All the Best People

by Sonja Yoerg

  Silence.

  She twisted the knob and went in.

  Sunlight spilled in through the tall windows. Her mother was in bed, the covers pulled to her chin, and seemed to be asleep. Carole approached the bassinet beside the bed and peered in. The baby was awake, her dark eyes wide, her pink bow of a mouth shaped in a little circle of surprise. How small she was! A warm, syrupy feeling flowed into Carole’s arms and legs. She smiled at her sister and reached for her. She didn’t dare pick her up—she’d never held a baby and dolls didn’t count—so she stroked the baby’s cheek with a finger, marveling at how impossibly soft her skin was. Carole felt her sister’s hair, fine and black.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  The baby’s face pulled tight like a string purse, then her mouth opened in a yawn. It was the sweetest thing Carole had ever seen.

  “Carole.” Her mother’s voice was hoarse.

  “Mama.” Carole moved to the bed and kissed her cheek. Her mother’s eyelids seemed too heavy for her. Her hair was unwashed and lay in strands on the pillow. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “The doctor gave me something. I just sleep and sleep.”

  “The baby’s so small, and so cute.”

  “Yes. She’s perfect.” Mama closed her eyes like she was hurting. “You’ll be a good sister to her, won’t you? Watch over her?”

  “Sure, Mama.” Something in the way her mother said it made Carole’s insides twist. “I can help you with her. I really want to. Can’t I come home now?”

  Her mother turned away. “That’s for your father to decide.”

  Carole waited for her to speak again, but she appeared to have dozed off. Carole thought of her words. Maybe all mothers asked the big sister to watch over the little sister. What about Papa? Wouldn’t he look after the baby, too?

  The infant gurgled. Carole got up from the bed, knelt by the bassinette and stroked her sister’s tummy until she quieted.

  Downstairs, the door chimes sounded. Carole went to the bedroom door and opened it a crack. She didn’t know how much trouble she’d be in if her father caught her—she was only visiting her own mother and sister—but Mama’s words had made her wary.

  A man and a woman spoke near the door, but she couldn’t make out the words. As they moved farther into the parlor, closer to the stairs, Carole recognized her father’s voice and, she thought, Aunt Bettina’s. Papa’s tone was harsh, worse than when he argued with her mother. Carole slipped into the hallway and left the door ajar behind her.

  Papa bit off his words. “She won’t say who it is.” The woman replied too softly for Carole to hear. Her father spoke again. “How do you expect me to remain calm?”

  The woman said, “Such a dreadful accusation. Are you certain?” It was definitely her aunt.

  “She admitted it. Why do you think I’m like this?”

  Aunt Bettina’s voice was steady. “And what will you tell Carole?”

  Their voices faded as they moved off, deeper into the house, where Carole could not imagine what was said next.

  She returned to the bedroom, thinking she would say good-bye and go back to Regina’s before she got into trouble. The baby mewled and a moment later began crying in earnest. Her mother was sleeping, so Carole went to the bassinet. She slipped her hands under the swaddled infant and picked her up. The baby’s head drooped and she cried more loudly, her face red and pinched. Carole cupped her sister’s head, held her to her chest and brought her to the window.

  “Look outside. It’s a pretty day.”

  The baby did not look out the window. She cried and cried, no matter what Carole did. She rocked her in the bassinet, sang her songs and talked to her about the cottage at the beach. “It’s a wonderful place. We’ll make sand castles and eat ice cream every day. I’ll show you the tide pools where the starfish live.”

  Finally, the baby drifted off to sleep and Carole crept downstairs. Voices came from the kitchen, and she slid down the hallway to the door where she could hear easily.

  Papa was angry. “Regina agrees, by the way. I spoke with her earlier. ‘Toss them to the dogs’ was her suggestion.”

  Before Carole could wonder who “them” might be, Aunt Bettina spoke. “Osborn, remember you are a Christian man.”

