All for a Sister (34 page)

She tilted her head, suspicious. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means you are granted certain freedoms within Bridewell, as well as some responsibilities. You may move about unescorted, given that you report to your cell each night for lockup, and to the mess hall for each meal.”

“You’ll have to remind Marvena to let me out.”

“I’ll make a note.” He crumpled the previous sheet of paper and tossed it to the side before taking out another. “Take this to the children’s dormitory. Do you remember where that is?”

“Of course.”

“We’ve allowed it to become a hospital of sorts, for those suffering with this influenza that has the hospitals overflowing. Go, ask what they need you to do, and then do it.”

She stared dumbly at the paper when he handed it to her, reading the words as they reflected what he’d just said.

“So I’m free to go?”

“What you are is free to stay and build our trust.”

“For how long?”

He tapped his finger on the file. “Indefinitely.”

She stood to leave, then turned one more time. “Sir, is there anything in there that would be able to tell me whatever happened to my mother?”

The look that crossed his face came close to pity, and his voice took on what she would have called a fatherly cadence as he said, “No, child. It doesn’t. I’m sorry,” leaving her no choice but to believe him.

She walked out, fully aware of her change in status, and handed his handwritten note to the woman she now knew to be Mrs. Tooley, who in turn gave Dana a small yellow slip of paper, instructing her to go to the laundry facility (behind the kitchen, ’round left) to receive a new dress. No more stripes. She would have a plain, blue garment. Two if she liked, so as to always have one clean.

Going down the stairs proved to be much easier than going up, and she realized for the first time what it meant to move about without the constant sound of rattling keys behind her. She did as instructed, getting no questions at all from the laundry attendant, she herself in blue, and went to her cell to change. The door had been left open and, once inside, she left it as such, knowing she had no way to get out once it closed.

While changing her dress, she noticed it was shortly past noon, and her newly restored appetite urged her to obey the warden’s instruction to take all her meals in the main dining hall. It wasn’t until now, strolling unencumbered and unaccompanied through one hallway to the next, that she realized the extent of the
prison’s emptiness. At least as far as the women’s side. The men, she knew, lived crowded upon each other. In her world, cell after cell sat empty, quiet as a series of small, square tombs. There might be tenants toward the end of the week, when laborers received their wages and chose to spend unwisely, but for now, she didn’t encounter another soul. When she walked into the dining hall, a few familiar faces presented themselves—some she had known for years, others whose names she hadn’t bothered to learn. Feeling disguised within her own skin, she took a tray and walked to where Cookie—the same sweet, dark-faced woman who’d been ladling out her food since her very first supper—greeted her with a comforting smile.

“Got you wearin’ the blue now, do they? Bein’ a trustee, it the first step out.”

In celebration, she gave Dana a serving of shepherd’s pie rimmed with oven-browned potatoes, and a molasses cookie purloined from some secret place.

Marvena sat alone at a table, but it felt unseemly to join her, given only a few hours separated Dana from being subjected to her key. Still, with a nearly imperceptible invitation, the woman made room on the bench beside her, and Dana complied.

“So, you’re one less thing for me to trouble myself with.”

“I guess so.”

“Brewster send you to the infirmary?”

“He did.” She took up her cookie, broke it in two, and gave the larger half to Marvena.

“I’m headed there myself, if you want to walk with me.”

“No, thank you,” Dana said, glad to have given a peace offering. “I can find it myself.”

CELESTE, AGE 14

1919

THE HOUSE HAD NEVER
held so many people. They congregated in the front room, filling the furniture, even perching on the arms of the sofa, much to Mother’s chagrin. The few children in attendance had been permitted to go upstairs, where both Calvin’s and Celeste’s rooms held well-preserved playful treasures. Calvin’s treasured soldiers remained in the specific battle formation they had been in when he left for the war, resting under a clear glass case Papa had commissioned when they learned he would not be coming home. But there was also a train set and building blocks, as well as a host of pretty dolls and dishes across the hall for the girls, not to mention the vast backyard with Celeste’s beloved playhouse and room to kick a ball.

“Look at them,” Mother said, her voice full of disdain. She and Celeste had moved to the back patio both to greet those who congregated there and to escape the crowded stuffiness of the house. “Have their parents taught them nothing? Don’t they know where they are?”

“Oh, Mother. They’re children. It’s good to see some joy, don’t
you think?” She wanted to add that she couldn’t remember the last time she heard laughter in their home. But there was sadness enough this day; no need to dredge from those gone by.

“I’m going into the kitchen to see if Graciela needs any help.”

If not for the solemn occasion, Celeste might have issued a laughing challenge. Never in her memory had she known her mother to help in the kitchen, unless one counted emptying the icebox a valuable skill. Without a doubt, she would find her seated at the small corner table, gleaning from the serving trays left by the waiters hired for the afternoon.

“People expect to see you, Mother. You were his wife.”

“These are your father’s friends—and yours. Not mine. I don’t know a soul here.”

She left with a more pronounced heaviness to her step, and Celeste’s heart went with her. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders for the burden of the afternoon.

