Hart was finally at the cashier’s window, but turned to look hard at Grethe and said, perhaps too loudly, “No thank you, sir. We must be getting home.” He gave Malone a clipped nod and turned his back, leaning on the teller’s counter, hunching his shoulders as though to protect some privacy. He slid his bankbook forward and heard Malone take his leave. He knew Grethe had never moved, or shifted her feet, only turned her head and smiled at the nice gentleman. He knew she wondered what she’d done wrong, to make Hart mad at her again.
• • •
“Now, Annabel,” Asta began. “You know I count on you, this coming week, to do exactly as I asked, just as if I were here with you.”
She sat with her knees together, on the sofa, very prim. “I know, Mama.”
“I was very disappointed to see you defy my instructions. What would Mr. Pierson think, if he saw you behaving so?”
“I . . . don’t know, Mama.”
“Why were you in the playhouse, when I forbade it?”
“I had to go inside today, just for one time.”
“What do you mean? And did I see you in Charles’ white scarf? Have you had it since Christmas? Why ever didn’t you give it back to him?”
Annabel widened her eyes and spoke in a rush of pleasure. “Because he said it was the loveliest silk and should stay with me, because it was in my Christmas play, the best play, he said, ever, of all my pageants.”
“Well do bring it in. It can’t hang out there in the heat and damp.”
“It belongs there. It’s listening.”
“Annabel, listening to what?”
“To the ladies, walking about, the Japanese ladies and what they say about us.”
“What they say?”
“About everything spread out in the yard, like a marketplace, and everyone milling around.”
“Milling around? What do you mean?”
“A party or a social in the yard, while we’re gone. Ever so many people, in and out.”
“Annabel! Stop this nonsense. You are not to be in the playhouse, and you know it. And why did you encourage Grethe to disobey?”
“I . . . I shouldn’t have. But she is one of the ladies in the painting and should wear the scarf before them, where they see her in their world, not our world, because their world—”
“Hush! You are very, very selfish to ask Grethe to do what I expressly forbid! Don’t talk to me of this and that world! The painting is just an illustration, a picture; I painted it myself! The glass in the playhouse window is broken and could cut someone. Someone could be very badly hurt—” She stopped herself, for Annabel was leaning forward, hanging on her every word.
“Yes,” she breathed. “But the light of the world shall quell all hurt and lift away the fortress of the dark.”
Quickly, Asta rose and touched the back of her hand to Annabel’s forehead. The child was flushed, her cheeks bright red, as though she’d stood before a fire. Asta pulled her close, and lifted the cold milk to her mouth. “Here, drink this.” Annabel was parroting words she’d heard at church. The big painting of Jesus and the children at St. Luke’s said something about the light of the world, and the homage to Martin Luther was emblazoned with a legend about a mighty fortress. “Better?” Asta put a cookie in her hand. “Eat this. There are raisins and nuts in it.”
Annabel nodded, and took the second cookie her mother offered.
“As for the light and the world, you can bring all that up tomorrow at Bible School. That’s just what Bible School is about. And you’ll make stained-glass windows with wax paper and crayons, and the teacher will iron them to melt the colors.”
Annabel leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder and clasped her hand.
“Now, you’ll stay out of the playhouse, absolutely, while I’m gone.” She felt Annabel nod her assent. “I want you to go to your room, where it’s cool, and have a nap. Then wash up and put on the dress I left on your chair. The heat has tired you out. And Duty too.” Asta had to move the dog; Duty lay like a dead weight across Annabel’s feet. Asta walked her daughter to the stairs and set her moving up them, Duty trailing behind. Annabel would allow him on the bed and he would put his snub-nosed head on the pillow beside hers. Abernathy would forbid it, but Asta knew that Duty, while she was away, would wait until Abernathy shut her door at night to choose which child to guard.
