All for a Sister (23 page)

I remember Calvin bringing it to me, always one to take on what little responsibilities he could. He loved to take the mail from where it landed on the floor and march around the house to deliver it directly into my hands. In truth, it was a game I’d introduced years before, making believe he was a Union spy, and each piece of mail a secret message to me, General Grant. Not until I held Judge Stephens’s letter in my shaking hands did I realize how fortuitous such play would be. I thanked Calvin with a salute, then ordered him to take Private Celeste downstairs for a snack.

The letter was, for all intents and purposes, a confession, much like this I write now, only his begged forgiveness not only for his miscarriage of justice, but also for those hidden sins that made his honor so easily defiled. He also gave fair warning that an identical document was set to be delivered to Warden Webb at the old Bridewell Prison, exactly one year thence.

I can still recall his words:
I want you to have time, Marguerite, to confront your sin and confess your crime before all you hold dear is stripped away.

When I read that, I felt the weight of my Mary in my arms. So much had been stripped away already. I couldn’t imagine what more I could give.

One year. I could live with the sword of Damocles poised over our family’s head, or I could make some attempt to stave off disaster.

I must have written fifty letters to Mr. Webb, but each was burned in the ash can. How could I possibly appeal to a man I’d never met? With Judge Stephens, I had the advantage of knowing his proclivities, and with young Parker, I could capitalize on his ambition. But this man? What could I do in one year to prepare for such a confrontation?

First, acting on an instinct as old as the sexes, I put myself
on a steady diet of nothing but weak tea, two slices of bread, and one spoonful of whatever supper Mrs. Gibbons had prepared each night.

At first, my body rebelled, refusing to nudge a single inch. Then, after a rigorous course of enemas and certain black, bitter herbs, I found myself melting away. For a time, I smoked cigarettes constantly, finding them to help with the pangs of hunger and generally dull my taste for the little food I did eat. But your father found that to be a vile habit, and once I could fit into one or two of the dresses I wore before Mary, I gave it up completely.

Looking back, I think nothing made it more clear to me just how much time had passed since Mary was taken from me than did putting on those dresses.

And so I went to the old Bridewell.

Never once in all this time had I allowed myself to be within ten steps of the place, not that I ever had to turn down any social invitation in order to keep my distance. Even on this day, I intended to have my hired car drop me three blocks north, but as I clutched my handbag closer and tighter with each step, I turned back and leaped into its safety.

“To the correctional house,” I said, and when the driver stopped, I gave him five dollars and told him not to move an inch.

I pause now to say this not to pacify those who rightfully criticize my actions, but to state what became apparent to me in that moment. Had I not known the true nature of this facility, I might have thought myself standing outside a once-respectable boarding school gone past its prime. Long buildings, redbrick walls—even the high iron gate was fashioned with attractive scrolls. The sight, in fact, assuaged my guilt, as it seemed to affirm what I had told Arthur: that she had been sent to a reformatory, and her mother followed.

To this date, I count that as my only outright lie.

I remember thinking that
she
was in there, somewhere, and the thought of a possible confrontation hurried my steps through the visitors’ entrance and up the three flights of stairs, where I hoped to have an audience with the warden. I’d made no appointment, not knowing how I could possibly relay the nature of my business, but my upbringing and status had taught me one very important lesson: one must simply comport oneself as if one
belongs
. I decided I was just as entitled to be there as anybody else, and with that attitude I introduced myself to the diminutive woman behind the desk, announcing that I was there to speak with Warden Webb.

Not surprisingly, she hopped right up, poked her head through a secondary door, and in the next minute summoned me inside.

It took no more than one step across the threshold for me to realize that I could have spent the previous six months stuffing myself with Mrs. Gibbons’s cream pies. Warden Webb appeared less inclined to succumb to a woman’s charm than a hound dog to give chase to a rock. He was a small man composed entirely of droops—his eyes, his jowls, even his stomach over the top of his pants. I’d like to say there was a sternness to him, but that cannot be interpreted as any sort of maliciousness on his part.
Spartan
might be a better word. His office consisted of one desk, three chairs, one window, one filing cabinet, and a candlestick telephone. Not a spot of green or a family photograph. There was, however, a row of photographs depicting six black-robed judges, Judge Stephens among them, and a quaint cross-stitch hanging on one wall with this message:
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

At the time, it seemed a cruel statement, as truth had probably played a role in landing most of the prisoners in this place. Most, though not all. For me, this verse proved to be an inspiration.

Having settled myself in one of the two chairs opposite his desk, I assumed an imploring pose and introduced myself before inquiring as to whether or not he knew of a prisoner named Dana Lundgren.

He looked confused at first, protesting that his facility housed nearly two thousand inmates, and he could hardly be expected to recall the name of a single one. Then he got up and went to his file cabinet, opened it, and—to my relief—found nothing. Going to the door, he summoned, “Mrs. Tooley?” and she stepped right up to be of service. After asking me to repeat the name, she went to yet another drawer and produced a thin, brown folder.

“Dana’s one of the young’uns,” she said, clucking at the shame of it.

Left alone again, he read through the few pages in the folder as I watched, fingers itching to snatch the papers away. When he’d finished, he looked up. “This is a very serious crime.”

I told him it was my daughter who had been killed, and he shook his head in commiseration. I could hear his loose lips flap in the silent office. He himself had not been a part of her processing. “But,” he said, “that often happens with the children.”

For the next few minutes, I told him one carefully chosen truth after another. That I believed Dana Lundgren to be a deranged, jealous girl, envious of my family. That I had another daughter now, given to me by God to help heal me from my loss, but that I had nightmares of this girl somehow stealing my Celeste away from me. That I had yet, in all these years, to receive a single communication from her in which she reached out for forgiveness. She’d not even been in contact with her mother.

