Of Better Blood

by Moger, Susan;

  “We’ll stay right here by Edith’s pond,” he says. “That’s what I call it.” He gets out of the car, then pulls my crutch, the blanket, and a basket from the backseat, and walks away.

  I yell to him, “I need my crutch.”

  He calls over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll carry you.”

  He lays my crutch on the ground next to the picnic basket and spreads the blanket close to the edge of the pond. Then he takes off his suit jacket. His blue shirt is soaked under the arms. As he walks back to the car, I take a good look at him—weak chin, no beard, hair combed straight back and slick with pomade. Ears that stick out. He’s ludicrous, I tell myself. And he has no idea how strong I am.

  He lifts me out of the car and gasps, “You’re much heavier than Edith.”

  Panting, he sets me down on the blanket and pulls a ginger beer bottle from the picnic basket and opens it.

  “Can you drink from the bottle?” he says, holding it out. “I forgot to bring a tumbler.” He kneels next to me, rummaging in the picnic basket.

  “What happened to your cousin?” I ask.

  His mouth trembles, and in that instant, I know I can use Edith to get away from here.

  “She died.” He takes embroidered linen napkins and a box of chocolate cookies out of the picnic basket. With a sigh he sinks down next to me, his left leg pressed against my right. I shift my leg away from his. “She made these,” he says. He offers me a thick chocolate cookie on an embroidered yellow napkin.

  “The cookies?” My throat closes. Isn’t she dead?

  “No, silly. Fan made the cookies. Edith made the napkins.” He takes a bite, and crumbs cascade down his shirt.

  “Did Edith have polio?” Maybe if I poke and prod him about her, he’ll give up and drive me back.

  “Edith was born whole and healthy,” he says in a soft voice. “But at age twelve she had the infantile paralysis, long before you did. Her poor right leg was like your left.” He takes a bite and speaks while he chews. “I’ve watched you onstage, trying so hard to manage. And failing. I know your leg must hurt terribly.” He helps himself to another cookie. “I hope you’ll let me massage it after we eat.”

  His words catch and tear at me like claws. “We don’t have time, Mr. Ogilvie.” I force a regretful smile. “We have to get Jimmy and drive to Boston, remember?”

  “Oh, my dear.” He rests his hand on my left leg, squeezing it through the fabric of my dress. “Call me Edward. I insist.”

  Then he twitches the hem of my dress up a few inches.

  I push his hand away and take a last swallow of warm ginger beer. The bottle feels like a weapon.

  I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them. Still holding the bottle.

  “Allow me.” Before I can stop him, he takes the bottle and puts it in the basket. “I hate the thought of you so far away in Boston.” He pulls a brown envelope out of the basket. “But until I can visit you, I’ll have these.” Snapshots flutter down onto the blanket.

  I stare at them, cold with revulsion. Pictures of me. Lying on the stage, skirt pulled up, left leg exposed. Laughing with Minnie backstage. Talking to Gar in the tent after the show.

  My stomach contracts. “What’s this?” I shove a picture at him. He took it when I was asleep on my cot, a sliver of morning light on my face.

  “You looked so beautiful,” he says. “I came in to get some papers from the file cabinet. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “How could you?” My words are a white-hot poker jabbing at him. “You had no right to come in our room. I was sleeping.” On the last word my voice screeches.

  I tear up the picture and scatter the pieces on the grass. Then I reach for the other photographs.

  “Stop.” His voice trembles. He collects the torn scraps with shaking fingers and slides them back in the envelope. “I have the negatives,” he says in a petulant voice.

  The sun breaks through the clouds, and a shaft of light turns the pond to gold. My breath feels trapped in my throat. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t this.

  “I can tell you’re upset,” he says. “But you mustn’t be. Edith never minded when I photographed her”—his voice breaks—“even her poor legs.”

  “How old was she when you did that?” I force myself to speak naturally. Get his attention on her.

  “She was your age, thirteen.”

