The Lost Girl of Astor Street

by Stephanie Morrill

  This earned a reaction from the other girls—an exhale of horror.

  She thrust the bodice back to me, and the haughty expression she wore made it seem as though she thought this might be a devastating blow to me. Like all my hopes were pinned on this dress being displayed in the Presley’s School for Girls Fashion Show, a long-standing tradition during the week of graduation. “Yes, Ms. Underhill.”

  My meekness only seemed to spur her. “I wonder about your future, Miss Sail. Such a fine mind in there, and yet, what will become of you?”

  “Well.” I pulled my seam ripper along the bodice, and the sound of severing threads filled the air. “I doubt I’ll be a seamstress.”

  And it was no surprise to me when she ordered me to stretch my hand out across the table.

  Lydia’s loud laughter calls me back to the car. Matthew, who’s normally so quiet, speaks with enthusiasm about something that requires a faux Irish accent. Not a bad one, either.

  Somehow Lydia has managed to draw him out.

  It’s funny. I’ve asked myself the same question that Ms. Underhill did today. What will become of a girl like me who lacks patience for sewing, who doesn’t understand the art of flirting, and who is more skilled with a right hook than the kind used for crocheting?

  I’ve received my acceptance notices from Vassar, Smith, and Bryn Mawr, but what will the point of it all be? What do I want to do with my life? Despite my bobbed hair and beliefs that women should be equal with men, I wouldn’t describe myself as a flapper. Nor do I see myself as the happy housewife with a brood of children. These days, is there room for a place in-between?

  And yet I’ve always thought I had Lydia pegged. I assumed she would marry early, to someone with bright prospects who worked in real estate or medicine. They would have babies for whom she’d knit booties and sweaters, but only after she’d held fund-raisers for the less fortunate in Chicago and attended parties with other socialites.

  That Lydia LeVine would have a life like her mother’s, like my mother’s, has always seemed a given. Only now as I watch her send Matthew encouraging smiles, and as I think about how hurt she seemed at the clothing store when I had spoken against the two of them, the question seems to apply to her as well.

  Lydia laughs loud, makes an excuse of brushing a bit of fuzz from Matthew’s shoulder.

  Oh, Lydia. What will become of you?

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  What’s this for?”

  Walter’s voice calls me out of the confusingly romantic world of Catherine and Heathcliff. His broad shoulders practically fill the doorway as he holds up the shirt.

  “It’s for wearing.” I turn the page. “They call it a shirt.”

  “Pippy.” But his amusement leaks through his growl. “I told you that you didn’t need to replace it.”

  “And I told you that I was going to.” I smile sweetly. “Anything else?”

  “You’re a very stubborn woman. Are you aware of that?”

  Bessie Smith’s “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home” crashes to a close, and I stand to flip the record. “I am. Have you tried it on? Does it fit?”

  “Like it was tailor made. I don’t want to ask how you knew my size.”

  “Because you don’t want to know that I snuck into your room?”

  “No. I don’t want to know that.”

  “Then it’s good you aren’t asking.”

  “Pippy . . .”

  The soulful melodies of Bessie Smith start up again, and I turn my back to the Victrola to smile at my worried friend. “I didn’t snoop at all, I promise. I only looked at your shirt to see what size it was, and I didn’t even think of hunting for your correspondence with Audrey.”

  Now Walter smiles. “Well. Thank you. For the shirt and hat. You didn’t need to.”

  I gesture to his attire—knickerbockers and gaiters. “You’re playing somewhere?”

  Walter nods. “With Jimmy and the fellas. For old time’s sake.”

  “Can I come?”

  Walter glances at my pale clothing, hardly ideal for a baseball game. I smooth my cream skirt. “I could change quickly.”

  Walter opens his mouth, but it’s Joyce who speaks as she comes through with a basket of folded laundry. “Your father wants you home for dinner tonight, Piper.”

  I groan. “Does that mean Jane is eating with us?”

  Joyce purses her lips. “He did not mention Miss Miller to me, no. Just you and Nicholas.”

