by Terrie Todd
“I can’t believe you get to live here!” She ran her gloved hand along the shiny banister as we ascended. At the top she gazed down at the entryway with its sparkling chandelier, and I thought she’d pass out. “It’s so marvelous! How can you stand it?”
“Well,” I said, “you get used to it pretty fast when every little thing you see is something more to be cleaned. I have personally spent an entire morning on top of a stepladder, cleaning all those crystals. That’s why I’m hoping to work my way up to lady’s maid.” We continued on to the third-floor room I now shared with Rita, who was still on duty. This room was like my first, right down to the color scheme of olive green and gray. It was just bigger and had two of everything, including windows.
“Really? Oh, tell me all about it! Have you gotten to know the family? What are the other staff like?” Maxine pumped me with questions while she waited for me to change out of my uniform. I pulled on a navy skirt and lilac sweater set I’d bought the first payday after my promotion.
“Now that I help serve meals, I see the Weinbergers almost every day. But the only one I’ve gotten to know is Caroline, their older daughter. She’s our age and very nice.” I hung up my uniform and ran a brush down its front and back. “I’ve only met her brother Carlton once. The little kids, Sol Junior and Cynthia, are bratty, but they’re with their nanny most of the time, so they don’t bother me. Can you believe I’ve only spoken with the lady of the house once? She seems nice. But she leaves everything to the butler, Stevenson.”
“Ooooh, a butler! Bridge, you simply must find me a job here.” She flounced from my bed to the window and back to the dresser, where she played with my brush and mirror set and admired her own reflection.
“You were born in Canada, Max. I honestly think they hire only immigrants for the house. I don’t know why.”
“Maybe I could fake an accent.” She put on her best cockney. “I’m just goin’ down the apples an’ pears to get a cuppa tea for the lads.”
I rolled my eyes. “You also have to know how to stay very quiet to work here, Max.”
“What are you trying to say?”
I pushed my feet into my black Mary Janes and kept silent.
She hurled a pillow at me and laughed. “It’s okay. I know, I get it. I don’t shut up. I wouldn’t fit in. And you know what? It’s all right. Really. God made me a talker. Now, what do you want to do? Boys Town is playing at the Roxy. Wanna go?”
“Sure.”
All the way to the theater, Maxine proved my point.
“You know I’m still planning to become a hairdresser and even run my own shop one day, right? It’s gonna happen, Bridge. Until then, I’ll keep practicing on the girls at the factory. I cut Yvonne’s hair real short. Do you remember her? Oh, maybe she came after you left. Ooh, did I tell you Rosa is engaged? I wanted to introduce her to Arnie, but I guess there’s no point now. Did I tell you Arnie and Billy both plan to sign up for military service? Much to our mother’s horror. They’re convinced war is imminent. I pray it’s not true. It would destroy Mom to lose another child.”
I told Maxine more about my hopes of becoming a lady’s maid. “If I can move from kitchen maid to housemaid in only nine months, I figure I can move up again by next summer. Edith is leaving to get married then, and Evelyn is teaching me what I need to know. Of course, a lot of the job is taking care of clothes, and I can already sew a fine stitch—thanks to the factory.”
“You’ll do it, Bridge. You already talk different. No trace of that old Irish.”
Maxine, always eager to encourage, had to know that was exactly what I wanted to hear.
“Really? You mean it?”
“Oh, yes! You sound like a proper lady already.”
I gave her a playful shove. “Like you’d be able to hear the difference.”
She only laughed and shoved back. “Now that was most unladylike.”
We paid our dimes at the Roxy and settled into our seats with popcorn. Maxine’s commentary included her opinion that Spencer Tracy was much too handsome to play a priest and Mickey Rooney was simply the cutest—too bad he was so short. But she grew quieter as the story of Father Flanagan unfolded. His belief that “there is no such thing as a bad boy” motivated him to battle indifference, the legal system, and often the boys themselves in order to build a sanctuary for kids like Whitey Marsh. Much as I had the previous Christmas, I felt something stir inside me. This was different than the experience at church, though. This felt more like a conviction: that one committed person with the right motives could make a real difference in the world, and in the lives of those less fortunate.
