The Girls with No Names

by Serena Burdick

  The cabin stood a few yards away, achingly familiar, the windows like curious eyes watching our approach. Moss covered the roof and weeds reached to the cracked panes. The barn roof had caved in and the chicken coop was a pile of sticks, but the five stones marking my siblings stood untouched, bumping up like bent knees out of the dry grass.

  Effie hung back, silent. Reaching up, I plucked a crabapple from the tree and tossed it to her. “Come on,” I said loudly, trying to break the bewitching feeling descending on me. I picked an apple off the ground and bit into it. It was hard and sour and filled with wormholes. I ate the whole mealy thing anyway, the taste on my tongue and the path under my feet taking me back to my childhood with a force I wasn’t prepared for. A part of me wanted to run in the opposite direction. I imagined the cabin groaning and stretching out its arms as we entered, as if waking up from a long sleep. Only a scurry of mice welcomed us, darting across the floor and disappearing into the dark hearth.

  It’s amazing what emptiness can do to a place. The air was dead and silent, the floor scattered with leaves and dirt. Holes dotted the ceiling that was laced with cobwebs as if the spiders were doing their best to try and hold things together. Chairs had toppled over and the bedroom door sagged off its hinges.

  “Doesn’t make any sense...an unused door sagging off its hinges,” I said, my voice unsettling the quiet. “What, did it just get tired of hanging there and think, no one’s using me anyway, might as well relax.” I laughed, fighting the despair creeping over me. The dishes were still stacked on the shelves, canned peaches in their jars, the clock stopped on the mantel, the cast iron pan and the ash bucket exactly where Mama and I had left them. Everything was cobwebbed and dust covered, but untouched by anything other than wind and rain sweeping in through the broken windowpanes.

  Papa had not come back for us.

  There was a creaking sound and I turned around to see Effie sitting in the rocking chair with a smile on her ashen face. “Feels wonderful to sit in a real chair. Do you play?” She nodded at the violin that had slid from the wall to the floor, the leather case partially hidden with curled, brown leaves.

  “I used to, a little.”

  “Play me something?”

  I righted a chair that had fallen on its side, too tired to do anything but sit, the wood groaning under me. “It’s been too long,” I said.

  “Please?” She made her voice thin and faint and clasped her hands in prayer. “A last, dying request.”

  “You’re not dying and don’t joke about it.”

  “Oh, but I am. I’ve been dying since I was born.” She smiled ruefully. “You can’t refuse someone who’s dying.”

  She had a point. “Fine.” I got up and clipped open the violin case. Inside, the velvet was still smooth and bright. It reminded me of the tips of the red-winged blackbirds I used to watch prancing along the windowsill while Papa played. I had pretended they were jealous that his music was prettier than theirs, and they were listening to learn a thing or two.

  The violin looked the same, the strings tight and unbroken. I plucked one and a pitiful note came out. I twisted and turned the tuning pegs, plucking the notes until they resembled something in tune. Effie watched, rapt.

  “Now don’t go expecting much,” I said, tightening the horsehairs on the bow and standing with a curtsy. “Madame.” I cleared my throat and lifted the violin to my shoulder. The notes screeched out like nails clawing the air and I dropped the instrument to my side. “Told you,” I said.

  Effie clapped her hands. “Don’t you dare stop.”

  I grimaced and kept at it, pulling the bow along the strings until the sound smoothed out like wrinkles from a sheet. After that, the music flowed and the room brightened. I found myself thinking that if my last baby sister had lived, she’d be five years old now, sitting cross-legged on the hearth while I played for her. Mama would be at the stove with her hair wild and big on top of her head, humming while she cooked. Papa would be nodding in time with the music and stirring the fire, gently pointing out my mistakes when I was finished.

  If that baby hadn’t died, they’d all still be here.

  Stringing one after the other, I remembered all of Daddy’s songs. The music lifted the weariness out of me, and as I neared the final song, I let myself feel the truth of my situation. There was no Mama or Papa. No baby sister. There was no going back. I should find it in my heart to be grateful that God had seen fit to preserve my home of dust-ridden memories and give me a final chance at goodbye.

