Bethlehem

by Karen Kelly

  “Good night, Mama.”

  “Good night, Mama.”

  “What’s ‘off the clock’?”

  As the chatter faded down the hall, Joanna sat in the dimming wake, gazing at the photograph of Susannah. Closing the album, she decided to take a nice long bath—after which she thought she might put her silk negligee to good use.

  But when she entered the bedroom, powdered and scented, Frank was nowhere to be found. The hallway in the west wing was quiet—she knew Helen would have turned in early, and Susannah was likely in the library, reading. Low light emanated from the children’s room, which had once been Kit’s. They had tried separate rooms for the kids at first, but Daisy would last only ten minutes before hightailing it to her parents’ bed, so she became Charlie’s roommate, an arrangement that had worked out fine for everyone.

  Joanna peeked around the doorframe and there they were—all three of them on one twin bed—fast asleep under the light of the nightstand lamp. A book lay open on Frank’s chest and a child was propped on each shoulder. Gently, Joanna lifted Daisy and deposited her onto the other bed; then she removed the book. Standing over father and son, she decided she didn’t have the heart to separate them. Quietly, she turned out the light and returned to her room, getting into bed alone yet again.

  Four

  MAY 1920

  “You’re a foxy little thing, aren’t you? Yes, you are … just a little Arabian fox.…” Susannah was murmuring to Pericles as she brushed his sleek chestnut coat. “And now you’re a champion—let’s see that champion’s smile.” She cupped her hands around the horse’s soft muzzle and pulled back slightly, exposing the big yellow teeth. “There it is—just like a movie star. Just like Douglas Fairbanks. That’s what you are, Peri, a star. Twinkle, twinkle, Periwinkle.” She nuzzled her face against the soft mane, stroking the gelding’s neck.

  “Congratulations, Miss,” the stable boy said, nodding at Susannah as he passed. A cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth, and he carried two buckets of oats.

  “Thank you, Carl, but Peri did it—I was just along for the ride.” She picked up a back hoof and examined the shoe. “You charmed those judges all on your own, didn’t you, you little flirt!”

  Horse and rider had just returned from the Devon Horse Show—the largest outdoor equestrian competition in the country—and Susannah was flying high from a blue-ribbon win in Junior Equitation. The week had been a hectic flurry—moving Pericles to the DuPont barn on the Devon grounds near Philadelphia, working with the horse to relax and perform in the unfamiliar ring, and competing in preliminary events. Susannah’s events took place over the course of three days, and instead of going back to the Rittenhouse with her mother at night, she had opted to stay in the stable, sleeping on a cot next to Pericles. Rumors of sabotage were rife and she wasn’t taking any chances.

  “He’s a dandy, but you’re givin’ ’im too much credit,” Carl said. “I know a thing or two about them shows, and dressage is more about the rider than the horse.” He smiled through a wraith of smoke, moving away toward a trough in a far stall.

  “If that horse knows anything about flirting, he learned it from you.” India was stepping delicately across the cobblestones. Manny, the Parrishes’ stable manager, kept everything pristine—even applying a fresh coat of paint each spring—but in her blue linen frock and low-heeled spectator pumps, India looked starkly out of place.

  “Look who’s talking,” Susannah replied, shooting a knowing glance at the summer cloche her sister was holding. “Why the new hat, Itty? Going somewhere? Somewhere like … oh, I don’t know … a baseball game?

  “Come on, Sass. Please? You said you’d come with me.”

  “I said I’d think about it. I didn’t know Peri was going to get me a blue ribbon. Now I feel like celebrating, not sitting on some hard bench, watching … nothing happening. I hate baseball. Why couldn’t the boys play something exciting, like polo!” Her face brightened as she slipped a monogrammed blanket up and over the horse’s flanks.

  “Not everything in the world revolves around horses, you know. Please? Just for a few innings?”

  “Oh, all right.” Susannah took mercy on her sister, knowing how carefully and devotedly India maneuvered to put herself in the general vicinity of Chap Collier. “Three innings.”

