CELESTE, AGE 5
1910
DADDY SAID THE HOUSE
looked like a palace, but Celeste didn’t see it that way. There was nothing tall or pointy, and no forest or land or tall, narrow windows for a princess to look out of.
She told him so, and he said, “Not a
castle
, my dear. A
palace
. Like from
Arabian Nights
. Someplace a sheikh might live, all spread out with plenty of room for his harem.”
“What’s a harem?”
Celeste’s question drew a disapproving look from her mother. Not for her so much as for Daddy. “There’s been quite enough of that, I daresay.”
“Come on,” Daddy said, drawing the word out and lifting Celeste up into his arms. They’d taken a train from Chicago and a car from the train station and now stood under the blazing sun, its light glancing blindingly off the whiteness of the house. “Land of milk and honey, this is, and we’re going to make more money than you ever thought about.”
“Unless you’re getting some hidden increase in salary,” Mother said, “I don’t see how much will change. And besides, you know it’s garish to speak of such things.”
Mother was trying to sound like money didn’t matter, but Celeste knew that couldn’t be true. She knew they had lots of it.
From her perch near her father’s shoulder, she could better see the grounds between the house and the low, stone wall surrounding it.
“What kinds of trees are those?”
“They’re palm trees, stupid.” This from her older brother, Calvin, who at nearly thirteen was an expert on just about everything.
“They’re too little to be palm trees.” She’d seen palm trees before, in picture books, and they were always tall up to the sky.
“So they’re short palm trees.” He walked with his head held low and his cap pulled over his eyes. He’d been complaining since the day Daddy said they were leaving Chicago, no matter how much their parents tried to convince him that there would be new friends to play baseball with in California.
“Are they going to grow tall?” She leaned close to whisper her question in Daddy’s ear so Calvin wouldn’t call her stupid again.
“We’ll have to wait and watch and see.”
They’d arrived at the front doors—two of them, side by side, with big, silver nails poking out in patterns. One of them swung open before her very eyes, revealing a dark-skinned woman with a single thick, black braid wound around her head like a crown. She wore a dark dress with a starched, high-necked white pinafore.
“Bienvenido, señor.”
She dipped her head toward Celeste’s father.
“Y señora,”
her mother.
“Graciela,” Daddy said, and when he did, his tongue trilled in his mouth in a way Celeste had never heard before. He went to put his hand on her shoulder, as if the two of them were cohorts in welcoming the family to the house, then took it away with an
air of nervousness Celeste had never seen. “This is my wife, Mrs. DuFrane; and our children, Calvin and Celeste.”
Graciela greeted each, keeping her hands folded primly as she acknowledged Mother, then shaking Calvin’s and softly touching the silkiness of Celeste’s blonde curls.
“So pretty,” Graciela said, smiling, revealing a row of perfect white teeth.
“Thank you.” Celeste drew closer to her mother.
“I assumed I would be in charge of hiring the staff,” Mother said, her words tight.
“Graciela was employed by the previous owners. Practically came with the house.”
“Does she even speak English?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Graciela answered for herself.
“Do you cook?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have a lunch ready for you in the kitchen, whenever you would like.”
Her words flowed like water, like the perfect draw of a warm bath, the syllables splashing and lapping, one into the next. Celeste had to listen close and think back to make sure she understood.
Lonsh. Keeshun.
Lonshrrrrreadyforrryoueeenthekeeshun.
She repeated the phrase softly, trying her best to match Graciela’s pronunciation.
“Stop that.” Mother’s words sounded like hisses. “It’s rude.”
“Oh no, señora. Haven’t you heard that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery?” She reached out softly, placed the backs of her fingers against Celeste’s cheek. “You are quite the little mimic,
mija
.”
“Don’t touch her.” Mother grabbed Celeste’s arm and yanked her daughter roughly to her side.
“Perdóname.”
She sounded gracious, not chastised, though
she stepped away. Keeping a distance, she turned to Calvin and smiled brightly. “Are you hungry, young man?”
“Not especially.”
