All for a Sister (38 page)

“That’s not it.” She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her forehead, trying to gather her thoughts and put them into words. “All I’ve ever wanted was a chance to tell them, that family, that I’m—I’m so sorry. I put the pillow in her crib because I thought it was pretty. It looked so fancy and so sweet, just like her. I put it
near
her head, but not—I didn’t dare
touch
her.”

Her body shuddered as she sobbed the last of her confession. Mr. Lundi remained motionless and cool.

“Do you understand?” Her fists were clenched now, and some irrational part of her wanted to pound her words through his crisp, pale suit. “I’ve had a lifetime to play it over and over in my mind. Like a nickelodeon. I wish to God I hadn’t done it, but I know in my heart I committed no crime. And if I’d ever been given the chance to defend myself . . . I’ve searched my memory.
I’ve searched my soul. And if it would bring that baby back, I’d give my life. But I feel like I’ve given my life anyway, and it hasn’t changed anything.”

Still, he sat like stone while she breathed heavily, as if she’d run a mile with every word.

Finally he raised one eyebrow and lit a second cigarette.

“You know,” he said, picking a stray fleck of tobacco from his lip, “they don’t have nickelodeons anymore.”

Again, he made no sense.

“You said you played that moment over and over like watching a nickelodeon. And I thought you should know, they’re gone. The world’s turning and changing without you. Now, you don’t have to go to California. You can go anywhere you want. You can stay here. But if you want your life restored, bigger and better than you can even imagine, you have three chances. One, you walk out of here today. Two, get yourself to the Palmer House tomorrow. Three, be on the nine o’clock westbound Monday morning.”

He perched his cigarette between his lips, reached for his hat, offered her a quick salute with it, placed it on his head at an angle opposite his cigarette, and stood to leave. She sat and watched, craning just a bit to look through the window and see him go to the car, reach in, and come back, walking in without knocking on the door.

“Whatever you decide,” he said, “this is for you.”

He carried a satchel, crafted in leather and velvet, and set it square in her lap. Otherwise, she would have been too afraid to touch it at all.

“That is a gift from Miss Celeste DuFrane, who says that every woman needs a good travel bag.”

“Celeste? Their daughter?”

“One and the same.”

“Is she anything like her mother?”

He laughed, smooth as the velvet on the bag. “Night and day, kid. Night and day. She’s the sweetest princess you’ll ever meet.”

As if testing the very idea, Dana unclasped the latch and opened the bag. The hinges creaked enticingly, and the smell of leather wafted up from inside. It was the newest thing she’d ever seen, and it smelled like luxury and possibility. It smelled like
life
, and everything she owned would fit inside, twice over.

THE WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MARGUERITE DUFRANE, PAGES 92–102

BY THE TIME THE DOCTORS
finally pronounced the word
cancer
, I was dying, and I had been for quite some time. Just like my mother, and my grandmother before her.

I like to think I stayed alive for you, my sweet Celeste, to see you grown to be a woman. But in those dark times when my body is too racked with pain to grant me any sleep, I think God allowed me to live long enough to see everything stripped away. My baby, my home, my son, my husband, and—I fear—your love, when you are given this confession to read. At least he will spare me from witnessing that day.

It might be that you are wondering, my darling, just why I have decided not to take these secrets to my grave. In part, it is my compliance with Christopher Parker’s wishes. He has, in these last years, been as kind to me as any son, and I like to think that, in him, I have done some good in this world. And it is because of his loyalty that I have a final secret to share with you, and from here, you will know all that I’ve kept hidden.

My sins against you, my precious girl, can be numbered by
your every breath. Even before, as you were born into a lie perpetuated without your consent. Just as I sinned against your father through deceit, and against your brother through neglect, and against that girl out of sheer hate.

It was a relief to me when we left Chicago, and I was thus unburdened from our expected presence at church each week. How awful it was, sitting in the pew with our family name, holding this beautiful little girl in my lap, knowing she was nothing but a lie. Sitting next to this man I knew to be an adulterer. And Calvin, my sweet son, kicking his legs until we were released to go home.

Once here, by some silent agreement, your father and I never bothered going to church. I wouldn’t have known where to start, not having the benefit of family and tradition. And so I marvel, my girl, at your sweet good nature, though I suppose our Graciela has much to do with that, as I would hear you nightly saying prayers together. Sometimes, too, now, she prays with me. Rather, over me, as I pretend to sleep. Even in Spanish, her words give such comfort, and the time came when I knew I could no longer ignore my mortality.

Last Christmas, you remember, Christopher Parker gave me a radio to keep upstairs in my bedroom, and one day, turning the dial, I heard a woman’s voice.

“Come to Jesus, you who are weak! Come to Jesus, you who carry heavy burdens! Come to Jesus, you who are ravaged by the cancer of sin!”

And I knew she was talking to me, directly
to
me, through that little wooden box on the nightstand.

Aimee Semple McPherson. Sister Aimee. I knew
of
her, of course. Who didn’t? She was every bit as famous as you yourself aspire to be. But rather than portraying stories on the screen, she spoke truth. Even though I’d long recused myself from any
society, I knew of her church. People lined up around the block, so they said. Thousands of people—different people—every day at her services.

I listened to her daily, fighting my ever-present need for sleep in order to cling to her words. Her voice invaded my dreams, and when the radio sat in silence, I took to reading my own Bible. Or, more and more these days, I have you read it to me, my darling. You have such a lovely, expressive voice, and I admit to sometimes feigning a greater weakness just to hear you. I’ll admit my refusal to allow you to continue in film was rooted in selfishness, knowing my days were so few and wanting you all to myself. But I do think you are wasted on the silent screen. With my blessings, sweet child, when I am gone, take to the stage.

