Broken (2 page)

The next morning the thermometer on the Lipinskis' porch said thirty-two degrees. By noon the snow was melting and the gutters on the Vickroy Street Hill overflowed with dirty water. In town, Trinity Church’s bell tower emerged with dignity above the grimy shops along Washington Avenue. People in dark clothes scurried about, energetic with the break in the weather.

Walter, knuckles white on the steering wheel, waited for the jaywalkers to clear a path. Sarah had done it again; taken advantage of his guilty conscience to trick him into doing what she wanted him to do. And Father John! What the hell did he know about being stuck with a baby?

Walter looked over at his wife who gazed down into the bundle of blankets, while Stanley squirmed around in the back seat. “Why couldn’t you leave the kids with your Russian friend?”

Sarah said nothing. She held the infant tighter and looked straight ahead. Walter looked back at the road. He’d better not push her. If he made her too mad she might be stupid enough to tell Father John about last night. Before they left the house he made her take off the big bandage covering the mere scratch from the broken cup. She had a way of making things worse than they really were.

Inching the car forward, he looked into the rearview mirror at his son. “Damn it! Quit kicking the seat!”

“Where’re we goin’?” Stanley whined.

“To the church,” said Sarah.

“Are we going to leave the baby in the church?”

“Don’t I wish,” said Walter.

Eight minutes later, Walter parked the car at the bottom of the wide stone steps, leading up to the church’s huge, red, double doors. Walter and Stanley waited on the curb while Sarah carefully carried the baby over the gutter that was running like a small, dirty river.

The strong scent of incense hit Walter as soon as he entered the church. He looked at Sarah who didn’t seem concerned so he just brushed it off as another weird thing about churches. Walter wasn’t raised in a church-going family. As a kid he had somehow got the idea that if he ever stepped foot inside a church he would find an angry God waiting to punish him. He didn’t want to go inside then, and he didn’t need to go in now. He could solve his own problems.

The door leading to the church office was near the altar. With Sarah in the lead, they walked along the rows of pews as sunlight streamed through the lavish stained glass windows, casting a mellow light throughout the nave. Halfway up the aisle, Sarah shifted the baby so that the infant’s head was resting on her shoulder. The baby was now facing a bank of candles. Her eyes, wide with fascination, reflected the flickering flames. This was the first time Walter noticed the baby’s eyes. They were an odd crystal blue. Sarah’s now dead mother had eyes like that. He found it unsettling.

At the end of the hall, the door to the church office was open. Father John, a small, pleasant looking man, was sitting at his big mahogany desk, shuffling through a pile of papers. When they walked in, the priest stood up, fastened his white collar and put on his jacket. Walter was surprised that the priest was so young.

“You must be the Lipinskis. I’m Father Falkowski.” He offered his hand while walking around to the front of the desk. “But everyone calls me Father John.”

Sarah shook his hand while Walter seated himself in the leather armchair. Walter caught a flash of disdain in Father John’s face as he went to the wall to retrieve two wooden chairs for Sarah and Stanley. Walter smiled to himself
. It ain’t going to take me long to show this wimp who’s in charge.

Avoiding Walter’s challenging stare, Father John leaned against the edge of his desk and asked, “What can I do for you today?”

“My daddy don’t want that baby,” Stanley announced.

“Shut up,” said Walter.

“Yes sir,” Stanley mumbled, kicking the chair legs.

“It’s like this,” Walter said, “This here baby my wife’s holding ain’t ours. It’s her kid sister’s. When the baby was born, Sarah’s sister, Becky, was only sixteen. She took off leaving it with Maggie, my mother-in-law. Then the old lady got sick. My wife went ahead without even asking me and told her mother we’d keep it. And then Maggie died.”

“Mrs. McBride passed away? The funeral—Wednesday?”

“Yeah. That one. Anyway, like I said, my wife promised...”

“My mother made me promise,” Sarah interrupted.

Walter looked at Sarah.
She better not turn this meeting into a battle.
Still looking at his wife, Walter told the priest that they had come for some advice about what to do with Becky’s baby. He turned back to the priest. “Sarah’s mother always got her way. She forced—no, she tricked my wife into making that promise. And that don’t count. Right, Father?”

