All the Best People

by Sonja Yoerg

The girl lifted her chin and jammed her hand onto a cocked hip. “None of your business.”

  Aunt Regina’s nostrils flared. Carole stepped between them. “I made it for her. For the party.”

  “Your birthday party? With all of our friends? I don’t think so.”

  “She can sit with Ruth and Emma.” Her best friends—her only friends—wouldn’t mind.

  Her aunt shook her head.

  Janine said, “I’m going. Carole invited me and it’s her party.”

  Regina ignored her. “I won’t have her there, Carole. It’s impossible.”

  Janine slid her hand into her sister’s. Carole squeezed it, hoping Janine would feel her love and not the frustration building inside her. Her aunt’s treatment of Janine was harsh, even accounting for the woman’s gruff nature. Carole had always supported Janine without directly confronting Regina—the two of them, after all, had nowhere else to go—but lately she’d found it increasingly difficult not to speak her mind.

  Breathing deeply to quash her frustration, Carole knelt in front of the girl. “I have a few more stitches to finish on the dress, so let’s take it off for now.” Janine complied. Carole slipped her sister’s wool dress over her head and fastened the buttons. “Why don’t you go downstairs for a bit?”

  Janine frowned and stomped across the room. She paused at the door and glowered at her aunt. “You’re a witch!” She fled the room.

  Aunt Regina’s face was red and her bosom heaved. “That’s precisely what I mean. She’s not fit for polite society.”

  Carole squared her shoulders. “What do you expect?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What do you expect, considering how you treat her?” Carole swallowed hard. Her habitual impulse was to apologize before her aunt could respond, but her anger was too large. It would tear her apart from the inside if she denied it.

  Her aunt narrowed her eyes. “It’s not your place to comment.”

  “Yes, it is. She’s my sister! And you’ve never been fair to her.”

  “Fair? Your uncle and I took you both in. We should’ve realized what trouble that girl would be.”

  “Stop calling her ‘that girl’! And how do you expect her to behave when you show absolutely no love for her? If you kick a dog every day, you can bet it will learn to bite!”

  Her aunt froze. Carole had never raised her voice to her, not once. She’d always been calm and reasonable. Compensating for Janine’s unruly behavior was part of fulfilling her promise to her mother.

  Aunt Regina sniffed as if Carole had wounded her. “Because it’s your birthday, I will overlook that outburst. But don’t think I won’t remember if you dare speak to me that way again.” She headed out of the room.

  Carole followed, her muscles strung tight, her face burning. “If Janine can’t come then I’m not going!”

  Her aunt glared at her. “Don’t make threats, Carole. It’s unbecoming.”

  “I mean it. You can’t make me go.” She heard the childishness in her words, but it was too late to back down.

  “You’ll go. Everyone is expecting you.”

  “Then let Janine come.”

  “I’ve made up my mind, Carole. Don’t be impertinent.”

  “Janine’s right. You are a witch!”

  Aunt Regina’s voice was dead calm. Only the quivering of her jowls betrayed her. “I’ve been so pleased, relieved even, to see so much of your father in you. But now I see your mother as well. What a shame.”

  Carole’s fury, blinding hot only seconds ago, dissolved into a bitter pool of sadness and pain at the mention of her mother. What she would give to have her here, to hold her. Through her tears, Carole watched her aunt turn down the hall and descend the stairs. She thought to run after her, make her account for her words, but instead Carole returned to her room.

  Her hands shook as she untied the bow of her dress. How was she more like her mother now? Because she’d spoken out on behalf of her sister? She recalled, as she had so many times, her father’s explanation for why her mother had been sent to Underhill: she had been “out of control.” “Hysteria,” the doctor had said. Carole’s rage had erupted to the surface from some unknown and unexplored depth, but that wasn’t the same as being hysterical. Or was it? Maybe this was the beginning.

