The Cape Ann (45 page)

“For Mrs. Stillman’s sake.”

We plodded along in silence. The snowplows had piled the
snow on Main Street in the middle of the road. I could barely see the top of Beverly’s wool cap as she opened the door next to the Loon Cafe and let herself into the cramped stairway there.

Mrs. Ridza had a job cooking at the Loon now, and the Ridzas were living in the apartment over the café. Mrs. Ridza considered the job a step up from cleaning people’s houses. And the rent on the apartment was real cheap if you worked at the café.

The Ridzas didn’t have much furniture, but the apartment surely was an improvement over the shack. At least they weren’t going to freeze to death.

Mrs. Ridza wasn’t crazy about working with Magdalen Haggerty and Dora Noonan. “A couple of Crucifix kissers,” she called them. “Confession every Saturday. Communion every Sunday. But I wouldn’t trust either of ’em with my husband. If I had a husband.” Still, it was worth it to have a real job and a decent roof over their heads.

Beverly’s baby sister, Delores, who used to go with Mrs. Ridza when she cleaned houses, was now in afternoon kindergarten. That made me feel very old, as though Delores were pushing me out of childhood. Would Mama and Papa love me as much when I wasn’t a child?

“Is Papa still mad?” I asked Aunt Betty.

“I’m afraid so. But he won’t stay mad.”

“No. But I will.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“I’m not going back to church.”

“You have to.”

“I’ll run away.”

“Where would you run in the middle of winter?”

“I don’t know. Just away.”

“He’d find you at Mrs. Stillman’s.”

“I’d run away out of town.”

“How would you do that?”

I shrugged. “Maybe on a freight.”

“If you talk that way to your papa, he’ll spank you.”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s what you say now.”

“I really don’t care, Aunt Betty. I’m as stubborn as a mule.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I feel sorry for stubborn people.”

“Why?”

“Because they cut off their noses to spite their faces.”

“Grandma says you cut off
your
nose to spite your face because you won’t go to California.”

“Don’t be smart.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Turning your back on God is very serious,” she warned me.

If I told Aunt Betty that I loved Hilly more than I loved God, she’d be shocked. I didn’t want everybody on the outs with me, so I just concluded, “Well, I’m not going to the Catholic Church and that’s all.”

At supper Papa didn’t speak to me. He thought he was punishing me, and it would have been better if he’d been pleasant, but not talking to me was far better than a spanking. He did talk about me, however.

“I’m going to have a talk with Father Delias,” he told Mama.

“Oh?”

“About Lark.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m afraid for her soul.” He buttered a piece of bread. “If she died now, she’d go right to hell with her good friend Hilly Stillman.”

“You think Hilly went to hell?” Mama asked.

“People who commit suicide go there automatically. Everybody knows that.”

“The only people who know that for sure, are the people who commit suicide.”

“That’s sacrilege, what you’re saying. No wonder the kid’s the way she is. The Church tells us that people who commit suicide go to hell. Are you telling me the Church is wrong?”

“I don’t know what I’m telling you. I just know that Hilly didn’t go to hell.”

“I guess I’d better talk to Father Delias about you, too.”

“You do that, Willie.”

Papa turned to Aunt Betty. “Betty, am I wrong? Does the Church say that people who kill themselves go to hell?”

Aunt Betty squirmed and looked from Mama to me. “No. You’re not wrong, Willie. But, Hilly was—”

“You’re damned right I’m not wrong,” Papa said, dipping his bread into the Swiss steak gravy. “You’re damned right I’m not wrong.”

•  •  •

“Do you mind if I don’t go to Bernice McGivern’s tonight?” Aunt Betty was wiping dishes.

“You stay home with Lark,” Mama said. “I’m only going long enough to help her pick out a tablecloth and lay out the dishes. And I thought I’d leave our baked goods there tonight. That way we don’t have to worry about them tomorrow.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind. You baked all day.”

“You were on the road all afternoon.”

“Being on the road’s
fun.”
Mama handed Aunt Betty a wet plate. “Joe Navarin says the war may ruin my business. He says the government’s going to start controlling the amount of gas people can buy.”

“Did they tell him that?”

“I don’t think so, but he says the army’s going to need the gas.”

