by Sonja Yoerg
“Classic” was Aunt Bettina’s watchword.
“Proper” was Aunt Regina’s.
Carole allowed herself to be dressed and paraded, and did not pretend to herself she had a choice.
Her sister, on the other hand, was a pariah for reasons Carole did not understand for many years, and received next to nothing. Carole, ten years older, clothed Janine, and stored old outfits in a trunk in their room. (She would not permit Janine to sleep elsewhere. She had dreams of Aunt Regina, typically in the guise of a winged demon, whisking her sister off in the middle of the night, and of her mother then going mad, truly mad, more wildly mad than she was now, with the loss.) The underclothes, still perfectly white, she lay in the trunk as well, and one good winter coat a year, plus an assortment of shoes, for feet seemed to grow according to their own schedule, not the laws of nature. In the evenings, when her schoolwork was finished and her aunts did not need her, she reworked the seams and necklines as best she could, and hoped her sister’s long hair would hide the worst of her mistakes.
Janine was tightly sprung and careless, so even when she was old enough to appreciate her sister’s care she rarely paused to do so. Carole might have harbored resentment for that, but recognized her little sister had her, and only her, on this earth. When she put the girl to bed, tucking the covers snugly so Janine would feel embraced as she entered sleep, tenderness for Janine warmed Carole’s body and calmed her mind. She could not replace what they had lost nor straighten the road their parents had set before them, nor could she change who she and Janine were, what they carried inside them, or what misfortune might overtake them. She could, however, stay by her sister and remain brave against fate, love her without fail and shield her from the dark mystery of why she and her mother were the only ones who did.
• • •
Carole was halfway around the hem when Walt called to her from the garage. She needed to finish the dress or she would forget. Already her mind was getting crowded, voices corralling her own thoughts, tossing them around. In the quiet, she might finish. She might be able to do this one thing for Alison. One hem. Once around the bottom. For Janine. For Alison.
Walt called again.
Another stitch. Another.
Walt opened the door. “Carole, a customer needs to settle up and I’ve got two cars in the air. I’m sorting wildcats in here.”
“I’m coming.” Carole rose, folded the dress over the back of the chair and went into the office, placing each foot carefully and keeping her head still so as not to alert the voices.
A bearded man propped his elbows on the counter, scowling and slapping his checkbook against his palm. Walt was rummaging through a box he’d pulled from the shelves between the counter and the garage entrance. Fan belts. Tuna melts.
Carole picked up the invoice from the desk, two smudged fingerprints on the margin. The name and the amount was all she needed. Check the name, give the amount. Name and amount. Name. “Erwin Battle.”
“That’s right.”
“Battle.” Battle tattle rattlesnake. Battle tattle rattlesnake.
“That’s my name.”
Voices pressing hard, pushing behind her eyes. Pushing her eyeballs to the side. They could see. They could see everything. They were coming out. “Battle. Tattle.”
“What?”
“Battle tattle rattle—” Her stomach tightened and she felt the corners of her mouth lift. A bubble rose from her chest. She laughed.
The man smacked his checkbook down. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, lady.”
Carole clamped her hand over her mouth to shut off the laugh, to stop the voices escaping. Battle tattle rattle. Battle tattle rattle.
Walt took the invoice from her. “You best go inside, Carole.” He steered her by the elbow, pushed the door open, spoke to the man. “She hasn’t been sleeping.” The door was closing behind her. “I’m awful sorry.”
“Awful sorry. Awful lawful story.”
The dress on the chair. For Janine Alison. The least she could do. The best she could do. The best and all the rest.
She smoothed the dress in her lap found her place picked up the needle. It shook by hook and by crook.
She pushed the needle through the fabric and into her finger. A bead of blood appeared on her fingertip. She pushed on the finger. The bead grew.
Bad blood. Bad flood.
Bad. Mad. Blood.
Part 2
14
Solange
April 1926
Osborn signed the register and turned to face her. The justice recited from a book, but Solange was deaf to him; the only vows that mattered were those she whispered in Osborn’s ear at night.
The justice finished speaking. Osborn held Solange’s hand lightly, slipped the band onto her finger and smiled the same way he had the day they’d met at the hotel eight months before.
“My wife.” He drew her to him, kissing her deeply.
Her heart filled with light. What fate had sent her Osborn? She’d always sensed that as her life unfolded, true happiness would appear, but she hadn’t counted on it appearing all at once in the shape of this man: kind, loving, purposeful and so handsome she couldn’t stop looking at him. Solange felt blessed.
The justice offered congratulations, as did the witness, a city hall clerk with an alarming overbite. Osborn grasped Solange’s hand and they sped from the room, laughing. They tripped down the marble stairs, out the enormous double doors and into the fresh of the day. Osborn’s Buick waited at the curb. The pale green tips of the elms lining the street shook in the breeze.
Solange leaned against the car and opened her arms. “Osborn!”
They kissed again, smiling so hard they could barely purse their lips.
Osborn cupped her chin. “Mrs. Solange Gifford, my Scarlet Queen.” Their lips met once more.
