by T. Greenwood
All night, as he slumbered loudly next to her, she’d thought of the words she’d say, imagined the heft of her foot as she put it, firmly, down.
But in the morning, he’d risen with the sun again. She heard him singing in the shower, his clear sweet voice like a balm smoothing over so many wounds, old and new. He drank his coffee, lightened with that weak milk, found a penny hidden behind Sally’s ear as she was serving up the eggs, and held Ella an extra minute in the kitchen, kissing the top of her head, before heading out the door. There was a spring in his step, and he tipped his hat at all those busybody neighbors. Like the last week had never happened. But not three months later, he’d taken to bed again.
Bed, then bottle, then back to business. For five years, this was how Russell lived his life. Until the pull of sorrow was like the long siren song of that train. Irresistible.
She understood now, what it felt like to be seduced by sadness. Because not only was Sally gone, but her other daughter blamed her, shamed her for it. And worst of all, Susan was right. It was all Ella’s fault.
SALLY
“Listen here,” Mr. Warner said as he pulled his shirt on and peered at his reflection in the mirror. “I got a job in town. I’ll be working Monday through Friday now, which means you’re gonna be on your own here. Just like at Sammy’s place.”
Sally nodded. He hadn’t left her alone for more than an hour or two since they’d arrived over a month ago already. When he went to get groceries or to look for work, he jimmied the trailer lock so she couldn’t get out. She hoped to God he didn’t plan to lock her inside the trailer all day. She thought of those long awful hours in Sammy’s attic, eating sardines and holding her bladder all day. It was early June, and the heat was already unbearable inside the trailer during the day. Ninety-nine degrees according to the Diaper Dan thermometer on the kitchenette counter; the little Negro figurine’s diaper changed color depending on how hot it was. She wondered who had lived here before her; Frank only said an old friend named Joey had arranged for them to stay there. A man who owned the Sky-Vu, the nightclub down the street from the trailer park.
“Do I gotta stay inside all day?” she ventured, then thought maybe she should have just kept her mouth shut.
He cocked his head and studied her. “Well, I guess that all depends,” he said.
To keep the questions from bursting out of her, she bit the side of her tongue. It was the only way sometimes to keep from crying out.
“I’m gonna talk to Ruth. See if she can keep an eye on you. She’s got a phone, which means she can call me if she catches you doing something you shouldn’t be doing.”
She felt her heart open, the heaviness in her chest release. Ruth. Of course, Ruth could watch her.
“You understand, though, if you did get any funny ideas about doing something you shouldn’t, it wouldn’t just be your fault.”
But she didn’t understand.
“If Ruth’s in charge of you, and you were to do something, like say wander off, then a bit of the blame would fall on Ruth now, right? I’d hate to have to punish Ruth for your bad behavior.”
She shook her head. He’d do something bad to Ruth?
“You step out of line, even a little bit,” he said, wagging his crooked finger near her face, “and your friend Ruthie pays.”
AL
“Hello,” Al said. “This is Al Panaro. I’m just calling to see if there’s any new information in the Sally Horner case.”
Every week through that spring and early summer, Al called the police stations in both Camden and Baltimore, inquiring if there had been any progress in the investigation. And every week, the detectives politely yet firmly told him they’d call just as soon as there was any news to share. Still, Al checked in. Because with every passing week, Ella seemed to grow more and more despondent and withdrawn. She’d essentially stopped working, and Al knew it was only a matter of time before she wouldn’t be able to pay the rent anymore. Three or four days a week he would drive Sue and the baby all the way to Camden so Sue could help Ella out. The baby was crawling now, getting into everything, and he knew Sue was exhausted. Al felt like he was spinning his wheels, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t just give up.
“Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office,” the woman said. “How may I direct your call?”
* * *
Finally, in early June he got through to someone.
“Nobody’s called in with any information? Nobody at all?” he asked, desperate for anything.