While Walter was talking, Stanley slid off the chair and was trying to squeeze himself between the bottom rungs. He managed to get one little leg through then bumped his head, almost toppling the chair. Walter held the seat of the chair steady with one hand, and with the other he grabbed his son by the back of his overalls and yanked him out. Father John went to his desk, found paper and crayons in a drawer, took Stanley by the hand and led him to a small table at the back of the room where the boy could stay busy.

When the priest was back at his desk, he asked Sarah, “What about you? Do you feel the same as your husband?”

“No, I don’t. I think we better keep the baby until my sister comes back.”

The heat of anger surged through Walter’s body. He lit a cigarette, blew the smoke in Sarah’s direction, and said, “Show Father that letter!”

Father John gave Walter an ashtray while Sarah fumbled with her oversized, black purse.

“Give me that!” Walter yanked the purse out of her hands. An ash from his cigarette fell to the floor and he slid his shoe over it, rubbing it into the carpet. “Look at this,” he said pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and handing it to the priest. “What does this sound like to you?”

The priest took his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. As the priest read the letter, Walter mentally recited it word by word.

Mother,

I’m sorry I brought you so much shame. I have some money. I’m going away. Please don’t try to find me. I’ll be OK.

Becky

Father John slid his glasses back into his shirt pocket. “She doesn’t mention her baby.”

“Because she don’t care about it!” Walter said. “She ain’t coming back!”

“Do you know who the father is?”

“She slept around,” Walter said. “Could be anyone. The girl was a slut.”

“Walter!” Sarah’s face reddened. “How could you!”

Walter resisted putting Sarah in her place but he couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “I could say that, dear wife, because I won’t raise someone else’s bastard.” And to the priest he said, “Excuse my language, but my wife don’t know her sister as much as she thinks she does.”

“So there’s no father in the picture,” the priest said rubbing his forehead. “Have you talked to Children’s Services?”

Ignoring the question, Walter said, “The kid should be adopted.”

“That’ll be a long way down the road,” Father John said. “First Children’s Services will place the baby in foster care while they try to locate Miss McBride. If they can’t find her, they’ll look for the baby’s father.

“I don’t know how long case workers have to wait before they can put a child up for adoption. I think it’s at least—at the very least—five years. During that time they’ll do everything they can to locate the parents.”

Father John stood up and walked to the small table where Stanley was busy with the crayons. The priest picked up a paper scribbled in red and green and began complimenting Stanley. Sarah kept fussing with the baby. Walter wished she’d lay the kid down before it woke up.

“Is there somewhere I can change the baby’s diaper?” she asked.

“Just down the hall,” said the priest returning to his desk. “There’s a changing table in the Ladies’ Room.”

Tapping his fingers on the arm of the leather chair, Walter waited until Sarah was out of the room. “Let me tell you something, Father,” he said, leaning forward. “Sarah don’t have no backbone. I know a little something about how it was before I met her because I worked with her brother, Joe.

“When Sarah was ten, her father died. And ever since then, her mother made her do all the things she should have been doing herself; like cleaning the house and stuff like that. Her mother, Maggie, walked all over Sarah, and she was dumb enough to let her. But I didn’t know her then. I met her when her brother Joe got his head crushed. At the mill a crane hook snapped and dropped a chunk of hot steel on him. That’s when I met Sarah, at Joe’s funeral.

“She hardly knew me when she came right out and told me that now that Joe wasn’t there her mother would treat her worse than ever. Sarah was too spineless to stick up for herself. She’s so damn pathetic! Now she wants to let that old bitch—her mother—boss her from the grave. It ain’t right, Father. I already got Stanley. He’s enough. I don’t want no more kids. Becky’s baby is not my wife’s responsibility. Or mine either. Especially not mine!”

“Your wife is struggling with her conscience,” said the priest, in a tone that was gentle yet firm. “However manipulative her mother may have been, Sarah did make that promise. Your wife’s feelings on this matter must be considered.”

Walter ground his cigarette into the ashtray. He needed a drink.

*     *     *

In the Ladies’ Room, Sarah placed the squirming baby on the padded table. The baby didn’t need a fresh diaper. That was only an excuse to get away and think. She must have been crazy to drag Walter to see Father John. It clearly wouldn’t make any difference. Walter didn’t want the baby and he didn’t want her talking about any promises.
Worse yet, he’s about to blow up.

