While Lizzie clung to the newspaper, Nula turned to my mother’s trunk. She said, “I have no idea what’s in here.” With a turn of the key, the lid popped open. “I wish I’d known your mother, Naomi.” To Lizzie, Nula added, “Naomi and her father moved here when Naomi was nearly one.”
I wondered where we’d lived before that.
A pink, blank baby book rested on top; beneath that was a packet of cards in a rubber band that split when I removed it:
CONGRATULATIONS! IT’S A GIRL!
AN ANGEL FOR YOU!
BABY CONGRATULATIONS!
WELCOME, BABY!
I was so disoriented that I said, “What were these for?”
Lizzie and Nula exchanged a look. Lizzie said, “Naomi, you idjit, they were probably for you!”
My mother’s trunk was stuffed with photos and cards and items of clothing: a lavender prom dress, cowboy boots, a sparkly skirt. As I removed each item, Lizzie reacted as if this were Christmas bounty.
“Look at that!” and “Ohhhh!” and “Naomi, look!”
I felt removed, unable to share her excitement. It was as if there remained some of that old, childish worry—that there was something living buried in the trunk, or that something else unexpected and unpleasant would emerge.
Slowly I pulled out a wooden box with a heart painted on it, a musty book about horses, a box of shells, and a drawing of a river with trees along the bank.
Lizzie was enchanted. “Oh! Naomi! Oh!” and “You should keep this, Naomi!” and “How perfectly perfect!” She pressed the book to her chest, cradled the shells in her hands, and traced the drawing with one finger. You would have thought it was her own mother’s things we were examining.
Nula sat to one side, stacking everything in a neat pile.
What is the matter with me? I thought I should feel as Lizzie did, or at least be able to recognize something. I thought I should be able to say, This was my mother’s, to say it with authority. But I could not.
Lizzie examined a tattered notebook. “Look here, Naomi, this must be your mother’s handwriting.” She held the book open to a page marked “Learn these!” Below was a list of biological terms I did not recognize. In the margins was my mother’s name written several ways:
Kathleen King
Kathleen Deane
Kathleen M. Deane
Kathleen King Deane
Mrs. Kathleen Deane
Mrs. Andrew Deane
I’d known my mother’s name was Kathleen, but I hadn’t known her maiden name or her middle name. A person ought to know her mother’s whole name, I thought.
“What does the M stand for? What was her middle name?”
“No idea,” Nula said.
We decided to toss some of the more faded, cheap clothing and all of the magazines. I skimmed a few of the cards before tossing them on the discard pile. I recognized none of the names: Franny and Maggie and Phyllis and Jeannie, Freddy and Mick. Mr. and Mrs. Loughlin. Mrs. Kindrick. Several were from someone named Artie, who always added a heart after his name, which seemed a strange thing for a male to do.
The rest we returned to the trunk.
As we were about to open Nula’s trunk, Lizzie blurted out to Nula, “The Cupwrights don’t want me. They’re not going to adopt me.”
“What’s that? Now, now, I’m sure they will—”
“No! They told me. Yesterday. They told me they were not going to adopt me. Well, what they said was that they couldn’t, but I didn’t even listen about why not because I knew what they meant. I knew exactly that they did not want me, they’ve never wanted me, and they never will, and I could just die.”
“Now, now, Lizzie—”
“I am in their way. I cost too much to feed. I don’t eat all that much, although I do regret having four slices of toast the other day because that probably looked exceedingly greedy, oh, where will I end up? Will I be sleeping in a cardboard box behind Tebop’s store? Will I—”
“Shh,” Nula said. “Don’t you worry. Something will work out. Aren’t there any other relatives of your own parents you could go to?”
“No. Nobody, not a single soul, except for some crazy old aunt in England, or maybe it’s Scotland, or maybe it’s Ireland, and I surely would rather sleep in a cardboard box than go a million miles away to live with a crazy aunt.”
“Do you know anything about her? Maybe she’s not crazy at all.”