They set off for three days at Lake Willoughby, the most time Osborn could afford in his final months at Albany Law School. The WilloughVale Inn was rustic and weathered but situated prettily on the lakeshore. A bellman showed them to their suite and placed the suitcases inside. He indicated a large, private veranda where flowers, fruit, cheese and sodas had been arranged.
“Courtesy of the inn. Congratulations.”
Osborn tipped him, closed the door and followed Solange to the veranda, where they sat together on the loveseat.
She inhaled the crisp, piney air. “Isn’t it perfect?”
“It is.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask. “A little hooch to celebrate?”
“Osborn!”
“I’m joking. It’s gin.”
“Where did you get that? Never mind. Don’t tell me.” She poured two glasses of lemonade.
Osborn added a finger of gin to each and touched his glass to hers. “To us.”
“To us.” The gin paved a swath of heat down her throat. Osborn stared at the lake, lost in thought. “What is it, darling?”
“I confess disappointment with city hall. I’d wanted to marry you at the Hotel Vermont, on the rooftop garden, with vases of red roses on the tables. I wanted our families to be there with us, eating lobster and drinking champagne.”
“It would have been impossible,” Solange said, “and getting the champagne would’ve been the least of it.” She set down her glass and slipped into her husband’s arms.
“True. I don’t know which of our families approve of us less.”
Solange had heard rumors that Osborn’s father referred to her as “that pirate girl,” using the slang favored by Burlington’s elite in describing lake-dwelling families. He hadn’t said it in her presence, but Solange knew where she stood. Osborn’s stepmother was polite but distant, which sent its own message. Solange’s family was no different. Jean-Claude Bouchard had refused to allow Osborn to board the houseboat, addressing him at shouting distance f
rom the rail. Solange had petitioned her father to give her beloved a chance, but he wouldn’t budge, despite his typically affable nature. She worried she’d crossed him by following her heart, but she did not doubt her choice. Solange’s mother, Rosemarie, would not dream of second-guessing what her daughter believed to be her destiny. But neither would Rosemarie urge her husband to soften his view, knowing pride was in his bones the way intuition was in hers.
Somewhere out on the lake, a loon called, a tremulous wail. A moment passed, then came the answering call from its mate. Osborn kissed the top of Solange’s head. “You are so much more than where you came from, darling.”
“That goes double for you, Osborn Gifford.”
He laughed and pulled her toward him, resting his forehead against hers. “My family will come around once they get to know you.”
His optimism touched her, but she wasn’t convinced. Osborn’s family was part of the cadre of well-to-do Protestants who ran the city. She was kin to French Canadians who lived on barges, not yachts, and wintered, not on the Carolina coast, but in shantytowns near the harbor. But that was their families, not them. She and Osborn were deeply in love, and now they were married.
“I hope they do come around,” Solange said, “but honestly, as long as I have you, I don’t care.”
She was eighteen and Osborn ignited her soul.
• • •
Osborn had been living in a men-only building in Albany, but before the wedding, he’d secured another place off State Street, where the law school was housed.
As they climbed the stairs—four flights in all—Osborn apologized for the simple accommodations.
“Once I land a job, we’ll get something better.” He opened the door and let her pass inside.
Solange took in the large windows, decorative moldings and solid furniture standing on tastefully worn oriental rugs. She wandered into the kitchen, outfitted with modern appliances, easily four times the size of her family’s houseboat galley. Their entire boat could have fit in the living room.
“It’s perfect. Really.” She picked up a book, tied with a red ribbon, from the kitchen counter: The Fannie Farmer Cookbook.
Osborn smiled. “My mother sent that, so we wouldn’t starve.”
Solange’s mother cooked from memory, and Solange had never paid much attention, except when required to shell beans or help make jam. “I may not be able to cook, but I can read.”
He took her by the waist and drew her close, his breath hot on her neck. “Let’s always have dessert first.”
While Osborn was in class or studying in the second bedroom, Solange wandered the outdoor market at Lyon Block, marveling at the vast array of fresh ingredients, many she’d never heard of, much less tasted: artichokes, Jordan almonds, watercress. Osborn gave her cash, more than she needed, and opened accounts at stores selling dry goods, clothes, furnishings—whatever she wanted.
She read the cookbook cover to cover, and was intrigued by the chapter on “Helpful Hints for Young Housekeepers.” To clean piano keys, she learned, wipe with rubbing alcohol.
“You don’t have to cook tonight,” Osborn said frequently. “Let’s go out.”
If it was just the two of them, Solange was happy; the company of the other law students, invariably unattached young men, made her self-conscious. Her voice sounded too high and her opinions not sufficiently opinionated.
One morning, after weeks of diligent shopping, cooking and wiping, Solange found a collection of novels among Osborn’s texts: Thackeray, Hardy, Hawthorne. The books stole her private hours. Soon, she discovered shortcuts to acceptable meals, and the library.
Her life was small, full of comfort and ripe with love.
• • •
Osborn scooped Solange into his arms and carried her across the threshold of their new home in Burlington. She gasped at the vaulted entry, the elegant sweep of the staircase, the tall windows in the parlor. A parlor!
