Bethlehem

by Karen Kelly

  But the chair was, perhaps, too comfortable, and the day had taken its toll. On that night, it wasn’t Charlie who fell asleep. It was Joanna.

  When she awoke, fuzzy and disoriented, it took several moments to realize what was missing. She stretched in the chair, looking absently at the books scattered on floor. Frank must have taken Charlie to bed, but why didn’t he wake her? As she rose to check on Charlie in his bedroom, a creeping apprehension began to wrap around her heart. Something wasn’t right. Frank would have woken her—he wouldn’t have left her to sleep in the chair.

  Charlie’s bed was empty. Frank wasn’t home.

  She had opened the front door and was peering frantically into the dark, frigid night, when headlights turned the corner and Frank’s car pulled into the driveway. That was when she saw the small footprints in the snow.

  They found him by the side of the garage, nearly unconscious, curled in a tight ball between two large yews. When Joanna lifted him, his pajamas stuck to the snow, frozen there. Charlie had gone to look for his father, certain he had heard the car.

  Hypothermia and frostbite seemed like a gift. It could have been—it almost was—far worse. The near-catastrophe shook them both to the core. Joanna was sickened with self-incrimination, and the expression that now haunted her husband’s features proved that he felt the same way.

  That was when Frank started thinking about moving them to Bethlehem. After three months the strike ended, but for the next couple of years Frank continued to bring home mimeographs of real estate listings that his secretary pulled together, and Joanna continued to pretend to study them. One night, late again and wearing his weariness like a yoke, he said they needed to talk. Plans had been announced to build a major plant in Indiana to produce sheet and plate metal. Times were changing and the business had to keep up, so they were beginning to cater to the auto industry. The Burns Harbor plant would be the biggest thing ever to happen to Bethlehem Steel. He didn’t have to say it: he was afraid that the weight of his commitment would crush them. He needed his wife and children in Bethlehem.

  And then his father died.

  As she was helping Daisy into her nightgown, it occurred to Joanna that looking after Susannah and Helen may not have been Frank’s only impetus for moving his family into Brynmor. She saw now what he must have realized right away—that installing them in a new home in Bethlehem would be worse than staying in Philadelphia if he couldn’t improve his attendance. And he was right. The responsibilities at the new plant were backbreaking; he was traveling from Pennsylvania to Indiana on a continuum. At least until the Burns Harbor plant was up and running, she was grateful for the ready society of their small colony. Even the presence of the help was oddly comforting. Joanna had struck up a nice rapport with Hazel, the cook, pulling up a chair in the kitchen most mornings for an early cup of coffee; and Harriet—stooped and no longer required to perform anything more strenuous than dinner service and light dusting—had turned out to be the children’s favorite fixture. Her good-natured confusion—exaggerated for effect, Joanna hoped—provided endless amusement as they switched the forks around on the table and placed feather dusters in the hat rack.

  “Am I black or white?”

  Joanna blinked as she tried to interpret Daisy’s question. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” She thought fleetingly that the little girl had been watching Walter Cronkite. The last thing she wanted at that hour was to answer questions about civil rights.

  “Last time when we played I was white, but Charlie says he’s white.”

  Ah, chess. She took Daisy’s hand and led her up the back stairs to the third-floor playroom. “You have to take turns. This time it’s Charlie’s turn to be white. You get to be black.”

  In its former capacity, the playroom had been the nursery—nestled between two bedrooms that had been occupied by the nannies of yesteryear. It was a large room—much larger than any of the servants’ rooms in the other wing, and it had a lovely arched window set into an alcove with a window seat that overlooked the park-like grounds behind the house. Brynmor was classically symmetrical in design, consisting of a wide central section flanked by two wings. The master bedroom suite was directly below the nursery; a clever intercom of sorts—a conduit in the ceiling—had allowed Helen to hear her babies crying and keep tabs on the alacrity of the nannies. This wing also housed the other family bedrooms on the second floor. The opposite wing, on the east end, was composed of mostly guest rooms on the second floor, with the rooms for the other house servants above.