  “Perhaps they’ve parted ways.”

  Joyce only gives me a look.

  “Well, enjoy dinner.” Walter nods to his mother as he fits his baseball cap on his head. “I’ll just grab my bat and glove and be off.”

  Joyce watches him go, and then affixes the basket to her hip. She gives me an evaluating look. “It would serve you well to get used to the idea of Miss Miller.”

  I sink back to my seat on the couch. “I’m quite comfortable disliking her, but thank you.”

  “I imagine the idea of liking her feels like a betrayal to your mother, but you would honor her memory by being kind. You would show that Elsie Sail raised a lady.”

  “My mother died before she could raise a lady.” The words cause an ache in my chest.

  “Piper.” Joyce’s voice dips low and warm. “We all have hard things in this life. But good can come from them, if we choose to see it.”

  I look at Joyce and note the lines that fan out from her dark eyes. See hair that was once sandy streaked with gray now gray streaked with sandy. Yes, Joyce certainly knows what it’s like to be dealt a bad hand. Not that she would ever breathe a word of her history to me, but Walter has.

  Joyce was raised in a middle-class family in Peoria, Illinois. She had a steady beau and plans for college when she found herself pregnant. Walter says she never has divulged details about his father—was it the boyfriend? Another man who took advantage? A mistake of passion? Regardless, Joyce’s parents sent her to Chicago for an abortion and she never returned home.

  Joyce certainly knows a little something about not letting life get you down. But still.

  “I won’t treat Jane like she’s some sort of blessing.”

  Joyce’s mouth flickers in a frown. “Then, Piper, how will she ever become one?”

  I lower my gaze to my book and refuse to say any of the caustic words locked behind my lips. Joyce lingers only a moment longer before carrying on her way to the family bedrooms.

  A breath I had been holding leaks out. I stare at the words on the page until they blur.

  The rap on the front door jolts me from my daze. How long have I just been sitting here? Nick, who’s coming down the stairs with a briefcase in hand, opens the door.

  Lydia stomps inside. Her blue eyes are ice as she rips her wide-brimmed hat from her head. “I’m furious.”

  “Yes, I see that.” I snap shut my novel. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s my parents. Would you believe—” She catches sight of Nick in her peripheral vision. “Oh, hello.” Her smile is a shade bashful. “How are you this afternoon?”

  “I’m doing fine. I would inquire about you, but I think I already know the answer.” He winks at her, but Nick’s attempts to flirt only embarrass her further.

  Lydia laughs lightly and ducks her head.

  I give Nick a pointed look, and he clears his throat. “Well, I’m on my way to the library to study with some friends.” He holds up his briefcase as if submitting evidence. “I’ll see you later.”

  She murmurs a good-bye and then perches beside me on the couch. Lydia fusses with her beaded handbag until the front door closes behind Nick, and then she giggles. “That was foolish of me. Why didn’t I think to greet the person who opened the door before I spoke?”

  “Because you’re angry. He’s sweet on you, you know.”

  “You think everyone is sweet on me. And anger is no excuse for bad manners.” Her face pinches. “But, yes. I’m furious.”

  “What happened?”r />
  “Mother and Daddy have confined me to the house.” Lydia collapses onto the couch, in a startlingly unladylike manner. “They’ve even pulled me out of school.”

  “With not even two weeks before graduation? Why would they do that?”

  Lydia regards me with a serious gaze. “It’s these fainting spells I have. Apparently, they’re more of a concern than Mother and Daddy have let on.”

  Seizures. The correction sits on my tongue, and I bite it back.

  Lydia’s chin trembles. “They say it’s nothing I need to worry about, and then . . .” She takes a deep breath. “Then they go and pull me out of school, and now they’re making me . . .”

  Tears overtake her. Lydia falls against my shoulder and releases a loud sob.

  I wrap her in a tight hug. “It’ll be okay, Lydia. It will.”

