All for a Sister

by Allison Pittman

  “But they didn’t, darling. It’s our dream. Yours and mine, together. Now, go. I told Parker to be at the house at six o’clock to look over the papers.”

  Deflated, Celeste walked beside Graciela, tugging the ridiculous bow out of her hair and wishing she could wipe her face clean with a swipe of her silk sleeve. They remained silent all the while, until they were back at Celeste’s dressing table, the silk dress hanging on the wardrobe rack, and the mass of curls gathered and secured with a simple ribbon at the nape of her neck.

  Humming just as she always did in the absence of conversation, Graciela slathered Celeste’s face with a pungent cold cream and commenced wiping the makeup away.

  “He really is selfish,” Celeste offered up after a time, her words distorted as her face surrendered to Graciela’s ministrations. “As selfish as Mother says.”

  “Ah, Celi mía, don’t say such about your papa. You’re always saying how much you want to be the star in your own movie. And here you are.”

  “They wanted me. Not his stupid color. He used me.”

  “Don’t say such ugly things.” Graciela made a final swipe, then kissed the tip of her nose. “He has done everything for you, and he loves you very, very much. He feels, sometimes, alone in this family. Share this with him.”

  The weight of the affection behind those words, if not the words themselves, struck a chord, making Celeste ashamed of her outburst. Her face clean, back in her perfectly suitable dress, she offered Graciela a weak smile. “It is exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Es maravilloso.”

  For a moment, Celeste wondered if Graciela was more excited for her or for her father. But maybe it didn’t matter. She was right. They could share.

  Graciela rode in the backseat of the car on the drive home, with Celeste at her father’s side, peppering him with questions about the new movie. When would they film? Who was set to play her father and mother? And what fantastical elements would there be? Would she get to fly on a wire? Wear wonderful costumes? Dance with actors in animal costumes?

  Papa chuckled. “All these questions! We haven’t even signed the contract yet.”

  “But we will, won’t we? And can I sign this one myself?” She’d been practicing a grown-up signature on all her school papers.

  “We’ll ask Mr. Parker if we can both sign,” he said. “Maybe there’s a special way to draw up the papers.”

  They were driving down Hollywood Boulevard when Celeste looked out the window and noticed a sign advertising the opening of a new restaurant—Frank’s Café—and was reminded by her stomach once again of the extent of her hunger.

  “I wish we could meet with Mr. Parker at a restaurant,” she said. “I’m starving.”

  “You know that’s not possible,” Papa said, his voice firm. “I’m sure Graciela won’t mind whipping up supper for us, will you?”

  “Of course not,” she answered from the back. “I know just what I’ll make.”

  “Can we eat first, at least?”

  “Celi, dear, Mr. Parker might already be at the house waiting for us. Maybe even for this past hour.”

  “He can eat with us, can’t he?” She knew he couldn’t go into a restaurant with them since he was a Negro. That’s what Papa had said, anyway. Not a nice restaurant.

  “We’ll see,” Papa said. “But he certainly is welcome.”

  Nobody, though, would have felt welcome driving up to the DuFrane house just then. The sun had quite disappeared, leaving the world a dusky half dark, and the windows of the stately homes on either side glowed a soft yellow. Yet not a sliver of light shone from within their home. Not on the porch, or through the tall, narrow windows on either side of the front door. Celeste looked up at the row of darkness on the second floor. She didn’t expect to see any amber light coming from her own room, but next to it—Calvin’s—should have had a single burning flame for the soldier off to war. Every night, she and Graciela met at sunset to pray for her brother’s safety and light a new taper to burn down until dawn. Mother must have forgotten. Or more likely, she was too lazy. Given the hour, she might have already retired for the night, having eaten what she could find in the icebox and pantry.

  Selfish. Every bit as much as Papa. She might not have even answered the door for Mr. Parker.