“Is that why you’re visiting me today?”

Before I could answer, the first bits of rain pelted against his
window, the kind of miserable, cold rain that plagues the springtime, and I told him, yes, that was part of the reason.

“And we are keeping her housed with our children.” He didn’t say this in any way to invite a comment, so I made none.

Then, having given him time to relish that thought, I opened my handbag, produced Judge Stephens’s letter, and asked if he’d received one of the same.

“No,” he said, reaching for it, “not that I’m aware.”

Handing it over, I told him that I’d found its contents quite disturbing, like the ramblings of an old man caught in the throes of dementia, and asked after the judge’s health.

“He’s dead these last six months, but went with a sound mind as far as I knew.”

I could tell that the man relished being thus consulted, as all bureaucratic cogs fancy themselves as deserving far more power than they are ever permitted to wield.

I asked, then, why would he send me such a letter? Because, surely I had no sway over his sentencing. I’d been far too overcome with grief to even attend the inquest, as the record indicated. I went months without leaving my house. Why, Judge Stephens even wrote me the sweetest note after Mary was killed, saying he would do all he could for me.

(I even produced the note in question. Arthur used to accuse me of keeping every scrap of paper needlessly.)

“Puzzling, indeed.” And he puzzled, and he puzzled. “What do you make of this, what he says about the other young men whose lives he may have ruined?”

I took my time there, tapping my chin and watching the rain, as if deep in thought, then suggested maybe Judge Stephens was referring to other young prisoners—children whose lives had been severely impacted from such minor infractions.

“You know, I’ve often thought the very same thing. That we do a disservice, labeling such young people as deviants. The world is changing. There have been studies, you know.”

Feigning fascination with his insight, I leaned forward and reminded him of the fact that there were those who were, in fact, dangerous. Murderously so. And then we heard an awful sound coming from the courtyard.

He went straightaway to the window, motioning for me to stay back in an exaggerated gesture of protection. Still, I moved and stood just behind his elbow, marveling at the sight below.

Her.

Years had passed, but I knew that face, that scrawny little body. Now her hair was plastered wet with rain, and she stood in the middle of the muddy yard, scraps of paper strewn about her, waving her arms and screaming incoherently at the frozen forms of bedraggled children dotting her realm.

“What on earth?” He pulled the curtain aside, affording us both a better view.

I gasped—prettily, I thought—and said I lived my life dreading such a moment as this, followed by a comment about those poor, poor ragamuffins.

“It isn’t right.” He turned to me. “They’ll die of pneumonia.”

Unless, of course, she got to them first, I murmured.

As if she heard me, she stopped her wild gyrations and stared straight up at the window. I know for a fact that she had no idea of my presence, but a chill went through me just as if I’d been out there in the rain. I allowed that fear to work through, and I flung myself into Warden Webb’s arms, sobbing dryly against his shoulder about my greatest fear being the moment I opened my door to find that deranged girl on my stoop. Or worse yet, in the dead of night in my daughter’s room. Again . . .

He patted my back. “There, there, Mrs. DuFrane.”

I’d exceeded his limits of physical comfort and stepped away.

He made his way back to his desk and opened the folder, finding the single sheet with Judge Stephens’s signature. “This gives an indefinite sentence, which is unusual for a juvenile, but I can only assume he intended further study of her mental competency.”

I fervently agreed.

“Still, her legal representation will make a case for parole based on time served, given her age at sentencing.” He shuffled through the pitiful gathering of papers. “I don’t see that she has a lawyer on record.”

I asked what that meant, exactly.

He slammed the folder shut. “It means that, should somebody advocate her case, she will be entitled to the rights of any other inmate, including the right to appeal her case or petition for parole. But until then, rest assured, I will keep her here, safe and sound. In body, at least, if not in mind.”

I dabbed at my eyes in gratitude and benediction, for he was doing God’s work, really. The poor girl had no one, and nowhere to go.

“No mother?”

No.

“It is a pity indeed when our prisons must act as orphanages. Perhaps that is what inspired Stephens’s sentencing.” He held up the judge’s letter. “May I keep this?”

I smiled and told him he might be getting one of his own.

“If so, I shall receive it with honor. The injustices perpetrated upon these little ones ends today.”

And
her
?

He stood to escort me out. “I can only hope to be able to show what mercy we can in the confines of justice.”

By the time I made it to my hired cab, the rain was coming down in sheets, and all the children had disappeared. I stood outside the iron gate and noticed one of the strewn papers had blown up against it. For a moment, I considered retrieving it, curious to know what the girl had been so determined to write about. But it was wet with rain, the words nearly blurred away, and I didn’t care to have ink run and stain my sleeve.

Once home, after changing into dry clothes, I spent the entire evening complaining about the filth of this city while I watched my family eat dinner. As I did the next night, and the night after, until your father commented on two things. One, that I appeared to be finally losing my baby weight, and two, that we might want to get away from this house full of ghosts and start a new life in a new city. The latter I pretended to protest, then promised to consider.

For the next six months, and the six months after that, I allowed your father to shower me with attention and gifts in an effort to convince me to move, and all the while I waited for my little postal soldier to bring me a new missive from Warden Webb.

Finally, though, in the end, I guess it was neither your father’s idea nor mine that we move to this place. One spring day I got a letter announcing that Christopher Parker had graduated from high school and had been accepted into the University of California. I took it as a sign. A way to keep him close to me, but far from her.

A few months later, and we moved into the house you now call a home.
Your
home, my darling. And hers, as I have come to accept, though I thank the Lord I will not live to see it.