News From Heaven

by Jennifer Haigh

  The kettle whistled. Carefully she mixed the paste. She spread it into a clean dish towel and brought it to Daniel on a tray.

  “What’s that?”

  “A plaster.” Annie sat on the bed beside him. “Take off your shirt.”

  His skin was moist and pale, matted with dark hair. He winced as she laid the hot towel on his chest.

  “Leave it there until it cools,” she said. “I’ll come back in a little while.”

  “No.” He reached for her hand. “Please. Sit with me.”

  For a long time she stared out the window, listening to the night noises: Daniel breathing fast and shallow, snowflakes scratching the windowpanes. Outside, the sidewalks glowed beneath the streetlamps; even at this hour, the city was bright. Annie was a sound sleeper; she had never imagined the night was so long. The city was full of restless people, a thousand Daniels lying awake, the horizon burning with their collective heat.

  It was daylight when Annie woke. She stirred, her back and legs aching, and found herself kneeling at Daniel’s bedside. Her blouse was wrinkled, her face creased. Her arms and shoulders rested on the quilt as if she’d fallen asleep in prayer.

  She raised her head. In the distance, bells were ringing. Sunday morning, the Mass starting without her. Daniel was fast asleep, his bare shoulders visible above the blanket. His chest rose and fell silently. His hand was tangled in her hair.

  She disengaged his hand. He stirred but didn’t wake. She saw then that the bedroom door was open. Somewhere in the apartment a radio was playing, water running. Somebody was drawing a bath.

  The Nudelmans had come home.

  Annie stood, her heart pounding, and went into the kitchen. A breakfast had been cooked and eaten. In the milchig sink were two greasy plates.

  At home in Pennsylvania she thinks often of that night: her vigil at Daniel Nudelman’s bedside, the bright silent city closed in around them. There are words for what she’d felt as she watched him sleep, many words in many languages, but the one she knows is longing. Her mind wanders as she punches down the bread dough. She covers it with a towel and leaves it to rise near the stove.

  Her mother speaks to her only in Polish and asks no questions. For several months she’s kept an eye on Annie’s waistline. Spring ended, then summer. Still Annie is thin as a deer. Now the mornings are cooler; the garden offers up its last tomatoes. Her brothers and sisters go back to school. Helen Lubicki walks across town to Bakerton High, the first in the family to do so. She is an excellent student. Now that Annie has returned, there is no need for Helen to leave school.

  “I’ll be studying for the rest of my life,” Daniel had told her. Was such a thing even possible? Like everything she heard and saw in the city, it now seems fantastic, as though she made it all up.

  His hand in her hair.

  In the days after the snowstorm, Mrs. Nudelman had ignored her completely. It was her husband who told Annie the news. “I’m sorry, Miss Lubicki, but we will no longer need your help in the kitchen.” His Polish was awkward; she stared at him, mystified, not sure she’d understood.

  Instantly she thought of the dishes. “Oh, no. Have I made a mistake?”

  “Not at all. Your work has been very good.” He hesitated a moment, then spoke carefully. “But my nephew is coming from Poland. God willing. So we will no longer have an extra room.”

  Years later she will understand the reason. Her brother Peter will die in the war. Her brother John will see the camps, and Annie—married then, with sons of her own—will remember the Nudelmans and the Grossmans, the nephew from Poland who was given her bedroom. She will think of Daniel. Is he married, too? A husband and father and still studying? Daniel in his separate world.

  Now she sets out coffee, a heavy clay pitcher in the middle of the table, milk and sugar already mixed in. Each morning for breakfast she bakes a dozen apples. Then the young ones leave for school, Helen and John and Peter and the rest, and Annie piles the dishes in the sink.

  Something Sweet

  The farm children were waiting in the corridor each morning when Miss Peale arrived at school: Henry Eickmeier, Chauncey Hoeffer, Peggy Schultheis, and Richard Dickey, who’d ridden into town at dawn on his father’s milk truck. In the cloakroom they stowed coats and galoshes, hats and gloves. Miss Peale settled in at her desk and looked over her lesson plans. The farm children did not speak to one another; familiar as cousins, they didn’t see the point. They sat quietly at their desks, waiting for the town children to arrive.

