All for a Sister (19 page)

A new chill entirely overtook her as an unprecedented presence entered the children’s dining hall. Warden Webb, smaller and milkier than she’d ever imagined. Not much taller than Dana herself, though he kept his chest puffed up and stood to his toes to make up the difference.

“Attention, please.” By the timbre of his voice, he must have expected some great battle from his audience. “As of now I am arranging the immediate release of all of you, so as not to bring sickness and fever into this institution.” He wagged his finger. “Take this as a warning. I am drafting a letter of explanation to the judge in each case, informing him of the circumstances and
requesting that, should you again appear before the bench, your sentence be doubled to recompense the lost time. You are to wait here, and I will send Mrs. Karistin to fetch you each in turn as we find officers to escort you home.”

Small sounds of joy came from a few of the children—the younger ones, mostly. The older ones asked if they couldn’t please stay until at least after supper.

“I’ve instructed Cook to put a fire under the soup,” the warden said, his voice a little softer than before. “Perhaps you’ll have time to drink a bowl before you leave.”

Dana buried her nose in Little Kicker’s wet head, breathing deep the already-sour smell. She kept her eyes shut tight but moved her lips across the slick, cool hair, whispering, “Thank you. Thank you, God.” If, as she’d learned, rain was a gift from God, sent to replenish the earth and bring new life to his creation, then surely this today was his gift to her. She couldn’t imagine where the unknown officer would escort her. She’d start at the shabby apartment she’d shared with her mother, to try to find out if she was still alive, and where she’d gone. Or perhaps the DuFranes’, if for no other reason than to beg forgiveness.

“Miss Lundgren!” Warden Webb’s voice carried the irritation of repetition, but Dana had been so caught up in her reverie, and so unused to hearing her proper name, she’d obviously missed his first calling.

“Y-yes, sir?” She stood straight, keeping her hand on Little Kicker’s shoulder.

“Go with Mrs. Karistin to fetch some blankets for these little ones. We’ll wrap them up tight while they wait.” His words chipped at her hope, as they clearly separated her from the others.

“Yes, sir.” Sweet obedience, perhaps, would keep her in his good graces.

“Take one for yourself; then go to the dormitory and change into your night things. Straight to bed with you, and I’ll arrange for your supper to be brought to you on a tray. Now, won’t that be nice? Like a regular little princess.” He twisted his face into a wink, bringing his bushy moustache almost up beside his nose. The stone forming in Dana’s heart was heavy enough to throw and knock everything straight again.

“Yes.” By now her face was too dry to camouflage tears, so she held them back, promising herself she could weep till morning.

Oddly enough, she didn’t. At least not right away. By the time she’d stripped off her wet clothes, laid them to dry on the radiator, donned her flannel nightdress, and crawled into bed under two extra blankets, her body needed every bit of its energy to calm her shivering and warm itself. At some point, her mind pushed guilt aside and allowed her to sleep—a luxurious, almost-decadent occurrence in the middle of an afternoon. She’d awoken to Cookie—a light-skinned Negro woman who, as far as Dana knew, lived in the Bridewell kitchen—standing over her holding a tray laden with a bowl of steaming soup, a not-quite-stale roll, and a tiny dish of rice pudding.

“Had some extra left over, is all,” she said, warding off Dana’s effusive gratitude.

Left alone, Dana attacked the meal with relish, softening her bread by dipping it in the soup, and finishing it off by mopping the sides of the bowl. The pudding, however, she savored in a series of tiny bites, swiping her finger on the dish to get every last taste. A sense of duty took her to clean the dishes at the washbasin. By the time she crawled back under her blankets, even though it was barely dark and hours before the normal bedtime, she had hardly enough
strength to pull the blankets up to her chin before turning her face to her pillow and filling the room with wet, shuddering sobs.

“Awake and alive, girls. Awake and alive.”

Dana could feel the swelling of her eyes before she snaked her hand out from under the covers to gently touch the soft, puffy bags beneath them. Her head felt like someone had used an ax to split her skull. More than anything, she felt dry—her lips cracked and salty, her tongue thick.

“Awake and alive.”

For once, she didn’t leap out of bed. Didn’t rush to the washbasin to splash her face and brush her hair. Her feet were bare and warm, and the thought of stepping onto the cold floor made her curl up in a defensive ball. Besides, what was the hurry? She was alone, after all. The only girl in here. The only kid in the entire wing. And right now the only sound was that of Mrs. Karistin’s skirt scratching along the wall.

And then it stopped.

She heard the familiar sound of the iron key turning in the lock, followed by the heavy scrape of the barred door against the floor. No flood of light this morning.

“Up and dressed. Ten minutes.”

Dana dropped her arm over her eyes.

“Not moving today?” Footsteps pierced the silence, coming to a stop next to the bed.

Never before had Dana felt so defiant, but somehow her weakness had merged with strength, keeping her immobile in the face of this morning.

“Come on now, you know the routine. Ought to know it better than anyone.”

