by Amy Stewart
“Rent?” said Bessie. “After all these years?”
Mr. Griggs could only shrug at that. “I put my capital in the baskets,” he sniffed, pridefully.
“Yes,” Norma muttered, “because baskets are forever, whereas land . . .”
“We’ll have a look at those ledgers now,” Bessie put in. “There’s no need to take up any more of your time. We’ll just clear ourselves a space in the warehouse.”
Mr. Griggs rose to pull the topmost books off the shelf. “Take all the time you like,” he said. “And while you’re going over the figures, there’s one more possibility you might consider.”
“What’s that?” asked Bessie, eager for any possibility.
Mr. Griggs hesitated and cleared his throat. “Becoming half owners.”
Here Norma saw an opportunity. It had, over the last several weeks, become clear to her that the Kopps would be better served by some sort of enterprise that they could own and manage themselves, rather than depending on the largesse of, say, a department store in need of a detective. If Constance were to take charge of Schoonmaker’s inventory, the situation would only be worse: the store would grow more profitable through Constance’s efforts, and the Kopps would see nothing of it beyond a weekly salary. Mr. Schoonmaker was a shrewd businessman. He’d pay his people only what was necessary and pocket the profits.
To support a growing family, one needed a stake in something that could grow, too.
Norma settled back into her chair and considered what a half interest might mean. “You would give us a larger share, and we would come and run it with you. I suppose that’s what you came around to talk about that morning just after the funeral.”
The idea animated Bessie considerably. “I don’t see why we couldn’t. If Constance could be persuaded, and even Fleurette . . .”
Mr. Griggs’s chin wobbled as he tried to form the words. “Oh, my dears. I only meant to suggest that it might make a good investment.”
Norma stood again and seized the ledger. “Then you’re only asking us to put more money in.”
“Well, I—”
“After Francis mortgaged the house and left us with the payments, and no money with which to pay it.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“And I suppose these books are going to show us that we shouldn’t expect anything in the way of profits to be attributed to our share any time soon.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say—”
“And now you’re telling us that we couldn’t, even if we wanted to, come in and work to put the business on a more profitable footing. I suppose you’ve never hired a woman and don’t intend to start now.”
“Miss Kopp, it’s hardly a place for ladies. Why, you’ve had a look at the warehouse.”
“You do understand that I’ve just returned from France. I’m quite accustomed to plain living and hard work. Constance practically lived at the Hackensack jail when she was deputy. Is it worse than a jail around here?”
“Now, Miss Kopp and Mrs. Kopp, I don’t think you understand. I only wished to offer another opportunity.”
“You’ll take our money, but you won’t have us working here. I understand perfectly. Bessie and I will have a look at the books, and we’ll be on our way. Oh, and I don’t suppose you have a copy of the partnership agreement you signed with Francis?”
“Partnership agreement?”
“Yes, some sort of paper confirming that what you’ve told us is true. Or did Francis just hand over every penny he had in the world on the strength of your good word?”
“If you understood a bit more about how businesses like ours are conducted, you might see that such formalities are rarely necessary.”
“Yes, rarely,” said Norma. “Bessie, have we anything more to say to Mr. Griggs?”
“Nothing that I dare utter with a child present,” sighed Bessie, one hand on her belly and the other reaching for a sandwich.
30
“WELL, IT’S GOOD news and bad news,” Norma said later that evening, when Constance returned home from work. “The good news is that Francis owned a quarter interest in Griggs Basketry and Trimmings. The bad news is that the business is worthless.”
“But it must not have been worthless when Francis bought his share,” said Constance, “and that wasn’t so terribly long ago.”
“Apparently it was worthless then,” said Norma. “Mr. Griggs persuaded our brother to put money into the business to keep it alive. Otherwise the company was on the verge of insolvency.”
“I wondered why anyone was buying baskets when we could hardly get butter and eggs,” said Bessie.