  “What would you have me do, then? I have a place in this community. I have earned respect. Solange had a place as well, as a reflection of me. As a courtesy. Now look!”

  “Calm yourself. Your anger isn’t doing anyone any good.”

  Carole heard her father pacing. “You know what I think? It’s her bad blood. Perkins had it right. You can’t change what’s in the blood. Blood will tell.”

  Who was Perkins? And how could blood tell anything?

  Papa kept talking, his voice sharp. “And wantonness is in the germ plasm. Perkins proved that.”

  What was “wantingness”? Or “germ plasm”? Carole’s palms were slick with sweat. Her father’s words didn’t make sense, but she could tell something was very wrong.

  A cup rattled against a saucer and a chair scraped the floor. Aunt Bettina said, “Osborn, that’s enough of that talk.”

  “I need some air.” Hinges creaked. Her father was going into the yard.

  “Fine. I’ll check on Solange.”

  Carole jumped in alarm and raced toward the front door as quietly as she could. She twisted the doorknob and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Carole.” Her aunt kept her voice low. “What are you doing here?”

  Aunt Bettina looked sad and tired, but not angry. Carole explained about wanting to see her sister and her mother. She didn’t let on about what she’d overheard, not that it made much sense anyway.

  “You poor dear. Why don’t you go on to my house while I see to your mother.”

  “Why can’t I stay here? I can help you with the baby.”

  Her aunt’s brow furrowed and she blinked several times. Why was everyone so upset and nervous?

  Aunt Bettina opened the front door and shooed her out. “Your mother must rest. You can stay with me. I’ll have a word with your father.”

  • • •

  Carole expected to be able to see her mother whenever she wanted, now that she was only a few doors away, but she was wrong. Aunt Bettina made gentle excuses and insisted Carole go to school as usual. How could she possibly pay attention? She almost asked her aunt about what she’d overheard in the kitchen—especially about wantingness and bad blood—but decided she’d have to get her own answers. Her father joined them for dinner most evenings, so tense and frayed that he seemed about to shatter. He was nothing like the father she knew; she almost wished he wouldn’t come. Carole stopped asking to see her mother and pretended not to be curious about the harsh whisperings she heard behind closed doors. Instead, she was patient.

  Exactly a week after she’d arrived at her aunt and uncle’s, she woke before dawn, dressed in the clothes she’d laid out the night before and slipped out the back door by the kitchen. A light rain fell and she hurried along the sidewalk, her feet confident on the familiar path, her head down so she wouldn’t see the reach of the dark.

  In a few minutes Carole arrived at her house and climbed the rain-slick steps with care. She turned the doorknob but it wouldn’t budge. How could she have forgotten it would be locked? She’d waited a week and now this. Her nose stung with tears and she rubbed it with a damp hand. She remembered, then, the key for the back door. Elsie was always misplacing hers, so they’d hidden one in a planter.

  Carole crept into the kitchen, closing the door gently behind her. Her wet shoes squeaked on the floor, so she took them off and carried them through the hall and up the stairs. A light shone under her parents’ bedroom door—really, her mother’s now. Carole hesitated, debating whether to knock, wondering if Papa was also inside. Holding her breath, she let herself in.

  M
ama clutched the baby to her chest like someone was about to snatch the baby away. As soon as she saw Carole, she smiled broadly and signaled her to close the door. Tears flooded her mother’s eyes as she held out her arm to Carole.

  “You’ve come.”

  21

  Solange

  Carole slipped into the room like an angel answering a prayer and folded herself into Solange’s embrace.

  “You’ve come.”

  “They don’t know I’m here.” Her daughter’s gaze fell to the small suitcase beside the bed.

  Hours ago, Solange had tossed clothes for her and the baby into the suitcase without considering what she might need. She’d refused the pills for two days now and was no longer groggy, but the path forward had not become any clearer. Her thoughts were swamped by guilt, dread and despair. She should do something to aid herself and her baby, but what? What? Carole was under Osborn’s control; what could Solange do to alter that?

