There’s just me.
I go to the bedroom, shut the door, crawl under the covers. I’m still wearing my coat, but I might as well be naked. I’m that cold. I curl into the smallest ball my body can make. I once was lost. I want to sing myself to sleep, but I can’t remember the rest of the words.
I wake to find Sophy beside me in bed. We’re lying face-to-face, nearly nose-to-nose. She is watching me closely, the way I’ve so often watched her over the years. Her cheeks have color again. She is warm. I’m warm, too.
“Long sleep,” she says.
I nod. “You, too? Did you take a nap?”
She kisses the air yes. She smells of sour milk. Dried flecks of hot cereal speckle her lower lip. Mother must have wanted to get some lunch into her, and a little hot cereal was all either of them could manage. I have to smile: Sophy’s breath is a comfort, whether it’s sweet or sour. Her breath means she is alive, never mind what the doctors have said from the day she was born. She won’t live a year, the first doctor said, having dragged her with his forceps into the world. She won’t make it to two, three, four, five, the next doctor said. And then it was six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and then Mother found yet another doctor, Sophy’s doctor now, who says maybe twenty. She’ll live to be twenty years old, that doctor thinks. If she’s lucky.
We’ll show him.
Sophy cranes her neck to see something, and then, “Mermaid,” she says. “Please.”
Mounted on the wall behind me is a plate that bears the image of the Little Mermaid from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale. Den Lille Havfrue, Mother calls her. Small and unimposing, the Little Mermaid sits on a rock in the harbor, looking out to sea. Mother and Dad gave the plate to Sophy for her tenth birthday. Sophy has always cherished it; when we moved into this apartment it was the first thing she asked me to unpack, the first thing she asked Dad to hang on the wall.
Now, for the first time since our move, she asks me to tell her the story of the Little Mermaid again.
“Now?” I’m not sure what this story will do for either of our moods.
She kisses the air.
When we were much younger, I would pull out the old, leather-bound book of Hans Christian Andersen’s tales and tell the story as we turned the pages—tell the story, not read it, because the book, published in the 1800s, is a Danish edition. Except for our old family Bible, it is the most beautiful book we own, with richly detailed watercolor illustrations. Sophy and I especially like the picture of the Little Mermaid washed ashore, discreetly draped in seaweed. Her prince approaches her, awestruck, lovestruck, holding out his cape like a shield to cover her body.
“Do you want me to get the book?” I know exactly which shelf it’s on in the front room.
She hisses, impatient. “Tell.”
So I tell about the Little Mermaid’s underwater kingdom, her intoxicating singing voice, her love for the handsome, human Prince. I tell how a great storm strikes, and the Little Mermaid saves the Prince from drowning. She swims away, but her longing for the Prince doesn’t fade. It grows stronger. She visits the cruel and powerful Sea Witch, who strikes a bargain: I’ll give you legs, Little Mermaid, but you must give me your tongue in exchange. So the Little Mermaid sacrifices the only life she has known—and she sacrifices her voice—for her Prince. With every step she takes on land, she feels as if she is walking on sharp swords.
I take Sophy’s hand, and we hold tight to each other. We know what happens next. The Little Mermaid finds the Prince. He thinks she’s beautiful. She can’t speak, of course, but he loves to see her dance, which she does, though every step, dip, and sway causes her horrible pain.
I press my lips together. This story troubles me as never before. But Sophy begs me to continue, so I do.
“In the end the Prince marries another, and the Little Mermaid’s heart breaks. At dawn, she throws herself into the sea, expecting death. But instead of fading away on the waves, she becomes a spirit of the air. She rises to heaven.”
Sophy and I are quiet for a moment. Then Sophy says what she always says at this story’s end.
“Sad.”
“Yes.”
“Sing.”
I shrug. “Yes, she’ll get to sing again in heaven. The story doesn’t say that, but we’ll say that.”
“No!” Sophy grimaces with frustration. “You. Now.”
I smile at my sister. “I think I’m a little too tired to sing right now.”
“Now.”
I’m not smiling anymore. “Later. You name it, I’ll sing the song. Right now—I’m so tired, Sophy.”
Sophy hisses.
“Sophy, I—”
Her face reddens with impatience and anger. “You . . . Den Lille Havfrue!”