  First came the hoodlums, in a noisy pack: Jerry Bernardi, Joseph Poblocki, and John Quinn. At the back of the room they sprawled heavily in their chairs, scraping the linoleum. At the end of the day Miss Peale would have a pupil reorder the desks, or simply do it herself.

  Gradually the others filed in, the studious boys who spoke up in class, the shy girls—Dorothy Novak, Helen Lubicki—who never said a word. At the front of the room sat the pretty girls: Nellie Stiffler, Theresa Bellavia in her tight sweater, Angela Scalia, the homecoming queen. Evelyn Lipnic seemed out of place in that crowd, a redhead with a lovely complexion, sweet and mannerly and, in Miss Peale’s estimation, not as fast. At the center of the hive, as always, was Alan Spangler, smiling and dapper in a plaid sport coat. Their arrival caused a reaction among the hoodlums, a kind of heightened alertness. From her vantage point, Miss Peale saw it like a ripple in the water. The pretty girls seemed not to notice. According to Edna O’Shane, who taught art and music, they had fiancés overseas, young men in danger. Boys their own age could not compete.

  They were the class of 1943, that year’s models. In other years there had been other quiet Schultheis girls, other lovely Scalias; a long series of incorrigible Bernardis, Poblockis, and Quinns. Most were coal miners’ children, the sons and daughters of pinners and cutters—raised in company houses built by Baker Brothers, their chores and meals dictated by Baker shifts. There were a few exceptions: the Bellavias owned a bakery in Little Italy, the Spanglers a hat shop on Main Street. Bernardi’s Funeral Home catered to the new foreign families, Italians, Irish, and Slavish—a business that, given the general fecundity of Catholics, seemed destined to thrive. Viola Peale was, herself, a lifelong member of St. John’s Episcopal, built by her father’s cousins Chester and Elias Baker—the original Baker brothers for whom the mines, and the town, were named.

  The homeroom period was for administrative purposes. Miss Peale took attendance and read announcements. On Saturday morning the Key Club would sponsor a collection drive, old tires and scrap metal for the war effort. Students’ families were encouraged to donate. Report cards would be issued on Thursday, the last day before Christmas vacation. Thursday evening the glee club would perform its annual Christmas concert.

  “Starring Alan Spangler!” Nellie shrieked, squeezing his shoulder.

  Miss Peale gave her a reproving look.

  At the bell the students rose. The pretty girls collected their pocketbooks. Alan Spangler lingered at Miss Peale’s desk.

  “You have to try these, Miss Peale.” His voice was warm and resonant, Edna O’Shane’s best tenor. He reached into his jacket and produced a tin of lemon drops. “My dad buys them in Pittsburgh. My mom can’t get enough of them.”

  “That’s kind of you, Alan,” she said, flushing. “Though it’s a bit early in the day for candy.” She was uncomfortably aware of the boys at the back of the room, Poblocki’s gruff laughter, Quinn cracking a joke in a low voice.

  Alan Spangler seemed not to notice. He grinned, showing his dimple. “Take one for after lunch. It’s nice to have something sweet.”

  A few snowflakes scattered as Viola drove across town. She had stayed late to grade papers, and already dusk was falling. She groped for, and eventually found, the switch that turned on the headlamps. She was not a confident driver. The car, her father’s ancient Ford, never traveled beyond the town line.

  At home Clara was chopping vegetables for soup. “The basket came,” she said.

  Viola
glanced into the parlor. A giant package sat in the center of the table, wrapped in clear cellophane. Her sister had shown unusual restraint. Each year at Christmas, their cousin Chessie sent a massive fruit basket—not the usual apples and oranges but bright, sweet clementines, tiny champagne grapes, a whole pineapple with the leafy crown attached. (Where one found such produce in Bakerton, Viola couldn’t imagine. In winter the selection was slim indeed.) The basket arrived with a generic note, on company letterhead:

  COMPLIMENTS OF BAKER BROTHERS,

  MINERS AND SHIPPERS OF COAL

  Delivered, always, by one of the Baker maids, as if to remind the sisters that their cousin was an important man, busy running ten coal mines, the welfare of an entire town heavy on his shoulders. The slight was lost on Clara, who would, if Viola didn’t stop her, attack the basket like a hungry orangutan and devour its contents in a single day.

