1929 (60 page)

Elyse later slipped downstairs quietly and
found Victor in the parlor alone. Several glasses of brandy and
malicious satisfaction twisted his mouth into a smile as he stared
at the dying fire. “Monsieur. I wanted to thank you once again for
your help, your hospitality, and your kindness.”

“It was no . . .” She glided across the room
toward him, her sheer gown flowing behind her, leaving nothing to
the imagination. “. . . trouble.” She sat in the chair next to him,
leaning over to let her gown expose full cleavage.

“I just wish I had a gift to express my
gratitude. Some way I could,” her eyes flickered up with
insinuation, “repay you.”

He grinned and reached out, tracing a finger
along her collar bone and down along her cleavage to draw the seam
of the gown further apart.

“I’m sure we can think of something.”

∞∞∞

Elyse boarded the ship bound for her homeland
at noon the next day. She was at peace with her son safely
delivered to his father; the last of her affairs now in order. And
by fulfilling Ruth’s request, her parting gifts to Victor–syphilis,
tuberculosis, and a wasting liver disease.

March 31st 1930

Claire walked leisurely down the beach,
picking up shells, unique rocks, and small pieces of driftwood to
paint. She glanced at the sun, which hung low in the sky and
wandered away from the blanket and picnic basket she had laid out.
It had been Aryl’s idea, she remembered with a smile, to start
having Friday dinner picnics on the beach whenever the weather
allowed, which provided a few precious hours to be truly alone and
talk freely about anything. They talked about the frustrations of
communal living, about the other couples’ current strife, but
mainly they talked about their future.

He kept a list of all their hopes and plans
in his pocket. Some were nothing more than outlines of far off
things that were too early to detail. Others were detailed to the
point of color choices for their new home one day and names for
their future children. They went over the lists every Friday as
they ate, adjusted plans where needed and added new details that
came to mind.

He was late, and she stood, holding her hand
over her eyes for a long time, watching the ocean for a sign of his
boat. She suddenly startled as a bit of sand grazed her leg. She
looked down to see a little girl, maybe six, playing in the sand a
few feet away. Pixie cut, strawberry-blond hair surrounded her face
as she dug deep into the sand.

“Sorry,” she said softly with a grin and
quickly went back to her sand play.

“That’s all right.” Claire hugged herself
with crossed arms, smiling. “You’re not out here all alone, are
you?” she asked while looking around for the girl’s family.

“No, my momma’s over there.” She pointed to
her without looking up from her sand pile. “I have to go soon,” she
said with pleasant finality. Claire looked in that direction, and,
even though she could only see a foggy silhouette down the
shoreline, she waved.

She bent at the knees and dug lines in the
sand with a stick.

“I’m Claire. What’s your name?”

“Beatrice Joy,” she said with oomph, beaming,
terribly proud of her name. She patted her sand castle, frowning
occasionally, unconscious of her tongue poking out the side of her
mouth in concentration. Although Claire hadn’t heard anything over
the ocean waves, she noticed the mother now within calling
distance.

“Beadie, what did I tell you about running
off?” she said with a frustrated smile, shifting a baby boy in her
arms. “I hope she wasn’t any trouble,” the mother said to
Claire.

“No, none at all. We were just talking.”
Claire stood and raised her hand again against the glare. The woman
stood a foot taller than Claire, and the sinking sun behind her
illuminated her red hair in a radiant silver and gold circle of
light. One large hand cupped the bottom of the baby boy who laid
his head on her shoulder, and she held her other hand out. “Come
now, Bea. It’s time to go home.” Without hesitation, the little
girl rose, leaving the sand tools she had scavenged from nature
behind and ran several steps to take her mother’s hand. Claire
watched until they were almost out of sight, and the little girl
turned at the last, looked over her shoulder and waved with a
contented smile as they vanished into the brilliant core of the
sunset. Claire raised her hand, holding it still in the air until
they vanished.

April 5th 1930

Jonathan stood outside the bedroom doorway,
debating and then leaned in, only exposing his left side. The last
two times he had attempted to talk to her, he needed to dodge
whatever happened to be within Ava’s reach. This way, he figured he
could duck out easier, if he needed to again. He poked his head in,
resting it on the inner frame, and his voice cracked with hushed
imploring.