Lizzie looked offended. “I’m certain she is crazy. My mother told me so, and it was her own sister, and as for her name, it is something completely ridiculous, like Hillbunny or Pushbunny, or something like that. Oh, what am I going to do?”
I once heard someone ask Nula how she went on after I dropped into their lives. Nula replied, “You get up and you go on.” Thinking that I should offer some wisdom to Lizzie, I said, “Lizzie, you just get up and then you go on,” but she did not receive this advice well.
“Easy for you to say, Naomi! Easy for you.”
“This trunk of mine,” Nula said as she wrestled with the lock of the third trunk, “came with me on the ship when I sailed from Ireland. It belonged to an old man, a neighbor, who had taken pity on me when my family—thanks to the interference of that Finn boy—”
“Finn boy?” Lizzie said. “What Finn boy?”
“Nula knew a boy named Finn when she was young.”
“Anyway, because of the interference of that Finn boy, my family handed me over to a shady-looking Irishman and his shady-looking wife, who had essentially bought me. I was to accompany them to America, where I would be working for a grand family, or so they said. I was twelve years old.”
“Bought you?” I said.
“Yes. They paid Finn—Finn!—a finder’s fee, and they paid my parents a small sum and said that they were giving me the privilege of a new life in America and that the cost of my passage to America would be deducted from my first year’s wages. They did not clarify that the cost of my passage would be deducted from my whole year’s wages.”
“You worked for a year and earned nothing, is that what you mean?”
“Yes, Naomi. That’s what I mean. And I did not work for a ‘grand family’; I worked for the shady Irishman and his shady wife and their slovenly children. I worked from four in the morning until eleven at night, seven days a week, every day of the year.”
Lizzie said, “But that’s truly terrible. However did you survive?”
As the lid to the trunk popped open, issuing a puff of musty, trapped air, Nula said, “You get up and then you go on.”
CHAPTER 35
ACROSS THE OCEAN: PLANS
MRS. KAVANAGH
Mrs. Kavanagh and Pilpenny were seated at one end of the long mahogany dining table. Sybil was telling Pilpenny about how she first came to Rooks Orchard.
“—And so Paddy, who wasn’t called Paddy then—all full of sweet talk and flowers and promises—he finds a job for me as cook’s helper here at Rooks Orchard. And what does he do? He collects my first month’s wages, tells the Mistress that he will give them to me, and then he does a runner, with my wages in his pocket. That wretched Paddy McCoul.”
“The warthog.”
“For years and years, I thought he’d run off to America, following my sister.”
“He didn’t, though.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“And what was it like for you here, with your brekkinhart”—Pilpenny tapped her own heart—“pining away for the wretched warthog?”
“There I was, the poor cook’s girl, knowing only how to peel potatoes and empty slop buckets and feed hogs, and with my heart broken. Nothing quite so pitiful as a young girl with a broken heart, is there, Pilpenny?”
“Mm.”
“You think you will not live, that you cannot go on.”
“Mm.”
“But I was a hard worker, I was. I didn’t see much of the Master and the Mistress, but what I saw was enough to make me shiver in my shoes, for they were stern and stiff as fence posts
and never a kind word to any of the help, only ‘Fetch this’ and ‘Fetch that’ and ‘Must you make so much noise?’ and never a thank you and never a look-you-in-the-eye.”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard—that they were as cold as a witch’s toes.”
“Colder.”
“But Albert? He was not like them?”
“Ah, Albert, their only child. He was sixteen when I came here. His mother called him her ‘frail one,’ and his father thought him ‘as useless as a runt pig.’ And this because Albert was quiet and kind and sensitive, fond of drawing and lying in the grass.”
“Ah, Albert.”
“Sometimes when I’d be outside in the kitchen garden or on my way to the hogs, I’d come across Albert, and naturally we would talk from time to time. I remember one day early on when he and I were standing outside the kitchen door and his mother called from an upstairs window. She said, ‘Albert! What are you doing?’ She said that as if he’d been caught standing in the hog pen with mud up to the knees of his fine trousers.”