“Well, they weren’t,” said Norma. “No one needs a darling little Chinese basket in war-time. Also, the ships weren’t coming from China because there was no trade going back the other way. Everything we had to sell or trade or give went straight to Europe.”
“But he could afford to pay Francis,” Constance said. “His salary never stopped, did it?”
Bessie shook her head. “He was always paid. But now we know why.”
Constance slumped back in her chair, dumbfounded. “Do you mean to say that Francis mortgaged the house, gave the money to Mr. Griggs, and then Mr. Griggs used that money to pay Francis a salary?”
“I put the question to Mr. Griggs in exactly those terms,” said Norma. “He wouldn’t admit to it at first, but there’s no arguing with the figures. Whether Mr. Griggs intended it that way, that was the result.”
Constance said, “I can’t understand why Francis went along with it. He must’ve seen what would happen. If the business was losing money because of the war, it wouldn’t recover until the war ended. There was no point in throwing good money after bad. I only wish he’d talked to one of us about it. I was here most every Sunday for dinner over the summer. He must’ve been sitting right there thinking about it, but he never once said a word.”
“He didn’t have any use for our opinions and you know it,” said Norma.
“He had his pride,” Bessie said. “It wasn’t just that he was the only boy in the family. He was the eldest, too. He thought it his responsibility to look after you girls. He wouldn’t have wanted to worry you.”
“Well, we worried him to no end,” said Constance. “He could’ve returned the favor.”
“The point is,” said Norma, who didn’t like to waste time on might-have-beens, “the money’s gone. Or so Mr. Griggs claims. He spent every penny Francis put in, and now he’s asked us for another investment. He wants an infusion of capital to balance the books and get him back on a pre-war footing.”
Constance groaned. “I can’t believe he had the nerve to ask you for money.”
“He means well,” said Bessie. “He wants to protect us all. We do own a quarter of the business.”
“It isn’t much of a business,” said Norma. “We spent an hour looking over the figures, and I could see at once that he’d been paying himself handsomely for years and running at a small loss. I doubt he’d want to give that up, but he’d have to, if we were to recoup any of our investment. No, he only asked because he thought we were too gullible to see right through him.”
“He must be hoping to bring it back to what it was before the war,” said Bessie.
“That’s just the trouble,” said Norma. “Francis did everything. He ran the shipments, he handled the sales, he oversaw the delivery drivers. The place is falling apart without him. He was their key man.”
“You told Mr. Griggs right after the funeral that he ought to hire one of us or all of us,” said Constance.
“Well, he won’t,” said Norma. “He’s old-fashioned that way. Anyway, he’s weeks away from closing. Even if we had the money to invest, we’d be doing just what Francis did. We’d put the money in and take it out as salary. What’s the point in that?”
“Then the money’s gone,” said Constance. “What, exactly, do we own a quarter of ?”
Bessie sighed. “There are still a few pil
es of dusty old baskets, all the sort of things people liked before the war. You remember those Chinese baskets trimmed in tassels and ribbons? Sometimes Francis would bring one home filled with chocolate. They had those Chinese coins stitched on, or beads. Lorraine might still have one. All those little ornaments were meant to symbolize something: charm, dignity, beauty, stability.”
“He gave Fleurette one with a strand of beads around it, symbolizing virtue,” said Norma grimly. At the mention of Fleurette, Constance flinched but didn’t answer.
“It was all that sort of thing,” said Bessie. “Some of them were lacquered with a mahogany finish, like you might want for a lined sewing basket. There were still a few of the sort people used to use for flower arrangements or fruit.”
“I can’t imagine much demand for that right now,” said Constance. “At Schoonmaker’s people are mostly buying needful things—a pair of shoes or a practical hat. Nobody yet has money for luxuries.”
