Of Better Blood

by Moger, Susan;

  Once she had parked me by the window so I could admire the view of the East River, she said, “Father isn’t dead.” She twisted her gloved hands in her lap. “I have had letters from him, but he hasn’t written to you. I didn’t want to tell you.” She had tears in her eyes.

  Shocked, I asked, “Well, what does he say?”

  “He’s not allowed to say much, nothing about the war or his work,” she said in a rush. “So he writes about five-course dinners he’s eaten or admirals he’s met. Very boring.”

  I sat frozen. Father doesn’t write to me. He writes to Julia. He doesn’t mention me.

  “Well,” I said finally, “do you write to him about me? About my progress? Because it is progress. One leg isn’t paralyzed any more, and the other is getting stronger. Have you told him that?” My voice rose.

  “Shh,” Julia said. “I write to him and tell him all about you. Of course, I do. I don’t understand why he…” She looked stricken. “It’s been so hard not to tell you. I keep hoping he will write you.”

  “You should have told me,” I said. My voice was as hard and small as a marble. The words Father’s forgotten me rolled closer. I pushed them away. I’d made progress, and I’d done it without him.

  “Father thinks I died when I got polio,” I said. “But you know I didn’t. My legs seemed dead when he carried me into the doctor’s office, but they’re alive. Tell him that.”

  I started to wheel myself out of the sunroom. I had never even tried that before. The startled look on her face was worth the effort it took to turn the big wheels with my hands.

  “See what I can do?” I called over my shoulder. “Not because I’m a Collier. Because I’m me.”

  Lying awake in the dark tent, still smelling smoke, I understand that the fire is a turning point, a hinge. It opened a door inside me that I had given up looking for. In the cottage when my fingers found the key that saved our lives, that other door opened. After tonight I’m no longer someone who lets people do things to her.

  Chapter 16

  I wake up with the taste of smoke in my mouth and Minnie tapping my shoulder. Mr. Ogilvie arrives with Dorchy and four Council ladies. Over breakfast of bread and butter and cold tea, he says, “The Unfit Family show is canceled today. We’ll conduct Fitter Family evaluations here in the tent and find a place for you to perform tomorrow.” He speaks slowly and loudly, as if we’re all deaf and feebleminded.

  I catch Dorchy’s eye and we both smile. Deep down I was sure the Council would cancel our shows and send me back to the Boston Home. Now I’ll have a few more days here.

  “I hope you’ll find us a comfortable place to sleep.” Gar rubs his back. “This tent floor is rock hard.”

  Mr. Ogilvie eyes him coldly. “Since you didn’t suffer the effects of the fire, you’ll help us here in the tent today.”

  The cold tea soothes my raw throat. Jimmy is pale as a fish and complains of a splitting headache. Minnie bursts into tears when anyone speaks to her. I wonder if Gar will be punished for leaving through the back door.

  The fire department claims they have no evidence of what started the fire, but the Ogilvies and the Council are unanimous: Minnie did it. “An accident” is what the Springfield newspaper calls it.

  This morning we were given new clothes to replace our soot-covered ones. But we have to stay in our dirty clothes until we have baths. My new dress is blue dotted swiss with a drop waist. It’s short and little-girlish, but the underclothes look like they’ll fit and there’s a new hairbrush and lavender hair pomade. No replacement book for Little Women, but I do have a new crutch.

  After breakfast Dorchy leaves and Minnie, Jimmy, and I sit outside on camp stools breathing in the smoky, wet wood smell of the blackened cottage while the Council members, with Gar’s help, move furniture and boxes of Fitter Families materials into the tent.

  A Council lady comes out of the tent holding up the silver Fittest Family trophy for us to admire. “Glory be,” she shouts. “It’s unharmed!”

  “So are we,” I whisper. “No thanks to you.”

  After an hour, Mr. Ogilvie herds us through the Exposition to our new home, one of the medical pavilions. The walkways are deserted, the Expo’s gates not open yet.

  We go into a small white building, about twice the size of the cottage. Eight cubicles walled off with sheets line a central hall where a table, four chairs, and a tall step-on scale await us. Aunt Fan and Dorchy are already there. We stare at Aunt Fan. Her face has a greenish tinge, and a paisley scarf is tied around her swollen jaw.