  I played a final note, held on to it as long as I could, the sound moving through my bones. I knew then what I had to do. First thing tomorrow, I’d go into town and sell the violin. The money would be enough to put Effie on a train back to New York City and buy me a ticket west. Wild West, I’d heard it called, just the place for a girl like me to get a new start.

  The room was hot and sweat dripped down my temples as I placed the violin back in its case. It’s a funny thing knowing you’re doing something for the last time. I felt tears in my eyes that I didn’t want Effie to see. “I’ve got to pee,” I said, heading outside and squatting in the grass, my eyes settling on dirt graves.

  Batting my tears away, I returned and told Effie she looked like death was on her again and that she should lie down. The bed was stripped, the sheets folded and stacked on the bureau. I shook them out, dirt and mouse droppings flying off. There were holes all through them. “Those mice have been living pretty grand.” I shook out the pillows and patted off the bed, making it up as best as I could, given all the dirt. Effie didn’t mind. She sank onto the sheets as if they were made of silk. “Nothing ever felt so good.” She smiled.

  “I can think of a few things,” I answered, kicking off my shoes and crawling in next to her, too tired to strip to my underclothes.

  “Your playing was beautiful. It reminded me of my sister. She was a dancer.”

  “Was?”

  “Still is, maybe.” She gave a funny laugh. “I don’t know anything about her anymore.”

  “At least you have one. All my sisters are buried out back.”

  Under the covers, Effie reached for my hand. It reminded me of Edna and I was tempted to pull away, but she kept her fingers tight around mine and I didn’t have the heart to let go.

  “I don’t want to struggle to breathe anymore,” she whispered.

  It was strange to think that something so effortless for me could be so hard for someone else. “It’s not something you can just give up on,” I said.

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  We were quiet for a while listening to the scurry of mice and rustle of leaves across the floor. “Will you tell me a story?” Effie said. “Anything will do. I haven’t been able to think up a good one since the mercury treatments. It’s like a pillow’s been stuffed in my brain.”

  “I don’t know any good stories.”

  “Then tell me your story. I don’t know the first thing about you. I’d tell you mine, but I’m too tired.” Her words were shallow and breathy. “Go on.” She squeezed my hand.

  Maybe it was being back home after thinking I’d never see it again, or the faint, sweet smell of Mama’s rosewater I imagined still lingered on the bed, or the music fading in my ears. Or, maybe it was because I knew Effie was dying and that made her a safe confidant. Whatever the reason, I told her my story, the words bounding out like caged animals.

  The time of my childhood was vivid and bright, the time after Mama’s death brittle and hazy, colorless as a photographic plate. None of it felt real. I thought Effie might fall asleep listening, but her eyes stayed alert. I left nothing out, telling her about bedding down with Renzo, Mama’s death and how I dropped my baby in the river, how I hadn’t wanted to escape the House of Mercy since only bad things waited for me, that I’d done it for Edna who left me wounded in the woods where a devil policeman had his way with me.
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  When I finished, Effie’s hand was still in mine and there were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I hadn’t expected understanding. I shrugged it off. “No sense being sorry now. What’s done is done.”

  “You haven’t told me your real name,” she said.

  I rolled the name around in my mind like a dull object I was trying to shine into recognition. “Signe Hagen.” It seemed fitting to put my name back on, in here, even if just for tonight.

  She smiled. “I like it. It suits you.”

  “My papa named me. He used to tell me my name meant victorious, and that I should try and live up to it. When I was seven years old, I sewed a skirt up the middle like a pair of pants, smudged soot under my eyes, sharpened a stick and went running through the woods shouting like a warrior. I stayed out until long after dark just to test how brave I was. I thought I’d get a beating when I came home, but Papa only asked why I hadn’t killed us anything for dinner and Mama set my plate of cold food on the table and told me to eat up. A fighter needs a good meal to keep up her strength, she said.” I smiled to think of it.