“And I told him so,” said Norma. “Before we left I told him that if any of us wanted to open a basket-importing business—and none of us do—we could do it ourselves, for the same investment, and own all of it, not just a quarter or half. But we’re not interested in sinking our fortune into baskets, and anyway we won’t have a dime until the lots sell. Fortunately the surveyor’s been out and the land’s been divided. Now that it’s spring, I think we can put the lots up for sale and hope to have the money by the end of summer. But I’m not giving any of it to Mr. Griggs.”
“What about the warehouse?” asked Constance, sitting up suddenly. “That’s property. Do we own a quarter of that?”
“Norma asked, of course,” said Bessie. “But no, Mr. Griggs rents the place. He doesn’t own anything but the dregs of his basket inventory, a few desks and chairs, and that old delivery truck Francis used to drive. It’s worthless, all of it.”
“I still think we ought to go see a lawyer about it,” said Norma.
Bessie sighed. “I just don’t want to put Mr. Griggs through it, or us, for that matter. He’s an old man and he’s about to be out of business. Francis wouldn’t have wanted us dragging him through court.”
“Hmph,” said Norma, which was her way of keeping her arguments to herself.
“Then we start making the mortgage payments in three months,” said Constance.
“I’m going back to the bank to insist on six,” Norma said.
“It only kicks the can down the road,” said Constance.
“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” said Norma.
“I suppose someone ought to tell Fleurette,” said Bessie.
Both Bessie and Norma looked over at Constance, who tucked her chin down and refused to meet their eyes.
“You’re trying to get me to apologize, and I won’t,” she said. “It was wrong of her to go behind our backs, and now she’s thrown a fit and stormed off, just when she’s needed at home. She’s the one who should apologize.”
Bessie sighed. “She was only trying to help.”
“Which she did,” Norma said. “She paid all the accounts and never said a word about it. This is the girl who used to expect a round of applause for making her bed in the morning. I’d say she’s grown up.”
“She didn’t have to ask for applause, but she could’ve been honest about what she was doing,” Constance said.
“She was covering for Francis,” Norma said. “He couldn’t keep up with his bills because he had that mortgage to pay, but she didn’t know that. All she knew was that he’d been in some kind of trouble and she could put it to rest. It was an entirely selfless act. We haven’t seen many of those from Fleurette.”
“And we won’t again, now that she’s skipped out on us. Wouldn’t you call that selfish?”
Norma snorted. “It’s not as if we need her here to manage the household. We’re overrun with women and children as it is.”
Bessie leaned over and patted Constance’s knee. “There was no harm done. She’s a grown woman now and she’ll do what she likes. Do we really want to be the kind of family where everyone walks around in fear of each other’s disapproval and disappointment?”
“She was in fear because she knew better,” Constance grumbled.
“Constance, I beg you to think about this,” Bessie said. “Francis didn’t tell me the truth, because he couldn’t bear to disappoint me. He would’ve rather mortgaged the house than walk in the door and tell me he’d lost his job. And look at what that drove him to do. Lying to me and running up debts all over town.”
“I suppose,” Constance said, reluctantly. “But Francis should’ve known you’d love him anyway.”
“He should have,” said Bessie, “and I will ask myself why he didn’t every day for the rest of my life. But there’s only one way to prove that we will not turn our backs or scold or reprimand when things go horribly wrong. And that’s not to do it.”
“She turned her back, too,” said Constance. “She’s the one who left.”
“And imagine how terrified she must’ve been,” said Bessie. “Imagine how frightful it would be to run from your family, just because you couldn’t stand their judgment.”
It was the closest Bessie had ever come to acknowledging the truth, a secret that Francis must’ve told her years ago. Constance had fled her own family when she was younger than Fleurette, fearing their fury when they learned she was pregnant. It had taken Norma—stalwart, persistent Norma, even as a teenage girl—to track Constance down and bring her back, and to convince their mother to forgive and accept the child.
That child, of course, was Fleurette, who was never told the truth. She grew up believing that the three of them were sisters, and Constance never saw a reason to tell her otherwise. What had happened back in 1897 was best left there.