  I stare at him. He believes his own lie. “You know I’m really sixteen. Thirteen is what you say in the show.”

  “I know.” He smiles. “Ruthie is thirteen. And you’re Ruthie.”

  “No, there is no more Ruthie, remember?” I speak slowly and firmly. “I’m Rowan and I’m sixteen.”

  He locks his right arm around my shoulders, squeezing. “Oh, my darling. Let me have my dream of you, all right? Just for this afternoon? Another cookie?”

  I shake my head, and he strokes my left leg again, pushing my skirt higher, pressing harder. For a few heartbeats I stare at his long, white fingers as if they were stroking someone else’s leg.

  “We is such a powerful word,” he murmurs, putting his lips against my ear. “‘We have all afternoon.’ Is there a sweeter sentence for two lovers?”

  “Lovers?” My voice is strong, mocking. “We’re not lovers. Did Edith love you?”

  He sucks in a breath and flinches away, releasing my leg.

  “And speaking of Edith,” I go on, “she probably wasn’t thirteen any more than I am.”

  He says calmly, “Ruthie, stop. I understand you’re jealous of Edith, but you mustn’t be cruel. This is Edith’s pond. She is buried over there under the angel.” He turns and reaches for his suit jacket.

  I slide back a few inches and reach for my crutch.

  He picks up his jacket. “I always carry the photograph of her in her coffin, the last one I took of her.”

  My hand closes around the crutch, and the solid feel of it gives me a jolt of courage. I drag it toward me.

  “No!” he roars. He jumps up and shakes the jacket. “No!” The sound startles two ducks into flight.

  I freeze.

  He twists the jacket. His body jerks as if he has a wasp in his pants. “My wallet!”

  Dorchy! She must have taken it from him in the tent, before she left with Miss Latigue.

  I keep my face blank and use the crutch to push myself up. Power floods through me as soon as I’m standing.

  His eyes narrow. “My wallet with Edith’s picture in it is gone.” He takes a step toward me. “You know who took it, don’t you?” His anger inflates him like a balloon with every word.

  I back away from him, moving closer to the pond.

  He stabs a finger at me. “Who did this? You?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know where Edith’s picture is.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Dorchy. Of course. I told Fan to lock up the silver when she hired her, but Fan said, ‘Dorchy’s a hard worker, a real find.’ Just wait till I find her.”

  I move back another step.

  “I see it all now. You two have a nice little scheme going, don’t you?” He lunges at me. “Thieving carny brats!”

  Chapter 19

  I put my hand up to cover my face.

  “You bait the hook and reel me in. She robs me blind.” His mouth twists. “And now you think you’re going to split my money.”

  “Mr. Ogilvie, wait. It wasn’t Dorchy.” I stretch out my hand in appeal. “She wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. She likes working for you.”

  “No, it was Dorchy all right.” He grabs the blanket and basket and starts walking fast for the car. “Hurry up and get in. I’m going to hunt that girl down and get my wallet back.”

  So Dorchy saved me after all. I try not to laugh with relief.

  Now we just have to find her.

  Dorchy turns out to be easy
to find; she’s waiting for us by the Expo gate. She runs up as Mr. Ogilvie brakes hard. He leans out the window and starts to shout at her, but she holds up her hand.

  “Mr. Ogilvie, wait.” She jabs her finger toward the back of the car. “There’s black smoke coming from under the car.”

  “I don’t smell any smoke,” he says. “Give me my wallet right now or I’ll call the police.”

  “Are you OK, Rowan?” Dorchy peers around Mr. Ogilvie.

  I sniff loudly and wink at her. “I’m fine, but I smell smoke.”

  “It’s pouring out from under the car,” Dorchy says. “Mr. Ogilvie, look!”

  He sets the hand brake, pushes open the door, and climbs out. “Where is it? Show me.”

  “Bend down and look.”

  As soon as he crouches to look underneath the car, Dorchy jumps in, slams the door shut, drops her knapsack in my lap, and shoves the car in gear. By the time she releases the brake and wrenches the steering wheel around, Mr. Ogilvie is hammering on the side of the car.