  Papa pulled the car around back to the garage, revealing the house to be in total darkness on every side. No sign of life in the kitchen and, confirming Celeste’s suspicions, nothing emanating from her parents’ bedroom upstairs. It wasn’t until this point that Papa remarked about the air of desertion, and Graciela muttered, “Hay alguien en casa?”

  The only explanation other than that of Mother having already been to bed would be to assume Mother had left the house, a far less likely scenario.

  They entered through the back door into the kitchen, where Celeste immediately set upon a plate of pastries resting under a glass dome. Graciela barely chastised her for spoiling her appetite before disappearing to her room to deposit her hat and purse.

  Papa left, too, hollering, “Marguerite?” He must have been worried, because both he and Mother loathed the practice of yelling from room to room, yet his call echoed throughout the house, unanswered.

  Graciela returned, tying an apron around her waist, and set to work pulling down a skillet and rummaging through the icebox for eggs and cheese. She lit the stove with a long match, prompting Celeste’s memory.

  “Can we please go light the candle in Calvin’s room? Mother forgot.”

  “Después.” She cracked another egg into a large mixing bowl. “I already lit the stove. We won’t be long.”

  “Can I do it by myself?” She hated the thought of full darkness descending without the guiding flame in the window, not that Calvin didn’t know full well how to find their house in the dark. Goodness knows he came stumbling in plenty of nights without the aid of such a beacon.

  Graciela paused, whisk in hand, and beckoned Celeste to her side. “We pray together here, okay? Then you go.”

  Celeste abandoned the rest of her pastry and walked to the other side of the table. Graciela made her familiar sign of the cross, saying, “En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo,” before taking Celeste’s hand.

  “Heavenly Father,” Celeste prayed, “please keep my brother, Calvin, safe on the fields of battle. Give him a warm bed to sleep in, and wrap him in your mighty shield. Help him to be brave and kind, and bring him home.”

  To this, Graciela added what she did every night. “Querido Dios, te pido que protejas a mi hijo y que vuelva a mí vivo y sano.” Celeste translated: Dear Father, I ask you to protect my son, and to bring him home alive and well. That Graciela thought of Calvin as her own son only sealed their prayer.

  The two offered amen in unison before Graciela sent Celeste upstairs with a new, white taper, a matchbox, and a kiss to the top of her head.

  She bumped into her father at the foot of the stairs. “Is Mother already in bed?”

  “No, but I did find this on the entryway table.” He held up a large, brown envelope, its flap held closed with a red string wound around a cardboard button. “It’s from Parker’s office. The contract, I’m assuming.” The worry on his face eclipsed any excitement from before.

  “Maybe she and Mr. Parker went out for a little bit?” She didn’t want to offer any undue worry, but she had, on several occasions, happened upon the two of them looking thick as thieves in some conversation that always ended abruptly once her presence was known.

  “Doubtful,” Papa said, reminding Celeste of the other aspect of her mother’s relationship with Mr. Parker. Namely, that she didn’t care for him very much at all.

  “I’m going to light the candle in Calvin’s window. Would you like to come with me?” As far as she could remember, Papa had never participated in the ritual, though her mother did most nights, making it all the more odd that she’d forgotten to do so this evening.

  “You go ahead.” He hugged her to his side. “I’m going
to make a telephone call or two, and then we’ll look at those papers together.”

  She hugged him back before scampering up the stairs. When she got to Calvin’s room, she crossed immediately to the window, knelt, replaced the old candle with the new, and struck a flame.

  “Don’t bother.” The sound of her mother’s voice startled her so, Celeste nearly dropped the match. She turned the light in the direction of the voice and saw her mother lying prostrate on her brother’s bed.

  “Mother? We’ve been calling to you for ages.” She lit the candle. “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I said, don’t bother.” By the dim light of the single flame, Celeste watched her mother struggle to turn over and eventually sit up on the bed. “He isn’t coming home.”

  The weight of her words fell straight to the base of Celeste’s spine, paralyzing her in place. “Wh-what did you say?”

  “I got a telegram.” The yellow paper rested as if settling into her clutch. “While that horrible darky lawyer was here.”

