Orphan #8

by Kim van Alkemade

  When Max said it was time to put a stew on, Rachel followed him into the kitchen, but she was of no help at the stove. In the Home, she had been served thousands of meals but had never so much as seen an egg cracked. “Oh well, cooking isn’t everything in a woman,” Max said, stroking her hand. “I’ve learned to fend for myself since Saul’s mother passed. There’s other things you can do for us, isn’t that right, Rachel?”

  The boys came home with the fading light, dusty from the mine, starving for supper. After the meal, Rachel cleaned up while the men smoked and listened to the radio, too tired for cards. Then it was night, and the cot, and the sound of her brother’s footsteps on the floorboards above her head.

  The next day was Saturday, and though the boys had to work, Max took Rachel to meet the rabbi. On the walk to the synagogue and back, he showed her the town. It wasn’t much to take in. Every family or business worth a brick building was on Harrison. Cross streets petered out within a block or two, wood-frame houses giving way to shacks, rutted roads devolving into dirt tracks that narrowed to mule trails into the mountains. Sunday brought Mr. Lesser, Max’s Denver supplier, in his hiccupping delivery truck. After taking a few minutes to unload the truck, the two men sat for an hour around the kitchen table, sharing news and sandwiches and lazy cigars. From what Rachel could see, the visit was more nostalgia than commerce, the small order for Rabinowitz Dry Goods hardly worth a weekly drive.

  IN THE COMING weeks, women patronized the store more frequently now that this new young woman could quickly hand them those knitting needles or that spool of Carlisle ribbon that Max was never able to find. One day Rachel was surprised to see Max tear September from the calendar on the wall. The month had gone by so easily, the routine of shop and family absorbing her as if she’d always had a part to play.

  Before she knew it, Saul’s wedding was around the corner. “I’ll be leaving with Sadie and her parents after,” Saul said one night at dinner, glanced over at his father by the stove, then smiled warmly at Rachel. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Dad’s happy for your company. Aren’t you, Dad?”

  “Aren’t I what?” Max asked.

  “Glad to have someone who’ll listen to your stories all day long?”

  “That I am, son, that I am.” Max’s look at Rachel was so penetrating she blushed.

  Sam, embarrassed for his sister, cleared his throat. “Talk’s starting to go around town of a big project, an Ice Palace to attract tourists out from Denver. They claim it’ll put Leadville back on the map.” The men took up the topic, Max optimistic about the jobs it would bring after the mine shut down for the season. It sounded exciting to Rachel, but her brother was unconvinced. “Who the hell’s gonna come out here in the dead of winter to see a house made of ice?”

  Sadie and her parents were expected a couple of days before the wedding. Max enlisted Rachel’s help in cleaning out the upstairs rooms and rearranging the beds. “They’re only having the wedding out here because it’s cheaper,” Max complained. “If they had it in Colorado Springs, Nathan, that’s Sadie’s father, he’d have to invite the whole synagogue. He always was a penny-pincher. Won’t even stay in the hotel while they’re in town. So, we’ll put Nathan in here with me and Saul. Sadie and her mother, Goldie, they can share the other room. Sam’ll have to bunk down in the kitchen with you. You won’t mind, will you, Rachel?”

  Rachel smiled. “I won’t mind at all, Uncle.”

  The wedding party arrived on the last day of October, and Rachel was swept up into the preparations. That evening, everyone gathered around the kitchen table for a simple supper of cold cuts and smuggled bottles of wine set aside before Prohibition. The men debated the consequences of Tuesday’s stock market crash in New York while the women talked of veils and flowers. Nathan called for a toast, and Rachel joined in, seeing rainbows in her wineglass where it caught the light. By the time everyone else went upstairs, Rachel’s head ached and her stomach gurgled from the unaccustomed alcohol. She lay down gingerly while Sam unfolded a second cot for himself alongside hers. In the darkness, he lit a cigarette and smoked it dreamily. The wine had made him nostalgic.

  “Do you remember how we used to sleep in the kitchen, under the table?”

  Rachel searched her mind. There was the dark underside of a table, the scrape of a chair, someone’s untied shoelaces. “I remember, Sam.”