  Her sister was sweet-tempered and didn’t mind the scolding. At school she’d been called slow. As labels went, it was not inaccurate. Clara moved through life at a deliberate pace, as though the smallest decisions—shoes or boots, rice or potatoes—called for long consideration. And yet she was an excellent cook, a careful housekeeper, skills Viola had never bothered to acquire. Since their parents’ death, the sisters had looked after each other. Neither had ever lived alone.

  After supper, Viola took a walk uptown. The stores were open late for holiday shopping, the sidewalks busy, the windows bright. Even the Jewish merchants had decorated; Friedman’s Furniture glowed with twinkling red lights. A speaker piped carols into the chilly air, Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.” The atmosphere was festive, and yet there were sober reminders—two blue stars in Izzy Friedman’s window, his sons Neil and Morris serving overseas—of the boys who might not return.

  She wandered down Main Street, studying the shop windows. Each year she bought a few modest gifts—scented soap for Edna O’Shane, a scarf or sweater for Clara, who would have preferred some useless trinket. She had always been indifferent to clothing. Without Viola’s prodding, she would go to church in her slip.

  She paused in front of Spangler’s Hat Shop, known all over Saxon County for its window displays. In defiance of the season, someone had created a kind of Caribbean fantasy: against a painted backdrop of sand and ocean, mannequins sat in lawn chairs, dressed in colorful swimsuits and drinking summer cocktails. Absurdly, each wore a beautiful hat. The hats were strawberry-pink and lemon-yellow, nothing a woman would buy this time of year. And yet the tableau was irresistible. It was impossible to walk past the window, impossible not to step inside.

  As she stood gawking, a hand snaked through a seam in the backdrop and placed paper umbrellas in the mannequins’ glasses. Then Alan Spangler appeared in the window. He knelt to clip a bracelet around a mannequin’s wrist. When he spotted Viola, he smiled and waved her inside. “Miss Peale! It’s nice to see you.” He had removed his sport jacket; his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. “How do you like my display?”

  “It’s enchanting,” she said. “This is your creation?”

  He grinned. “I accept full blame. My dad thinks I’ve lost my mind.” He lowered his voice. “It’s working, though. We’ve never had a busier Christmas.”

  “Well, congratulations.” Her eyes darted around the shop, the dozens of hats on wire stands. For her sister, it would be a wasteful gift: the hall closet was full of unworn hats. Each Sunday Clara donned an old green cloche of their mother’s, stylish twenty years ago.

  “We just got a whole truckload of new merchandise. I haven’t put them out yet. You can have first pick.” He crossed to the front door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. “We close at eight, but you’re a special customer.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother,” she protested.

  He disappeared into a back room, calling over his shoulder: “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  Viola waited. Somewhere a radio was playing. On the counter was a pile of fashion magazines, Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. She hadn’t bought a new hat in years. She and Clara lived within their means, her weekly paycheck plus the small inheritance from their father.

  Alan reappeared with a stack of hatboxes piled to his chin. “I picked these especially for you.” He opened a box and took out a maroon beret. “Try this.”

  Viola took the hat and placed it carefully on her head. He pointed toward a mirror. “It’s lovely,” she said.

  “Don’t make up your mind yet. Not until you see this.” From a larger box, he took a simple woolen sailor. “Don’t look yet.” He placed the hat on her head, frowned, adjusted it minutely. To her astonishment, his fingers brushed at her forehead, loosening a lock of hair. “You have beautiful hair. We don’t want to cover it completely.”

  It was a remarkable thing for a boy to say to his teacher, but Alan said it simply, without self-consciousness. He was a natural salesman, born, if the Creator actually thought of such things, to sell ladies’ hats. Growing up around the shop, he’d developed a way with the female customers, a warm and practiced ease. It explained his popularity with the girls at school. Bakerton men were not known for social graces. Next to other local males—the girls’ gruff fathers and crude brothers—Alan Spangler was a prince.

  He stood behind her and studied her reflection in the mirror. “I had a hunch it would suit your complexion. Bring out the blue in your eyes.”