• • •
Asta went to the living room to compose herself. Lavinia’s ornate, inlaid desk still radiated her presence. To think that the desk, and the tall highboy with its carved garlands and original glass, had crossed safely from Copenhagen in the hold of that tossing ship and were here still, unmarked, with Lavinia and Heinrich gone and she herself so changed. She could not look too closely at this house just now! In her heart, she wished Cornelius would fall in love with it, decide to purchase it, even as a rental property, for the children’s sake . . . the walls, the floors, the Palladian windows in their frames, the ceilings with their moldings and stenciled borders, were haven and anchor, and all fallen to her. It was after five. The drapes and sheers and needlepoint shades of the tall windows blocked the worst of the heat. Asta turned on the gaslights and sank into one of the embroidered, overstuffed chairs. The sconces, subtle as candlelight, cast a pure vanilla glow. Stunned with fatigue, she leaned back to wait.
• • •
It was six; it was seven, and eight, just dark of a warm summer evening. It had rained hard, only briefly, enough to wet the streets and refresh the gardens. The long curved sides of the black Chevrolet coupe looked shiny and freshly washed. He cut the engine and pulled silently to the front of the house. It was a good neighborhood, a fine house, undoubtedly full of fine possessions. A welcoming light shone above the door.
He took from his pocket a white linen handkerchief and removed his round gold spectacles. He cleaned the lenses carefully and folded the handkerchief, replacing it in his front suit pocket so that one corner crisply protruded. He regarded himself in the driver’s rearview mirror and smoothed his bow tie. Then he got out of the automobile and walked quickly to the front porch.
IV.
Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose. . . . She sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take home even a penny of money.
—Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Match Girl”
My dear Grethe,
You do not mind for me to address you by your given name? You see, your mother has told me so many lovely things about you that it would seem so distant for me to be calling you by the formal title of Miss Eicher—and then we are not strangers—Are we, dear?
Your mother always has so many lovely things to tell me about you . . . and I love you, dear, because I believe you are all that your mother tells me you are. I would be very proud to have you as my own girl. Tell me—would you like to have me as your daddy? You could then have ever so many lovely things and we would have lots of fun together—wouldn’t we, dear?
I know you are a great help there until I come for you. I am very anxious to see how well you are doing and to know exactly what you are doing at any time of the day—
Do write me today some time, dear,
with love, Cornelius
July 2, 1931
Park Ridge, Illinois
A Child’s Journey
Annabel was awake first, and saw the black car parked below. She was sleeping in Grethe’s room, for the bed was large enough, and they both slept better so, with Mother away. They wore beach pajamas; the nights were stifling, and they did as they liked after Abernathy shut her door at 8:00 P.M. It was Mr. Pierson’s car, Annabel was certain, as shiny and clean as though it had never moved. “Grethe! Get up. The week is over and Mother is here! And Mr. Pierson! I’m going down.”
Grethe was rubbing her eyes. “Should you? It’s quite early, isn’t it?”
/> “Mother is here! Abernathy will leave!” Annabel ran to wash her face. She must not say she was miserable. She quite liked Bible School, but Abernathy had them occupied all afternoon, polishing silverware, folding laundry, while Hart joined his friends at games and must be home by dinner. It was tiresome, for he took Duty with him, and the girls hadn’t even the diversion of going to the park. Duty returned parched, and napped all evening, then wandered disconsolate when the house was dark and he found Annabel’s bed empty. She would hear the click of his nails along the hallway, until she stood drowsily in Grethe’s doorway to announce herself. She would have to pick him up and lie down with her hand upon him, or he would stand, terrier-fierce, pulling at her clothes, intent she go to her place.
Her place was with Mother in Mr. Pierson’s automobile, gliding beside waterfalls and rivers, wearing Charles’ long silk scarf perhaps, her hair blowing back. They would be every bit as jolly as Frog and Toad in their motorcar. Her mother read Wind in the Willows aloud to her every summer, with Annabel doing the voices. Rat, her favorite, was the smart one. Always conniving, Mother said, it’s what rats were, no matter how charming. Mother liked Badger, for he was the sage. And why were there no girl animals? Her mother sighed, for it was a question Annabel must always ask.