  He pinched out the cigarette and dropped it to the floor. He reached across the space between their cots and found his sister’s hand. Their fingers intertwined. Soon Sam started snoring. Rachel stayed awake as long as she could, savoring the beating of her heart.

  RACHEL WOKE TO find her brother’s cot empty. She supposed he’d gone to work earlier than usual. The shop was busy that day with old friends dropping by to visit with Nathan and Goldie. In the afternoon, Sadie and Saul had to go to the synagogue. “The rabbi wants to give us the marriage talk,” Sadie whispered to Rachel. Max announced that he would go along with them. Goldie took the opportunity to go upstairs for a nap. Nathan went out for a walk. Rachel, alone in the store, wandered the aisles, handling the familiar goods, imagining her life here with her brother and uncle after their cousin was married and gone.

  Sam came home dusted with silver. “Good thing for Saul he quit yesterday, cause they would’ve fired him today anyway,” he said while he washed up at the kitchen sink. “Bunch of us got canned. They’re closing the shaft early, cause of that business with the stock market.”

  “It’ll be all right, Sam, we’ll just work for Uncle Max. Or maybe you can work on that Ice Palace.”

  “You think I want to stay in this dump? Look around you! Rabinowitz Dry Goods is a joke. If Max didn’t own the building, he’d be out on the street, broke. There’s no future for me here.”

  “But, Sam, he’s family. He’s Papa’s brother. He wants to take care of us.”

  Sam snorted. “You, maybe. He’s taken a shine to you. But me? If I’m not earning a living, I’m just dead weight around here. Only reason he’s been off my back about money is cause he thinks I sent all my savings out to you. Just see what happens when I tell him I’m out of a job.”

  “He’s not like that. And anyway, where else would we go?” She added, softly, “If only we knew where Papa was.”

  Sam’s face twisted like he’d eaten something spoiled. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”

  Since she’d mistaken Max for her father, Rachel hadn’t been able to shake the idea of finding him. She wanted to ask Sam, now, why he got so angry whenever she mentioned Papa. Sure, she’d say, it was terrible how he left them, but it wasn’t his fault, was it? He hadn’t wanted to, Rachel was sure of that. He was afraid of the police was all, that they would never believe it was an accident.

  Before Rachel could say anything, the store’s bell sounded a succession of returns: Saul and Sadie, followed by Max, and a few minutes later, Nathan. The noise brought Goldie down as well. In the rush of talk, there were no more private words between Rachel and Sam.

  “We’re headed out to the Golden Nugget,” Max announced later. “Going to send my son off in style. You haven’t forgotten about the back room at the Nugget, have you, Nate?”

  “I haven’t forgotten how much you hate to stand for a round, Max.”

  “Don’t get yourselves arrested for drinking,” Goldie warned. “We’ve got a wedding tomorrow.”

  “Leadville’s sheriff has never been persuaded that enforcing Prohibition’s exactly his job,” Max assured her. “Better worry about the groom being able to stand up straight at the ceremony.”

  Rachel watched her brother hustle out of the store, so much unsettled between them.

  “Mom, what do you say we take in the show at the Tabor?” Sadie said. “Everything’s ready for tomorrow.”

  Goldie looked wistful. “It’s been a long time since I looked down on that stage. And it’s a variety tonight, not one of those foreign operas Baby Jane used to bring in to impress the Guggenheims. Sure, let’s us girls go to th
e opera house. Rachel, that means you, too. It’ll be my present.”

  Outside, frost dusted the sidewalks. Despite the cold, the women didn’t put coats over their dresses, the theater being just next door. The show had already begun, but there were plenty of seats available. Goldie, wanting to avoid the raucous miners on the main floor, led Sadie and Rachel up to the third tier and through a curtained doorway. Space sank away in front of them. Rachel reached for the railing to steady herself. Goldie guided her along the front row, settling Rachel into a seat so oblique to the stage she could see into the wings.

  The Tabor boasted of being the finest opera house west of the Mississippi; Rachel had certainly never been anywhere so grand. That this elegance was on the same block as her uncle’s dusty shop astonished her. Gas jets flickered around the tiers and lit the stage, on which a magician was combining and separating solid brass hoops. Each flourish and clink of the hoops sent the violins in the pit scurrying. Rachel wanted to ask how such a thing was possible, but Goldie was busy whispering that she’d known old Horace Tabor personally, back before the silver crash devastated his fortune. Sadie whispered back that Saul had once delivered goods from the store to his widow, Baby Jane, who lived like a hermit up at Tabor’s spent mine, getting battier with each long winter.