  She wiped her tears. A chill came over her. She unfastened the opening along her side, stepped out of the dress and put on woolen stockings, a knit dress and a sweater. She hoped her aunt was on the telephone canceling the party, because Carole was not going to change her mind. Her heart ached at the realization that she would always remember her eighteenth birthday this way. Maybe she could salvage something. She went to the window to check on the weather. The air was brittle with cold, but at least it was clear. Maybe she would take Janine to the Woolworth counter—her favorite.

  A bicyclist wheeled down the street toward the house. At first Carole thought it was the boy who delivered telegrams—not many people rode bicycles in November—and immediately thought someone had sent her a birthday telegram. Who would do that except her father? A thrill awakened in her at the possibility he was safe.

  But as the bicyclist neared, Carole realized it was not a boy at all, but a man. He dismounted and leaned the bicycle against the fence bordering the street. As he faced the house and straightened his coat, she saw it was Mr. Balducci, the manager of the Western Union office on Pearl Street, a kindly man, aged visibly over the four years he’d been charged with these grim errands. The blood drained from her head. She closed her eyes, hoping she had imagined him, and that it really was the boy, or no one at all.

  She opened her eyes. Mr. Balducci strode toward the door with a heavy step. Before he disappeared under the porch eave, he removed his hat.

  24

  Carole

  She made her way downstairs on wooden legs, her head floating somewhere above where it ought to have been. Her aunt’s sobbing filled the air, a sound out of proportion with the slim needle that pierced straight through Carole’s heart, preventing her from taking full breaths or moving too quickly. She wished her aunt would be quiet. Her noise was monstrous.

  Uncle Harold was at the front door, supporting his wife under the arms, moving her toward the parlor in a slow shuffling dance, his back to Carole. Mr. Balducci had gone. Carole followed her aunt and uncle with mincing steps so as not to dislodge the needle and puncture a lung, or something else. The pain made her dizzy.

  Her uncle deposited her aunt on the settee and arranged a cushion behind her head. Despite her wailing, her aunt’s face was dry. Uncle Harold knelt and clutched his wife’s hand.

  Janine appeared at Carole’s side. “What happened?”

  Carole picked up her sister. She was heavy, too big to carry, but Carole held on.

  “What happened?” Janine said again, squirming.

  Uncle Harold turned to them. He looked from one to the other, to Aunt Regina, hunched and sobbing, and to the children again. At last he came over to Carole and gripped her shoulder.

  “A telegram came from the war office. Your father’s body has been found. I’m very sorry, Carole.”

  Janine yanked on her sleeve. “What does that mean?”

  Carole stared into her sister’s dark brown eyes. The girl had only been five years old when their father enlisted, and he’d hardly spent any time with her before that. Janine never knew the father Carole had once known, and Carole had spoken of him as little as possible, thinking it was best for her to forget. Still, a father meant something.

  Carole cupped her sister’s chin. “It means Papa’s dead.”

  Janine frowned. “He was missing and now they found him, but he’s dead?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They found his bones?”

  Aunt Regina pulled herself upright, moaning. “For pity’s sake, take her away!”

&nb
sp; Janine scowled at her aunt. “Where, Carole? Where are his bones?”

  Carole pulled her into an embrace, covering her sister’s ears with her arms, knowing her aunt was not finished, that somehow her father’s death was her sister’s fault, and her mother’s, and hers. They would all be punished.

  Aunt Regina cried, “Take her away! Take that pirate child out of my sight!”

  Carole pulled Janine out of the room and up to their bedroom. She fought back tears as she consoled her sister on the rug between their beds, telling her their mother’s family were called pirates by mean and stupid people, and she shouldn’t pay any attention.

  “Like when they tease me about Mama being at Underhill?”

  “Yes. Exactly like that.”

  “So you’re a pirate, too?”

  “I must be.” And yet their aunt had singled out Janine. Always. Her sister noticed her hesitation. “But, I guess I’ve lost my eye patch.”

  Janine smiled, her eyes bright.