“You know, come to think of it,” the Baltimore officer said. “I seem to recall there was somebody. A nun. Called in about a girl over at St. Ann’s School over in the Barclay neighborhood. East Baltimore.”
East Baltimore? He’d been there! He’d driven up and down Twenty-fifth Street for nearly an hour, searching for any signs of Frank La Salle. Was it possible they’d been there, right under his nose?
“Didn’t pan out,” the officer explained. Al could hear him shuffling through some papers. Sally’s file, perhaps. “Yep. Here it is. Address for the girl on file at the school turned up nothing when we sent a couple officers over to check it out.”
“When was that?” Al asked.
“Not long after La Salle got indicted again. The sister read about it in the papers and thought there might be a connection. Says here around St. Paddy’s Day.”
“March?” Al said in disbelief. “That was months ago! Why didn’t anyone call me? What is the address? Who lives there?”
“Guy named … uh … here it is … Sammy DePaulo. But I told you. Nothing turned up. She wasn’t there.”
“What was her name?” Al asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “The child at the parochial school?”
“Hold on,” the officer said. “Fogg. That’s it. Florence Fogg.”
Florence.
“She goes to that school?” Al asked, jotting down St. Ann’s on the notepad he kept by the telephone.
“Well, it’s summertime now, sir. School’s been out for a couple of weeks already.”
Damn it. And sure enough, when he called St. Ann’s the phone just rang and rang.
* * *
“Come to bed, honey?”
Sue had just put the baby down; she was finally sleeping through the night now. Probably the only one in the house who was.
Al had been scouring the news clippings he’d collected again, looking for something, anything that he’d missed before. His gut told him Frank La Salle and Sally weren’t in Baltimore anymore. But when he tried to think about where they would have gone, his mind drew a blank. The sad fact was that they could be anywhere. Anywhere at all.
He ran his finger down the column again. What was he missing? What clue? Then he saw the name that had popped up in a few of the lengthier articles following Sally’s disappearance. Dorothy Dare. The other girl Frank La Salle had kidnapped, the one he’d gone and married to keep from going to jail. Just a child herself when La Salle had stolen her from her own family. One of the news clippings said she was from Philadelphia. Philadelphia was just across the river. Thirty minutes away.
“Al,” Susan insisted. “Please come get some sleep.”
SALLY
“Good morning, sunshine!” Ruth said to Sally as she stepped out of the trailer into the bright sunlight of a hot June day, carrying a basket of Mr. Warner’s dirty laundry.
The rules were she was only allowed to go to the canteen, over to Ruth’s trailer, and to the pool. That was it. Mr. Warner told her that if she abused these privileges, there would be hell to pay. He’d promised her that if she even thought about venturing beyond the perimeter of the Good Luck, he’d make sure she never saw the sunshine again. That she never, ever saw her mother again. But that Ruth would be the one to suffer the consequences the most.
Today Ruth was sitting in her chaise longue, reading, a steaming mug of coffee sitting on the ground next to her. She was wearing a red gingham sleeveless shirt with a bare midriff and high-waisted white shorts.
She looked like a movie star to Sally.
“I wanna see that picture,” Sally said, gesturing to the book. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Peggy Ann Garner got an Academy Award for that role. Mrs. Appleton, her fifth-grade teacher, once told Sally she looked a bit like the actress, only with curls.
“Oh, but the book is so much more wonderful. I’ll give it to you if I ever finish,” Ruth said, sitting up. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. “God, it’s just so hot. And it’s only June,” Ruth said. “I can hardly believe this heat’s only gonna get worse.”
June. It had been a full year now since Mr. Warner had caught her shoplifting. A whole year they’d been running, though she wasn’t sure anymore whom they were running from. Twelve months. It felt both possible and impossible. She knew that her clothes and shoes no longer fit. That the books she’d loved back then she found childish now. Even her own handwriting had changed. There was an angry slant to it lately, one she recalled seeing in her mother’s hand.