  “Unless they’re short, though. You have to stay for at least an hour. But hurry—it already started.”

  Susannah unhitched the tie ring and led Pericles to his stall, complimenting him lavishly. On the way up to the house, she made India laugh when she did a little jig on the flagstone path and clicked her heels—still walking on air. In her room, she traded jodhpurs for a summer skirt, leaving the long braid in her hair and grabbing a hat from the antler rack by the terrace door on her way out.

  India was waiting under the arbor. Grabbing her sister’s arm, she practically pulled her off her feet.

  As they passed the garage, Jimmy tipped his hat. “Afternoon, Miss India, Miss Susannah. Is there someplace I can carry you?”

  The girls giggled. Jimmy was from Alabama, and they found his Southern colloquialisms adorable. “No, thank you, Jimmy. We’re just going down to the baseball field.”

  “That’s right. I nearly forgot—big game today. I hear those Easton fellas are tough, but they’ll just be swattin’ gnats with Mister Kit on the mound.” Jimmy went back to polishing a fender, and the girls skittered down the hill, swinging their hats by their sides.

  South Bethlehem High was only a few blocks away, on Brodhead Avenue. It was new—completed just two years earlier—and had its own baseball field. The bleachers were nearly full when the girls got there, but Susannah sashayed right over and smiled prettily at two men sitting in the middle of the first row. “I think we can squeeze in here, Itty,” she called to her sister. “I’m sure there will be room if we all just tighten up a bit.”

  Had India and Susannah been lepers, the men would willingly have made room for Hollins Parrish’s daughters. The population of Bethlehem had grown by 200 percent in the past decade, due entirely to employment by Bethlehem Steel. As the girls were taking their seats, they noticed their parents up in the top row—where the ladies could open their parasols—alongside Charles and Frances Collier.

  “Oh, look, Sass—Mrs. Collier is here.” There was a tender note in India’s voice. “She must be feeling better. I’m glad she’ll finally get to see the boys play.” As the words left India’s mouth, the pale, thin woman coughed delicately into her handkerchief. The girls waved, and were surprised when quite a few people in the stands waved back. It took an embarrassing moment to realize the fans weren’t waving at all, but suggesting that India and Susannah sit down.

  One of the finer features of the field was a real dugout, and it was easy to spot Wyatt, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, intently following every play. It wasn’t until the teams were switching sides that he noticed Susannah. Grinning sheepishly, he fanned his glove at her and turned his attention back to the game.

  “Poor Wyatt. Last game of the season and he won’t get in again,” Susannah said, adjusting the brim of her hat and squinting into the sun.

  “He’s only a freshman. He’ll get to play once Chap’s gone.” India’s eyes were on the field, centered between first and second base.

  Wyatt played backup shortstop, but unfortunately the player he backed up was the star of the team—who also happened to be his brother. An assortment of college ball teams had been after Chap Collier; when he had finally committed to play at Lehigh, it seemed the whole town celebrated. The hometown hero would stay at home.

  Bethlehem had been leading by two runs when the girls arrived, and by the bottom of the seventh inning they were up seven to three. Kit was throwing blue streaks from the mound, striking out three in a row in the fifth inning and two more in the sixth. A husky kid from Easton was two strikes in at the plate and it looked like another strikeout, but a cut fastball didn’t sink fast enough and the swing made c
ontact, sending the ball at a straight angle toward center field. It looked like it would continue on course right past the outfield, but in the briefest instant of opportunity, Chap managed to launch himself into the air and place his glove directly in the path of the ball, rolling as he landed.

  He got to his feet slowly, stumbling on his right ankle and then limping to the sidelines. A huddled conference with the coach resulted in Chap sidelined on the bench, his leg propped up on a rail, and Wyatt scampering onto the field.

  India’s smile was proud and proprietary. “Did you see that?” she whispered to her sister. “He did that on purpose. That’s just the sweetest thing—he got Wyatt into the last game of the season.”