Did Constance know what it meant to live in terror of her family’s wrath? To know that they would reject her if they knew the truth?
She knew it better than any of them.
31
THE SEAMSTRESSING WORK was dull when she had to do it all day. Fleurette found that she didn’t mind making over a dress or cuffing a pair of pants when it was something extra, to be fitted in around the edges of an otherwise interesting and engaging life, but when she woke up with nothing else to look forward to but a day behind the sewing machine and a few limp dollars to show for it, her enthusiasm flagged.
Was this to be her life now, tucked in the attic of a boarding-house, living with women who didn’t know how to talk, repairing other people’s terrible choices in clothing, scrimping to save the odd dollar to send home to her brother’s widow?
She had only her parrot for companionship, and for one terrible moment she even considered giving Laura away. She had been working in Mrs. Doyle’s basement sewing room, which had recently been improved upon by the addition of an ancient Victrola, one that had been gathering dust in the parlor because no one else had the wit or imagination to put on music and dance.
Now as she sewed she played songs from Mrs. Doyle’s collection, and Laura from atop her cage shrieked and whistled along. (Fleurette tried to join in but still could not, and from a sitting position it was worse, as the breath simply would not come. She gave up any attempt at a duet and let Laura enjoy her solos.)
It being a basement room, the windows were high, and Fleurette kept them open to drive the musty odor out. Laura liked to turn toward the stream of fresh air and sing directly out the open window, as if calling to her avian counterparts in the trees.
Once a pair of brown leather shoes stopped along the sidewalk. Fleurette watched as a toe tapped in time to the music. Then the legs bent, and a hand came to rest on the pavement, and a man’s face peered in the window. “I thought you had a parrot down there!” he called. “I used to train them myself.”
Fleurette stood up. She was eye-to-eye with him, except that his face was nearly upside-down. “What’d you train them to do?” she asked.
“I had an uncle who raised them,” he said. “Used to se
ll them to traveling acts. Magicians, circuses, that sort of thing. I stayed with him in the summertime and helped with the training. Well, mostly I cleaned cages.”
“There is quite a bit of that to do,” Fleurette said.
The man glanced over at Laura. “My cousin runs the place now. You should see what he can do with these birds. Has some of them singing opera. Some of them tell jokes. The whole joke, not just a word or two at the end. Can you imagine that?”
“Laura’s learning new words every day,” Fleurette said.
The man settled down cross-legged on the sidewalk, having grown tired of looking in upside-down. “Would you ever consider parting with her? She could have a good long life on the stage, if she was given the chance.”
“Couldn’t we all,” said Fleurette, mournfully.
“What’s that?” said the man.
“Never mind. She probably would like to travel and be admired. But she’s staying with me for now.”
He cast another appreciative look at Laura, who unabashedly preened and lengthened her neck, and even extended a leg as if showing off a pretty ankle. Poor Laura, stuffed away in a basement, when the world was waiting for her!
“If you change your mind,” the man said, “it’s Dietz & Sons, over in Trenton. Can you remember that?”
“I’ll write it down,” said Fleurette, but she knew she wouldn’t. It might be selfish to deny Laura a chance to realize her full potential, but without her, who did Fleurette have to bestow her affections upon?
She tried not to dwell upon her sisters, and Bessie and the children, and fought the temptation to wonder how they were faring or what they might be saying about her, in her absence, when they sat around the dinner table at night.
She did intend to return at some point, perhaps for Sunday dinner, or to drop by for a visit now and then. But the trouble was that she didn’t know how to be a visitor in her own family’s home.
Was she to wait for an invitation, or to just turn up on the doorstep? Was she expected to knock first, or could she just walk in? And how was she to talk about her life to people who were no longer in it from day to day? There would be so much explaining that had never been necessary before, and so much tiptoeing around sore subjects.