Grethe was calling her. “Annabel, shouldn’t we put something on, if Mr. Pierson is here?”
“I’ll choose you something. Only let’s hurry.” They opened Grethe’s closet, in which Mother stored the things she’d saved from Grandmother’s armoire. The dotted Swiss, the peach silk, the black lace. “This one,” Annabel said, and took the black.
“But that’s Grandmother’s mourning dress. It’s for funerals.”
“It’s ever so pretty though, with the cut-out lace for sleeves.” She tossed her head. “Wear it for a robe, or wear what you want. I’m going down!”
She raced for the stairs, skipping every other one, Duty at her heels. Rounding the landing, she slid a hand along the wide banister for balance and plummeted forward.
“Good morning, my dear. You’re awake early, and I’m so glad.” He was standing just below her, instantly, one foot on the stairs and his pocket watch open in his hand, like the rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Annabel thought to jump into his arms and surprise him, as she had many times surprised her father in thoughts that were not really dreams. But the watch gave her pause. She fancied she heard it ticking.
“Oh, Mr. Pierson! Where is Mother?”
“She’s waiting for you, dear, in our new home, and wants us to get on the road right away.”
“She’s not here?” Annabel stopped on the stairs.
Mr. Pierson stepped close to her, the banister between them. Bathed in the light from the landing window, his eyes were very blue. “Your mother misses you terribly and can’t wait for you to join us. I’ve come for you, you see.”
Annabel rushed past him, out the front door to the porch. The street was empty. Only the porch swing trembled on its chains, for it always swayed when someone opened the door too fast. She had smelled her mother’s scent, below her, then above and before her. It was very curious. She reflected that the scent had weight, as the wind has weight, or force, to blow here and there; it had moved past her unaware, as though in a great hurry, not knowing her. Suddenly her head hurt very much, and she sat down in the empty porch swing.
She felt him sit in the swing beside her.
“Your mother has found you a very pretty pony,” he said. “A pet for all of you, but yours to ride, I think, because he’s no taller at the shoulder than this.” And he touched the top of her head. “Would you like to know the color of the pretty pony?”
Annabel felt him turn her face toward him, and direct her gaze.
“It is a white pony, with white mane, and a black star just here.” His hand was heavy on her head, and now he touched her forehead with his thumb. “Here, a black star.” He pressed a warm circle on her flesh.
The headache eased. She forgot it and felt drowsy, as though lifted from a hot bath. “Mother has gone,” she said.
“Our secret. Let the others be surprised.” He stroked her brow. “About the pony.” His eyes widened on hers; he swung them gently in the swing.
Annabel felt a bit sleepy, smaller and younger. She looked down at her open hands, in her lap. Her palms looked very white, like a drawing she saw from far away.
“Now then,” he said, and clapped once. “It’s a lovely morning to travel.”
Annabel wished the neighbors might see her on the porch with Mr. Pierson. He looked very nice in his suit, and less formal without his bow tie, his spectacles in his jacket pocket. “We’re going soon then,” Annabel said.
“Yes indeed,” he said.
“Mr. Pierson, can I make a picnic?”
“Yes, my dear, why don’t you. What a good idea. Be quick about it though. We have a long drive and shall leave in the cool of the day. And you may call me Cornelius, as your dear mother does. After all, we are not strangers, are we, dear?” He stood from the swing and held the front door open for her as she flew through to the kitchen.
She passed Grethe, standing on the stairs in Grandmother’s black lace dress, and Mrs. Abernathy behind her, pulling tight the sash of her wrapper. “We’re going!” Annabel shouted. “I’m making a picnic!”
• • •
Grethe could feel Mrs. Abernathy behind her, bristling with irritation at the early hour, at Grethe’s attire, at Mr. Pierson, for he’d sent no word of his arrival.
“Good morning, Grethe,” he said warmly, as though she alone stood before him.