“Ava, it’s been two weeks.” She glanced at
the calendar and back at Jonathan with a blank expression. Well,
that’s an improvement from burning hatred, he thought
hopefully.

She sat on the bed, legs folded under her
skirt, back against the wall, and suddenly gathered her letters to
hold them to her chest protectively, scowling at him.

With her hands occupied now, he took a few
tentative steps into the bedroom.

“Looks like Maura wrote you.” She looked down
at the letters she cradled, nodded slightly, and fixed her vacant
stare past him. “My mother said you got several letters at once. I
wonder if some got delayed along the way.” Her shrug was barely
noticeable as she looked down at them again. “Listen, I have to go
into town today. I was wondering if you’d go with me. Might feel
good to get out of the house.”

“I have been. I’ve spent almost every day
with Claire,” she said under her breath. Each day, she hastily did
her share of chores and then spent the rest of the time alone in
the locked room or visiting Claire. Jonathan had effectively been
kicked out.

“I know,” he said, nodding. “I meant out of
the house with me.” He leaned with crossed arms waiting for her
rejection. He could see her thinking and dared to feel hopeful.

“I have to pick up a present for
Arianna.”

He nodded quickly. “We can do that.”

“And I have to get a few things for her
shower.” He’d have let her shop their entire savings away as long
as it meant spending time with her, closing the gap between them.
He missed her; it picked at his heart’s wound to be in the same
room and have her barely acknowledge him. He inhaled her familiar
scent just out of reach, tortuously forbidden to reach out.

“Whatever you need,” he spoke dully,
disguising his elation. He chose a lightweight, forest-green
sweater to go over a white shirt. Tan or black dress pants were his
only choices, so he chose black and headed for the bathroom.

More promptly than usual, he appeared in the
living room shaved, styled and with a bit too much cologne applied.
He tucked his wallet into his back pocket and caught the keys his
father tossed to him. As Ava walked out ahead of him, he grinned
hopefully at his parents.

“Don’t wait up.”

Less than a mile down the road, Ava began
wrestling with the window lever, struggling to breathe.

“Oh, it’s been jamming lately.” He pulled
over and leaned across to tug at the rusted handle. She leaned back
on the seat and he came up slowly, smiling sweetly. “There you
go.”

She coughed a ‘thank you’, overwhelmed by the
reek of liquid persuasion.

“Did you spill it or something?” she asked,
slightly irritated, leaning closer to the open window.

“Yeah, on my pant leg,” he lied gracefully.
“I would have changed but, you know, I figured you wanted to get
going.”

As minutes of silence passed, Jonathan
scrambled to find something to say. “Are those your letters from
Maura, or are they some you need to mail?” he asked, referencing
the stack of letters she held.

“Both. Maura’s and invitations to the baby
shower. Arianna wanted to send some to New York, even though she
knows none of them will be able to come.” She stared at the
countryside. “I already wrote to Maura this week.”

Jonathan thought he detected the slightest
bit of warning in her voice. There was a flash of cold fear in his
gut, and he reaffirmed his effort to change her mind. He wished
Maura was here. She could talk Ava out of leaving, if that’s what
she was planning. Maura would walk in disconcerted, swearing,
demanding answers and a drink. Then she would sit them both down
and tell Ava how unreasonable she was being. He could almost hear
her as he drove.

“Now what’s goin’ on this time? The two of
ye sittin’ on opposite sides of the couch again, I thought ye were
well past that by now. What’d ye do, Mr. Jonathan?”

He’d plead his case, profess his love, and
then Maura would turn on Ava and set her straight. After more
cursing and loving threats, she’d leave and all would be well.

He opened his mouth and closed it, fighting
the rising lump in his throat. He swallowed hard and tried again.
“How is Maura?”

She recognized something in his voice that
made her heart ache even more for Maura, and for a few moments, she
ignored her anger at him.

