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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: River's Edge
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The houses stood side by side on small town lots that were perfectly equal in size, and there seemed to be only one acceptable color for any dwelling—white. More latitude was granted on the subject of shutters. Here the owner could have a choice, black or dark green or any color within that narrow spectrum. The whole effect was enchanting and deliberate, as welcoming as a table set with matching china.
The center of town was a parklike rectangle of grass ringed on three sides by gnarled apple trees that had long since ceased to produce fruit. The park's fourth side was dominated by a monument to the dead of various wars. Although I still had not spoken to her, Mrs. Muller explained that the park in the center was fittingly called “the green.” The streets of Brightfield extended from the green like spokes on a wheel, with the oldest inhabitants occupying the houses closest to the center and the newcomers residing on side streets in concentric circles around it.
“Not that there are many circles,” she said, laughing gaily, her blue eyes twinkling. “I don't suppose there are more than a thousand people living in town, perhaps three thousand including the outlying farms.
“The church is here on the green, of course, but our home is a farmhouse outside the center of town. It is small and cozy, but we've got plenty of land for the children to roam, nearly fifteen acres on the river. There are some lovely views, and when the weather gets just a little warmer, you can go swimming.”
Though I did not even nod my understanding or look in her direction, Mrs. Muller continued her monologue in a tone that was calm and informative, nothing like the mindless chatter of Frau Finkel. Reverend Muller spoke not at all but seemed content to serve as a smiling chauffer on our tour of Brightfield. I wondered silently where the school was and, as if reading my mind, Mrs. Muller answered the unspoken question.
“The school is on the outskirts of town. You'll see it soon enough. We are lucky, as it is only a short walk from the house. Even when the snow is deep, it won't take you more than ten or fifteen minutes to get there.” Snow? It was strange to think that snow could ever fall here. Though it was only late spring, the air was already hot and sticky with moisture.
“We'll get a lot of snow when winter comes. The children have great fun sledding.” She smiled at me in the mirror before continuing the tour.
“As you can see, the green is surrounded by four streets. Main and Meadow are there on the long sides of the rectangle. Main is where the shops and businesses are—not that there are many of them, but we do have a few stores. Meadow is all houses, and, as I said, the oldest families in town live there. ‘Yankees,' we call them. That big stone building to the south on Washington Street is the town hall. It has a couple of offices, a courtroom, and a lending library in the basement that is open three afternoons a week. And here on the north end of town on Duke Street is our church. Reverend Muller is pastor here.”
As she finished speaking, Reverend Muller pulled up to the curb. We stepped out of the car. The church sat dignified and firm at the end of a short expanse of lawn, the green anchored by its stately presence. The steps leading up to the wide black doors were balanced by two sets of gothic columns, pristine with white paint, as was the church's clapboard siding. The steeple was not really that tall, but in relation to the rest of the landscape it was a commanding presence, pointing skyward, a finger that existed to turn men's attention to heaven. All my life I had lived in the shadow of great monasteries and cathedrals, but none of them possessed the elegance or simple grace of this plain, white clapboard church standing at the edge of a New England village green.
As we entered the sanctuary, I felt a great sense of peace. Inside, there were no impressive stone carvings or gilded statues with mournful faces, only rows and rows of waxed and shining wooden pews glowing in the light that spilled in through the tall, arched windows. The air was perfumed ever so faintly with a scent of lemon oil and old floral arrangements. The view of the tree canopy outside the window and the outline of the hills in the distance was much more beautiful than any scene in stained glass could have been. The Mullers watched as I walked up the aisle toward the simple altar with its plain, unadorned wooden cross.
I saw the piano sitting to one side, clean and curved and gleaming ebony black. Without thinking, I reached for the keyboard. The lid lay open, revealing lovely carved hammers clothed in green velvet and touches of brass. Without striking a note, I knew how rich and full the tone would be, how quick and light the action of the keys.