  Footsteps thunder down the hall and Walter bursts into the living room. “What’s wrong? Oh.” He takes in the scene of me and Lydia on the couch. “I’m sorry, I heard crying. I’m sorry.”

  He backs out of the room.

  “He’s gone,” I murmur to Lydia.

  “No doubt he thought it was you crying yourself silly in here. Not that you’d ever do such a foolish thing.” Lydia fumbles in her bag and retrieves a handkerchief. “But he thought it must be you, and he rushed to help, because that’s just how it is for you.”

  She dabs at her eyes with a damp handkerchief. I pull a fresh one from my cardigan pocket and hand it to her. “There were a lot of false implications in those statements, but you’re upset so that’s okay.”

  Lydia clutches the offered hankie but doesn’t use it. She looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “They’re sending me to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota.” Her voice is flat, as if she used up all her emotion moments ago. “To some doctor friend of Daddy’s who thinks a special diet can help me with my condition.”

  Always such delicate terms with the LeVines. Lydia’s condition, Lydia’s episodes, Lydia’s spells. But they can frame it however they want if they’re being smart enough to get her expert help.

  “This is a good thing, Lydia.” I’m afraid she can hear the relief in my voice, see it on my face. Can she tell I know more than she does? “You’re going to get better.”

  Lydia’s mouth is in a firm line as she looks at me.

  “Don’t you want to get better?”

  “Of course I want to get better. But I don’t want to be shipped off to Minnesota like this! Not when . . .” She pushes herself off the couch and turns the Victrola bell toward the wall, quieting Bessie Smith. “How can you hear yourself think with that playing so loud?”

  “Not when what, Lydia?”

  She twists the hankie in her hands, and I see my initials—embroidered by Lydia—fold in on themselves. “Not when Matthew is showing signs of having feelings for me.”

  It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from rolling. To not say the exasperated Oh, Lydia that’s ripe on my tongue. Why do girls allow themselves to be so foolish when it comes to men? Why does being in love seem to fill their heads with nothing but empty space and giggles? Even my practical, duty-driven, even-tempered friend.

  As the silence grows, so does the shade of pink of Lydia’s cheeks. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I think he does, anyway. This afternoon, when you and I were getting back in the car at the store, he even touched me. Put his hand on my back as I got in the car, just like Daddy does with Mother. Perhaps I’m imagining things . . .”

  “Lydia. If Matthew has half a brain, he’s in love with you. But that’s not going to change just because you spend a few days at a hospital in Minnesota.”

  “More like a month or two.” Lydia perches on the edge of the couch. “Maybe more.”

  “Fine, a few months then. Perhaps some time and a change of society would even be a good test to know if this is real.”

  Lydia chews on her lower lip for a moment. “Or maybe I just won’t go.”

  “You can’t be serious, Lydia. This . . . condition of yours is no small thing. You have to get help. You can’t jeopardize your health just because you fancy yourself in love.”

  Lydia’s blue eyes turn flinty. “I know you’re afraid of growing up, but that doesn’t mean you get to pin your fears on me, Piper Sail. I know I love Matthew. If he asked me to marry him today, I’d have no hesitation saying yes.”

  “Lydia.” The horror I’m feeling—or at least part of it—is surely evident on my face. “It’s one thing to carry a torch for your chauffeur, to flirt with him as he’s driving you around. It’s quite another to be his wife.”

  She turns away from me, nose in the air. “I didn’t know you were capable of such snobbery.”

  “I don’t wish to be a snob, I wish to be practical.” My voice rises with each word, and maybe if I’m loud enough, she’ll actually listen. “But whether you want to hear it or not, I can’t imagine you being content in some low-rent apartment, wearing a homemade dress as you fix beans for the third night in a row.”

  Lydia shoves my handkerchief into her pocket and wrestles her handbag closed. “Oh, so you think me a snob?”

  “Not at all. I think you’re a girl who’s grown up in a fine house. Who doesn’t know how to cook or do laundry or go a month without a new bauble.” I can’t believe the words coming next will be mine directed to Lydia. “I beg you to be cautious. To think this through.”