“Mr. Pierson, good morning.” She could not bring herself to call him Cornelius, as his letter bade her do.
Now he looked above her at Mrs. Abernathy, who never came downstairs in her wrapper. “Good morning, Mrs. Abernathy. How have you fared? No problems, I hope.”
“No,” Abernathy said, disapproving. “Not a one.”
“A reflection of your excellent supervision, I’m sure. Mrs. Eicher will be so pleased. But we must get an early start. Would you be so kind as to wake Buster, Hart, that is, and make a hot breakfast for the children? No need to dress, unless you insist, for we are all family here, and this is the start of our promised trip south.”
Abernathy went back upstairs without a word. Mr. Pierson smiled at Grethe. “She will dress, though, won’t she, Grethe?”
“Oh yes,” Grethe said.
“Yes, it will take her a moment. Come here, my dear.” He took her hand as she walked down the two or three stairs to where he stood, as if she alighted from a carriage and he received her.
She thought they might be going to sit alone in the living room and discuss something important. But he put his hands lightly on her shoulders, and fixed his eyes on hers. “Grethe, your mother wishes you to go to the bank, right away, and withdraw funds that she requires. Her directions are written clearly in a note entrusted to me, which I will give you.”
“Shall I go then? Myself?”
“Of course you shall, my dear. This is private between us. Your mother trusts you to go to the bank. You’re the eldest, aren’t you, and so it’s most appropriate.”
“Now? I should go now?”
“Yes, of course. The bank is open and won’t be crowded this early. Don’t tarry, and speak to no one, as your mother has told you.”
“Yes. She tells me that. And to wear my hat.”
He nodded in agreement. “Wear what is usual for you.”
She’d slipped on her Sunday shoes, respecting Grandmother’s dress, with no socks, which felt quite odd. “Oh, then I must change—”
“No, you look quite nice as you are. Only, where’s your hat?”
Her hat hung on the tall Victorian hat rack. She liked its many pegs and diamond-shape mirror, and the glove drawer below. “Just there,” she said, pointing behind him, “beside Duty’s leash.”
He swept her hat from the rack, and the leash clanked to the floor. Somewhere up
stairs, Duty began barking, for he thought it was time for his walk. Cornelius, or Mr. Pierson, put her hat gently on her head.
She remembered that her hair was down, not up, and that she wore her bathing pajamas under Grandmother’s dress. They were short trouser pajamas, to her knees; no one could see them, or her camisole, on top. But she felt quite strange, without her undergarments. She couldn’t possibly go out of the house this way, yet she must.
Cornelius seemed pleased. “It’s true what your mother says. You are a young lady now, and very capable.”
Grethe, despite her dilemma, tried to smile, for Cornelius was smiling. He stood very near; his blue gaze warmed her inside her throat.
“All set, dear?” he said encouragingly. “Fasten your hat—”
“It . . . doesn’t fasten, you see. The ribbons only hang, like so, they’re navy ribbons—”
“Of course, very nice. And here is the note for the bank.” Her name was written across in flowing script. “It’s private, addressed to the bank, and you must not show it to anyone, or speak of it. Simply hand it to the teller at the window. You have your purse? They will give you an envelope, which you must bring straight back to me.”
She took her purse from the banister, where it hung by its strap, and held it open before him.
He put the note snugly inside the zippered pocket. “Do you have your glasses?” he asked. “Will you need them at the bank? Or on the walk?”
“I keep them in my purse, in their case.” She hung her purse across her chest, which she should have done before putting on the hat, but the strap was long and only grazed the brim. “I never wear them walking, no.” The thick lenses had caused her much distress, until Mother let her study at home, and children no longer called her names.
He straightened her hat, and tapped the thin gold rims of his spectacles. “Glasses give one an intelligent air. Those who do nothing have no need of them!” He beamed at her. “Isn’t that so? I shall take you to my optometrist and order you fine, light, gold frames like my own, with lenses ground to special order. Would you like that, Grethe dear?”
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