  In the center section of the third floor was the ballroom, situated at the top of the grand staircase, which rose from the enormous center hall. The staircase divided at the first landing, where the attenuated balusters progressed to a second-floor gallery overlooking the reception hall. From there, they merged at another large landing to form a single, wide staircase that led to the ballroom.

  The first time Joanna had come to Brynmor had been just after she brought Frank home to meet her parents. The previous week, at the Rafferty’s brick row house in Pennsport, they’d sat at the worn maple table for supper, bowing their heads for grace and passing the pot roast family style. The next week, Frank responded in kind, inviting her to his family’s weekly Sunday dinner with his grandparents. When they pulled up to the house, Joanna had felt something flip in her stomach. The look she gave Frank was accusing. She couldn’t help it—the intimidation made her unreasonably defensive. While he hadn’t made a secret of his family’s background, he also hadn’t quite prepared her for the reality of it. But his painful wince made her laugh, and she realized then that there was nothing she could do about the ocean between them but put a smile on her face and try to keep her head above water.

  By luck or mercy, she was seated at dinner between Frank and his father. Wyatt Collier was a warm and inclusive man, welcoming by nature. With authentic interest, he quizzed Joanna about her experiences in the orthopedic ward, her father’s life as a policeman, and even her grandfather’s barbershop. She became so absorbed in the conversation that she barely noticed the weight of the thick damask napkin and heavy sterling flatware, or the enormous Baccarat chandelier.

  After dinner, Frank had given her a tour of the house. When they finally reached the top floor, he admitted that the ballroom hadn’t been used for a party since 1946, when his twin sister, Gigi, had her debutante ball. With a reminiscent smile, he recounted how his grandmother used to let him bring his friends over in the winter to play dodgeball and practice long jumping there. Then he led her across the room to a bank of Palladian-style doors on the north wall that opened to a wide balcony. They stepped outside, and as Joanna regarded the manicured grounds, he pulled her into his arms and proposed.

  Now, eight fleeting years later, their own children loved to race around on the expansive, polished floor. A few weeks earlier Frank had had the brilliant idea of moving some old rugs out of storage so they could tumble around. It was a saving grace on rainy days as they practiced their cartwheels and somersaults. And there, instead of at the chessboard in the playroom, was where Joanna and Daisy found Charlie in his pajamas, standing on his head.

  “I’ve been waiting like this for two hours,” he said thickly, his face swollen and red.

  Joanna laughed and grabbed him by his ankles, lifting him off the ground. “You can join the circus,” she said, swinging him around in a circle. “The Amazing Charlendo, upside-down boy.” Confronted by the evidence of that dreadful, frozen night nearly three years past, her smile faded. But the frostbite hadn’t taken any toes, and scarring was a small price to pay.

  Daisy was kicking her legs into the air, and her comic flailing put the smile back on her mother’s face. “I don’t want to play chess anymore,” the little girl said as she tipped onto her elbows. “Let’s do gymnastics!”

  Although Joanna knew it would only rile them up before bed, she agreed to let them tumble for a few more minutes. She sat down on one of the gilded Chiavari chairs that lined the walls
and looked at her watch. Eight o’clock—she hoped again that Frank would get home before she put the children down.

  Charlie was trying to help his little sister into a headstand, patiently holding her feet, while Joanna looked absently around the room—admiring the beautiful stained-glass skylights and the ornate bronze balustrade that encircled the orchestra platform. She noted various pieces of furniture that had been moved in over the years—including a barrister’s bookcase with leaded glass doors hinged to swing up and slide back. Idly, she stood and walked over to the bookcase, wondering if it might hold something worth reading. She chose a shelf in the middle and lifted the door, pushing it into the case. There were, indeed, books—but they weren’t novels. They were photograph albums. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that she hadn’t noticed any albums around the house. Certainly, there were framed photos displayed on walls and tabletops, but she hadn’t thought to wonder where one would keep photo albums in a house like this. If she had, then here was her answer. Pulling one out at random, she carried it back to the chair and sat down.