  Carole burst into tears, unable to hold back a moment longer.

  Her sister patted her arm. “There, there. It’s all right,” she said in the same tone she used with her dolls. After a few moments, she jumped to her feet. “I’m going to see if Marie is in the kitchen. I’m hungry.” She paused at the door. Carole could barely catch her breath between sobs. “I don’t really care about Papa, I guess. Not like you.” And she left.

  Carole envied Janine. How much easier it would be not to feel the pain of loss sharpened by the bitterness of disappointment. Their father hadn’t had to go to war. He didn’t have to die. He didn’t have to destroy the shred of hope she’d clung to that he might return to them as a father, not a ghost. He hadn’t cared enough. He hadn’t loved her.

  She could not bear another minute in this house. She grabbed her coat and her handbag, leaving without a word to anyone.

  The frigid air stung her cheeks as she found her way to the waterfront. She’d seen her grandmother only once or twice a year since her mother left; Carole had never felt strongly about her, and Aunt Regina had told Carole she was forbidden from “consorting with” her mother’s family if she wished to have a roof over her head. But Carole had had enough of Aunt Regina’s cruel restrictions, and Grandma Rosemarie was her sole link to her mother. Carole hurried along the darkened streets, moving faster the farther she traveled from her aunt’s house until she was running, the cold air searing her lungs.

  She raced down the hill and past the shantytown, the pungent sting of kerosene fires in her nose, and came to a halt at the last dock. She doubled over, her chest burning, eyes streaming. A single light shone ahead; her grandmother would not leave her boat until the first snow.

  The dock boards rattled under Carole’s feet. “Grandma! It’s Carole!”

  An arm emerged through a crack in the door and beckoned her in. Carole slipped inside. Her grandmother was bundled up in several layers of clothing and wore a fur hat with earflaps.

  “What on earth are you doing here, dear?”

  Carole’s mind whirled in circles. She had so many questions but she didn’t know where to begin. She opened her mouth to speak and let out a low moan.

  Her grandmother folded her into her arms, led her to a bench and brought her a steaming mug of tea. “I was thinking of you today.”

  It took Carole a moment to remember it was her birthday. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “There was supposed to be a party. But I had a fight with my aunt. Then a telegram came.” Her throat closed. “My father is dead.”

  “You poor thing.” Her grandmother clasped Carole’s hand. “He’d been missing a long while, but it’s human nature to hope. Is that why you came, because of your father?”

  “I’m not sure.” Her grandmother sat patiently, her eyes haunting and familiar. “I miss my mother so much.”

  “I know you must.”

  “I can’t stay with my aunt anymore. I just can’t.”

  Grandma frowned. “Can you tell me what you fought about?”

  “Janine. Aunt Regina hates her. She called her a pirate!”

  Her grandmother was very still. She pursed her lips and looked to the ceiling, as if for guidance.

  “What is it, Grandma?”

  “There’s something you should know. I’ve kept it from you because you were too young, and to spare your feelings. But now I think it’s better that you know.”

  Dread curled around her spine. “Know what?”

  Her grandmother sighed. “Janine is your half-sister. You have different fathers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly that. I know it’s hard to hear.”

  Light-headed, Carole steadied herself against the seat. Her mind was a torrent of thoughts rushing by too fast for her to grasp. Different fathers? She recalled her father’s rejection of the baby, her mother’s anguish.

  Grandma Rosemarie spoke. “Your mother had an affair.”

  An affair. Her mother betrayed her father. “My mother wouldn’t do that.”

  Her grandmother nodded, expecting Carole’s denial. “His name was Caleb Ploof.”

  Ploof. Like her father’s trial. A pirate.

  Carole searched her grandmother’s eyes for signs of doubt, and found none. But something else was hiding there. Her grandmother knew more than she’d let on, was somehow part of what had happened.

  Carole shuddered. “I have to go.” She stood, swaying.

  “Stay awhile, dear. You’ve had a shock.”