  “You took his wallet?”

  She nods and accelerates so fast I’m thrown back against the seat.

  “I thought he taught you to drive.”

  “Very funny. Now which pedal is the brake?”

  “Come back here,” screeches Mr. Ogilvie.

  I look back. “He’s jumping up and down. Is there really smoke coming out of the car?”

  Dorchy laughs. “I was pretty convincing. I impress myself sometimes.” She shifts, and the car coughs and bucks.

  “Don’t stall,” she yells, and the car resumes speed. “Is he chasing us?”

  “I’m afraid to look. Go faster.” I’m breathless with laughter and fear.

  We speed down the blacktop road away from Mr. Ogilvie and the Expo.

  “Do you know where the railroad station is?” I look over to see her face is flushed and she’s choking with laughter.

  “Yes, doubting Thomas, and the train leaves soon. I have a plan.”

  “I hope it’s better than the last one.”

  “We got the car, didn’t we?” She looks over at me, and the car veers crazily.

  “Watch the road. And tell me your new plan.”

  “We’re going to leave the wallet in the car at the station. I took out the money he owes us. Together we’ll buy two tickets to New York. They’ll expect that and follow us there, I hope. Then separately we’ll each buy a ticket to Boston.”

  “Boston?” I go rigid. “I am not going back to the Home.”

  “Of course, you’re not, but from Boston we can get anywhere, including New York.” She makes a quick turn and then another, and ahead of us is the Springfield train station. The most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “Quick,” I say. “Leave the car here.”

  She laughs. “We’ll get as close as we can.”

  She stops behind a line of taxis and gets out. I grab my crutch and hand her the knapsack.

  “Come on,” she says, grabbing my free hand. “Let’s go!”

  Part 2

  Unbound

  Cape Cod, August 1922

  Chapter 20

  I feel numb as we climb the steps to the train car. The only seat for two is all the way at the opposite end. I take the window seat and look out at the platform. No Ogilvies. No police. I imagine them running through the station. Oh, why doesn’t this train move? Or maybe they are on board already, moving through the cars looking for us. I finger the ticket in my pocket. Boston, one way.

  We sit in silence until the conductor comes by. He holds out his hand, and we put our tickets in it, then he punches and pockets them. Not once looking at us. He opens the door to the next car, and I let out my breath.

  “Are you all right?” Dorchy squeezes my hand.

  I nod. “But the police could be looking for us,” I whisper. “I should sit somewhere else. They’ll be looking for two girls together.”

  “Not on this train,” she says. “They’ll be looking for us on the next one to New York.”

  I consider this. “You’re right.” Tears sting my eyes. I close them, and the afternoon unfolds like a moving picture in my head. Mr. Ogilvie’s face close to mine, his hand on my leg, the photographs drifting like leaves across the blanket. I open my eyes.

  “We’ll wait in Boston and go to New York tomorrow,” Dorchy says. “After that…”

  “Will they really follow us?” Tiredness floods through me.

  “I don’t know.” She bites her thumb. “He’ll be embarrassed I stole his car, but he’ll have it back, safe and sound soon. Aunt Fan holds a grudge though. And she’ll want to punish me for taking the money.”

  I close my eyes. I’m walking up the stone steps of our house on Gramercy Park West…

  My eyes snap open. “Dorchy, we can’t go to New York.”

  “Why not?”

  “My father is in Europe with my sister, Julia.” My heart turns to stone. “The house is locked up.”

  Dorchy shrugs. “Then we’ll go somewhere else. I’m not going to New York without you.”

  Directly in front of our seat hangs a colorful poster: “Cape Cod: Come in Summer, Fall in Love!” I stare at grassy dunes, yellow sand, and blue, white-capped waves.

  An ocean beach! “How much money do we have?”

  “Thirty-five dollars,” Dorchy says. “Why?”