“It is so beautiful,” I breathed in English. “May I play it?”
Reverend Muller grinned at his wife and bounded toward me, swept me off my feet, and deposited me on the piano bench. “Of course you may,” he said. “You may play as much as you want.”
Chapter 3
S
even pairs of eyes fixed upon me as I descended the stairs into the Muller kitchen the next morning. The whole family was seated around a big table in the kitchen. There didn't seem to be a dining room. There was a smell of bacon lingering in the air, but the plates were all cleared except for two cups of coffee that sat before Reverend and Mrs. Muller.
Clearly I had slept through breakfast. I was embarrassed to be so late and to feel the eyes of the Mullers' five children following my every move with as much curious interest as if I'd been an animal on exhibit at the zoo.
True to his word, Reverend Muller had let me play as long as I wanted, piece after piece, Beethoven, Brahms, Purcell, and, of course, Mozart. I played all the music my mother had taught me. Then I played everything I'd taught myself after she became too ill to sit at the bench beside me, when I had played to ease her pain and my own because it was the only remedy I knew, then or now. I played furiously, giving myself up to the music, pouring all my frustrations into the keyboard.
The Mullers listened patiently, never urging me to finish up, never looking at their watches. They just sat in the front pew and listened.
By the time I'd finished and we left the church, the trees were making lacy shadows on the ground. I was exhausted. I must have fallen asleep in the truck because I didn't remember the drive to the Mullers' house or getting into the small bed with the strange coverlet decorated with multicolored stars that I later learned was called a quilt.
In the morning I woke to the sound of cutlery clinking against plates and the murmur of conversation. I heard many different voices downstairs and supposed I must be the only one who was still in bed. I got up, rebraided my hair as quickly as I could, and put on the blouse and skirt that were laid out for me at the end of my bed.
Mrs. Muller was the first to spot me standing tentatively at the foot of the stairs. “Good morning, Elise. Did you sleep well?” she asked cheerily. I nodded. “Good. You were so tired last night that we didn't bother to wake you for supper. You must be hungry. I'll get you an egg and some toast.”
I looked around for a maid or cook, but apparently Mrs. Muller intended to make my breakfast herself. She reached for an apron that hung on a hook near the stove and started pulling bowls and plates off a shelf. “Carl, why don't you make the introductions.”
Reverend Muller drained the last of his coffee in one gulp and held out the empty cup for his wife to refill. “All right. Let's start with the oldest,” he said, gesturing to the boy on his right, who was, like his father, tall and well-muscled, but the resemblance ended there. In fact, he looked almost nothing like his father or any of his siblings. In place of their unruly, reddish to auburn curls and blue eyes, this boy had serious dark eyes and a head of thick, straight hair in a shade of brown that was close to my own. The other Mullers were light-skinned and, except for the girl, freckled. Spring had only just begun, yet this boy was already bronzed by the sun. I thought he must be at least seventeen, but I later learned he'd only turned fifteen a few weeks before. “This is Carl Muller the third, but everyone just calls him Junior. It's less confusing that way.” Junior nodded his head in greeting, but his eyes darted away when they met mine. He seemed shy.
“Next is Coral, our only daughter. You two are just about the same age.”
Coral's hair was done in two long braids down her back, but that was the only girl-like thing about her appearance. She wore blue denim coveralls, just like her brothers and, like them, had her father's red hair and her mother's heart-shaped face and blue eyes. In spite of her red hair, she didn't have a single freckle. Her complexion was china-doll pink.
She smiled at me easily, “Nobody calls me Coral except Papa. Just call me Cookie. You're fourteen, too?” she inquired. Then, without waiting for an answer, said, “We'll be in the same class at school in the fall. We'll have Miss Gleason as our teacher next year. She is the nicest in the school. You'll like her.” The girl was so friendly and outgoing that I couldn't help but smile back at her even while I wondered at her strange clothes and even stranger name. What in the world did “Cookie” mean?