“Liar,” Celeste erupted. “You said your stomach was grumbling on the train.”
“Shut up.”
“You did!” She looked to her parents for justice. “Remember? He wanted to buy a bag of peanuts and you told him no. But then he snuck off anyway—” she turned to Graciela—“and he said he was going to buy a schnitzel with his pocket money, but then he couldn’t find anybody. Don’t they have those here?”
“That’s enough.” Daddy picked her up and brought his nose to hers. “All that matters now is that we are home. Would you like to see your new room?”
“I liked my old room.”
“You’ll like this one too. I promise.” He turned his head. “Marguerite? Would you like Graciela to show you the kitchen?”
Mother touched her hand to her brow. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d like to lie down for a while.”
“Of course, darling.” He deferred. “Graciela, if you’d go to our room and prepare it for Mrs. DuFrane to take a little
siesta
?”
He set Celeste down again, took her hand, and led her across a wide, shiny floor of different-colored tiles that made her footsteps echo. She heard Calvin clomping behind them, but when they came to the spiraling staircase in the middle of the entry, he pushed ahead, running up the steps two at a time and, once he got to the top, jumped up and down, begging their father to let him slide on the banister to the bottom.
“Not now,” Daddy said, laughing. “No need to crack your head on our first day here.”
At the landing, he steered them to the left, where two doors, one pink and one blue, waited on either side of the hall.
“Guess which one is yours, silly Cel—”
But she had already broken away and was flying headlong toward the door. She grasped the brass knob and turned, seeking permission to open it when Graciela and Mother came into view.
“Can I open it?”
“And you, too, Calvin,” Mother said, shooing them on. She seemed a bit rejuvenated by their enthusiasm and came to place her hand on the knob too, so they could open it together.
“Oooooooh.” It was all Celeste could say at the vision that awaited. She knew they’d shipped some of their things ahead; she’d had to pack and say good-bye to several of her favorite toys and dresses nearly a month before. But here they were now—her dollhouse and all its furniture, just how she liked it, and a shelf with all her books, and her tea table and chairs. But there was also a sweet, small china cabinet holding her best, most delicate dishes, and a new rocking horse much larger and finer than her other baby one. The bed was a dream, with four tall posts and white, gauzy material draped between them. The coverlet—pink satin with white stitching—and enough pillows to burrow under.
“What do you think, princess?” Daddy, hat in hand, filled the doorway.
Celeste spun in a slow circle, taking it all in. The forest mural painted on the wall. The freestanding easel with a real chalk tray and eraser. The lavender toy chest with who knew what treasures within. And her favorite dolls, all sitting pretty on the upholstered window seat. It was all too wonderful for words, so she simply ran and wrapped her arms around her father’s cedar-trunk legs and then approached her mother with a more restrained, ladylike embrace.
“Go look out the window, darling,” Mother said, and Celeste obeyed, her feet barely touching the rose-colored carpet. She clambered up onto the seat and pushed the sheer covering aside. The backyard below looked like some sort of fairies’ meadow, with lush green carpet and fountains and flower beds. Best of all, a small, pale-yellow house in the corner, with a real picket fence and a tiny cobblestone walkway.
She clapped her hands in rapture. “A playhouse!”
“And one you can play in all year round,” Daddy said, “because there’s never any snow.”
That gave her a little bit of a pang because it was fun to play in snow, sometimes.
“Enough of this girlie baby stuff,” Calvin complained. “Can I see my room now?”
“Sure, sport,” Daddy said, and though Celeste was loath to leave her own paradise, she picked up one of her dolls—a lovely, pretty thing with long black hair and bright-blue eyes—and lingered on the outskirts of the family as they huddled in the doorway of her brother’s room, listening to him go on about a new baseball mitt and an electric light for his desk and a special wicker basket for all of his dirty clothes. It was nice to hear him not being grumbly for the first time since the announcement that they were leaving Chicago, but she didn’t want to pretend to care about his things any more than he pretended to care about hers. So step by slow step, she inched her way back down the hall, until she met up with Graciela, quietly shutting the door to the big room at the opposite end of the hallway.