  “You’ll have a bath and rest here today and sleep here tonight,” Mr. Ogilvie says. “The medical staff has been relocated. You must stay inside and call no attention to yourselves. No smoking, Minnie! Dorchy will bring you your meals. A bathroom with a tub is at the other end of the hall.”

  He puts his hand on Aunt Fan’s shoulder. “We’ll be going back to the dentist.”

  She closes her eyes and cradles her jaw.

  Gar and Dorchy leave to help with the Fitter Families exhibit, and Mrs. Aubrey, a morose Council lady with a “bum ankle,” comes to sit with Minnie, Jimmy, and me. We each take two baths. The first one gets the worst of the soot off and the second gets us clean. Minnie and Jimmy take naps in their cubicles.

  I comb out my clean hair. No braids today. Without performances, why bother? I put on the dotted swiss dress. It’s even shorter than it looked, but it is clean.

  At noon Dorchy appears with our lunch in a basket. Her eyes and face glow; she practically gives off sparks.

  She announces she has a message for me from Aunt Fan. She delivers it loud enough for everyone to hear. “Ruthie is requested to return to the Fitter Families tent forthwith. That means right now,” Dorchy says. “No lunch.”

  Once outside, she grabs my hand. “I have a plan. We can talk while we eat fried chicken on the midway.”

  “What about Aunt Fan?”

  “Oh, I made that up. The Ogress is still at the dentist.”

  We walk for a minute in the direction of the food stalls. Then Dorchy ducks behind a John Deere tractor display. She rubs her foot in the dirt and then blurts out, “They’re shutting down the Unfit Family show.”

  “No, it’s only canceled for today. Mr. Ogilvie told us.”

  “I don’t care what he told you. It’s canceled.”

  I look at her doubtfully, and she digs her fingers into my arm. “Two men with Expo badges came into the tent. The first one said, ‘Who’s in charge?’ Mrs. Clarke said, ‘I am the Council president. And I want you to know the Unfit Family show is discontinued.’” Dorchy laughs. “Like she knew why the men had come and wanted to get there first. You should have seen the Ogre’s face. He went dead white and opened his mouth like a fish. I thought Aunt Fan was going to cry.

  “‘Good,’ says the other man. ‘Because we’re here to inform you that no further shows or residence by the Unfit Family actors on the Expo grounds will be tolerated. It’s a miracle they aren’t all dead.’

  “Then they walked away. Mrs. Clarke rushed after them. When she came back, she said to the Ogilvies, ‘Your negligence destroyed Exposition property and exposed the Council to a lawsuit. You and the unfit must leave before five o’clock today.’ I think the Council cows despise the Ogilvies.”

  “What did the Ogre say?”

  Dorchy imitates his high-pitched voice. “‘Of course, Mrs. Clarke. Right away, Mrs. Clarke. Anything you say.’ And then he took Aunt Fan to the dentist.”

  My throat closes, and I rub my sore eyes. “I don’t want to leave today.”

  “Don’t worry. I have a plan to get both of us away from here.” Her voice tightens around me. “First, I’ll take the Ogre’s wallet.”

  “No, Dorchy.”

  “Oh, I’ll give it back. After I take out our pay. He hasn’t paid you, has he?” She doesn’t wait for an
answer. “The next part is where you come in. You’re the key.” Her words tumble out. “He’s in love with you.”

  I shiver. “What?”

  “All those roses he leaves for you. The photographs. The way he looks at you.” She grips my hand so tightly I wince.

  “And”—she pauses—“he told me when we were in his car. He’s teaching me to drive.”

  “Drive?” Jealousy washes over me. With my weak leg, I’ll never be able to drive.

  “Mr. Ogilvie convinced the Ogress she needs another driver besides him. She claims she’s too old to learn. So he’s been giving me lessons. They want me to go on working for them when the Expo ends. But I won’t. And I won’t go back to the orphanage either.”

  She goes on, “And all he wants to talk about, when the Ogress isn’t around, is you.”

  I stare at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I knew it would make you mad. And he can’t know how angry we are until it’s too late. The perfect con.”

  “Dorchy, take the money he owes you, if you want, but I’m not going to help you steal.”