  My friend just looks at me. Doesn’t speak, but doesn’t stand to leave either.

  She scratches behind her knee. “It’s the medicine, Daddy said.” Her words are quiet and tear-soaked. “The medicine makes me feel like I have bugs crawling on me. It makes me paranoid too. I kept thinking this black car was following me. Or like at the store today. I was convinced that woman was listening to every word we said. Following me.” She chuckles humorlessly. “Last night, I fell asleep at the dinner table. Right in the middle of eating my pot roast.”

  I press my eyes closed, hoping it’ll keep tears from spilling. “This is why you need to go to the Mayo Clinic. So we can get you healthy.”

  “What if I can’t get healthy?”

  Her words push all the air from my lungs, like when I fell out of a tree as a kid and couldn’t seem to take a breath. “Don’t say that, Lydia. We’re not going to think like that.”

  She fiddles with the clasp of her bag. “I think we both know these fainting spells of mine aren’t merely fainting spells. They’re getting closer together. And for all we know—”

  I squeeze my eyes tight. Don’t say it. Please.

  “—the next one I have could be my end.”

  The wailing of Bessie’s voice is the only sound of the room. I open my eyes and study Lydia. The matter-of-fact line of her mouth. The blue eyes that hold only reason, not fear. “You’re going to get healthy, Lydia. You . . . you just are.”

  “We can pray to that end, and I certainly do. But death is a part of life. We both know firsthand that, for some, it comes earlier than seems natural.” She takes in a deep, resolved breath. “And when I may not have a tomorrow on this earth, it leaves me reluctant to sacrifice the happiness available to me today.”

  I can only look at her.

  Lydia rises from the couch with straight-backed grace that showcases her good breeding. “I need to tell the Barrows I can no longer watch Cole, but I’m going to go home and tell Matthew how I feel.” The slight waver in her voice is the only indicator of her nerves. “I’ll do it without your support, but having it would mean the world to me.”

  I’m taller than she, but standing here beside her, it feels as though I’m a child and Lydia is hopping onto the train of womanhood. And what else can a best friend do when a farewell comes but give a hug, promise to write often, and wave good-bye?

  “What will you say to him?”

  She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll see if he’s free to go out tonight.” Her laugh is high and wheezy. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of somethi
ng brilliant. And I’m sure you don’t need to. He cares about you. It’s obvious.”

  Lydia grins, and for a moment we’re both just girls. “You think that about everyone.” She squeezes me close. “But thank you.”

  I hold open the door for her, and my friend who wears adulthood with such ease steps out. She shivers. “I was so furious on my way over, I guess I didn’t notice the wind. Doesn’t the weather know it’s almost summer?”

  “Here.” I unhook my coat from the rack and hand it to her.

  “Thank you.” Lydia wraps it tight around her. “Maybe wearing it will help me to be brave like you. I’ll bring it back later tonight.”

  I wave the offer away. “Wear it on your date. But ring me later.”

  Her smile is nervous, but her eyes bright. “I will.”

  Watching her walk down the steps, it seems impossible to believe she won’t be able to call Matthew her own by the end of the evening. “Want me to walk you home?”

  Lydia laughs. “I can manage the three houses, I think. But thank you.”

  Still, I stand on the front porch and watch until she unlatches her gate. “Farewell, my friend.”

  Though it would be impossible for her to hear me, Lydia looks up and calls a chipper, “Good-bye!” before giving me one last wave and smile.

  “You’re very quiet tonight, Piper.” Father arches his silver eyebrows at me as he cuts through his steak. “Is something troubling you?”

  I shake away thoughts of Lydia and Matthew. Of the silent telephone. “No.” I put on a smile for Father and Nick. “Not at all.”

  “Did school go well today?”

  “It did.”

  Father continues to look at me as he chews. A lawyer trick of his to keep someone talking. I pick up my glass of milk with my left hand and tuck my bruised right hand under my pleated skirt.

  “We’re studying poetry in English, and I find it rather boring.”