  “She sounds like a good mother.” Effie shifted her eyes from my face to the ceiling.

  “She was.” I was tired now and didn’t want to think about the past anymore. “We should get some sleep.”

  Effie shook her head, her lips moving silently as if whispering something to the walls.

  “Suit yourself.” I rolled over to face the window. “I can’t keep my eyes open another second,” I said, though I lay for a long time looking past the blown-out windowpanes that bumped along the sill like tiny, translucent mountains. It wasn’t quite dark yet, and outside I could see bright pink flowers blooming on the wild rosebush. I wondered if that was why I smelled Mama in the bed.

  The sisters tell you that you’ll feel lighter when you confess your sins. I guess there’s some truth in that because now that I had, when I finally closed my eyes, I felt like I was made of air, floating. In my dreams, Mama picked a rose and reached through the window to put it in my hair.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Effie

  I felt the weight of my sister’s body on the mattress beside me. When I reached out, I felt her warm, solid back beneath my fingertips. I tried to call her name, but the pressure in my chest pinned the words in my throat and I sat up, the moonlit room wavering across my vision like rippling water. This was not my room. I tried to ask Luella where we were, but all I could do was thump her back.

  “What’s wrong?” She jumped from the bed, banging her leg into the footboard and cursing, her voice groggy with sleep.

  It was then I saw that this was not my sister, and the memories locked into place with sickening clarity.

  Mable put a hand on my shoulders and shook me. “Can you breathe? What is it? You’re a dreadful color. Why won’t you say anything?” I dropped onto my back and she cursed again. “Damn it all! I didn’t think to look for a light. I’m going for help. At least the moon’s out. I’ll see my way to the road. Don’t die on me. You got it?” She eased a pillow under my head. “It’s this house! This damned cursed house. I should never have brought you here. I’m going for that farmer. He’s the closest. We’ll get you a doctor, okay?” I shook my head and she leaned over me. “No? You’re right. A doctor won’t want you moved. He’ll ask too many questions. We need to get you home. Do your parents even want you home or will they send you back to the House of Mercy? How have you not told me a single thing about yourself? What’s your address? Where do I take you?” Her voice was shrill.

  I squeezed her hand, managing to whisper, “Bolton Road.”

  This saddened her and she said, “The House of Mercy’s not your home, Effie.”

  I shut my eyes, focusing on each shallow breath as the air receded from my lungs like the tide pulling away. I don’t remember sleeping, but I was suddenly aware of the twitter of early rising birds. Piping plover, I thought, five points for me. When I opened my eyes the ceiling undulated. I thought I’d been left alone as the only sounds I heard were birds, and the occasional grasshopper pinging the side of the house. But when light came through the cracked window, I saw the creatures of the apocalypse crouching in each corner of the room. Silent. Waiting. Their wings tucked in like fledglings. The lion rested his head in its paws, and the eagle lifted his beak while the calf pawed the wood floor, their black eyes all looking at me. Only the man’s eyes were the bright blue of my father’s, and when I looked at him, he rose onto his knees and began unfurling his wings, light eddying from them and spreading over me like a cool wash of water. It felt familiar and wrong and I squeezed my eyes shut and tightened my body against it. I was not going without my sister.

  The next time I woke, I was cradled in the arms of a large man with a white beard and squinty, kind eyes. My head bounced against his shoulder. I heard footsteps and heavy breathing and the rustle of leaves. “You just hang on, little lady. We’re almost there,” the man said, and when I opened my eyes again there was softness beneath me, and a wash of platinum overhead.

  “I’ll ride in back with her.” Mable’s face came into view and I felt my head lifted and settled on the lump of her thigh. Her chipped tooth winked behind her smile. “You see, all I had to do was get you out of that cursed house. You’re breathing fine now, aren’t you? At least your face is not so ghastly. Still white as a sheet, but the color of death’s no longer on you.”