  “It’s enough for tickets and food”—my voice rises with excitement—“and we can sleep on the beach.” In my mind we’re already there, cooking over a driftwood fire, sleeping under the stars.

  Dorchy snorts. “Not me. I hate the ocean.”

  “What?” Her words don’t register at first.

  “I almost drowned.” She hunches forward, hands between her knees. “I sneaked off while my parents were working the boardwalk at Coney Island. I ran into the waves and got pulled under. A lifeguard yelled and called me a carny numskull, but he saved me.” She leans back in her seat. “I swore then I’d never go near the water again.”

  To hide my disappointment, I lean forward to study the poster. A small map shows Cape Cod looking like a bent, upraised arm. I have to convince her. “Cape Cod is close to Boston.” I tap the map. “This line is the train route. It wouldn’t cost much to get us there.” I sit back. “We don’t have to swim. I can’t anyway with my leg.”

  I look out the window. Every turn of the wheels takes us closer to Boston. Closer to the Cape. Come on, Dorchy.

  “All right,” she says finally. “You win. Cape Cod.” She grins at me.

  “Thank you.” My heart soars.

  “You’ve camped on the beach before?”

  “Of course.” I can build a fire and cook on the beach because that’s what Julia and I did with our friends, before polio kept us away from everyone. And I slept on the beach once too. Father, Julia, and I took blankets into the dunes to watch the Perseid meteor shower. I counted ten shooting stars before I fell asleep.

  But on Cape Cod, Father won’t be there to carry me home to a warm cottage.

  No Father. No Julia. The words echo the sound of the train’s wheels.

  Dorchy taps me on the shoulder. “What’s our plan?”

  “Well, first we go to a general store for supplies. Then we find a good place to camp in the dunes.” And then I’ll cure you of your fear of the ocean. If I can’t enjoy the waves, at least you can. But I keep that to myself.

  No trains to the Cape leave Boston’s South Station that evening. So we buy tickets on the first morning train. Our destination is Eastham, a town on the Cape’s bent elbow, chosen at random. Dorchy and I buy two candy bars, an apple, and a box of Cracker Jack. We drink from a marble water fountain and sleep sitting up on a bench in the big, echoing waiting room. Trains arrive and depart all night, bringing travelers who bustle past us.

  But all night, under the blared annou
ncements for trains and the excited cries of travelers uniting with loved ones or snapping at tired children, another sound rings in my ears. The distant roar of the ocean.

  Chapter 21

  At seven o’clock the next morning, clutching our tickets and Dorchy’s knapsack, we wash in the ladies’ lounge and then run down the platform to the first car of the Cape Cod Flyer.

  As the engine jolts and bumps out of the station, Dorchy opens the window and leans out.

  “Watch out,” I warn her. “Something could hit you on the head.” I sound like Julia or worse.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Dorchy says. “I’m free.” She lets out a joyful whoop that makes other people in the car turn to look.

  I’m free too. It feels like that heady moment on the midway. Only this is better. We have weeks, not an hour or two, of no one telling us what to do.

  Dorchy drops back in her seat and echoes my thought. “No Ogres. No orphanage matron.”

  “No Dr. Pynchon. No Julia.”

  Dorchy grins. “No Council cows.”

  “You still have your apron.”

  She grimaces. “We’ll buy new clothes in Eastham.”

  “We might find a general store, not a dress store.”

  “Then we’ll buy overalls and straw hats and look like boys. I won’t wear this hideous dress another minute.”

  “Mine is the hideous one.” Overnight my too-short dress seems to have shrunk. I tug it down to cover my knees.

  “It really is,” Dorchy says with a shudder. “I wouldn’t wear your dress to a hog-calling contest.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t wear it to see Narda wake up in her coffin.”

  Dorchy giggles. “I wouldn’t wear it to see Gilda’s fake snake.”

  “I wouldn’t wear it to the Unfit Family show.”

  We’re laughing so hard that we hold our stomachs and rock back and forth. We can’t stop, even when the conductor collects our tickets. “What’s so funny, young ladies?” he asks.