I’d been fortunate, that much I knew. I’d managed to escape a dismal world and become something better than I’d been. I’d had help along the way from Mr. Nilsen, from Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Huddlestone at the factory, from Mr. Weinberger, from Mrs. Cohen, and now from Evelyn. But I wondered: Was I really any better? Did I show care to others who were in the same situation as I? When I thought about it, I really hadn’t. Some of my coworkers struggled desperately just to learn English well enough to hold down a job in Canada. They had experienced much tougher times than I had. For a while, I’d tried to help Natasha, the new kitchen maid who replaced me and was still fresh from Russia. But it was a halfhearted attempt at best. I had become so focused on improving my own lot in life, changing my own mannerisms, that I barely heard the stories Natasha tried to share in her broken English.
The picture ended on a triumphant note, but Maxine and I left the theater subdued. Too full of popcorn to think about supper, we decided to walk through the park and say our goodbyes at her bus stop. The warm fall day was rapidly turning to evening, and we stopped and sprawled on the carpet of leaves, gazing up at the sky like two little children.
“I want to do something meaningful,” I blurted.
Maxine waited for more, but I didn’t elaborate. “You mean, right now?”
“I mean like Father Flanagan.”
“You want to tame a bunch of wild boys?” Maxine tossed some leaves into the air.
“No, silly. I just . . . I want to do more than just live. More than just try to make a better life for myself.” Surprisingly, Maxine remained quiet, so I kept going. “I look at people like Caroline Weinberger, who’s got it all . . . has had it all, since she was born. But she lost her mother when she was little, like me.”
“You said her stepmother was nice.”
“She is. But still. It must have been difficult.” I watched a flock of geese overhead, their V shape pointed due south. “Then I look at people like Mrs. Cohen and Natasha who struggled so hard all their lives just to survive.”
“Also like you?”
I didn’t respond. I’d told Maxine little about my former life and still wasn’t comfortable talking about it. I sat up and gathered leaves around my knees, my legs straight out in front of me. “The point is, everybody has it tough in some way. Some are happy and some are not, and it doesn’t seem to have much to do with the hardness of a person’s life.” I watched a young mother pushing her toddler on a swing. “Maybe I should be a nun.”
“A nun?” Maxine rolled onto her side, bending one elbow to rest her head in her hand. “Are you kidding me? Never get married?”
“Boys are stupid. Why would I want to marry one? And I don’t need children. I’m not sure I like them all that much.”
Maxine sat up. “It’s different with your own.”
“How would you know?”
She shrugged. “That’s what they say. Anyway, you don’t have to be a nun to do good things in the world.”
“I know.” I sighed. “I’d be a terrible nun, anyway. They’re all good and kind and unselfish.”
“Well, maybe not all.” Maxine lay back down. “I used to not believe in God, did I ever tell you that?”
I looked at her.
“It’s true. When I was twelve, I decided I didn’t believe what we learned at church and what my parents taught. It all seemed to
o far-fetched. Then my sister died. And I saw my parents lean on God like never before, and it wasn’t just a show. It was real. They showed me Jesus.”
I stood and brushed the leaves out of my clothes. Maxine followed suit. We meandered toward her bus stop, and for once, she had nothing to say.
“I think you’ve shown me Jesus,” I said softly.
Maxine turned in surprise. “Me?”
I nodded. “In tons of little ways. You befriended me from the start. You’re the one who has worked to keep our friendship going even though I’ve brought nothing to the table.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” she protested.
But I kept going. “Your family welcomed me and accepted me just as I was. Now you’ve made the effort to visit me, and you cheer me on even when I don’t return the encouragement.”