Sophy’s Danish is garbled, but suddenly I understand. I could almost sing my understanding.
She doesn’t want me to be like the Little Mermaid. She doesn’t want me to give up singing for a life that hurts me.
“Oh, Sophy.”
I think my heart might break, the way it beats with love for my sister. I bury my head in her cottony hair. I thank her. I ask her to name the song.
SEVENTEEN
Next morning, Mother wakes me at five, all in a flurry.
“I’m late,” she whispers, trying not to wake Sophy. Quietly, quickly she asks me to please pack her something to eat on the train. She can assemble some kind of little lunch at the Nygaards’, but they’ve made it clear that she can’t eat their food for breakfast, too.
There are four eggs in the icebox. I set two of them to boil, and then take a nice loaf of bread from the pantry. Mother must have brought the bread home from the Nygaards’ party—with Mrs. Nygaard’s permission, I’m sure. I slice two pieces. When the eggs are done, I peel and slice them, too, make a simple sandwich, wrap it in paper. Mother gives me a swift kiss, and then she tucks the sandwich into her overnight bag.
“There’s a party,” she says. “I won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”
She gives me a resolute look. There will be no more talk about the risk she’s taking with her health. No more talk about me singing instead. I give a nod. Let her take my nod as acquiescence. I know what I’m going to do.
I’m standing at the front door, watching Mother lug her little bag down the stairs, when Dad, dressed in his white coveralls, emerges from their bedroom. He goes to the kitchen. The coffee pot rattles as I softly call one last good-bye to Mother and close the door. It seems cowardly to go back to bed, especially as I’m wide awake now, so I straighten my shoulders and head to the kitchen, too. If he talks to me, I will talk to him. I make this resolution.
Dad stands at the kitchen window, staring silently out at the El tracks, so I sit down at the table and wait for some change in his chilly demeanor. I don’t back down. I don’t leave, even as the coffee finishes brewing and he drinks one cup at the window, then a second. I eat a piece of the nice bread. He wraps a few pieces of the bread in a napkin, takes some cheese and meat as well, and then he’s gone, too.
The way Mother treats me you’d think I’d never sung a word. The way Dad treats me you’d think I didn’t exist at all. I go to the bathroom, look in the mirror, and hum a few notes to remember who I am, and that I’m here. I splash my face with water. Then I tiptoe from the bathroom down the hallway past Andreas’s room. He must have come home after I was in bed last night; I can hear him snoring through the closed door. Monday is his only morning to lie about late. If I have my way, I’ll have Sophy ready and the two of us out of here before he’s up and at ’em—because up and at me, that’s what he’d actually be.
Sophy is awake now, but she proves sluggish. I’ve barely gotten her dressed when I turn to see Andreas, standing in his robe at the bedroom door. My brother is so tall that in this humble apartment his head nearly grazes the lintel. If he were wearing shoes, not slippers, he’d have to duck to enter the room. His long shanks are startlingly pale compared with his robe, which is exactly the bright red of his sun-d
amaged nose.
“I need to speak with you.”
As I expected, my brother is looking at me as if he’s still standing in the pulpit.
“Den Lille Havfrue,” Sophy whispers.
I surprise Andreas by laughing; I surprise myself, too.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
I make some crack about Danish humor, and then walk right past my brother, saying Sophy needs to eat before anything else can happen. I promised her a treat—scrambled eggs—and he’s not going to keep me from following through on this. Besides, he knows how important it is that Sophy eats on time. And by the time she’s finished eating, he may be gone.
But he’s not. He’s waiting for me by the front room fireplace, weighing Dad’s bayonet in his hands.
After yesterday, I don’t want Sophy to witness another argument, let alone an impaling—ha, ha—so I settle her in her chair by the bedroom window. The sun is out today, and there’s no frost on the glass, so I open the window a crack to let in some fresh air. Or as fresh as it gets, given the trash cans in the alley. The children are already at school—those that aren’t truant—but someone whistles a melody below. It’s a song I don’t know, a song I wish I knew; it’s that bright and happy. I peer down and see the garbage collector making the best of his lot. I ask Sophy to try to remember the words to the song if he starts to sing them; then I leave her to listen. Tomorrow night at Calliope’s I’ll hum the melody, toss in any lyrics she might pick up. One of the Chess Men will surely recognize the song and teach it to me. Maybe we’ll make it our own.