“It’s so frightening, the war. I can hardly sleep at night.”

“Do you hear soldiers marching at night?” I asked. Maybe that was why Aunt Betty couldn’t sleep.

“What?” She looked at me blankly. “Soldiers marching?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I was thinking of something else.”

“After Betty and I finish these dishes, I want you to carry the slop pails,” Mama told me.

I nodded.

“And I want you in bed early tonight. Tomorrow will be a long day. Aunt Betty’s going to see to it that you’re in bed by eight.”

“What will you do if you can’t get gas?” I asked Mama.

“I’ll think of something.”

When I carried the slop pails across the tracks, I saw a man pulling himself up into an empty boxcar. I kept going, pretending I hadn’t seen him. Technically, the hoboes weren’t supposed to be in the cars. But he would freeze down in the hobo jungle tonight.

After putting the slop pails under the sink and washing my face and hands, I slipped into my nightie and climbed into the crib. I was getting so big for the crib that it felt like a cage. Still, I did like the bunnies painted at either end. I would miss them when we moved into our new house and I had a real bed.

From the living room Aunt Betty said, “I think I’ll get ready for
bed, too.” A minute later she was brushing her teeth at the sink. As she rinsed her mouth, someone knocked at the door.

I jumped down from the crib and ran into the kitchen.

“Get back in bed,” Aunt Betty told me. “I’ll get it.”

I retreated to the far side of the table.

“Yes?” she asked, opening the storm door.

A man stood on the step. I was sure it was the hobo. He had on an old, red plaid wool jacket, frayed at the bottom, a beaked gray wool cap with the earflaps down, faded black twill work trousers, and big, heavy shoes, like workmen wore.

“Ma’am? I don’t mean to frighten you.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but… I’m hungry. I’d pay, but I run out of cash.”

“Step inside. On the paper.” Aunt Betty closed the door against the cold and turned on the burner under the coffee.

The man nodded to me.

“Where you going?” I asked.

“Someplace warm.”

“California?”

“If it works out that way. Maybe the gulf.”

“Do you know a man named Earl Samson?”

“I can’t say I do. At least not by his name.”

“He’s a friend of mine. You might meet him sometime.”

“He riding the boxcars?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“If you meet him, will you tell him something?”

“If I can remember.”

“Tell him Angela Roosevelt is on the radio in Chicago. Can you remember that?”

“Angela Roosevelt is on the radio in Chicago.”

“You can have a seat there for a minute,” Aunt Betty told the man, setting a cup of coffee on the table.

He removed his cap and sat down. “Thank you.”

“You can only stay a minute, because my brother-in-law who works in there”—she nodded toward the office—“might come any time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Aunt Betty buttered two slices of nut bread, set them on a
plate, and placed it before the hobo. “I’ll wrap the rest of it up for you,” she said, and went to tie up the remainder of the loaf in wax paper, then slip it into a brown bag. Pouring milk into a fruit jar, she put that in the bag as well.

“Is there any chores I can do for you?” he asked. “I saw the little girl carrying pails across the tracks.”

“No. There’s nothing.”

“Excuse me.” Aunt Betty left for a moment. I heard her digging in her purse. Returning, she handed the man a quarter.

When he had gone and Aunt Betty was preparing to wash his dishes, I said, “You were really nice to him.”

She sat down. “Didn’t you think he looked like Uncle Stan?” she asked, and she put her head down on her arms.

I didn’t think he looked one bit like Uncle Stan.

After the westbound freight had groaned away, pulling with it the empty boxcar with a Missouri Pacific emblem on the outside and our new friend on the inside, Papa came in for a cup of coffee. I heard him poking around in the bread box, searching for the nut bread.

“Betty?” he said, but when he walked into the living room, he saw that she was asleep. “Damn,” he swore, and settled for saltine crackers with jam.

After he had snacked, Papa came in the bedroom to get a handkerchief from the drawer. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” he told me.

“Aunt Betty said I could read my book for a while.”

He was ready to leave again when it occurred to him that this was an ideal time to get something settled between us. Sitting down on the edge of the big bed, he said, “You know that you make me very sad.”

“Are you going to talk about Hilly again?”

“I’m going to tell you how sad it makes me that your ma and I’ll be in heaven and our little girl’ll be down in hell. What’ll we tell people?”