“What are we going to do with all this?”
He kissed her. “Fill it with children, of course.”
He’d passed the bar exam and slid neatly into the position waiting for him at Reston & Howard, the city’s most prestigious legal firm. His father and stepmother helped him buy the house perched on the hillside above downtown, bordering the university. It was three times the size of their apartment in Albany. The excess space left her unmoored, but how could she possibly complain?
Carole was born in November of 1927, a week after a tremendous flood washed out nearly every bridge in the state. Solange’s mother claimed it was a good omen, and Solange could not argue. The baby thrived.
“What apples you have in your cheeks!” Osborn exclaimed, lifting his daughter into the air, her butter yellow curls bouncing. “I fancy a bite!” He pretended to gobble her up, sending her into a fit of giggles.
With the help of a maid, Solange took care of the too-large home, especially before visits from Osborn’s family, which she tolerated more than enjoyed. There was a layer, like thick muslin, between her and Osborn’s relatives, and she had no idea how to remove it. When Osborn was present, his sisters were kinder, his parents less diffident.
She’d tried to explain it to him. “They don’t approve of me.”
“Of course they do. Don’t you see their faces when you walk in with Carole?”
“That’s for her, not for me.”
As soon as she said it, she heard her own petulant tone, and vowed to be less sensitive and more accepting. She wished both families would embrace the happiness she and Osborn had created, but she couldn’t make it so, and resolved to focus on what mattered: her daughter was a joy, and her husband loved her from one day to the next as if love and time were the same thing.
• • •
Carole toddled beside her mother down to the shore, holding on to the pram she would climb into for the uphill trek home. On their way to the harbor, they passed the shanties. The jumble of tiny houses, cobbled together from sheets of metal and scrap lumber, were so at odds with the beautiful lake shimmering beyond them.
The sight weighed heavily on Solange. Before the market crash, the shanties would have been boarded up in the summer when the houseboats could sail the lake. Now most seemed occupied; children with sooty faces and tattered clothing chased one another around the junk piled in the narrow alleys; women hung dingy washing on lines strung between the shacks; men sat on oil cans and wooden crates, hunched in shame or defeat. Solange felt a stab of guilt for everything she had, things she didn’t even want or need.
The city folks called the place Shappyville, referring to her father’s kin. As if anyone would have created it out of desire rather than necessity. Who in their right mind would? Heaved against the rough beach like a pile of driftwood, the shantytown had been forced ashore by the tide of commerce.
Decades ago, after Vermont’s trees had been felled and logging ground to a halt, her family and the other lake dwellers had resorted to ferrying goods along the waterways. They had scraped by, but the lake had gradually become a place for moneyed newcomers to travel to, look at, play in and leave. The vacationing millionaires moored their yachts and parked their motorcars in front of stately mansions and took exception to tarpaper shacks and dilapidated barges spoiling their lake views. The lake dwellers had never had much, but they’d sailed their boats up and down the lake in a gritty sort of freedom. Now they’d lost their livelihoods for good.
Leaving the pram at the end of the dock, Solange hoisted Carole onto her hip and made her way to the family boat. Her mother, Rosemarie, was sunning herself on a chair, her feet propped on the railing.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Hello, Solange.” She smiled and held out her arms. “Bring that beautiful child to me.”
Solange obeyed. Carole twined her fingers through the strands of beads around her grandmother’s neck.
�
�What a pretty day it is.” Solange swept her hand to indicate their surroundings and noticed, as she did every time she visited, the disrepair and decay of her childhood home—and the Bouchards owned one of the better boats. As uncomfortable as she was in her too-large home, she’d grown accustomed to fine furnishings, modern plumbing and spotless surfaces. Solange had caught herself hurrying home after these visits, eager to reenter the calm, clean comfort of her new life, and felt ashamed.
“Mama, I found some nice blankets and other things in the attic. No one’s using them.”
Her mother was playing patty-cake with Carole. She finished the song before answering. “You offering us charity?”
“No, Mama. It’s not that at all. I just thought—”
Her mother looked at her evenly. “I know what you thought. And we don’t need blankets. We don’t need anything.” She returned her attention to the child. “I do believe there might be some maple candy in the tin.”
Carole clapped her hands and squealed. Solange sighed, wondering how she’d forgotten that pride was its own comfort.
After the visit, Solange stopped beside the poor box and filled it with the blankets and clothes she’d offered to her mother. It occurred to her that every house in her neighborhood had to be full of useful goods for the poor. Maybe she’d find a way to get to them.
“Mama!” Carole, spying the empty pram, raised her arms.
Solange placed her inside, kissed her forehead and walked on to the swimming beach, remembering Osborn’s comment that morning at breakfast about crime increasing at the waterfront and on Grand Isle. It didn’t surprise her. She could see how the risk of losing what little they had would make people angry, and if some used their anger as an excuse to grab hold of what they wanted, well, the blame could be spread around. There were always a few bad apples; that was true. But the other side of the story, the part about having had the best life you wanted and losing it, that was true, too.