  Rachel tilted her head to see who was waiting to take the stage next. Half hidden in darkness stood a regal woman in purple velvet whose neckline glittered in the gaslight. A final flourish, a flutter of doves, and a round of applause marked the end of the magician’s act. Dramatically wrapping himself in his cape, he stalked offstage. The hot spotlight swung over to the opposite wing, pushing back the darkness. The regal woman stepped out as the master of ceremonies announced, “From the greatest stages of Europe where she has performed for royalty, Madame Hildebrand!”

  The orchestra struck up an aria as Madame Hildebrand proceeded to play her part as the culture of the program. The emotion of her brows and lips exaggerated by stage makeup, she flung soprano notes over the heads of her audience. Rachel’s gaze followed the woman as she strutted across the boards, but she wasn’t listening to the song. It was the woman’s hair that her eyes devoured. It was the same smoldering garnet as the braid hidden in the bottom of Rachel’s cardboard case.

  She had almost forgotten about it. But there it was, Amelia’s hair on this woman’s head. Perhaps she was Amelia’s true mother, not dead but run away, like Rachel’s father. The possibility spun in her mind until the aria ended and applause cleared the notes from the air. The soprano bowed and backed into the wing from which she had come, the spot following her. Rachel leaned over to watch her exit. Hidden from the orchestra seats by a side curtain, the soprano paused, her shoulders rounding. She reached for something in her hair—a pin or ornament? But no, she crooked her finger under the brow of her hair and lifted it off her head. The spot shifted across the boards to pick up the next performer just as the soprano removed her wig.

  Rachel was jittering with excitement. “Excuse me, please, I’m feeling dizzy.” Sadie and Goldie stood to let her pass. “I just need some fresh air.”

  Rachel ran down the stairs to the lobby of the opera house, then looked around for some way backstage. There wasn’t one. She went out front and around the corner. In back, a truck was pulled up to the open stage door, ready to be loaded after the performance. Rachel ducked past the dozing driver. Inside, she could hear the muffled laughter of the audience as she negotiated the backstage maze. A woman pushing a rack of costumes pointed when Rachel asked where she might find Madame Hildebrand. She peered through a partly opened door. There was the soprano in a dressing gown, seated before a mirror and touching up her greasepaint. Thin brown hair streaked with gray was plastered to her skull. Next to her on a wig form was the hair so like Amelia’s.

  Rachel’s eyes met Madame’s in the mirror. “Don’t just stand there, child. Come in.” Rachel slunk into the dressing room. “What do you want? An autograph?”

  “The wig you were wearing. . . .” The words dried up in her mouth.

  “What about it?”

  Rachel pulled the cloche hat from her head, letting the bald scalp speak her desire.

  Madame turned to look kindly at Rachel, her heavy jewelry peeking out from the dressing gown. “Come here.” Rachel took a step closer. “Which one do you want to try on?”

  Rachel realized then that the red wig was not alone. Beside the one she’d seen onstage were two more: one with a cascading mass of black curls, another with golden braids so long they circled the neck like a noose. None was rough and dead-looking like the wig they’d given her at the Home.

  “This one would match your coloring,” Madame said, gesturing to the dark hair. “I wear that when I sing Carmen.”

  But Rachel stepped closer to the red wig, reaching out to stroke a crackling curl. “May I try this one?”

  Madame smiled. “Yes, this one is special. Somehow it always puts me in the mood for Mozart. Come, sit.” She rose and offered Rachel her seat before the mirror. It reflected the naked oval of her face.

  “Here.” Madame settled the wig gently on Rachel’s head, tugging under the ears until it settled in place. “It’s loose on you. Your head is smaller than mine. Mrs. Hong makes every wig custom for a perfect fit. There. What do you think?”

  Rachel was overwhelmed by the sight of so much hair falling around her face. It was as if Amelia’s ghost had come to swallow her up. Then she remembered Amelia whispering to Marc Grossman, and she tasted bile. If anyone deserved to have the hair, it was Rachel.

  “How does it feel?”