She went to the sink, threw some cold water on her face and wiped it with a paper towel from the dispenser, then walked back to the changing table. There were times, many times, when she wondered why she had married Walter. Before she even met him the gossip was enough to send a sensible woman running. Was it true he had driven his first wife to suicide?

Too distracted by her thoughts to remember that the baby wasn’t wet, Sarah took a dry cloth diaper from her big black purse, laid it beside the baby, then pulled the receiving blanket aside. Unsnapping the little pink overalls, she removed the plastic pants and ran her hand over a dry diaper. She shoved the unused diaper back into her purse and re-dressed the baby as her mind drifted back to three years ago when her brother was killed. At that time all she wanted was to get away from her demanding mother. So she convinced herself that if Walter had a good and faithful wife and someone to take care of his son, he’d be the kind, considerate man she wanted to believe he was. If she hadn’t been so desperate, she would have taken a closer look at Walter.

It had taken one year and two black eyes to realize her mistake. Then three months ago her sixteen-year-old sister dumped her illegitimate baby in her mother’s lap. At that time Sarah was glad she was away from home and married to Walter. Little Anna Mae would not be her problem. But then her mother died.

Surely someone out there would be glad to have the baby—someone who didn’t have to deal with the likes of Walter. She certainly didn’t need the extra work—feedings four to five times a day...

Making a quick decision, she bundled the baby into the blanket, scooped her up and left the Ladies’ Room. To hell with what her mother wanted. If her husband didn’t want this baby, so be it!

As she entered the office, she was aware of two things. The room reeked of cigarette smoke and Walter abruptly stopped talking. Father John nodded for Sarah to sit down. She kept standing. The priest said something to her but it went right by because she was watching her disgruntled husband crush out another cigarette. He then stood up, placed the full ashtray on the gleaming mahogany desk, went over to where Stanley was still coloring and grabbed him by the arm. 

While Walter was pulling Stanley away from the table, the priest walked around to where Sarah was standing. He looked at her with kind gray eyes. “Mrs. Lipinski—Sarah—did you hear what I said? Your husband has changed his mind. You can keep little Anna Mae until Becky comes home. Your husband agrees it’s the right thing to do.”

Sarah was stunned.

With Stanley in tow, Walter walked to the door. “Com’ on Stanley. We’re leavin.’”

March 1954

“Rain, rain go away. . . ”

Cold pellets of rain poured from the churning sky, pounding the bare boards of the back steps and splashing three inches high from the puddles in the yard. Three-year-old Anna Mae peered out, her nose pressed against the dirty screen door.

“Shut up! And close that damn door.”

Her little body stiffened at the sound of her Uncle Walter’s harsh words. She turned and looked up—way up—until her head was so far back she almost lost her balance.

Walter shoved her aside and slammed the main door. “Go wash your face!”

She ran across the kitchen, down the hall, up to the second floor and into her bedroom. She had run so fast her little legs hurt. She scampered onto her bed and picked up her baby doll, Susie. She wrapped the doll in a tattered, pink receiving blanket and held it close to her heart.

*     *     *

Sarah was sitting on the living room couch with an open cookbook on her lap. She called out to Walter. “What would you like for supper?”

Ignoring his wife, Walter went into the dining room where eight-year-old Stanley was on the floor, cutting pictures of heavyweight boxers from a pile of Sports Illustrated. Walter leaned over, grabbed a handful of scraps and shoved them under Stanley’s nose. “Who said you could do this?”

“No one.”

“No one?”

“No.”

Still holding the scraps, Walter straightened up and yelled at Sarah. “Aren’t you watching these kids?”

She yelled back. “How about Swedish meatballs? Or do you just want hamburgers?”

Walter threw the scraps at Stanley, walked into the living room and knocked the cookbook on the floor. “Did you hear me? Do you see what he’s doing?”

She picked up her cookbook. “He’s just cutting stuff out of those old magazines.”

Suddenly there was a loud bang as the wind blew the back door open, crashing it against the kitchen wall. Sarah put her cookbook aside and went to the kitchen, intending to close the door. Cutouts in hand, Stanley followed his stepmother. Walter came up behind Stanley and grabbed him by the arm. “You’ll learn, boy, to keep your hands off what don’t belong to you.” He then shot Sarah a warning look that told her not to interfere. He then dragged Stanley across the kitchen. The boy stumbled over his stocking feet, towards the rush of wet air. His father shoved him outside and slammed the door.