“Tomorrow night at Calliope’s,” I say to myself as I walk down the hallway toward my brother. I remind myself of the person I am now. I’m a singer. A vocalist. I sing with the Chess Men. I gird my loins, as Andreas might say. In the front room, I perch on the edge of the love seat. Andreas sets the bayonet back into its rack on the wall and then turns to me.
“There’s talk of another war,” he says, apropos of nothing.
“Yes.” I’ve heard stories on the radio. I’ve read the newspapers, too. At Old Prague, Nils said something about all his many good plans being for naught if he had to join the army. And just Saturday night, the subject of war came up between sets, and Jim, who’s about Dad’s age, talked about his time in the French trenches. “Nineteen-seventeen was all rats and mud and blood and gas,” Jim said. “I wonder what the next years will hold over there.” We all looked at Theo, then, the only man in the room who was the right age for service. “If it comes to that, there’ll be no holding me back,” Theo said firmly, answering our unasked questions. I can’t imagine Theo bearing anything like the bayonet above the fireplace, but apparently Jim could. “You’re the very man I’d have wanted beside me when the going got tough,” Jim said, and the room got quiet then. The Chess Men have managed to find a way to play music together. But not even they could find a way to fight side by side on the battlefield. There are white troops and there are black troops, and that’s the way it is.
Andreas interrupts my thoughts. “I know you don’t remember Dad before he went off to fight, Rose—you were just a baby—but I remember him well. Dad was a different man. A kinder man. I look at him now, and I wonder what broke inside him. What weak link did he carry? I search myself for weakness all the time. When I find it, and I do find it, I ask the Lord if it can be turned into strength, or I ask the Lord if what appears to be weakness is actually a manifestation of Christ’s compassion. But when it’s weakness, plain and simple and dangerous, the Lord shows me, and I don’t deny it. I acknowledge my flawed, sinful nature, bald as can be.” Andreas taps his own balding pate, and smiles as if he’s making a joke, but his eyes are deadly serious. “When that’s the case, I do my best to go in for the kill.” His finger is a gun now; he mimes shooting himself in the head. “I remember Dad, who he was before the Great War, who he became afterward, and I promise myself and I promise the Lord that I’ll never change like that. With the Lord’s help, I exorcise the weakness within myself, and I do the same for others. I don’t just save people, Rose, I help them grow stronger, with the Lord’s help.”
My neck aches from looking up at my brother, but I am not relieved when he drags over an ottoman and sits down right in front of me. Eye-to-eye like this (the ottoman is lower than the cushion on which I’m perched), I face the full intensity of his bright blue gaze. I am more sinner than sister in his eyes. Not a few brief seconds have passed, but it is hard to remember that God is my judge, not Andreas.
“I want to help you,” my brother says. “I’ve helped many, many people—our friend Dolores, to name one. Now it’s your turn. I’ll help you to be strong.”
“I am strong,” I say.
Andreas shakes his heavy head. “I’ve always known Rob had it in him to take the wrong road. Rob’s like Dad in so many ways. But you, Rose—how on earth could you? You have a family who loves you. A fellow who cares. Oh, don’t look surprised. Anyone with two eyes in his head can see what Nils feels for you. I’ve watched Nils watch you at coffee hour. I’ve watched him watch you when you sing during church. And that’s just it, Rose. Dad hasn’t really heard you, and Mother doesn’t really understand, but I’ve been beside you at the altar when you’ve sung the altar call. I know that’s what you were created to do, as I’m created to preach. Think of it, Rose. I could be the pastor, and you could be the choir director, and together, strong as only we can be, we could save so many. We could make so many strong.”
When I was a very little girl, Andreas sometimes looked up from his books and played pretend with me. He’d be the explorer, and I’d be the Indian companion. He’d be the Crusader, and I’d be the Moorish princess. He’d be the soldier, and I’d be the nurse. If I played nurse well enough, I’d sometimes be rewarded by being allowed to be an ambulance driver instead. But only sometimes, and only if I followed Andreas’s rules.
I stand and my knees bump my brother’s. “Singing in church is wonderful, but it’s not enough. Not for me.”
Andreas narrows his eyes to bright blue points. “Yield not to temptation, Rose.”
“One man’s temptation is another woman’s calling.”