  Her lips continued to move, but I couldn’t hear her over the creak of the wagon. Tree branches swayed, and a light mist dotted my cheeks. There was the rumble of a man’s voice, and I was lifted and placed onto something smooth and cool.

  Again, I heard Mable. “This man here’s name is Joseph Idleman. He’s going to take you in this fine car to the city. I’ve paid him a cabin’s worth of stuff for it, so don’t go letting him get anything else out of you, you hear?”

  Her words snapped things into focus. She meant to leave me and a guttural sound escaped from my throat. I needed her. Without her, I was wordless. Story-less.

  “Don’t go upsetting yourself.” Her face was over me now, her eyes flickering with agitated concern. “You’re going to be all right. The farmer’s a good sport. He hasn’t asked a single question. No one’s turning us in, so you needn’t worry.” I found the strength to grab her arm and she cried, “Blast it! You don’t need me. You’re the one who ran off first, remember?” Her brow furrowed. “Hang on a minute.” She disappeared, returning with a slap of her thigh. “You win. Mr. Idleman won’t take you without me anyway. Seems he doesn’t trust you’re not going to die and leave him with a body to contend with. I’m going to ride up front if it’s all the same to you. I’ve never been in a car and most likely won’t ever be again, so I might as well do it right.”

  A door slammed, then another. There was a rumble and a groan and I felt the speed under me. I slept in spurts, waking when we stopped for fuel, the smell of gasoline and rubber reminding me of Daddy. When we started again, the sun was hot and a forceful wind stung my cheeks. I wondered if I was going home, and this filled me with unexpected fear that things would not be as I remembered as I pressed my face into the back of the leather seat and slept again.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mable

  Rolling into the city was devastating, and not made any easier by the fact that it was happening in a shiny red car. At every turn I imagined a policeman waiting for me, beating his stick in the palm of his hand. Most likely he’d be fat and pasty with a pug nose and thinning hair. They were all the same, as far as I was concerned, and every one of them was after me.

  Mr. Idleman was an unreadable type. Not once did his eyes wander from the road and he didn’t speak a word the whole way, which wasn’t surprising given the roar we made going along. I kept glancing back at Effie, her face pressed into the seat, her frame tiny beneath her linen dress. I’d told the farmer and Mr. Idleman wh
ere the cabin was, and said they could split the lot of it. I was never going back. I didn’t warn them it was cursed with death. They’d have to figure that out on their own. Nothing comes free.

  It wasn’t until the car lurched to a stop that I let myself think of Edna, looking up at the magnificent building we’d parked in front of—high windows and turrets, and all sorts of fancy I didn’t belong to.

  Mr. Idleman came around and opened my door for me, helping me to the curb. The speed and wind and sun had dazed me.

  “You sure this is the right place?” he asked.

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  He folded his stubby arms across his chest. “Why don’t you see before I go through the trouble of carrying this girl to the door?”

  “It’ll look more desperate if she’s in your arms.”

  He hesitated, looking at Effie’s ghostly form in his back seat. “If you’re turned away, I’m leaving her on the doorstep. This is as far as I agreed.”

  Mr. Idleman groaned lifting Effie from the car, huffing the few feet to the front door. I was sorry I’d left half the cabin to him. The old farmer had carried Effie as if she were as light as a bird. Better it all went to him, I thought, but there was nothing to do about it now.

  I rang the doorbell, licking my palm and smoothing my wind-blown hair as best as I could. A trim girl in a white apron and cap opened the door, took one look at Effie and ushered us in, shutting the door so fast you would have thought a squall was coming up behind us.

  The hallway was dark. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and take in the maroon-papered walls and the dusty rose rug running the length of the floor.

  “You’re lucky the mistress is home. Wait here.” The girl disappeared behind a closed door, returning promptly with a woman wearing a shapeless, high-waisted dress that hung above her ankles and exposed her small-heeled shoes. The woman had a small birthmark on her cheek, and magnificent red lips. She stepped up to Effie, twisting the string of long black beads around her neck. She took no notice of Mr. Idleman, but turned her clear brown eyes to me and asked, “How ill is she?”