  India missed the next play because her eyes were glued to the dugout, but Susannah jumped up and squealed as she clapped her hands. “Hurray! Hurray!” Wyatt had lucked into a grounder on his very first play of the season, scooping it up handily and making an easy throw to first base. Susannah bounced on her toes and turned to look up at the Colliers, who were laughing as they cheered for their younger son. Then she looked back at Wyatt, who was trying to keep a self-conscious grin off his face, and blew him a kiss. He flushed and hung his head, scuffing his toe in the grass.

  Sitting down, Susannah idly observed her brother on the pitcher’s mound, stretching and rotating his shoulder as he warmed up for what might have been a third out, when there was a rustle of collective distraction. The buzz was directed at the outfield. When she turned, she was astonished to see a figure running through left field. He came from the direction of Brodhead Avenue, and he was waving his arms wildly as he dashed across the expanse of grass and straight over the diamond. All eyes were on this strange spectacle as the man wheeled to a stop on the red dirt of the baseline, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  “Mr. Parrish! Does anyone see Mr. Parrish?” He was shouting, one hand shielding his eyes as he desperately searched the bleachers. The man was wearing a uniform. It took Susannah a moment to realize it was Jimmy, hatless and dripping sweat, eyes bulging and face contorted.

  The girls turned to look for their father, but he was already making his way down, taking the risers two at a time. When Jimmy saw him, he couldn’t contain himself: “Fire! Fire!” His shouts cracked with ragged urgency. “Mr. Parrish, the stables are burning!

  * * *

  Susannah didn’t remember going back to Brynmor. As Jimmy’s words had registered she froze, paralyzed by a reflexive denial—a self-protecting impulse that refused to consider the implications. She felt bizarrely cocooned from reality. A muffled space enveloped her, blotting out the pandemonium as the crowd jostled and clamored around her. And then her eyes met India’s, and the mute horror in her sister’s expression shattered the bubble. She saw her father racing to the car with Jimmy. Kit was right behind them, abandoning the pitcher’s mound without a second’s hesitation. She must have been moving, but she was unaware of the ground passing beneath her feet.

  There was no sense of time, no awareness of distance crossed. One instant she was sitting on a bench at a baseball game—she would remember it like a scene in one of her mother’s German snow globes, a crystallized moment that represented “before”—and the next instant she was flying past fire trucks and men wielding hoses attached to tanks. Flames rose in macabre, dancing tongues from the small iron-barred windows and in mighty towers from the wood-shingle roof. There was roaring in her ears and smoke in her eyes and the blaze of heat on her face. A pair of strong arms grabbed her as she threw herself forward—arms clad in oilskin, anchored by thick canvas gloves. She felt a furious howl leave her chest, but she could hear nothing but one specific sound—the hideous, anguished scream of a horse trapped in his burning stall.

  Twisting in the fireman’s grasp, she took frantic inventory: There was Manny, nearly indistinguishable under a layer of black soot, head in hands, doubled over in grief and defeat on the far side of the riding ring. There was Carl, desperately trying to control the two Belgians, rearing up in wild-eyed panic as he fought to lead them away from the overwhelming heat. Two other horses were doing a nervous, skittish dance in the yard beyond the ring, trotting in jerky passes around a small area as though confined, watching the fire like spectators with terrified eyes. A palomino, a bay. Juno, the gray Andalusian, was running in crazed, disoriented circles. Farther off, a jet-black thoroughbred was on its own, bucking wildly—her father’s stallion, Ahab. Not chestnut. Not Arabian. Her mind raced as she kicked and struggled: One more. Just one more. But it was effort wasted, because she already knew. She already knew.

  * * *

  Peri was dancing. Susannah laughed with delight as the horse two-stepped to the right, and then back again to the left. With the slightest pressure of her right heel, Pericles dipped his shoulder and bowed his head, bending his right foreleg and spinning in place. “You’ve got it!” Susannah leaned forward and ruffled the horse’s mane, tipping farther to give him a quick kiss and press her cheek against his warm neck.