  Viola blinked. He was right: her eyes, gray in most lights, looked distinctly blue. “It’s marvelous,” she said softly—forgetting for the moment that he was her pupil, forgetting everything but this new vision of herself, no longer a dowdy schoolmarm but a striking blue-eyed woman with beautiful hair. Such was the power of an elegant hat.

  She turned to face him, hesitating. It seemed indelicate to ask. “What is the price, exactly?”

  “Nineteen dollars.”

  “Oh, my.” She had never spent so much on a hat in her life. “It’s very tempting. But Christmas is just around the corner. I should be buying gifts for others, not myself.” She took a final look at her reflection, the vivid blue eyes she’d never seen in a mirror. Reluctantly she removed the hat.

  “I’ll put it aside for you, in case you change your mind.” Alan’s eyes twinkled. “This hat is made for you. There isn’t a woman in Bakerton who could wear it so well.”

  “Thank you, Alan,” she said, flushing. “You’re quite a salesman. Your father must be very proud.”

  She buttoned her coat and headed out into the cold. A stiff wind had kicked up. Walking home, she felt warmed from the inside, hot with pleasure and embarrassment. Bakerton was a small town. Mindful of appearances, she had always kept a certain distance from her pupils. Any passing pedestrian might have seen her through the glass door, alone in the shop with Alan Spangler, giggling like schoolgirls as he placed the hat on her head. And yet in the moment, she’d felt no discomfort. She hadn’t felt such freedom, such warm and easy happiness in another’s company, since she was a girl.

  That night, naturally, she dreamed of Edgar. She often did, but that night it was certain to happen. There was no doubt.

  They had called themselves cousins, though in fact their fathers were. Viola’s, an accountant, had been brought over from England by his cousins Chester and Elias Baker. When the first Baker mine prospered, Herman Peale had been hired to keep the books. Edgar was Chester Baker’s son—born, like Viola, at an extraordinary moment, the dawn of the new century. They had in common a feeling of destiny, a fascination with the future: the modern wonders not yet invented, the unimaginable miracles to come.

  From birth they’d been closer than siblings. Viola’s sister, Clara, was too slow for their games; Edgar’s brother, Chester Jr.—known as Chessie—too serious, too old. As children they’d chased each other through the Baker house, a rambling mansion on Indian Hill. At Jefferson Elementary they were inseparable. Another boy would have been teased for playing with a girl, but Edgar was a Baker. At eight or nine or ten, the miner
s’ children were old enough to know the difference.

  Looking back on those years, Viola could summon few memories of her parents or Clara and none whatsoever of her schoolmates. Her long happy childhood had been spent in Edgar’s orbit.

  Then, when they were both fourteen, Edgar was taken away—enrolled, like his brother, Chessie, at the Wollaston School in Connecticut, impossibly far away. At Bakerton High, Viola was sick with loneliness. From the miners’ children she felt hopelessly separate, and yet she was no Baker. The schoolmates she’d always ignored returned the favor, leaving her friendless in the small class. In those days, few pupils finished high school; they left for the mines or the dress factory, the family farm. In 1917, Viola’s year, Bakerton High would graduate a class of twelve.

  She lived for the summers, when Edgar returned for three glorious months of riding and long walks and picnics and tennis, a game he’d become obsessed with at school. On rainy days they spent hours at the piano. Viola played competently, Edgar beautifully. Every summer they mastered several duets. Each May their reunion was awkward. Edgar seemed at first a different person, a handsome and beguiling stranger with a shockingly deep voice. In a day or two the effect would dissipate, and Viola would recognize her own Edgar, dearer to her than anybody; as familiar as her own self.

  They had three such summers, sun-filled, precious. Then, in the fourth summer—they didn’t know it would be the last—everything, everything changed.

  Edgar came home in time to attend her graduation. Viola, the class valedictorian, saw him sitting in the audience next to a boy she didn’t recognize. Later she was introduced to Bronson Baker—Edgar’s first cousin and her second. The boy’s mother, finding Bakerton uninhabitable, had divorced Elias Baker when Bronson was a baby and taken him back to England to live. When England went to war, Bronson had been sent to military school in South Carolina. Now he’d come to spend a summer with the father he barely remembered.