Andreas slowly shakes his head. “How did this happen to you?”
“God made me this way.”
I go to Sophy then. I ask if she thinks it’s about time we got out of here.
Her yes is music to my ears.
It’s March, I realize as Sophy and I enter Garfield Park. The month has turned over without my knowing it. The raw, wet air holds the first hints of thaw. Garden beds float like islands of rich, black earth, surrounded by the shrinking patches of dirty snow that linger on the park’s wide lawns. On the gray pond, wind stirs, widening puddles of water amid the uneven hunks of ice, which pop and crackle like small fireworks. Brave birds sing in the trees. Sophy cheers as black-capped chickadees dart and dive from bare branch to bare branch. Their jostling loosens clumps of melting snow that splat to the ground, or onto Sophy’s lap (once), or onto my hair (twice).
We quickly grow chilly, Sophy and I. The Conservatory glows like a warm beacon of color on the opposite side of the park, so we head there. Not so far from us now, not much more than a stone’s throw, Nils is working away at the National Tea. Monday morning, he’s told me, is a particularly busy time. Not as crowded as Friday afternoon or Saturday all day, but busy. He’s probably checking inventory, adjusting prices, helping Mr. Block sort out this week’s specials. Or he’s already behind the cash register, ringing up the first shoppers. Perhaps Mr. Block has given him some other important task, and he’s behind the big window at the back. I need to talk to Nils. I want to talk to him, to apologize yet again. But Monday morning is not the time to do it; he’ll be distracted by his job. He’ll want to do his work. Perhaps it would be best if I waited for Nils to come to me. Yesterday, with his guard up at church, he seemed to be sending that clear message. You’ve hurt me. Now give me time.
I bow my head against shame and wind, and push So
phy’s chair forward on the path. Muddy slush sucks at my shoes and the chair’s wheels, and spatters my stockings. Finally we reach the Conservatory. I push the wheelchair through the wide entrance and just inside the first room. We can go no farther now—not without help. But that’s all right. The first room is the Tropical Garden. It’s warm. The steamy air feels good on our skin, and light bounces off the glass ceiling and walls, making the day seem even brighter. Our escape has been made. More than an escape, Sophy considers this place another world. “Maybe this is what the Garden of Eden was like,” I say, pulling up a metal garden chair to sit beside her, and Sophy kisses the air. Shame and strife were not welcome in Eden; they’re not welcome here. I tell myself this until I almost believe it. Happier, with Sophy happier, too, I tell myself that all that has happened was meant to be. Things will work out for the best in the end. Not just for Sophy and me but for all of us. For Mother. For Dad. For Andreas. For Nils. For Theo.
Theo. Last time I was here, there was Theo, too.
Sophy and I count the bananas on the trees, and then the coconuts. The big purple blooms and the small red ones. There’s a cage just beside us and, inside, two noisy parrots perch and flutter and squawk. When we’ve counted just about everything we can, we watch their antics. I haven’t asked Sophy much about her time at the Nygaards’ house this past weekend, so over the noise of the parrots, I do. She scowls, baring her crooked teeth. Her gums are still inflamed; apparently, Dr. Nygaard is no more gentle in his dentistry than he is in any other area of his life. But Sophy enjoyed watching Zane play tennis. She enjoyed meeting the elderly couple who hosted her for lunch. She would like more outings, more adventures with new people to meet.
I catch my breath. “I have a friend. Maybe you’d like to meet him?” I sound so eager.
Almost as eagerly, Sophy asks, “When?”
“Soon.”
The parrots must have gotten comfortable with our presence, for now they start talking. They say hello. They call us pretty. They tell us we’re late for dinner. We laugh, and they mimic our laughter. I remember the whistling in the alley and ask Sophy if the garbage collector ever sang the words to the song. Alas, no. So I whistle the song’s melody as the garbage collector did. The parrots cock their heads and listen. Soothed by my whistling, they grow quiet, and tuck their heads under their gray wings. I fall quiet, too. We sit in the humid warmth, and next thing I know, Sophy is asleep. Her hair, always a tangle of loose curls, has coiled into ringlets. Even my wavy hair is curly now. I stretch, yawn, lean my head against the arm of Sophy’s chair, and close my eyes. But I slept too much yesterday. I’m restless. I can’t even daydream the time away.
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