  The wig was a bit loose, and the hair was heavy, but against her scalp it was soft, soothing, strangely alive. “It’s lovely. It doesn’t itch at all. The one they gave me when I was a girl, it itched so much I couldn’t wear it.”

  “Wool lining, probably, and sometimes they use hair from horses’ tails. Mrs. Hong’s girls crochet the lining from silk, and of course she uses only human hair.”

  Without taking her eyes off of her reflection, Rachel asked, “Who is Mrs. Hong?”

  “Only the best wig maker I’ve ever known. I get all of my wigs from Mrs. Hong’s House of Hair in Denver.”

  Rachel’s eyes lingered on the image in the mirror. She ran her hand over her head, wrapping the hair around her neck. “What does it cost?”

  “Oh, child, it’s nothing you could dream of, I’m afraid. Even I can only afford one a year.” Madame Hildebrand reached out for the wig. Rachel hunched her shoulders, edging away.

  “What if I already had the hair?” she asked. When she had cut Amelia’s hair, her only motivation was revenge. She’d never known why her fist had closed around the braid, why she’d dragged it halfway across a continent. Now Rachel understood. The brown wig she’d worn to the Purim Dance had betrayed her with false promises of beauty, but a wig made from Amelia’s hair would do more than mask her ugliness. Such a wig would elevate Rachel to match its splendor.

  Madame Hildebrand looked at Rachel’s greedy eyes in the mirror and pitied her. She thought this strange girl must have some hair wrapped in tissue paper, the strands thin and oily from whatever illness had left her bald. Scarlet fever could do that sometimes, she’d heard. “I’m sorry, dear. I can’t imagine what it would cost. I don’t even know where Mrs. Hong has her shop. She always comes to my dressing room at the Municipal Auditorium when I’m in Denver.”

  The woman with the rack of costumes appeared at the door. “Ten minutes, Madame. I have your gypsy costume.”

  “Excuse me, dear, I need to prepare for my next aria.”

  Madame lifted the wig from Rachel’s head and settled it back on the form. Rachel’s scalp felt bereft. Resentfully, she put on the cloche hat, mumbled her thanks, and retraced her steps to the stage door. She stood in the cold as long as she could stand it, her breath misting the air.

  Goldie and Sadie were in the lobby looking for Rachel when she entered. Sadie was too nervous about the next day to sit through anot
her act, so they returned to the shop. They were upstairs arranging the wedding dress when they heard the men stumble in below. Going down to the kitchen, Rachel hoped for a chance to talk with her brother, but Sam flopped down on the cot and began snoring without even taking off his boots. Rachel undid the laces, pulled the boots from his feet, and covered him with a blanket.

  Before crawling under her own covers, Rachel opened the cardboard case and brought out Amelia’s hair. She remembered the first time she had seen it, so abundant and beautiful it made Mrs. Berger love the girl it belonged to. The braid belonged to her now, and she imagined that someday, somehow, it would make her beloved, too.

  AT THE WEDDING, Rachel took Sadie’s bouquet as the bride held out her hand for the modest gold band Saul pushed down her finger. Then the glass was smashed underfoot and shouts of mazel tov mixed with clapping. After the ceremony, the assembled Jews of Leadville lingered in the synagogue, offering the new couple kisses and handshakes and slipping them folded dollar bills. Max had told Rachel there used to be so many, the synagogue could barely contain them all; now they were lucky to have enough men for a minyan. Goldie and Nathan invited everyone to share in the wedding cake. As long as a bottle had been opened by the rabbi for religious purposes, they all enjoyed small glasses of wine.

  Max sidled up to Rachel and took her elbow. “I’m wanting to ask you something. Would you come over here?” He led her to the far corner of the room, where two chairs had been pulled close together. When they sat, Max’s knees bumped into Rachel’s. He pulled out his shirttail to wipe his glasses.

  “What is it, Uncle?” Rachel asked, her eyes following the circle of his silver hair from mustache to sideburn and around to the other side.

  “I talked it over with the rabbi yesterday, and he advised me to talk to you plain and simple.” He cleared his throat. “So, here it is, Rachel. Could you ever think of me as something more than your uncle?”

  She wasn’t sure what he was asking. Did he want to take the place of her father, to adopt her? Her expression prodded Max to explain himself.