  Ever since her father had presented her with her dream gift on her eighth birthday, girl and horse had been connected at the soul. From the moment she had uncovered her eyes to see a spindly one-year-old colt standing alone in the riding ring like a little lad lost, Susannah had spent most of her waking hours with Pericles. In the beginning she would lead the little horse around the yard—jumping beside him over a small course of logs or playing tag in the riding ring or just lolling about with her brown-eyed boy, communing nose to nose in their own special language. Manny teased her that she was going to brush the hair right off the horse as daily she groomed the soft coat to a sheen. He had even discovered them napping together in the stall, Susannah curled up next to Pericles, her head resting snugly on his shoulder. When the colt turned two, Manny started the breaking-in process. He intended to follow the standard practice, beginning with an empty saddle, but Susannah defied him by climbing right onto the gelding’s narrow back without so much as a bridle. After a little shimmy and a backward glance, Peri took her for a careful, smooth trot around the ring.

  But now there was an awful, clanging noise and Peri’s ears twitched as he missed a step. What was it? Susannah couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It was incessant now—a smashing, hammering cacophony that was scaring Peri and confusing Susannah. Suddenly she was looking down, and Peri was by himself, but he wasn’t in the ring anymore. He was in his stall. She could see him start to shuffle nervously, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

  Manny! Manny! She couldn’t move. Without knowing what, she understood with horrifying certainty that something was wrong—something was coming—and she could not get to her horse. MANNY!!! She was screaming now. Someone had to let Peri out of the stall. MANNY!!! She screamed again—a long, tormented shriek—but for some reason, she had no voice. She tried and tried, but she couldn’t make a sound.

  And then a terrible, weighty sadness settled upon her, like an anvil had been placed on her chest—so heavy, she wasn’t sure her lungs could breathe or her heart could beat—as she woke to the sound of a dozen sledgehammers smashing brick walls, and the lingering smell of smoke. There was a cool hand on her forehead—it was her mother. She placed something on Susannah’s tongue, and then lifted her daughter’s head, urging her to take a sip. Susannah swallowed and waited, willing oblivion.

  After a few days, the doctor advised discontinuing the sedatives, confident that the cushion of time would do its job. The nausea-inducing smell of smoke had dissipated, and Susannah was able to swallow some broth and even some bread. She didn’t come down to dinner, though. In fact, she didn’t have any inclination to get out of bed, except to take very hot baths. The near-scalding water fulfilled a strange need—a primal urge to steep away the sorrow that was slicked all over her.

  It was more than a week before she ventured out of her bedroom and into the old nursery to sit in the window seat, watching woodenly as the workmen finished hauling away what was left of the stables. That was where her father found her. Gent
ly, he told her that he was considering selling the horses. There wasn’t much use for the team of Belgians anymore, and the pleasure horses were rarely mounted. He said he couldn’t remember the last time he had ridden Ahab. If not for Manny and Carl, the horses wouldn’t feel the weight of a saddle.

  And there was another thing—Carl had left. Her father thought she might as well know the truth: Carl had been leading Ahab out of his stall when the stallion reared. Struggling to control the horse, he’d tossed his cigarette through the iron bars of a window. It had landed in an open can of turpentine. That was how the fire had started. Manny didn’t have to let Carl go—he’d left on his own, crippled with remorse.

  Susannah took it all in without a word, her expression glazed and distant.

  Studying her with tender eyes, her father leaned in. “If you think you may want to keep riding,” he said, “you could try Juno or Calliope. I know they aren’t trained for dressage.… If you like, we can find another Arabian. I don’t want to rush you, but I want you to know the choice is yours. I can have the workmen rebuild. Something small—a couple of stalls. Just in case you decide you want another horse.”

  She looked at him then as though he were mad, as though he had suggested she would want another moon, or another head. “There isn’t another horse.”

  And so, as the last cart of stones and bricks rumbled away, it was settled. There would no longer be stables at Brynmor.

  * * *

  The following week her mother found Susannah in her usual place; she had taken to reading on the window seat. The old nursery had become an ivory tower of sorts, cocooning her from real life, fending off a routine that did not include Pericles. And she had discovered that Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters could remove the red-hot poker from her heart, if only for a moment.

  “There’s someone here to see you, Sassy.”