking and reading and attending school. Occasionally, Mirielle would draw back the bath curtain to find tadpoles in the tub. Madge would deal a hand of poker only to realize all fifty-two cards in her deck were spades. Irene would open the lid of her phonograph and a family of grasshoppers would jump out. But these were harmless antics and kept house eighteen lively, if a bit messy.