  She opened the old leather cover and turned the velum flyleaf to the first page of photos. Attached by small corner clips, they were printed on thick paper, like postcards, in muted, sepia tones. The first one was obviously a Fourth of July parade, with several youngsters dressed up in costumes on a makeshift float—a hay wagon being pulled by two heavyset horses. There were two girls and three boys; Joanna knew it had to be the Parrish and Collier children. At some point, when she and Frank were getting to know each other, he had mentioned that his parents had grown up together. Looking closer, she could see traces of her mother-in-law in the blond girl wearing a Betsy Ross bonnet, and she assumed the brunette dressed as Lady Liberty must be Susannah’s sister, India. She had met India and Paul on a few occasions; she remembered India as having a petite frame and small features—the physical type that was enviable in youth but rushed too quickly into old age.

  Joanna could deduce that the smaller boy was a young Wyatt Collier, dressed as a Revolutionary drummer. Under the tricorne hat were the same kind gray eyes with which she was familiar, for the too-few years she had known him.

  The two bigger boys she thought had to be Kit Parrish and Chap Collier. She remembered what Doe said about Charlie resembling this long-lost uncle, and she studied the picture, trying to see it. But the boys were dressed as Uncle Sam and George Washington and it was impossible to tell.

  The next page held shots of the Parrish children in front of an enormous Christmas tree. Joanna could make out some of the details of the reception hall downstairs. They were dressed formally and looking directly into the camera with serious expressions. She could see Frank’s uncle Kit clearly in these—his even countenance resembled Susannah’s and they shared the same fair coloring, but his hair was slicked back and the pomade had clearly darkened it. He looked to be about fifteen or so, the girls a few years younger. Susannah had waist-length hair that shone blond even in the sepia print. Joanna recognized her mother-in-law’s features, which hadn’t changed all that much. Both her brow and her jaw were strong and her face had an appealing symmetry; the overall effect was an all-American, athletic type of beauty, vital and luminous. India’s face was pretty but less striking—narrower and delicate, framed by soft brown waves.

  Turning the page, Joanna had to sit back a little as she saw what could have been a photo of Charlie in a few years: a young teen in tennis whites, standing by the net with Kit. So, this was Chap. Doe had not been exaggerating the remarkable resemblance. Chap was built differently from his younger brother—lanky and lithe—and his hair was dark. He was smiling in that secretly amused way that Charlie had already acquired—a closed-mouth twist that always made Joanna think he was holding back an ironic comment. Charlie’s eyes were an unusual shade—a lambent golden-green; and while she couldn’t tell if Chap’s were the same color, they were set deep like her son’s, over strong cheekbones. She gazed at the photo for a long minute. People had commented on Charlie’s striking features since he was a toddler, and here was his mirror image, presented in the form of a ghost from the past. It was more than a little unnerving.

  As she leafed through the pages, she began to understand just how close the two families had been. Aside from the few formal Christmas pictures and one with the description Easter, 1915 etched across the bottom, almost all of the photos were of the Colliers and Parrishes together. It was interesting to see Frank’s paternal grandparents, Frances and Charles Collier. Joanna had seen framed photos before, but this gave her a much better picture of who they were. Here were the adults having cocktails on the terrace, toasting the camera with their champagne glasses; here was a large, professional photo of a party in the ballroom, with the orchestra in the background and several white-gloved waiters holding trays; here were the two families in a large skiff on the river, with Hollins and Charles holding oars while the children waved. When she looked closer, she noticed that Frances was lying back on a pillow and Helen was resting a hand on her shoulder. There was an official photograph of a baseball team, with Kit and Chap standing center and back, holding a pennant in the air. Chap was smiling that mischievous, oblique grin, and it took Joanna a moment to realize that his large, floppy baseball mitt was resting directly on the head of the player kneeling in front of him. That player was Wyatt—who looked like he was wearing a big leather bonnet.