Reverend Muller continued with his introductions. “Those two troublemakers sitting near the stove are the twins, Charles and Chester, but everyone calls them Chuck and Chip.” The two boys looked as much alike as two bookends. It would not take me long to realize that the twin who was talking was probably Chip, and the one who stood by nodding in agreement was probably Chuck. However, at that time I wondered how I would ever be able to tell them apart, and if anyone in this country was actually called by the name they'd been born with.
“Watch out for the twins, Elise,” their father said with mock seriousness. “They are always into some kind of mischief. Speaking of which, where is my new screwdriver? I can't find it anywhere.”
“We needed it to tighten up the wheels on the go-cart,” said Chuck or Chip through a mouthful of eggs.
“Well, it had better be back in my toolbox where it belongs before supper tonight,” said Reverend Muller, examining the boys over the top of his eyeglasses. “Do I make myself clear?” The twins assured him in unison that he had. The reverend turned his attention to the smallest boy, who was sitting at the end of the table nearest to his mother.
“This is Curt. He'll be six years old next month. Won't you, Curt? Can you say hello to your cousin Elise?” Reverend Muller said hopefully. He spoke more gently than he had to his other children. The little boy didn't answer, just looked at me with wide, wondering eyes. In spite of his silence, there was something wise and curious in his gaze. I liked him. “Curt isn't much of a talker,” his father explained to me.
“That is all right,” I said, smiling at the little one. “I don't talk much, either. There is so much to learn by listening.”
“There certainly is,” Mrs. Muller said as she set a plate piled high with eggs and bacon in front of me. The whole family cheered in agreement, then proceeded to talk all at once, with no one listening to anyone else. I ate my breakfast silently, keeping my eyes on my plate, but after a few minutes I sensed someone's stare and looked up to see Junior's distrustful gaze boring into me.
 
The empty bed that I'd seen next to mine turned out to belong to Cookie. Until my arrival she'd had the whole room to herself while her brothers shared a long, low room lined with beds that stacked one upon the other, like a dormitory in a boarding school.
Being an only child, I'd always had my own room, but Cookie said she didn't mind sharing with me—in fact, she seemed to welcome the company. “It's been nothing but boys around here forever!” she exclaimed, “I've always wanted a sister.”
She was a great talker and as friendly as everyone else in the family. The Mullers were all as nice as could be. Even little Curt, who rarely spoke, gave me a shy smile whenever I looked his way. Only Junior seemed a bit cold and aloof, but that didn't bother me. Besides, with so many people trying so hard to get me to talk to them, it was a relief to have at least one who seemed content to maintain his distance.
I knew the Mullers were very kind to take me in, yet I couldn't help but feel that their manners and way of life were awfully crude. There were no servants of any kind. Mrs. Muller did all the cooking and housework. She seemed always to be in the kitchen. The children helped her, and they all had jobs to do every day, but Mrs. Muller didn't assign any tasks to me, and I didn't offer to help, not sure what I should do. Once I heard Junior ask his mother why he had to help Cookie hang out the wash when I was just sitting around reading, but Mrs. Muller shushed him and said something about giving me time to get my bearings. Junior scowled in my direction as he carried the laundry basket outside. I pretended not to hear or see him.
Cookie spent more time in the kitchen than the boys, but they all were expected to take their turn clearing the dinner table and washing the dishes. I'd never washed a dish in my life and was embarrassed for the Muller boys to be caught drying pots and pans, especially since they didn't seem to have the good manners to be embarrassed for themselves. Such a thing would never have happened in my home, and I knew if Father had seen the careless way the Muller boys were being brought up, he would certainly have disapproved.
He would also have disapproved of the way all the children were allowed to run wild. They were forever shouting and jumping, playing tricks on one another, sliding down the banisters instead of walking politely down the stairs. Cookie was more like a boy than any girl I'd ever met. True, she was always available when her mother needed a hand in the kitchen and seemed very capable, too, but she never wore a dress unless she was going to school or to church. She played baseball along with her brothers, sliding into the bases just as they did and getting just as dirty.