We walked the rest of the block without speaking. “Well, if that’s all true . . .” Maxine paused. “Then what you said just now is the most inspiring thing you could ever say to me.” She gave me a hug as the bus pulled to a stop in front of us. “I love you, Bridget.”
She climbed aboard with a wave, the door closing behind her. I watched the bus pull away and whispered words I couldn’t remember ever saying before.
“I love you, too.”
Chapter 16
Spring 1939
Maxine, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
We stood in the rain amid the throngs as we waved miniature Union Jacks and waited for the royal cavalcade to appear. King George VI and Queen Elizabeth were in Winnipeg, and Maxine insisted this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see them. It seemed the rest of the world agreed, and we practically had to keep our arms linked to avoid losing each other in the crowd. Folks had traveled by car and train all the way from the United States just to get a glimpse of Their Majesties.
“We live right here! How could we not go?” Maxine said. “Especially since Mr. Weinberger gave everybody street car fare.”
“But it’s raining.”
Maxine laughed. “That’s why God invented umbrellas! C’mon, Bridge. This is the first time a reigning monarch has visited Canada, and on Victoria Day to boot! We can’t miss it, you silly goose.”
So we stood on the sidewalk along Broadway Avenue. Manitoba’s legislative building rose up in front of us, the Golden Boy faithfully holding his pose at the top of the dome. I pictured him with an umbrella in his hand and chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Maxine asked.
I turned my chuckle into a low growl. “Nothing. I’m standing here in my best outfit, cold and wet, waiting to see someone who won’t even notice me. I could be using my afternoon off to study my correspondence courses on my warm, dry bed. So, no. Nothing is funny.”
“Spoilsport. You need a break from your studying.” Maxine was unfazed by my grumpiness. “Just wait. You’ll see. One day, you’ll be telling this story to your grandchildren.”
“So they’ll know what a fool their grandmother was?”
“Would you rather tell them you missed this because you were scared of a little water?”
Truth was, most people were thrilled with the water. Even the city dwellers understood how desperately the prairies had needed rain in recent years. Now the drought had ended and farmers were producing again. I wondered if Bleak Landing had ceased to look so parched, but couldn’t imagine it any other way.
A roar went up at one end of the crowd.
“They’re coming!” we heard people cry out. And as the motorcade made its way down the street, I had to confess that Maxine might have had a point. Though I’d never admit it to her, it felt wonderful to be caught up in something so big and so full of happiness. The rain continued, but we barely noticed it. We cheered and waved our flags and even caught a glimpse of the king and queen as they rode by.
“Look!” Maxine pointed. “They’ve lowered the roof of their car. If the king and queen can get wet, so can we.”
By the end of the afternoon, we’d stood through speeches by Prime Minister Mackenzie King and Winnipeg Mayor John Queen—with everyone talking about how this unlikely combination of names would be a source of laughter for years to come. Maxine and I sang “God Save the King” along with the crowd.
I found myself growing strangely detached as we listened to a high school choir.
That could be me.
Not that I was much of a singer, but the kids in the choir were my age. If I were one of them, my life would look so much different. Most of them probably lived at home with both parents and brothers and sisters. They didn’t need to worry about earning a living or keeping a boss happy so they’d have a roof over their heads and food to eat. They could spend their evenings studying in front of a cozy fire and their weekends socializing. They’d soon be graduating. The idyllic picture I painted in my head might not have reflected complete reality, but I still listened to their cheerful singing with envy in my heart.
Hours later, we warmed up in my room, drinking hot tea from Mrs. Cohen’s kitchen. Maxine sat at the foot of my bed while I flopped across the head.
“I want a hat like that.” Dressed in my bathrobe, Maxine pulled her knees into a cross-legged position. Her clothes were draped over the radiator.
“A hat like what?”
“Didn’t you see the queen’s hat? It was perfect! She’s so beautiful!”
I shrugged. “I thought she’d be wearing a crown.”
“No, silly. Crowns are for official portraits and such.”
