All for a Sister (29 page)

“Did you see me, Papa?” For such she called him now.
Daddy
was for a little girl. Plus, it’s what Graciela called him on her behalf.

“I did, indeed. You were wonderful.”

“Everybody thought so,” Graciela added, hugging Celeste to her side. “Now, let us go clean your face and change your clothes. Your papa says he has to take you to dinner.”

“Not
out
to dinner,” he corrected. “Home for dinner, and a meeting.”

“Oh,” Celeste said, disappointed, and not just because she was hungry. She loved going out to restaurants with her handsome father. He could have been a movie star himself, she’d decided, being every bit as dashing as any of the men ever cast to play the role. Plus, when they went out, sometimes people recognized her as the little girl from one movie or another, and they oohed and aahed until Papa had to chase them away with a charming sternness.

“I think you’ll feel better soon.” Papa had a twinkle to his eye. “Mr. Parker is meeting us at home. We have a new contract. With Metro Pictures.”

Now, unscripted, Celeste clapped her hands and did a small, excited dance. “Is it for the dream movie?” She had auditioned for it weeks ago—the story of a little girl who falls asleep and has fantastical adventures in her dreams.

“It is. And what’s more, they’ve committed to no fewer than ten minutes’ color footage.”

“Oh, Papa!” Disregarding her maturity, she ran into his
arms, careful to keep her face tilted to avoid rubbing makeup on his sleeve.

“They wanted you, Celi. More than any other little girl.”

He was holding her now at arm’s length, and something about the way he looked at her chipped at her triumphant joy. “Is that why they agreed to the color?” He’d used such a tactic before, threatening to refuse to sign her contract without a commitment to at least some colorization. Always, when the producers refused, he backed down, but this time . . . “What if they’d said no?”

“But they didn’t, darling. It’s our dream. Yours and mine, together. Now, go. I told Parker to be at the house at six o’clock to look over the papers.”

Deflated, Celeste walked beside Graciela, tugging the ridiculous bow out of her hair and wishing she could wipe her face clean with a swipe of her silk sleeve. They remained silent all the while, until they were back at Celeste’s dressing table, the silk dress hanging on the wardrobe rack, and the mass of curls gathered and secured with a simple ribbon at the nape of her neck.

Humming just as she always did in the absence of conversation, Graciela slathered Celeste’s face with a pungent cold cream and commenced wiping the makeup away.

“He really is selfish,” Celeste offered up after a time, her words distorted as her face surrendered to Graciela’s ministrations. “As selfish as Mother says.”

“Ah, Celi
mía
, don’t say such about your papa. You’re always saying how much you want to be the star in your own movie. And here you are.”

“They wanted
me
. Not his stupid color. He used me.”

“Don’t say such ugly things.” Graciela made a final swipe, then kissed the tip of her nose. “He has done everything for you, and
he loves you very, very much. He feels, sometimes, alone in this family. Share this with him.”

The weight of the affection behind those words, if not the words themselves, struck a chord, making Celeste ashamed of her outburst. Her face clean, back in her perfectly suitable dress, she offered Graciela a weak smile. “It is exciting, isn’t it?”

“Es maravilloso.”

For a moment, Celeste wondered if Graciela was more excited for her or for her father. But maybe it didn’t matter. She was right. They could share.

Graciela rode in the backseat of the car on the drive home, with Celeste at her father’s side, peppering him with questions about the new movie. When would they film? Who was set to play her father and mother? And what fantastical elements would there be? Would she get to fly on a wire? Wear wonderful costumes? Dance with actors in animal costumes?

Papa chuckled. “All these questions! We haven’t even signed the contract yet.”

“But we will, won’t we? And can I sign this one myself?” She’d been practicing a grown-up signature on all her school papers.

“We’ll ask Mr. Parker if we can both sign,” he said. “Maybe there’s a special way to draw up the papers.”

They were driving down Hollywood Boulevard when Celeste looked out the window and noticed a sign advertising the opening of a new restaurant—Frank’s Café—and was reminded by her stomach once again of the extent of her hunger.

“I wish we could meet with Mr. Parker at a restaurant,” she said. “I’m starving.”

“You know that’s not possible,” Papa said, his voice firm. “I’m sure Graciela won’t mind whipping up supper for us, will you?”

“Of course not,” she answered from the back. “I know just what I’ll make.”

“Can we eat first, at least?”

“Celi, dear, Mr. Parker might already be at the house waiting for us. Maybe even for this past hour.”

“He can eat with us, can’t he?” She knew he couldn’t go into a restaurant with them since he was a Negro. That’s what Papa had said, anyway. Not a nice restaurant.

“We’ll see,” Papa said. “But he certainly is welcome.”

Nobody, though, would have felt welcome driving up to the DuFrane house just then. The sun had quite disappeared, leaving the world a dusky half dark, and the windows of the stately homes on either side glowed a soft yellow. Yet not a sliver of light shone from within their home. Not on the porch, or through the tall, narrow windows on either side of the front door. Celeste looked up at the row of darkness on the second floor. She didn’t expect to see any amber light coming from her own room, but next to it—Calvin’s—should have had a single burning flame for the soldier off to war. Every night, she and Graciela met at sunset to pray for her brother’s safety and light a new taper to burn down until dawn. Mother must have forgotten. Or more likely, she was too lazy. Given the hour, she might have already retired for the night, having eaten what she could find in the icebox and pantry.

Selfish.
Every bit as much as Papa. She might not have even answered the door for Mr. Parker.

Papa pulled the car around back to the garage, revealing the house to be in total darkness on every side. No sign of life in the kitchen and, confirming Celeste’s suspicions, nothing emanating
from her parents’ bedroom upstairs. It wasn’t until this point that Papa remarked about the air of desertion, and Graciela muttered,
“Hay alguien en casa?”