One day it was clear that Sister Aimee was broadcasting from her temple. I could hear the faint shouts of the audience as they responded to her. And then she began to call people down for healing.

“You need only believe in the power of Jesus’ name! The great physician! The mighty healer! The creator of the perfect universe bids you to believe! Do you have faith? Do you believe in the healing powers of his holy name? Come! Come!”

It seemed as though I was being lifted from my bed, floating free. I was weeping and shouting that, Yes, I believed! I reached my hand toward the radio, bidding it to come to me, thinking maybe if I touched it, the electricity that carried her voice might carry God’s power.

Graciela must have heard my cries, for she came running into the room as fast as her lameness would allow. All aflutter with concern, she offered to bring me food, bring me water, bring me fresh pillows or a thick blanket. And I told her no, none of that. Bring me Christopher Parker.

When I told Christopher I wanted to go to Angelus Temple, he seemed skeptical, if only because of my frailty. The cancer by that time had metastasized in my bones, as the doctors had shown me in what they called an X-ray. There I saw the truth of my disease. Bulbous tumors, and holes eaten into my very bones. It is something, I tell you, to be able to see your pain. For so long, I’d intertwined the pain in my heart and that in my body, never knowing where one began and the other ended. In seeing my disease, I saw an end to both. Erase the tumors, fill in the holes, and bring me peace. The doctors said I would surely die; Sister Aimee gave me hope in Jesus. Hope for healing. That I might live.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and you were out. Graciela helped me dress, but as I’d been reduced to this skin and bones you now know, I had nothing that came close to fitting. She managed to find a soft chiffon blouse that didn’t irritate my skin, a long skirt, and soft slippers. I’d already bobbed my hair—for convenience rather than fashion—and we’d set it the night before after an evening spent meticulously bathing.

By the time I was ready to leave the house, Graciela and I were both exhausted and joked that we were ready for a nap when Christopher arrived. Straightaway he came to my room, as I hadn’t been able to go downstairs in quite some time. Such a
presence
he was, so robust and jovial. He spoke silly flattery to me and made me feel almost womanly again. Not for the first time, I thought it a shame he’d been born a Negro, else he would have made a fine man for you, my dear.

Before we left, he got down on one knee in front of me and took my hand in his. He said, “You know I consider myself a good Christian man, Mrs. Margi—” that was his name for me, when we were alone—“but I don’t know if this is a good idea. That woman, she has a strange way about her.”

I told him I appreciated his concern, but I felt this as a calling to my soul, and after a bit more reassurance, the most amazing thing happened.

He picked me up. Yes, he scooped me right out of my seat, lifting me as if I weighed no more than a feather, and carried me downstairs.

I tell you, I felt like a girl when he brought me to his car, settled me inside, and tucked a blanket around my legs to fight the chill as we drove with the car’s roof folded down. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d experienced wind in my face, even though much of our driving took place in the slow congestion of the growing city. I was part of the world again, if only briefly.

When we arrived, a boy (or he might have been a young man—he was tall and thin and black as coal, one of the messengers Christopher employed through his office) met us at the curb with a wheelchair. Handling me with much more dignity than he’d employed at the house, Christopher helped me from the car to the chair, then instructed the young man to take the car and return in two hours. Then he wheeled me inside.

How can I convey the majesty of this place? Of course, I don’t have to. You can go, as often as you like. To me, it seemed a preview of heaven itself—grandeur beyond compare. Outside is pristine and white, its roof rounded and soft. Inside, thousands upon thousands of seats, floating clear to the top, where the ceiling is painted to look like sky. Two choirs dressed in white robes stood on either side of the stage, and tall, stained-glass windows showed the stories of Jesus.

Christopher, having made arrangements in advance, conveyed me to a seat on the aisle near the front, close to the stage, and to my surprise, was welcome to sit right next to me.

Within the hour, every seat was filled. Never in my life had
I been in a place with so many people. It seemed the beat of their hearts gave me strength, their breath sustained me while Christopher’s imposing presence kept anyone from touching me outright.

The lights shut off, plunging us into total darkness, and the first notes of the choir sounded.

“Would you be free from the burden of sin?

There’s power in the blood, power in the blood;

Would you o’er evil a victory win?

There’s wonderful power in the blood.”

I sat there, sluggish, my own blood ravaged by disease, thinking, Yes, Yes, free me from this burden. And then, a flash of light on the stage, and there she was, like a pillar of silk, wearing a bloodred stole emblazoned with a white cross. Everyone around me leaped to their feet, and I could only weep in solidarity. I worried for a moment that the swelling noise of the crowd would drown out her words, but the moment she took her place behind the microphone, a hush fell, and she spoke.

Five thousand souls in that place, but her words were just for me.
“The time is now. The end is near. We cannot tarry on the path to redemption. We must not live another day without Jesus.”

Unburden yourself, Marguerite DuFrane.

Confess your sins, Marguerite, and be forgiven.

You sin not against your fellow man; you sin against a perfect and loving Father.

Start life anew. Be forgiven, and be healed.

There, feeling utterly alone, I whispered words I’d never said before: I have sinned, I have sinned, I have sinned. I could not name all of my sins, not even if I used every remaining breath to
do so, but I carried them with me in the tumors attached to the body of the good woman I’d once been. I begged aloud: Father, heavenly Father, forgive me.