I pulled warm socks onto my feet. “I want a crown. It doesn’t seem fair that one person should get to wear a crown just because they’re born into a certain family. It should have to be earned. It should be something anybody can aspire to, anybody with enough gumption and grace.”
“Like you?”
I threw a pillow at her, and her tea sloshed out of her cup onto my bed. “Hey! Watch it.” Maxine tucked the pillow between herself and the wall and leaned against it. “I’m a princess.”
I let out a snort and tugged a comb through the snarls in my damp hair. “And I’m a unicorn.”
“No, I mean it. You’re a princess, too. Or you can be, if you want. Want me to comb out your hair?”
“No, thanks. What do you mean, I can be a princess?”
“I’m a child of the king,” she said.
“Max.” I tugged on a tangled clump of hair until it yielded to the comb. “I’ve met your parents. They’re lovely. But your dad is no king. Sorry to break it to you.”
Maxine pulled a pencil and notebook from my table and began doodling. I wanted to yell at her for wasting paper, but I knew how much I’d enjoy looking at her drawing after she left. She wasn’t a bad artist.
“No. It’s the name of a hymn we sing at church, and at home, too. It’s a reminder that because our God is the King of Kings and we are his children, we are royalty. And rich beyond measure.”
Then she actually sang:
My Father is rich in houses and lands,
He holdeth the wealth of the world in His hands!
Of rubies and diamonds, of silver and gold,
His coffers are full, He has riches untold.
I’m a child of the King,
A child of the King:
With Jesus my Savior,
I’m a child of the King.
I didn’t know what to say to this. I felt torn between bugging Max about her corniness and asking her to tell me more.
“Where’s your Bible?” she asked. “I’ll show you all about how God calls us his children, out of his deep love for us. How he adopts us.”
I stared at her. “When have you ever seen me with a Bible?”
She looked around. “I guess I haven’t. I just thought everybody—”
“How long have we known each other? Two years?” I shook my head in disbelief.
“Sorry, Bridge. We should remedy that soon. Anyway, it says ‘Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be call
ed the sons of God.’ Daughters are implied. Like I said, princesses.” She told me how her family had sung this hymn with gusto all through the Depression years, when they never knew whether they’d still have a roof over their heads the next day.
As she described her family, gathered around the piano and singing about how rich they were, I wanted to scoff. But I respected Maxine enough to let her go on. If that’s what worked for them, if it got them through, fine.
Besides, for them it probably was true. God probably had adopted them all, and one day they’d be living in some mansion with him forever. I couldn’t expect her to understand that I was destined for hell, that my father was nothing but a drunken bully who would steal from his own child, or that I’d traded the only thing close to rubies or diamonds I’d even known to gain my freedom. Any aspirations I had for a better life, I’d have to realize through my own ambition. I couldn’t wait around for some magic daddy-king in the sky to shower me with riches.
“If you’re a princess, why are you slaving away at the factory, saving up for beauty school? Someone else should be doing your hair.”
Maxine just kept humming the tune as she drew a sketch of the queen’s hat. When she was done, she rested her head against the wall with her eyes closed, as if she was trying to remember something. She started singing again. Her next words made me stop my combing and stare at her.
A tent or a cottage, why should I care?
They’re building a palace for me over there;
Though exiled from home, yet still may I sing:
All glory to God, I’m a child of the King.
Exiled from home? Had I heard her right? The words jabbed at my heart, but Maxine only kept doodling and singing. An argument broke out in my head. I hadn’t been exiled. I’d left home of my own free will. And I could go back any time I decided to. Right? I had merely decided not to.
“It’s a dumb song,” I said, not caring about my friend’s feelings.
Maxine stopped humming and looked at me, clearly hurt. For once, she didn’t say anything. I climbed off the bed and straightened the books and papers on my makeshift desk. “I really need to get some work done,” I said. “Want me to walk you to the bus? Looks like the rain has stopped.”