“Not all that well, I’m afraid. Ian lost his
job. She's still working, but she says things are getting bad in
the city. Tarin has been working at the cannery, but that’s not
going well either. The supervisor likes to get friendly with the
girls, and the first time Tarin came home in tears, well, Maura
took care of him well enough.”

He heard Maura’s concerned voice in his head
as the story came to life in his mind.

“Why, Tarin! What’s the matter, love?” Tarin
collapsed onto the couch, sobbing. Maura went to her immediately,
stroking her hair and trying to comfort her. “Now, tell me, love,
what’s got ye so upset?”

Tarin proceeded to tell Maura of her new
supervisor and his wandering hands. “Mr. Craig does it to all the
girls, auntie. Grabbin’ and pinchin’, slappin’ their bottoms when
they walk by. He hadn’t paid much attention to me, but today he . .
. .”

Maura’s face was set hard and almost as red
as her rich, auburn hair. Her green eyes flashed, narrowed and she
urged Tarin to continue.

“Well, he’s done worse to other girls,
that’s for sure. But today he grabbed at my bodice, slapped me
rear, and laughed the whole time, like it was entertainin’. He’s a
gross, fat man. An’ he smells.” She wrinkled her nose; most of her
tears now subsided.

“Well, Tarin, ye can go to work tomorra’
without worry of this ever happenin’ again.” She kissed her on the
head and crossed the room, lifting the black, metal tongs from its
peg on the hearth. “Auntie will see to that,” she professed as she
walked out the door coatless, headed down to the cannery.

“Did he live?” Jonathan asked, laughing. “Or
are your letters now addressed to the women’s penitentiary?”

“Oh, he lived. Maura can be quite convincing
when she wants to be. And she convinced Mr. Craig not to even so
much as look in Tarin’s direction again,” she said and smiled,
squinting her eyes against the sunlight. She felt the slightest
twinge of jealousy toward Tarin, wishing Maura were here to put
Jonathan in his place. She smirked at the visual of her standing
before him with a set of fire tongs in her hands. She continued
with the story.

Maura walked into Mr. Craig’s office without
knocking. Before he could register the fiery whirlwind that blurred
through the door, Maura had the fire tongs buried neatly in his
crotch, the tongs above and below, grasping his bits and parts with
constriction that demanded attention.

“What are you doing, you mad woman!?”

“Ye’ll lower your voice, Mr. Craig,” she
said. Her voice was low, insistent and unwilling to negotiate. “And
ye’ll hear me out, or I swear on everything that’s good and true,
I’ll rip off yer parts, and ye’ll have to choke your own throat to
get yerself off because that’s where I’ll have stuffed yer wee
piece.” She applied pressure to the tongs to emphasize her
point.

He squealed an unnaturally high octave and
held his hands up in surrender.

“Now. Ye know of a girl named Tarin? Sweet
Irish lass just started workin’ here a few weeks ago?”

He nodded quickly, wide-eyed with the sudden
realization of the meaning behind the visit.

“She’s the one ye had your nasty paws on
this afternoon. Well, Mr. Craig, I’m here to tell ye that if ye so
much as look in the direction my niece happens to be . . . our next
visit won’t be quite so pleasant.” She added pressure as she
finished her sentence.

He gasped and groaned, clutching the arms of
his chair. “Please,” he whispered.

“Do we have an understandin’ then?” she
asked suddenly smiling sweetly at him.

He was convinced this woman was stark raving
mad. “Yes,” he whispered.

Jonathan laughed until he could hardly see
the road, and despite herself, Ava laughed, too.

“God help anybody,” he said, wiping his eyes,
“who crosses that woman.”

Ava gave him a quick glance and wished Maura
were here now, handling him much in the same manner. They fell into
silence for many miles, Maura heavy on their minds. Suddenly, he
arched his back, leaning on the steering wheel with a wince and a
groan.

Ava glanced at him. “What happened?” she
asked indifferently.

“Oh, it’s nothing. My back hurts. The couch
is rather uncomfortable.” He eyed her sideways, hoping it would
lead to a compromise of letting him back into the room. “So, how
have you been feeling?” He noticed she was re-reading one of
Maura’s letters. She folded it quickly and stuffed it back in her
handbag.