  She smiled at her daughter and guided Carole’s chin with two fingers so their foreheads nearly touched. “Will you help me? Will you come with me?”

  “Where?”

  “To the lake.” She glanced at the baby. “To her home. Our home.”

  “Why, Mama? Why can’t we all stay here? Why can’t we stay with Papa?”

  “We have to go now. Hold her.”

  She pressed the bundle into Carole’s arms and scurried to her dressing room. Clothes were scattered on the floor, hanging out of half-open drawers. Scarves and shoes and baby things covered every surface.

  Solange had awoken earlier, in the dark, from shallow sleep. The baby had been crying in earnest. She reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on. She startled, knocking over a water glass.

  Osborn stood by the bassinet, in silhouette. He dangled the child in front of him, his hands around her chest, her gown crumpled between his fingers. His jaw was set in a hard line.

  Solange kicked off the covers and pushed herself upright. “Osborn! What are you doing?”

  He ignored her and squeezed harder. The baby wailed, her face bright red.

  Solange leapt from the bed.

  “Stop!” She pulled at his wrists, clawed at his fingers. The baby shrieked. Without warning, Osborn released his grip and the baby dropped into Solange’s hands. Solange drew her close, ran into the dressing room and shut the door. There was no lock. She leaned her back against the door, her heart hammering, and listened as Osborn’s footsteps retreated. The door from the bedroom to the hallway opened, then closed. She’d soothed the baby, rocking and murmuring to her. How much time passed, she didn’t know. She’d packed a suitcase without her own awareness.

  Now Carole had appeared. Solange took it as a sign.

  She roughly knotted her hair at her nape and swung a black hooded cloak over her shoulders. Returning to the bedroom, she grabbed a blanket from a chair, took the baby from Carole’s arms and wrapped her securely.

  “The suitcase, Carole. Now.”

  “But, Mama—”

  “Shhh.”

  Solange slid into the hall, her pulse quickening. She concentrated on keeping her steps light, being careful not to miss a stair in the near darkness, willing the baby not to cry. At the door, she unlocked the deadbolt, and she and Carole stole into the dawn, obscured by drizzle.

  Light-headed and weak, Solange weaved along the sidewalk. The act of leaving had taken all her strength. Carole tried to steady her, and asked her again and again what they were doing. Solange didn’t respond. It was all she could do to hold on to the baby and continue walking. The shadowy hedges and looming trees menaced her, and every few steps she glanced over her shoulder to see if someone was following them. No one was there, but she walked faster, nearly running. Her legs felt like stilts and her breathing was ragged.

  Carole pulled at her arm to slow her. “Mama!”

  “We have to hurry!”

  “Why?”

  Solange heard the desperate tears in her daughter’s voice but could do nothing about them. Escape. That was all that mattered.

  They neared the waterfront. A handful of people moved along the docks or toward the town. Panic rose inside Solange. No one could have known she was coming. The baby fussed. Solange jiggled her as she hurried past a group of men smoking and staring at the lake. She passed one dock after another, searching for a familiar boat, praying her family, or someone she knew, would appear.

  Solange stumbled on the steps leading to the last pair of docks and pitched forward. Carole grabbed her shoulder, breaking her fall. The suitcase clattered to the ground. Solange landed on her back, the baby clutched against her chest.

  Carole squatted beside her. “Mama, are you hurt?”

  She sat up slowly, her insides churning, her mind flooded with fear.

  Planks along the dock rattled. A figure loomed over her. A man. David. He knelt beside her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Help me.”

  A whistle sliced the air. Two policemen ran toward them brandishing billy clubs. Behind them, Osborn, his coat flying open.

  Carole jumped up. “Papa!”

  Solange screamed.

  David stepped forward to block the policemen.

  The one in front, built like a dray horse, raised his club and bared his teeth. “Stand back! Get away from her!”