“Ach!”
“And Albert’s father—the Master—he whipped me with a switch from the apple tree. Many a time there was that I was whipped by the Master.”
“For shame!”
“So you can imagine how they reacted when we ran off together and married, eh? Mercy! The earth shook and the heavens yowled.”
“I’m surprised you ever came back here, Sybil.”
“I didn’t want to, did I? But then the place came to Albert after his parents passed on, and sweet Albert, he merely wanted to stroll in the orchard and lie in the grass—and now, alas, he lies there permanently.”
“Poor Albert.”
“Poor Albert. But enough, Pilpenny! I don’t want to think about any of that anymore tonight. Let’s have a murder instead, shall we?”
“Oh, yes. It’s been days and days since we had one.”
CHAPTER 36
THE THIRD TRUNK
Nula’s trunk was packed tightly and nearly overflowing. When I asked her if her trunk was that full when she came to America, she looked at me as if I were completely out of my mind.
“I can tell you exactly what was in this trunk when I sailed for America: two ill-fitting dresses, an apron, a nightshirt, a raggedy quilt, a few photographs, a bag of soil, and a packet of seeds.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. The soil was from our yard in Ireland. The seeds were, I thought, flower seeds, but turned out to be carrot seeds. The quilt I stole from my parents’ bed, and the dresses and photographs I stole from my sister.”
Lizzie looked as if she’d swallowed a mouse. “You stole those things?”
There was a look on Nula’s face I’d not seen before: sly, like a fox.
“I figured I deserved them. After all, my parents were stealing my family and my life from me—that’s what I thought at the time—and my sister had stolen the one boy I loved with all my young heart.”
Lizzie was nearly beside herself with shock. “She stole a boy? How did she steal a boy? Did she kidnap him? Why wasn’t she arrested? How can somebody steal somebody like that?”
“She didn’t kidnap him, Lizzie,” Nula said. “She stole his heart.”
Lizzie’s right hand clasped her chest protectively.
“You know I don’t mean his actual heart, don’t you, Lizzie?”
Lizzie sat up straight. “Of course. I know that.”
“It was Finn, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Finn!” Lizzie echoed. “That boy Finn!”
“Finn,” Nula agreed. “That boy Finn, that wicked boy Finn.”
“But why would you love a wicked boy instead of a nice boy?” Lizzie asked. “What did he do? Did he kill someone? Steal something?”
“He stole hearts,” Nula said. “He told lies.”
Lizzie’s face was scrunched up like a dried apricot. “So your sister stole Finn, and you stole those dresses—was everyone going around stealing things?”
“Lizzie, when you put it that way, I suppose so. Yes. A lot of stealing going on.” She reached into the trunk. “We are going to have to speed this up or we’ll be here for days.” As she pulled a large, tissue-wrapped parcel from the top, she sat back on her heels, gently patting the tissue and pressing the parcel to her. “Joe,” she whispered. “Joe, Joe, Joe.”
I closed my eyes and touched the tissue and saw him coming across the field.
“My wedding dress,” Nula whispered. She set the parcel to one side and stared at the trunk. Tentatively, she reached back inside, withdrawing an envelope, which she opened.
“Dried-up roses from the garden. Why would I save those?” She seemed to press on with renewed determination. “What’s this? Ah, these two crows—somebody sent them to me—I have no idea who. Maybe a secret admirer?” Nula handed one of the crows to me and one to Lizzie.
Lizzie said, “Why crows? They don’t seem like a very romantic thing to send.”
The one I held fit smoothly in my palm. It was heavier than I expected, maybe made of iron, and it looked vaguely familiar. Maybe Nula had kept the pair in the house at one time.
Nula pulled a faded quilt from the trunk. “Here’s the raggedy quilt I told you about. And here, these are the two dresses I stole from my sister, and the photographs, and here is that pouch of soil from Ireland, from our yard—I have to smell it, I have to.”