  Barely aware of her own movement, Celeste crawled across the floor and clung to her mother’s knee.

  “He’s dead? Calvin’s been killed? Is that what the telegram said?”

  “And I’ll bet he wanted to laugh at me.” Mother seemed to be speaking to somebody far away, as if Celeste weren’t there at all. “When I read it. Should have sent him away, always poking his nose in our business.”

  “Mother, please. Tell me about Calvin. What do you know?”

  Their shadows loomed, huge and frightening on the wall, and when her mother lifted her hand to stroke Celeste’s hair, the gesture stretched clear to the ceiling. The resulting touch was lifeless and cold, like that of the occasional uncomfortable stranger whom girls were sometimes forced to endure.

  “It means another of my children dead and buried.”

  “Oh, Mother. Maybe there’s been a mistake. Maybe he’ll come back.”

  Like I did.

  “He won’t be back. This is God’s justice, his price for my sin.”

  “Certainly not.” She couldn’t imagine the magnitude of a sin that would demand such a price. “Besides, Graciela says that Jesus already paid the price for all of our sins. This isn’t your fault.”

  “‘Skin for skin,’” Mother said with a chilling smile. “Parker asked if this is what it would take to break me. The weasel. He’s in every bit as deep as I am. Threatened to tell your father, he did. Until I reminded him that he, and you—” she propped a chubby finger under Celeste’s chin—“are just two more slices of his buttered bread.”

  Grief had transformed her into a rambling madwoman, her confusing words churning an anger inside Celeste, who wanted nothing more than to learn the details—however gruesome—of her brother’s fate. But it became obvious that this was not the time. Later, when Mother’s head was clearer, when she could pry the crumpled telegram from her hand, maybe then she’d know. Until then, she would provide what comfort she could; she laid her head on Mother’s knee and wept.

  Soon, her father’s silhouette appeared in the doorway.

  “There you are.” His voice was thick, the words choked with what could only be knowledge of the fate of his son. “I telephoned Mr. Parker. He told me.”

  “Oh, Papa!” Celeste used her mother’s sturdy, still form to clamber to her feet, then ran into her father’s waiting arms. She buried her face in his shirt, mindless of the tears that soaked it through. He, too, sagged against her, and they held each other as Papa wrenched his son’s name from the back of his throat, over and over again.

  Celeste heard a soft sound coming from behind her father and pulled away to see Graciela standing in the doorway, holding a crumpled lace handkerchief to her mouth, quietly but visibly sobbing. Celeste tried to catch her eye, seeking a secondary source of comfort, an extension of her father’s warmth, but Graciela wouldn’t look at her. She looked higher, and Celeste knew she was looking at her father. Moreover, she knew her father was looking at Graciela. The strength of their gaze wrapped them all together in the light of that single, glowing flame until Mother, with a single, dry breath, blew it out.

  DANA GOES TO THE BEACH

  1925

  AT DANA’S REQUEST, the driver, Gustav, slowed his speed on what she would describe as the perilous, twisty, turning road. Her stomach was in enough distress with the thought of the afternoon ahead; she didn’t need that odd feeling of having her insides sloshing around, not quite in the same place as her outside.

  “Lady, I’m telling you if I drive any slower, we’ll be crawling backward on three legs.”

  “Please.” She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth before continuing. “I’ve never been in a car—on a road like this.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. She’d driven through the hills with Werner the night of Celeste’s premier, but that was at night, where she didn’t have to see the blur of the passing scenery around and, more disturbingly, below the car. Also, she’d been in the front seat, next to the driver—next to Werner—and perhaps his comforting presence made the difference.

  “If I’d’a known you wanted to go this pace, I’d be sure to charge Mr. Ostermann by the hour instead of the mile. Might I suggest you get a Chinaman and a rickshaw for the trip back?”

  “How much farther?”

  “Sit back, close your eyes. Ten minutes, tops.”