“What did you think of your room,
mija
?”
Celeste looked to the left and the right before approaching. “My name is Celeste, remember?”
“Oh yes.” They were now both at the top of the stairs. “
Mija
just means little one—little girl.”
Celeste took a moment to study the woman’s face. Her eyes were wide and brown, darker than any she’d ever seen, and the brows above them were black, like her hair, and thinned to pretty arches. Her nose had a little hook right at the top of it; her lips were full and pink, like she’d just eaten a strawberry. And her skin—the color of cocoa after Mother had added a generous bit of milk. Graciela looked old enough to be a mother too, but Celeste knew better than to ask if she was one. It made women sad, Mother said, to ask such things.
“Are you hungry, Celeste?”
Celeste nodded and clutched her doll.
“Then why don’t you and I go downstairs to the kitchen and you can help me. Would you like that?”
Celeste nodded again and reached for Graciela’s hand, as she was never to walk up or down stairs without holding a grown-up’s hand, unless they were the stairs at home, and this didn’t feel like home yet. Graciela seemed reluctant at first, even looking over her shoulder toward Calvin’s room, but then gave a quick squeeze before the two took the first step.
En route to the kitchen, Celeste got a glimpse of their new parlor, and her father’s office, and a dining room, all with the familiar accoutrements and furnishings of their previous house. It was then, too, that she noticed a particular hitch to Graciela’s step, reminding her of a boy back home who had one leg longer than the other.
“Why do you walk like that?” After all, Mother never warned against asking
that
.
Graciela didn’t stop walking. “My leg was hurt, a very long time ago.”
“How?”
“That is not a story for today,
mija
. Let’s get to know one another better first.”
“Why do you talk like that?”
Graciela looked down, amused. “Like what?”
“You sound different.”
“I suppose it’s because when I was a little girl, like you, I spoke Spanish. Only Spanish. I didn’t learn to speak English until I was already a grown-up. So the words in my head are one language, but in my heart, they are another, and when they meet in my mouth, I suppose they get all tangled up.”
“I think it sounds beautiful.”
Graciela gave her hand another squeeze, then let go, making an abrupt turn. “This way.”
While the rest of the house had the comforting advantage of familiar furnishings, the kitchen was unlike anything she remembered of home. For one thing, it was full of sunshine, with large, paneled windows looking out onto the fantastical backyard. She could see the playhouse from here, and her eyes darted over to the door that would lead straight to it, but she’d promised to help Graciela.
“What shall I do?” Celeste asked, watching the woman open the door to the largest icebox she’d ever seen and pull out a tray covered by a white cloth.
“We’re making
tortas
,” Graciela said. She removed the cloth from the tray, revealing an array of sliced meat and cheese. Then she used the cloth to protect her hands as she opened the shiny oven to pull out a pan filled with delicious-smelling breads—each smaller than a loaf but bigger than a roll. She reached high into a cabinet above to bring down a pretty cut-glass bowl, then left to return shortly with a large jar of floating colors.
“
Verduras encurtidas.
Pickles. Cucumbers and carrots and peppers.” She opened a drawer and took out a long-pronged fork. “Fish them out, please, and put them in the bowl.”
She helped her up onto a tall stool, and Celeste dove in, at first clumsy with the unfamiliar task, but soon pleased with the colorful display. Meanwhile, Graciela sliced the breads and stuffed them with the meats and cheese, making a pyramid on the tray. She hummed a tune as she worked, one Celeste had never heard before, but after a few measures, she picked it up and began to hum along. Graciela seemed startled at first, and paused before smiling encouragingly and continuing on.
“What are those called again?” Celeste asked when the last of the little loaves had been stuffed.
“Tortas.”
“Tortas,”
she repeated. “And these?”
“
Verduras encurtidas.
Pickled vegetables.” Then, taking the fork from Celeste, she speared a chunk of vinegary carrot.
“Zanahorias.”
Celeste repeated the word, then bit into the delicious, crunchy piece.
“Pepino,”
she said, handing over an herb-crusted piece of cucumber.