She clutched the bag to her. I thought she might break down again, but instead she smiled the broadest smile, the first true smile I’d seen on her face in a long time.
“It’s just dirt, right?” Lizzie said.
Nula dipped her fingers in the bag, removing a small portion of the dirt. “Smell,” she said, offering it to Lizzie and then to me. “Smell that? That’s Ireland.”
It did smell different from Blackbird Tree dirt, I admit, more mushroomy or something.
“And these?” I reached for two photographs. Both were faded and crinkled, as if they’d been carried around for some time. The one on top was larger. In it, six children—three girls and three boys—stood in various stages of awkwardness in front of a fat oak tree. All of them were barefoot; all wore shapeless clothes.
Nula peered at the photograph. “This feels strange. That’s me, that skinny one there, and that’s Riley and this one’s Malachy. They both died in the war. Here are Thomas and little Norah, who both died from influenza the year after this photograph was taken.”
She held the photograph closer to her face and then held it an arm’s length away; back and forth she moved it, peering at it.
“But who’s that?” I asked. “That other girl next to you.”
“And where are your parents?” Lizzie asked. “Why aren’t they in the picture?”
“They didn’t want to be. They were embarrassed, I think, or maybe superstitious.” Nula said a traveling photographer had come through their village and one of her sisters begged her parents to have the photograph taken. “She wanted that photograph so badly. She wanted to see what she looked like—what she looked like to someone else. And then, when she saw the final photograph, she nearly tore it up. She cried and cried. ‘I look so poor,’ she wailed.”
“Which sister was that—was it the one next to you, the one with the flower in her hair?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sybil.”
“And what happened to her? Did she die, too?”
“I’ve no idea. Probably married the wretched Finn.”
I had already turned to the second photograph, but Lizzie was horrified by what Nula had said. “What? You have no idea what happened to your sister? How can that be?”
“We lost touch,” Nula said, with ice in her voice.
Lizzie persisted. “That is too entirely tragic. Is she still in Ireland?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“But don’t you want to find out? Haven’t you tried to locate her?”
“We had a fall
ing-out, Lizzie.”
“But what if she’s sick and only has a week to live? Wouldn’t it be enormously tragic if she was still alive and maybe ailing and pining for her sister, and time is ticking away and her sister—you—don’t find her in time?”
Nula pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Lizzie, Lizzie, you sure have a lot of questions.”
“Naomi, what do you think? Don’t you think Nula should—what’s the matter, Naomi? What are you looking at? Is that the other picture Nula stole? Who is it? Who’s in it?”
My voice came out of my mouth as if it had escaped from the body of a toad. “Finn?”
Lizzie snatched the photo from me and stuck her face right up against it.
Nula said, “You’re right, Naomi, good guess.”
CHAPTER 37
RETURN TO THE UNFORTUNATES
No sooner had we finished going through Nula’s trunk than the chickens stirred up a racket outside. From below came a woman’s voice.
“Lizzie? Naomi? Mrs. Mudkin sent me.” The church secretary was standing amid the chickens, kicking at them. “Go on. Shoo, shoo.”
“Uh-oh,” Lizzie said. “Is today Tuesday?”
“It is,” the secretary said. “It’s Tuesday and you didn’t show up for the unfortunates.”
On the way to Mr. Canner’s house, I again showed Lizzie the photograph of Nula’s Finn. “Does that look like Finn to you?”
“How would I know?”
“No, I mean does it look like my Finn?” I was stunned that I had said “my Finn,” that I’d said it aloud, but Lizzie didn’t blink.
“It’s all faded and fuzzy, Naomi.”
“But look at it. Does that boy look like my Finn?” This time I said it purposefully—my Finn.
Lizzie squinted. She puckered her lips. She opened her eyes widely.
“No.”
“But are you sure?”
“Oh, Naomi, I don’t know! Don’t ask me things like that, especially when you know how I am feeling, all lost and alone and afraid and about to be homeless.”
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