“That was a horrible thing you did.” Her lips felt like paste as they formed each word. “Yesterday, those poor children. I don’t understand how you could be so cruel.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Looks like everything worked out for them. And you got a nice afternoon lay-a-bed.” The springs on the bed beside Dana’s groaned in protest as Mrs. Karistin settled her weight on it. “Now get yourself up, or I’ll give you such a beating you won’t be able to.”

Dana turned, propped herself up on one elbow, and stared at the stocky woman camouflaged in the grayness of the morning.

“I’m not afraid of you.” As she spoke, the words became truth. “I’ll never be afraid of you again.”

The woman’s expression remained unchanged. “Might as well. Since you’re leaving.”

Dana shot straight up, the sudden movement intensifying the pain in her head. “I’m leaving?”

Mrs. Karistin chuckled. “That’s just how you looked yesterday when Mr. Webb said you were all going home. Before you knew he meant everyone
else
. That split second of hope. Just like now.”

The two sides of Dana’s head knit together in a solid mass of pain, and she pressed the heels of her hands against her swollen eyes. “Stop.”

“You’re staying here, but they’re moving you after today. Other side of the yard, where the women are. There was talk yesterday that maybe you’re too old to be housed with the children, what with the nature of your crime, and yesterday, no regard whatsoever for their health. Dangerous, you know. On the bright side, you’ll get a new dress.”

She laughed again, the sound as bone-chilling as yesterday’s rain, because with it came the images of what Dana had seen, the few glimpses she’d had of the women on the other side. Drunks,
prostitutes—some of the mothers of the children brought here because there’d be no one to care for them while their mothers served their sentences.

“That can’t be,” Dana said, ready to cry, but she had no tears left. “I have to write to the judge again.”

“What a good idea,” Mrs. Karistin said, thick with condescension. “And just for that, I have a little something for you.”

Dana returned her attention in time to see the matron holding out a token—a wooden cigar box, newer than hers and untouched by rain.

“I can write a new letter?”

“Write all you want.” Her grin was not to be trusted. “Look inside.”

Dana obeyed, wondering what trick would be inside. Paper without a pencil, perhaps? An inkwell without a pen? Slowly she opened the lid, only to find the contents within much, much more frightening than she could have imagined.

“You didn’t—”

“See, I kept forgetting that it costs three cents to mail a letter.”

Dana’s hands shook as she reached inside the box and closed them around the stack of envelopes. Thirty in all—twenty to the judge and ten to Mrs. DuFrane—and she knew by heart what was written on each one. A plea for freedom. For answers, for forgiveness, for hope.

“Now, that’s ninety cents, girl. Almost a dollar. You got a dollar for me? You do, and I’ll get them posted right off.”

“No . . .” Of course she wasn’t responding to the ridiculous question, but answering that part of her heart that wondered if there was a person alive who cared about her future.

“In that case—” Mrs. Karistin reached over and took the box away, meeting very little protest—“I’ll just take these right back.
And I suppose there’s no hurry, you getting up and getting dressed and whatnot. Might be you need a little more rest.”

“Will I get away from you when I go to the women’s side?”

“You will, indeed.” She stood, and the springs sang in relief. “And then I’ll be one more person to forget you’re alive.”

THE WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MARGUERITE DUFRANE, PAGES 39–53

WITH HEARTFELT APOLOGIES
to all other children—including my own—I must tell you, my darling girl, that you were the most beautiful baby ever born. Soft curling hair, a perfect little mouth, and these enormous blue eyes fringed with long black lashes. Beyond all of that, though, you had this intelligence about you that was, at times, unnerving. Almost from the time you were born, you seemed to listen to conversations, as if saving up the words until you were old enough to speak them. No surprise at all, then, how quickly you learned to speak Spanish with Graciela, or that you were in demand for acting roles starting at such a young age. You’ve always been a chameleon, becoming someone else at the drop of a hat. Born to be an actress, if anyone ever was.

Your first role, of course, was that of my daughter.

I must say, I didn’t fully intend for all of this to become the ruse that it did. I like to think that my intentions were simple, even noble. Mrs. Lundgren was in no position to rear another child, and it seemed a kindness to offer you a home. Think of what I promised. Her own daughter returned at my bidding, no record of what she’d done.

If I had to pinpoint the moment of my sin, it would be my failure to fulfill my end of the bargain afterward. I had a healthy new baby, after all—a beautiful little girl to boot. I should have kept my promise, walked into Judge Stephens’s office, and told him to send the word to set her free. But when circumstances became what they were . . . well, a new baby commands so much attention, and I simply ran out of time.

I mention the illusion that my motives were noble. The room I prepared for Mrs. Lundgren might have been in a forgotten hallway, but it was fitted with lovely accoutrements, with its own cozy stove to keep it warm and a window to open wide in the afternoons to look out over the park. I carried her meals to her myself, all catered to her particular taste, and I assure you she was not shy about making her preferences known. Cream, not milk, for her tea. Preserves, not jam, for her toast. And never so much as a bite was ever left on the plate.