  There were pages of the children in various activities, and after a while Joanna couldn’t help noticing that it was Susannah who captured the camera’s eye; her charisma was uncanny. And Joanna noticed another thing: if Wyatt was in the picture, he was usually standing next to her. She smiled at the sweetness of it. Frank’s father had been absolutely devoted to his wife, and here was evidence of its origin.

  She was studying a frame-worthy photo of a young Susannah in equestrienne attire astride a beautiful horse, when Charlie’s shout jolted her.

  “Daddy!”

  “The king of the castle returns!” Frank’s voice boomed loud as he entered the room. “Where are my loyal subjects?”

  The children shrieked and ran to their father, throwing themselves at his legs.

  “Who are these unruly urchins?” He grabbed Daisy and threw her into the air. “Oh, I remember you.” He drew out the words suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. “You’re that girl, Daffodil.”

  “No!” Daisy shrieked through her laughter. “I’m Daisy!”

  “What? Are you sure?” Frank looked puzzled and turned the little girl this way and that while she fluttered her feet in the air. He nuzzled his nose into her neck where she was ticklish. “You don’t smell like a daisy.”

  She could hardly get the words out through uncontrollable giggles. “Daisies don’t have a smell, silly.”

  “Daddy, look!” Charlie scrambled to the nearest rug and threw himself into a headstand.

  “What ho—there’s an acrobat in the room!” Frank got down on his hands and knees and started to tickle Charlie on the stomach where his pajama top had fallen open, then flipped the little boy around and wrestled him to the rug. “Don’t worry, Mama,” he called as he wrapped his arms around his son, “I’ve got this handled. We’ll rid this place of these pesky acrobats yet!”

  Joanna smiled at her husband’s antics, but she felt a sharp little sliver of resentment poking at her chest. She invested endless hours finding ways to amuse the children—games and stories, trips to the playground and the library and the park, teaching them to read and play chess … and all Frank had to do was walk into the room and they were ecstatic. But then, watching her husband amble around on the floor with both children on his back—still wearing his tie and starched white shirt—a squeezing pinch of shame extracted the sliver and she flicked it away.

  Daisy slid off and landed on her brother as their father stood up and brushed his knees. He leaned down to them and said out of the side of his mouth, “See that woman over there? Think she’ll give me her phone number?”

  Charli
e just flashed his knowing grin, but Daisy shouted, “That’s Mama!”

  Frank strode over and kissed Joanna on the cheek. “Hello, Duchess. How fares the fairest of the fair?” He squeezed her shoulder and sat down.

  “Well enough, all things considered.” She smiled as she shifted toward him. “We met a very interesting woman in the cemetery today who told us all about her ghosts, and then at dinner your mother gave us a nice lesson about religious freedom.”

  Frank winced. “Sorry about that. She has a thing about you papists. But on the bright side, it sounds like you met Doe Janssen. She’s a character, all right. Maybe a little crazy, but that woman knows more secrets than a priest.”

  “She has a dead dog!” This contribution came out as a muffled shout as Daisy turned a somersault, trailing her brother across the floor.

  Accepting that statement with a shrug, Frank glanced at the album on Joanna’s lap. “What’s this then?”

  “I found some photo albums in the bookcase over there. Look at this one—isn’t it something?” Joanna propped up the book, open to the photo of Susannah on the horse.

  Frank was quiet for a moment, his brow knit. “That’s odd. Mother never mentioned having a horse.” He looked at it for another long beat, shaking his head. “Gigi begged for a horse for years. Mother wouldn’t even consider it. She said horses were nothing but trouble.”

  “Didn’t you tell me there used to be stables here?”

  “Yes, but that was years ago, when they still used horses for transportation. I don’t actually know when they got rid of the stables. I just know they were back behind the garage somewhere. Most of that land was sold off.”

  “Ow! Daisy kicked my head!”

  “It was a accident.” Daisy burst into tears as Charlie slapped her leg.

  “Okay, the show’s over. Who wants a ride to bed?” Frank scooped up one child in each arm and headed for the door, propelling them like airplanes. “Say good night to your mother. She’s off the clock.”