“Daddy!” Stanley’s screams could barely be heard above the storm. “Daddy, let me in. Daddy, it’s raining!”

Walter slid the latch, locking the door. He walked across the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took out a beer.

Horrified, Sarah watched her husband casually rummage around in the kitchen drawer and retrieve a bottle opener. “Walter!” she snapped, “are you going to make him stay out there?”

“Yep.”

“Why?’

He popped off the beer cap, took a long drink, and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “To teach him a lesson,” he said, walking out of the kitchen.

Sarah stood by the sink wondering what to do. Stanley’s cries had stopped. She went to the window beside the door and pulled the curtain aside. Her stepson was crouched in a corner of the small porch, stuffing the cutouts under his shirt. “Walter!” she yelled.

“What?”

She walked to the living room where her husband was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, cigarette in hand, beer on the end table, and feet propped up on the hassock. “Walter, open your eyes!”

“What?”

“You’re not going to just leave your son out there, are you?”

“Woman,” he said, with his eyes still closed, “leave me alone.”

“Walter!”

He opened his eyes.

“You can’t leave him out there. It’s cold. And it’s raining.”

Walter’s eyes flashed. She thought he was going to jump up and hit her. But he just sat there staring at her until the hot cigarette stub burned his fingers. He dropped the butt into the ashtray, took his feet down from the hassock, stood up, and walked out of the room. She heard him open the kitchen cabinet above the sink. When he came back he was holding a pint of bourbon. “So?” he said defensively.

“I didn’t say anything.”

She never said anything about his drinking. She didn’t dare. She wondered why he felt he had to drink so much anyway. “I didn’t mean to upset you. But he’s just a little boy and ...”

Walter was standing in the middle of the room, unscrewing the bottle cap. When she saw the look in his eyes, she stopped talking. He took a long drink of the whiskey, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and mumbled something.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“My grandmother used to tell my father that. ‘ Joseph! On jest naly chlopiec!’”

Sarah stared at him. She didn’t understand.

“On jest naly chlopiec.” It means, ‘He’s just a little boy.’ That’s what it means.”

Walter sat down in a straight back chair, his jaw clenched, and his breathing heavy. Sarah slid the hassock near the chair to sit in front of him. “Did your father make you stay out in the rain?”

Walter looked at his wife as though the question didn’t make any sense. “My grandmother raised me,” he said. “Bubka.” He smiled to himself. “I killed my mother, ya know. When I was born my mother died.” He took another gulp of whiskey. “I killed her.”

He leaned forward, placing the pint of whiskey next to an empty beer bottle. “What did you ask me?” he looked at his wife. “Oh, yes. Did my father make me stay out in the rain? No! Absolutely not!” He laughed. “It was snowing.” Shaking his head, he frowned. “No, it wasn’t snowing. It was cold. Below zero. Way below zero. Freezing! Bubka tried to sneak out and give me my coat—my mittens...”

He looked down at his huge callused hands and laughed again.

Sarah reached out to touch her husband.

He pushed her away saying, “He hit her! My father hit my grandmother.”

“Because she wanted to give you the coat? Is that why he hit her?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sometimes it’s good to talk about things. Was that your mother’s mother?”

He nodded. “My grandmother said I didn’t kill my mother. She said it was the doctor’s fault. She said my father was crazy. She said my father should have sued the doctor.”

“Why didn’t your grandmother sue the doctor?”

“Woman! You don’t know when to shut up! My grandmother could hardly speak English. She was afraid.”

Sarah was silent. Walter lit a cigarette. He got up and walked to the front door. With the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he put on his coat and walked out.

Sarah followed him out to the porch, then began to follow him down the steps. The rain had eased but the wind was still strong. It blew into her face, sending her back to the protection of the doorway.

*     *     *

Upstairs in the front bedroom, little Anna Mae sat on the floor, her face still smudged. With one hand, she held her doll, Susie, close to her cheek. She sucked the thumb of her other hand, her index finger hooked over her nose. She had done something wrong. She felt that. But she didn’t understand what she had done wrong or why her Uncle Walter had sent her upstairs. She heard Aunt Sarah out on the porch. A moment later she heard her come in and shut the door.

Anna Mae went to the window. Standing on tiptoes, she could see down to the street. She watched the Buick pull away from the curb and coast down the hill.