  The other moved to the side to corner David.

  “Grab her!” Osborn ordered. “For God’s sake, grab her!”

  Solange staggered to her feet, sidled toward Carole and thrust the baby into her arms. “Protect her.”

  A policeman yanked Solange by the arm. Her hood fell back, her hair flew in her face. She kicked at his shins. “You can’t do this! You can’t!” The policeman twisted her arm into her back. She cried out in pain.

  As he dragged her toward a van parked in the lot, the other policeman swung his club at David’s head. David ducked and drove his fist into the policeman’s stomach. Osborn reached for the baby in Carole’s arms.

  “No!” Solange tried to wrest herself free.

  “Cut it out, lady!” The policeman jammed her arm farther up her back.

  Solange collapsed.

  The sharp bite of metal on her wrists. The cries of her child, her baby. Both her babies.

  Inside the van, black silence.

  22

  Carole

  The policeman pushed her mother into the van.

  “Papa! Stop them!” Carole started toward them, but her father caught her arm.

  “Carole, give me the baby.”

  He was angry, about to burst, and Carole was afraid. “I want to hold her.” The baby was crying, so Carole rubbed her back. She looked around for Uncle David, but he’d disappeared. Both policemen were climbing into the van.

  “Papa, what’s going on?”

  He was watching the policemen, too. “Your mother isn’t well.” He turned to her, stern. “You could see that, couldn’t you?”

  She nodded. Her mother was definitely not well. Running out of the house with the baby didn’t seem right. Then again, nothing about any of this seemed right to her. It was a big mess and she didn’t understand any of it, only that she was scared. “Where are they taking Mama?”

  “To the doctor.” He stared at his feet.

  Tears flooded her nose, her eyes. “Papa—”

  A car pulled up to the roped barrier as the police van drove away.

  “Here’s Bettina and Tyler.” Her father guided her toward the car. “Your aunt called me when she realized you were gone. You worried us.”

  Without a word, her aunt took the baby from her. Carole slid into the backseat, numb and hollow inside, her arms tingling from holding her sister for so long.

  As they drove up the hill, Carole asked her aunt and uncle where the police had taken her mother and why. She didn’t completely believe
her father. Her uncle said nothing, as usual. Aunt Bettina told her she didn’t know, and it seemed to be the truth.

  That night, Carole couldn’t sleep, and thought about sneaking off to her house again, in case her mother was there, but was afraid to leave the baby. She had promised to watch over her.

  The sun rose weakly in a gray sky. All day, Carole went from window to window, as if her mother might appear. A woman, a stranger, nursed the baby. Carole held her sister the rest of the time and napped fitfully in the sitting room, waiting for someone to tell her what had happened to her mother. She made a bet with herself that if she took good care of her sister, her mother would come back.

  Late in the afternoon, her father came to the house, greeted her with a solemn nod and went to the parlor to whisper with her aunt. Carole put her ear to the door but her aunt’s maid shooed her away. After what seemed like hours, her father and her aunt came into the sitting room where Carole held the baby in her lap. Her aunt took a seat beside her.

  Her father stood with his arms folded. “Your mother’s in a special hospital called Underhill.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s resting. There are doctors and nurses to look after her.”

  “Why can’t she rest at home? Or here?”

  Aunt Bettina spoke carefully. “You know how ill she was the whole time she was carrying your sister.” Carole nodded. “It’s taken a toll. She’s not herself. She became very agitated at the police station.”

  “Out of control,” her father said.

  Carole turned to him. His grim face worried her even more. “How long until she’s better? How long until she’s home?”

  “The doctor couldn’t guess.”

  “Can I see her?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

  Carole felt the floor dropping away beneath her. She remembered what she’d overheard in the kitchen. “Is it because of her wantingness?”

  Aunt Bettina exchanged a questioning look with Carole’s father. Of course they didn’t know Carole had been snooping.