  She moved to the door. Too small in here. Too cold. She would fly out of her skin if she stayed. She would spin out of control, smash things, hurt things. Carole yanked open the flimsy door. A blast of wind hit her face, creating a small clearing in her mind. “You said his name was Caleb Ploof.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said ‘was.’”

  “Yes. He died a couple years ago, somewhere in France.” She rubbed her arms. “Shut the door, Carole.”

  Janine’s father. Carole had to remind herself; the facts weren’t sticking yet. Her sister’s father was dead. Like hers. Caleb Ploof had materialized moments ago and already he’d been erased. Panic rose in her chest, a burning acid rushing into every void.

  “I’m going, Grandma.” The words belonged to someone else. She pushed off the doorway, crossed the deck, leapt from the gangway to the dock and ran off.

  Her grandmother shouted after her. “Carole!”

  She ran, not caring where she was going, until the burn in her lungs overwhelmed her. She sweated under her coat and the cold moved inside her. She cinched the belt of her coat tighter and thrust her hands deep into the pockets. Only a few of the houses around her had lights on; it was late. A couple—arms linked, laughing, huddling close—approached her. She crossed the street to avoid them.

  She wandered through the neighborhoods, her feet numb with cold, her mind too distracted to register where she was. Her parents hadn’t loved her. Her father had chosen to risk his life at war instead of staying with her. His wounded pride at having been betrayed was more important to him than she was. Her memories of him loving her were nothing but childish fantasies.

  And her mother, the mother she’d longed for every day for eight years, hadn’t loved her, either. Her mother had chosen Caleb Ploof over her husband, over her daughter. Carole had poured her love into Janine for her mother’s sake, at first simply because she’d loved her mother, and later also because she pitied her for her being crazy. But her mother’s madness had come after her affair, not before. One day her mother had been braiding her hair and tucking her into bed, and the next she’d jeopardized the very possibility of her daughter’s happiness.

  This was her legacy. She was the child of cowardice, betrayal and madness.

  Carole pulled her hands from her pockets and into her sleeves, driving her fingers under the cuff of her s
weater. Her nails scraped hard against the underside of her forearms. She pinched and twisted the skin on her elbows, digging her nails into the flesh. The slicing pain made her gasp.

  Her toe caught the pavement where a tree root had heaved it. She stumbled. Her shoulder smashed into a fence post. She fell onto her knees and cried out.

  “Hey, miss! You all right?”

  A man stood beside a car a few yards away. The streetlamp behind him cast his face in shadow. Carole disentangled her hands from her sleeves and scrambled to her feet.

  He came around the front of the car. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Her voice seemed to come from somewhere else.

  The man stepped closer. He was about forty, with sharp features. He could grab her if he wanted.

  “It’s a cold night for a girl to be out walking. You need a ride someplace?”

  Someplace. Any place. What did it matter? He could drive her to the edge of the earth and toss her off and it wouldn’t matter a damn.

  “Sure.” She headed to the car. She couldn’t feel her legs.

  He caught up, opened the door for her. “Where’re we going?”

  She got in. “Anywhere.”

  He jogged to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel and started the engine. “I’m Ray.”

  She didn’t answer. Nothing she said would tell him the important thing, the only thing that mattered. Whatever he wanted from her, maybe nothing, he didn’t want to know it. No one would ever want to know that sort of truth, the truth that not even her parents could love her. She was invisible to Ray, to everyone. Until today, not even she had known how ugly she was inside.

  He drove slowly. Carole sank into the seat, leaned against the door, her mind blank, her mouth dry, sour. They wound past Battery Park, through town again, then south. Ray talked a little, asking questions she didn’t answer.

  He lit a cigarette, cracked his window. In between drags, he hummed an aimless tune. He put out the cigarette and laid a hand on her knee.

  “You can tell me what’s wrong. I don’t bite.”

  His touch was a jolt of electricity. She grabbed the door handle, fumbling.