  Closing her eyes didn’t help at all. It seemed her best bet was to open the car’s back window and put her face to the wind. The smell of the ocean was instantly refreshing, almost healing, and she breathed it deep.

  Yesterday, when she’d received word that Werner wanted to see her this afternoon—alone—she’d assumed he wanted another meeting in his office. The car arrived promptly at nine o’clock that morning, far too early for Celeste, who had only been home and in bed for a few hours. Even then, Dana suspected that had been Werner’s design, knowing the starlet’s dislike for early appointments. It wasn’t until Gustav made the first unfamiliar turn that she realized they weren’t headed to Werner’s office at all. By then, she was trapped in the backseat, too late to change her mind, and going too fast to jump. The latter impulse came after learning that she was being taken not to his office, but to his home.

  By now, the sound of the ocean wrapped around the rumbling of the car, and she could see the shoreline. They drove past three houses, then four, without the driver giving any a passing glance.

  “Do you know which one is his?”

  “I been driving Mr. Ostermann out here nearly every day for five years. Yeah. I know. So sit back. When we stop, we’re there.”

  There turned out to be like nothing she’d ever seen before.

  The house looked to be a natural outcropping of the craggy wall behind it, the stone taking on purposeful form and structure with the discipline of thick, rugged wood beams. Morning sun glinted off massive windows, and a wooden walkway extended in a serpentine pattern, disguised by the rocks and grass and sand.

  “This is it.”

  The driver hopped out and opened her door with a practiced flourish. She took his offered hand and stepped out of the car, surprised at the wobble in her legs. Smiling self-consciously, she blamed the unfamiliar feeling of sand.

  “Allow me to walk you to the door then, miss.” He was infinitely more polite now that they weren’t moving.

  “Thank you,” Dana said, though with each passing breath, the idea of ascending to that house became more terrifying, and she wondered if she’d have the strength of mind and body to do it at all. While she pondered the possibility of climbing into the car to be driven back to what was now a wonderfully familiar home, she heard her name on the breeze, and again, until she looked up to see Werner at the top of the walkway, waving.

  He looked like she’d never seen him before—his shirt loose and billowing, open at the collar, and his hair freed from any constraint, standing on edge and making him look like one of the little boys set loose to play in the courtyard before that awful, ra
iny day.

  He was coming down the walkway with a quick, not-quite-running step, and to her delight, his arrival onshore was preceded by that of a short-legged dog, who ran immediately to Dana, gave her a quick sniff, then moved on to the driver’s equally eager greeting.

  “Hey there, Ozzie.” He scratched behind the dog’s ears and offered his face to its darting pink tongue. Dana wrinkled her nose, though she was fascinated with the idea of such abandon.

  “Ozzie! Here.” Werner stood at her side, and after one final, circling sniff, little Ozzie stood between them, paws prancing impatiently in the sand. Werner took Dana’s hand. “How lovely of you to come.”

  “You said to.”

  He smiled, looking younger still. “You can always refuse an invitation, you know.” He turned to the driver. “Thanks for getting her out here safe and sound.”

  “No problem, Mr. Ostermann. When . . . ? I mean to say, what time—?”

  “I will telephone this afternoon.” Werner spoke as though he were sweeping away an unsightly conversation.

  The driver tipped his cap, bade good morning to Ozzie and Dana respectively, and returned to his still-running car.

  “Well, then.” Werner rubbed his palms together in the first gesture of nervous energy she’d ever seen from him. “Would you like to take a walk on the beach? Or come up to the house first? I have some breakfast laid out. Are you hungry?”

  “I—”

  “Let’s go up to the house, have some coffee. Let the sand warm up a little bit.”

  At that, she glanced down to see that his trouser legs were rolled, exposing tanned legs and bare feet. Dana couldn’t remember ever seeing a man’s bare foot before, and the sight of it made her feel more comfortable than she could have imagined. She agreed, and he made a tschik-tschik sound to Ozzie, who raced up the walkway in front of them.