“Was that your mother?”

“Mary,” Celeste said with a smile that carried far more congeniality than she felt. Mary Pickford. This little woman might be America’s sweetheart, but Celeste knew her to be a ruthless, career-crafting shark, hogging
two
roles in the film
Stella Maris
, in which Celeste had been relegated to the part of an uncredited street hooligan. “Yes, the poor dear. It’s been so hard on her with so much loss. My brother, and now . . .”

The word caught in her throat, though she was stronger today than she had been a week ago, when a messenger arrived at their front door with news that her father had been taken away from his office at Technicolor after suffering a heart attack. The intervening time had been spent making arrangements, meeting with lawyers, and sitting vigil at Mother’s bedside in perpetual darkness.

“I didn’t know your father,” the actress was saying, her voice
sweet and pleasant, perfectly matched to her persona. “I hear he was a lovely man. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” A response as perfunctory as the statement. “I’m just curious, if you didn’t know my father, then why are you here?”

Mary patted her arm. “Such a kid. You and I have quite opposite problems. People will always think of me as a child, and you . . . Well, what are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Fourteen.”

Mary cringed. “
Ouch.
Better be careful, or you’ll have these lechers giving you quite the chase around. Especially Chaplin. Stay away from him. And Arbuckle.” She made a face. “They might call him Fatty, but don’t be fooled. When it comes to chasing girls, the man’s an athlete. Beautiful dress, by the way, and smart choice pinning up your hair.”

Celeste withdrew her arm, increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. Not that she found it inappropriate, but guilt tugged at her for finding it far more useful than dumbly agreeing upon the sadness of the occasion.

“Thank you,” she repeated, this time with something close to heartfelt meaning. “For the advice, I mean. And for treating me like a grown-up.”

“Let me guess. Your father acted as your agent?”

Celeste nodded.

“Then you’ll need to find a new one, and I’ll bet half the people here would angle for the job. I’ll send you some names.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Mary leaned in close. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and trust me, you need friends more than you need fathers. I know talent, and you’ve got it. I don’t want to see a bunch of bimbos taking over the films. All this to say, don’t let them keep casting you as a kid. Three, four more films, maybe. But once you’re sixteen,
you need to be playing women. Not a romantic lead or anything, but the best friend. Or maybe a maid if they ugly you up a little.”

She left then, disappearing into the crowd—not a difficult thing to do, given her not-quite-five-foot stature.

Left to herself, Celeste scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar face, and recognized few. Like Mother, she’d assumed those she didn’t know were here because they knew and respected Papa, but after that conversation, she wondered if this weren’t just another occasion for people to see—and be seen by—those who might mean an advancement in a career. With his colorization patents and research, he’d caught the eye of several impressive directors, including Werner Ostermann, newly emigrated from Austria and rumored to be brilliant and aloof. Yet there he was, cigarette in hand, conversing with a tall, thin man Celeste didn’t know and one of Papa’s colleagues she recognized from her many afternoons spent in his office, offering her face for experimental filming.

“Quién era?”
At Mother’s insistence, Graciela wore a formal uniform, complete with a white lace collar, the severity of it only accentuating the dark puffs under her eyes.

“Mary Pickford. She’s a big star.”

Graciela appeared unimpressed and wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. “How are you doing,
mija
? When should I start scaring people away?”

“You can’t do that. They’re here for Papa. To pay their respects.”

“And eat everything in sight. I came to see if you need anything to eat. I have a
torta
saved at the back of the icebox for you. Come inside? Sit with
tu madre
.”

“How is she?”

“Sad.” Her brown eyes pooled with tears. “Like we all are.”

Celeste knew Graciela had been working through her grief, having come across her more than once reduced to tears while
performing her normal chores. Watching surreptitiously while sitting on the corner of her sleeping mother’s bed, she observed Graciela touching the clothes in the closet, pulling a shirtsleeve to her face and inhaling its scent. She’d lingered over the arranging and dusting of the objects on top of his dresser—cuff links and collar stays and buttons in a dish. In the bathroom, she’d taken the lid from his shaving lotion, dabbed a bit on the back of her hand, and had even put the bottle in her apron pocket before an attack of conscience called her to return it. She’d loved him, just as all—well,
most
—of the people here did.

Not caring how her mother would react to such an act of affection with a servant, Celeste took Graciela in her arms, for once giving comfort to the woman who had loved her for so long. Not until this moment, and possibly due to her previous conversation, had she noticed that she’d grown taller than Graciela, whose head now rested on her shoulder. The realization prompted her to plant a kiss on top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of coconut.

Graciela stepped back and took Celeste’s face in her hands. “
Ay
, how grown-up you are.
Tu papá
, he was very proud of you, you know.”

“I know.” She kissed Graciela’s soft, brown cheek and sent her in to check on Mother.

Inwardly, she longed for such an escape, but even if her mother dashed all sense of propriety to the wind, she would not. Putting on her bravest face, she moved from one gathered group to the next, receiving their introductions and thanking them for their best wishes.