She practiced writing her new name, Florence LaPlante, in the composition book she’d brought with her from Baltimore. She also drafted letters home, telling her mother exactly where she was and what she was doing (or rather what was being done to her). When she wrote these words, her writing was small, scared. Some of the words were so shameful that afterward she went over them again and again, blacking them out with a thousand dark squiggles from her pen. Still, it felt good to release them like this. To put them on the page got them out of her brain. Even the ones that it hurt the most to write.
Mama, he says he’s my real father. That he’s come back for me. But I don’t remember him. And how could you let him take me? I know I’m trouble to you sometimes, talking too much, not helpin’ out the way you need me to. But I promise, if you bring me home I’ll be good. I’ll be better, Mama. I promise. Maybe you can explain to the police? Maybe tell them it’s all been a big mistake?
Sometimes instead of writing the truths, however, she wrote her dreams. Imagined herself into someone else’s life. Gave herself a new name. Today, she might write, thinking of Bess with her strawberry hair, I rode my uncle’s horse, Lucky, for ten miles. I carried sugar cubes in my pocket, and let him eat a bright red apple from my hand. Or Irene: I went shopping with my mother today at Hurley’s. She bought me a brand-new pair of shoes. Mary Janes. They’re so soft, almost like a baby’s skin. But most of the time, she became Vivi: I am having the most beautiful life, she would gush on the page in a rush of ink. Sometimes, when I look up at the sky and watch the clouds passing across the sun, or when my mother brushes my hair or my father lets me lean over and steer the car for a minute, my heart is so full, I feel like it might explode.
“How do y’all like Dallas so far?” Ruth asked, picking up her coffee mug. “You ever miss home?”
Sally nodded, her throat swollen with this truth. “My mama especially.”
Sally didn’t dare ask Mr. Warner when she could go home anymore. The last time she did, he punched the wall of the trailer so hard, it left a dent in the metal. He was angry a lot lately, and his temper terrified her. It was worse when he was drinking, and he was drinking more than before, it seemed. He worked all day at a garage in town and then went out; he’d come back to the trailer some nights smelling so sickeningly of grease and liquor, she had to hold a blanket over her face so she wouldn’t vomit. The only blessing was that on those nights when he came crashing through the door, he usually was too drunk to bother with her, and he would fall asleep on his own bed, and she was safe.
Last night had been one of those nights; she’d heard him outside the trailer throwing up, the retching making her nauseous. In the morning she’d found his soiled clothes in a heap; he’d just left them there before he went back to work again. She’d need to use bleach to get those awful stains out.
“Well, I should be getting the laundry done,” she said to Ruth.
“Sure thing, sweetheart. Come by later if you’d like. To get the book. I only got a couple chapters left.”
* * *
When Sally opened the canteen door, she heard the sound of swishing water and sighed. There was only one washer that everybody at the trailer park shared. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Who on earth would be doing laundry so early?
She went past the cigarette and candy machines to the laundry room and peeked her head in. Someone was sitting on top of the folding counter, legs crossed, reading Glamour magazine. Oh, how she missed magazines. The movie magazines she loved and the fashion ones Susan read. Susan always spent her extra money on Vogue and Mademoiselle. When she was finished with them, she’d give them to Sally, though Susan had often torn pages out and tacked them to her wall, so Sally always felt like she was missing something important as she thumbed through the glossy pages.
“Hello,” Sally said, and the lady looked up. Except that she wasn’t a lady at all. She had a long beard and a handlebar mustache. Sally audibly caught her breath, and then blushed, ashamed.
“Good mornin’, sugar,” the lady said. (She was a lady everywhere but her chin, Sally noted.) She turned the magazine to face Sally. “You like fashion?”
“I suppose.” Sally shrugged.
“I find it tiresome,” the bearded lady said dramatically. “Though I do appreciate the way a pair of heels accentuates my calves.” She jumped down off the counter.