  “I don’t need your help stealing,” she says. “You’re going to rip out his heart and stomp on it.” She spits in her palm and holds out her hand. “Are you with me?”

  Chapter 17

  I am. Dr. Friedlander got me on my feet and gave me back my legs; Dorchy gave me back myself. She showed me I don’t need to be protected because I walk with a limp. She gave me my book. She told me what my name means.

  I spit on my hand and shake hers.

  The plan she lays out over fried chicken and biscuits on the midway sounds foolproof. I will accept Mr. Ogilvie’s invitation to go to his favorite place today at three o’clock. Dorchy says, “Remember how he cried at the Narda exhibit and how he sometimes says, ‘Your poor leg’? Well, play up how weak and crippled you are and how you almost died in the fire.”

  When he and I go to his car (always parked in the same place, Dorchy says), Dorchy will meet us. She’ll insist on going with us—if necessary, threatening to tell Aunt Fan about his feelings for me.

  Once we get to the place, he’ll park and get out of the car to help me get out. But before he opens my door, Dorchy will climb over the seat and drive off with me. She’ll throw his wallet out the window, having removed our “pay,” and drive to the Springfield train station. “There’s enough salary owed me to get us both tickets to New York on the five o’clock train,” she says.

  When I don’t say anything, she grabs my hand. “I can find my uncle with the carnies at Coney Island and you can go home. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “What if Mr. Ogilvie won’t let you come with us?”

  “He will.”

  She has no doubts about the plan; I have plenty. But a steady drumbeat of anger is drowning them out.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. “But what if he goes to the police and they find out where we’ve gone?”

  “He’ll be too embarrassed to tell anyone, especially the police. Believe me, he won’t want the Ogress to know.”

  We walk back to the Unfit Family tent where a row of scorched wooden file cabinets gape open. Council women in aprons and head scarves paw through folders and papers spread out on a picnic table.

  “We’ll open the Fitter Families exhibit here tomorrow,” one woman is saying as we come in, and a few of the women applaud. Mr. Ogilvie has been emptying a file cabinet drawer, but he hurries over to us.

  “Ruthie, I’m glad you’re here,” he says, touching my arm. “I have news just for you. Now take a seat here and wait while I talk to Dorchy. Will you do that?”

  I sit on a wooden chair, wondering what news he has that is “just for me.” Mr. Ogilvie tells Dorchy, “Since you were at the scene, you’re just the person I need to go to the Administration Building with Miss Latigue to fill out the fire report.”

  “I was in the fire,” I say loud enough for him to hear. My heart is beating so fast I’m sure everyone can see it. In fact, I almost died in the fire. Thanks to you locking us in.

  He smiles at me and puts his finger to his lips. Then he leads Dorchy over to a tall, young woman in a blue dress. They talk with Mr. Ogilvie for a few minutes. As Dorchy leaves the tent, she grins and gives me a thumbs-up. I shake my head. Now I’ll have to speak to him without Dorchy nearby. And what if she’s gone a long time?

  He takes me by the arm. “Come, Ruthie,” he says, and we follow Dorchy and Miss Latigue out the front entrance. He shows me the Fitter Families for a Better America banner that two men on ladders are hanging on the side of the tent.

  “My dear,” he says, “we have decided regretfully to end the Unfit Family show. I must return you to Boston this afternoon.”

  I stare at him. “End it? But you said…”

  “Things changed.” He opens his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “The Unfit Family show is over, but the Fitter Families exhibit will go on.”

  As if I cared about that. “What about Jimmy?” I ask, my mind racing. What do I do now?

  “We’ll pick up Jimmy after our picnic,” he says cheerfully. “Now we must be off.”

  “But I have to say good-bye.” My chest tightens and I can hardly swallow. “To Minnie and Gar. And Aunt Fan. And Dorchy.”

  He looks at his watch. “No time for that.” His voice is still cheerful. “You can write them letters in care of the New England Betterment Council, Post Office Box 102, Springfield, Massachusetts.” He licks his lips. “Thanks to the fire, you have nothing to pack, so we can leave right now. I want to take you to my special place.”

  But it’s too soon! “I was hoping to see your special place,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm. “At three o’clock today, in fact.”