The only explanation other than that of Mother having already been to bed would be to assume Mother had left the house, a far less likely scenario.

They entered through the back door into the kitchen, where Celeste immediately set upon a plate of pastries resting under a glass dome. Graciela barely chastised her for spoiling her appetite before disappearing to her room to deposit her hat and purse.

Papa left, too, hollering, “Marguerite?” He must have been worried, because both he and Mother loathed the practice of yelling from room to room, yet his call echoed throughout the house, unanswered.

Graciela returned, tying an apron around her waist, and set to work pulling down a skillet and rummaging through the icebox for eggs and cheese. She lit the stove with a long match, prompting Celeste’s memory.

“Can we please go light the candle in Calvin’s room? Mother forgot.”

“Después.”
She cracked another egg into a large mixing bowl. “I already lit the stove. We won’t be long.”

“Can I do it by myself?” She hated the thought of full darkness descending without the guiding flame in the window, not that Calvin didn’t know full well how to find their house in the dark. Goodness knows he came stumbling in plenty of nights without the aid of such a beacon.

Graciela paused, whisk in hand, and beckoned Celeste to her side. “We pray together here, okay? Then you go.”

Celeste abandoned the rest of her pastry and walked to the other side of the table. Graciela made her familiar sign of the cross,
saying,
“En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo,”
before taking Celeste’s hand.

“Heavenly Father,” Celeste prayed, “please keep my brother, Calvin, safe on the fields of battle. Give him a warm bed to sleep in, and wrap him in your mighty shield. Help him to be brave and kind, and bring him home.”

To this, Graciela added what she did every night.
“Querido Dios, te pido que protejas a mi hijo y que vuelva a mí vivo y sano.”
Celeste translated:
Dear Father, I ask you to protect my son, and to bring him home alive and well.
That Graciela thought of Calvin as her own son only sealed their prayer.

The two offered
amen
in unison before Graciela sent Celeste upstairs with a new, white taper, a matchbox, and a kiss to the top of her head.

She bumped into her father at the foot of the stairs. “Is Mother already in bed?”

“No, but I did find this on the entryway table.” He held up a large, brown envelope, its flap held closed with a red string wound around a cardboard button. “It’s from Parker’s office. The contract, I’m assuming.” The worry on his face eclipsed any excitement from before.

“Maybe she and Mr. Parker went out for a little bit?” She didn’t want to offer any undue worry, but she had, on several occasions, happened upon the two of them looking thick as thieves in some conversation that always ended abruptly once her presence was known.

“Doubtful,” Papa said, reminding Celeste of the other aspect of her mother’s relationship with Mr. Parker. Namely, that she didn’t care for him very much at all.

“I’m going to light the candle in Calvin’s window. Would you like to come with me?” As far as she could remember, Papa
had never participated in the ritual, though her mother did most nights, making it all the more odd that she’d forgotten to do so this evening.

“You go ahead.” He hugged her to his side. “I’m going to make a telephone call or two, and then we’ll look at those papers together.”

She hugged him back before scampering up the stairs. When she got to Calvin’s room, she crossed immediately to the window, knelt, replaced the old candle with the new, and struck a flame.

“Don’t bother.” The sound of her mother’s voice startled her so, Celeste nearly dropped the match. She turned the light in the direction of the voice and saw her mother lying prostrate on her brother’s bed.

“Mother? We’ve been calling to you for ages.” She lit the candle. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“I said, don’t bother.” By the dim light of the single flame, Celeste watched her mother struggle to turn over and eventually sit up on the bed. “He isn’t coming home.”

The weight of her words fell straight to the base of Celeste’s spine, paralyzing her in place. “Wh-what did you say?”

“I got a telegram.” The yellow paper rested as if settling into her clutch. “While that horrible darky lawyer was here.”

Barely aware of her own movement, Celeste crawled across the floor and clung to her mother’s knee.

“He’s dead? Calvin’s been killed? Is that what the telegram said?”

“And I’ll bet he wanted to laugh at me.” Mother seemed to be speaking to somebody far away, as if Celeste weren’t there at all. “When I read it. Should have sent him away, always poking his nose in our business.”

“Mother, please. Tell me about Calvin. What do you know?”

Their shadows loomed, huge and frightening on the wall, and when her mother lifted her hand to stroke Celeste’s hair, the gesture stretched clear to the ceiling. The resulting touch was lifeless and cold, like that of the occasional uncomfortable stranger whom girls were sometimes forced to endure.

“It means another of my children dead and buried.”

“Oh, Mother. Maybe there’s been a mistake. Maybe he’ll come back.”

Like I did.

“He won’t be back. This is God’s justice, his price for my sin.”

“Certainly not.” She couldn’t imagine the magnitude of a sin that would demand such a price. “Besides, Graciela says that Jesus already paid the price for all of our sins. This isn’t your fault.”

“‘Skin for skin,’” Mother said with a chilling smile. “Parker asked if this is what it would take to break me. The weasel. He’s in every bit as deep as I am. Threatened to tell your father, he did. Until I reminded him that he, and you—” she propped a chubby finger under Celeste’s chin—“are just two more slices of his buttered bread.”

Grief had transformed her into a rambling madwoman, her confusing words churning an anger inside Celeste, who wanted nothing more than to learn the details—however gruesome—of her brother’s fate. But it became obvious that this was not the time. Later, when Mother’s head was clearer, when she could pry the crumpled telegram from her hand, maybe then she’d know. Until then, she would provide what comfort she could; she laid her head on Mother’s knee and wept.

Soon, her father’s silhouette appeared in the doorway.

“There you are.” His voice was thick, the words choked with what could only be knowledge of the fate of his son. “I telephoned Mr. Parker. He told me.”