“Tell ’em I went to hell,” I said, lying down and pulling the quilt up.

“You don’t care how sad I am,” he said as if his heart would break.

“I care, but I don’t want to talk about hell.”

“No, I wouldn’t either if I was going there.”

“Maybe you will,” I said, “maybe we’ll be together.”

“Well, that’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of a kid telling her pa,” he said, rising. “We’ll see who goes to hell.” He turned and fled back to the depot office.

PAPA DIDN’T ATTEND HILLY’S
funeral. He was taking no chances with his immortal soul. And, as he pointed out two or three times between Saturday and Tuesday, he had been no friend of Hilly’s in life. He would be no hypocrite in death.

One problem between Papa and Hilly was that, however touched Hilly might have been, he’d been a bona fide war hero. Unless our shores were overrun by Huns and Nips, Papa would never be called on to defend his country. He resented Hilly’s fame.

The number of villagers who did attend the funeral was not legion. Mama and Aunt Betty and I sat in the front pew of the First Methodist Church, next to Mrs. Stillman. Across the aisle were Bernice McGivern, Bill, and Bernice’s sister, Maxine, who was Doctor White’s assistant. Dr. and Mrs. White sat beside them. And in the pew behind were Mr. Navarin, his son Danny, Sonny Steen, and a man I didn’t recognize who turned out to be the pallbearer from Red Berry.

Behind Mama and me were Mrs. Wheeler and Sally. And beside them, Beverly and Mrs. Ridza. In the back pew on our side sat a graying, red-faced man in the uniform of an officer of the last war. Dignified and distant, he was not familiar to me, or to Mama.

Over Hilly’s closed casket was draped an American flag, and on that stood a photograph of the young Hilly in his uniform. It was the portrait from the table in Mrs. Stillman’s living room. The sweet, open, far-off gaze made me feel right with myself.

The minister’s sermon was chaste and succinct, giving offense to no one and not much comfort either. The comfort lay in his giving Hilly a Christian burial. For that we were all immoderately grateful.

At the cemetery the red-faced officer and Bill McGivern folded
the flag ceremoniously and presented it to Mrs. Stillman. But the officer failed to show up at the gathering at Bernice McGivern’s house. Who had he been?

“I never laid eyes on the man before,” Bill McGivern confessed to Mrs. Stillman, who sat in the place of honor, the best chair, in the bay window of the McGivern living room. “A captain, he was.”

Mrs. Stillman shook her head. She had not recognized the officer. “He had a fine bearing,” she noted.

“‘I never laid eyes on him before.’ That’s what Bill McGivern told Mrs. Stillman,” Mama relayed to Papa at supper. “And Bill McGivern knows nearly every legionnaire in the state. Isn’t that interesting, Willie?”

“That Bill McGivern knows every legionnaire in the state?”

“No. That he
didn’t
know this mysterious captain.”

Papa shrugged. “How many people came to the funeral?”

“About twenty-five, I guess. And they all came to Bernice’s except the officer.” She reaffirmed to Aunt Betty, “I don’t care what anyone says, it was mysterious.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Mama, when are you going to talk to Mr. Rayzeen again about the new house?” I asked. I thought that it would be wonderful if we had a bay window in the living room like the one Mrs. Stillman sat in at Bernice McGivern’s.

“Saturday. I decided to wait till Saturday because that way I don’t have to hurry back in from the road to get there by closing.”

“Could you ask him how much it’d cost to have a bay window in the living room?”

“All right. I’ll ask.”

“I saw a fabric in a magazine that’d make beautiful living room drapes,” Aunt Betty told Mama. “It was an off-white background with cabbage roses and peonies in different shades of pink, from real pale to real dark—almost red—and then lots of forest green leaves spread all over. It was stunning.”

“Wouldn’t those be pretty on either side of a bay window, with lace curtains in between?” Mama responded.

“And the walls could match the off-white in the background of the fabric.”

“Is there going to be dessert?” Papa demanded.

Mama rose to fetch the remaining pie and cake she’d hauled home from Bernice McGivern’s. Bernice had said, “You take this home. Bill and I’ll never get around all this food.” There were three pieces of chocolate cake and two of mincemeat pie.