“Are you…,” Sally started, not entirely sure what she was even asking.
“Hungry?” the lady asked, eyebrow raised. “I’m starving.”
“No, I mean…”
“Lena,” the lady said, extending one perfectly manicured hand.
“I’m…”
“Delighted?” Lena said, laughing.
“Florence. Florence LaPlante.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Flo.” Lena reached into the washer and started to put her items through the wringer one by one, tossing the damp dresses and dungarees and underthings into her basket, which she hoisted under one arm, a pair of pink panties falling off the pile.
“Would you mind?” she asked, and Sally bent down, plucking the underwear from the floor, pinching them together with her thumb and finger like the stem of a flower. She deposited them in the basket and Lena turned back around.
“Come meet the rest of the crew,” she said, and without waiting for Sally to answer, she swung her hips wide to avoid the counter and made her way to the back door.
Sally peered at her own basket of clothes, then back at Lena, who was holding the door open for her with one foot.
“Coming! Let me just get my laundry in the machine.”
She dumped the load into the machine, followed by a cup of the powdered soap. She threw the lid down, turned the knob, and ran through the back door to the walkway, where Lena was waiting for her.
* * *
Sally followed Lena to the far end of the motor court, where she found a cluster of trailers, their inhabitants loitering outside. Two women, acrobats, crab-walked past her as she stared, openmouthed, at a baby elephant, drinking water from a child’s swimming pool.
“That’s Peanut,” Lena said, motioning to the elephant, who raised his trunk as if in greeting. Sally felt her heart swell with delight.
“Maisy and Daisy,” she said as the acrobats returned to standing. They curtsied to Sally, and she clumsily curtsied back.
Strung between two trailers was a wire, and a man wearing nothing but a pair of tights traversed it, holding a long bamboo pole to help himself balance.
“Breakfast!” a tiny little man said, as he swung open the door of the largest trailer in the cluster.
“That’s Oscar,” Lena whispered. “Our ringmaster.”
Sally was speechless. There was so much to see. At a picnic table, an enormous lady in a yellow dress was eating a pile of pancakes, and a small boy with hands like claws was plucking strips of bacon from a pan. Tiny dogs wearing tutus walked on their hind legs, begging for scraps, and a woman wearing a silver turban held a very
long cigarette holder and blew smoke into the morning air.
“You all live here?” Sally asked in disbelief.
“One big happy family,” Lena said, and winked.
RUTH
“Do they come every year?” Florence asked Ruth as Ruth raised the stool several inches with the press of her foot.
“Who’s that, sweetheart?”
Ruth’s kitchen was filled with bright light, and the air hummed with the three fans she’d situated to combat the stifling heat.
“The circus people. Did you know there’s a boy with lobster claws for hands?” Florence’s eyes were wide, beaming (for the first time since Ruth had met her, she genuinely bore the expression of a child).
“Look straight ahead,” Ruth said. It had taken her nearly an hour to comb the tangles out of Florence’s hair. Something about those knots had made her heart ache. How long had it been since her mama had untangled those curls? Ruth took the comb and ran it down the back of her scalp, making a clean white part.
“Does your daddy know you’ve been spending time with them?” Ruth asked. The circus folk usually kept to themselves. She was surprised when she saw the bearded lady sitting at the edge of the pool with Florence the other day, both of them kicking their feet in the pristine blue water. Florence’s daddy kept her on a short leash. Most of the time when Florence went swimming, he went along with her to the pool and sat at one of the small tables poolside, smoking his Luckies while she dog-paddled back and forth across the pool. He must have been afraid she might drown, and she added that to her list of possible disasters Florence’s mother might have suffered.
“I don’t gotta tell him everything, do I?” Ruth felt Florence’s shoulders stiffen at her touch.
“Well, of course not. A girl’s entitled to her secrets,” she said, and Florence’s muscles relaxed. “Now turn this way just a bit; good.”