  “No, no. That’s too late. To have time for our picnic we must go now, dear heart.” He reaches for my hand, then stops himself. “The Buick is parked right over there. You have made me so very happy.”

  I grip the crutch so hard my knuckles turn white. Our plan is in shreds. I’m going to be alone with him. I walk very slowly, exaggerating my limp, looking around for Dorchy. She has to see us and coming running back.

  He grips my free arm and hurries me over to the car parked on the lawn next to the tent.

  He lets go of me to open the passenger door. I slide in. He puts my crutch on the backseat and gets behind the wheel. My fingers grip the door handle.

  “Ruthie,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder, “thank you for keeping our secret. Poor Fan has just about all she can deal with right now.”

  “No more shows, no more Ruthie,” I say. “I’m Rowan again.” My mouth is dry. Should I get out now? Stay in the car and see what happens?

  The engine rumbles to life. “We’ll come back for Jimmy after our outing. How does that sound?”

  “Fine,” I say in a calm voice. We’ll come back, and Dorchy and I can still run away. I press back against the seat. I just have to figure out how to cut this outing short.

  He drives slowly away from the tent, past a row of booths, to the Expo gate. Then he turns onto a smooth, blacktop road. Cool air rushes in the open side windows as he speeds up.

  Chapter 18

  “You’ll like going fast,” Mr. Ogilvie shouts, the wind whipping the words away. “Edith did.”

  I take deep breaths and dig my fingers into the soft leather seat. I lock away Dorchy and our failed plan in a deep part of my mind. It’s time for a new plan.

  We drive north, away from the fairgrounds. Lining the wide avenue are big houses with rolling lawns. Tall trees arch overhead, their leaves swaying in the light breeze. In spite of being with Mr. Ogilvie, I’m thrilled to see the world outside the Exposition.

  “Where are we going?” I shout over the noise of the engine.

  He smiles and puts a finger to his lips.

  After a few minutes,
I lean forward, clutching my stomach. “Mr. Ogilvie, I feel sick,” I say. “I want to go back.”

  “Dear girl”—he pats my shoulder—“you’re not used to automobiles. And call me Edward, please. See, I’m slowing down. We’re almost there.”

  We turn onto a narrow paved road and slowly roll through a wide, iron gate. Filigreed letters across the top spell out “St. Thomas Cemetery.” A grassy field dotted with white headstones stretches in front of us under the overcast sky. We pass a few automobiles, heading in the opposite direction. No one on foot. Still, we won’t be all alone. Other people do come here.

  “The cemetery closes at sunset,” he says, “but that’s hours from now. We don’t need to worry about outstaying our welcome.”

  I want to laugh. What kind of “welcome” does a cemetery offer?

  Now the paved drive narrows and gravel crunches under the tires as we pass through a grove of maple trees. Beyond it looms a marble forest of tall monuments and mausoleums, small marble buildings surrounded by knee-high black chains.

  On our right a pond reflects the early afternoon sky. Water cascades from a pile of rocks in the center. They look as fake as the ones on Gilda’s stage. I wonder if snakes live in the pond.

  Mr. Ogilvie pulls off the gravel road onto the grass and stops. Turns off the engine. My curiosity gets the better of my fear.

  “Why is this your favorite place?” Over the ticking of the engine and splashing water, a mourning dove croons.

  “You remind me so much of my cousin Edith.” His voice trembles like a raindrop on a leaf. “I wanted to bring you to her special place.” He reaches toward my hair, but doesn’t touch it. “She’s buried right there under that angel. Do you see?”

  I breathe in the scent of his sweat and hair oil, wet earth and stagnant water. The idea that I am similar in any way to dead Edith makes me sick.

  “Can we get out and look?” I reach around to grab my crutch, wanting its solid weight in my hand, needing to be on my feet.

  “Not yet.” He puts his hand on my arm and leaves it there. “That ride with the wind blowing in your face. And you feeling sick.” He speaks to me as if I’m six, not sixteen. “I brought ginger beer.” He’s waiting for me to clap my hands and bounce up and down saying, “Oh goody, yes, please.” But I concentrate on one thought, getting back to the Expo and Dorchy.