A few weeks after my arrival, I sat under a nearby oak tree reading while the Muller children engaged in their daily baseball game. The game seemed silly to me, and I couldn't understand why the Mullers loved it so. One of the twins, either Chip or Chuck—I still couldn't tell the difference between them—ran over to where I was sitting and offered to teach me to play. I said no, thank you, and that I preferred to read.
“Aw, c'mon, Elise,” he urged. “If you played outfield, we'd have enough people so I could play catcher. It would make the whole game go a lot faster.”
Cookie ran over to add her plea to her brother's. “Oh, yes, Elise! Come and play. It really isn't hard at all. You'd catch on in no time. Besides, nobody ever hits anything into the outfield except Junior, and even when he does, we don't really keep score, so it doesn't matter.”
“That's not true,” the twin objected, giving his sister a shove with his elbow. “I hit it there all the time. Last week I hit it clear over past the barn, and it took you so long to throw it in, I coulda walked to homeplate,”
“Chip, that wasn't a fair hit, and you know it,” Cookie argued. “The right side of the barn is the foul line, but you ran in anyway. Junior said it didn't count.”
Chip scowled. “It did too. What does Junior know, anyway? Who died and made him the ref?”
“Well, I guess he knows more about baseball than you do,” Cookie returned sourly.
“Does not!” yelled Chip, giving his sister a shove.
“Does too!” shouted Cookie and shoved him even harder. They kept shouting and shoving with increasing ferocity until it seemed they were on the verge of an out-and-out fistfight. Mr. Muller heard the noise and came out onto the porch to investigate, but Junior ran over to break his siblings apart just as Cookie bit into Chip's hand, which was pulling on her braid.
I was shocked. At home a girl would never even dream of pushing a boy, let alone biting him.
“What's going on here? Knock it off, you two hotheads!” Junior pried the combatants apart. Chip and Cookie backed away as their brother stepped between them, but they were still panting with emotion. Cookie was the first to speak,
“Chip wanted to teach Elise to play ball, and I said she should, too. I said she could play outfield because nobody ever hits it out there except you,”
“That's not true! I hit one way past the barn last week!” Chip shouted, lunging for Cookie's braid again. For a moment it seemed like the fight was on again until Junior wedged himself between his siblings.
“Stop it, Chip!” Junior commanded, and, amazingly, Chip did. “That hit you had last week was foul, and you know it,” he added.
Chip scowled, and Cookie stuck her tongue out at him in victory, but Junior froze her with a look. “It's not true that nobody hits into the outfield but me. Last summer Chip must have hit eight or nine homers. It's just the beginning of the season. He'll start clobbering 'em any day now. He's just in a slump. Happens to all ball players.” He ruffled the hair on the top of his brother's head, and Chip looked at him with half a smile, then shot a triumphant look at his sister.
“Well,” said Cookie, trying to recover her command of the situation, “that's no reason Elise shouldn't play outfield. We could use the extra player.”
Just as I opened my mouth to decline the offer, Junior interrupted. “She can't play,” he said, shaking his head as though they were crazy even to think it.
“Why not?” Chip and Cookie asked simultaneously.
“Well, just look at her!” Junior spat contemptuously. By now the other children had moved off the field and stood nearby, watching the conference. They all turned to look at me studiously, trying hard to catch a glimpse of whatever had made me defective in their brother's eyes.
“She's no ballplayer! She's hardly even a kid. Never plays. Never runs. Never hollers. Just sits reading her book and thinking how much better she is than the rest of us. She thinks she's too good to talk to us, never mind running after a ball. She might muss her dress or something. Isn't that right, Fraulein Perfect?” he said, laying on a thick imitation of my German accent.

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