Circled Heart (10 page)

“Biology. Physiology.” I made no answer, only looked my scorn at his flippant response so that he continued, “Are you telling me that your Flora was forced against her will to conceive a child?”

“No, I’m not saying that,” adding defensively, “but that has been known to happen.”

“Was she feeble-minded or handicapped in some way that she didn’t understand the repercussions of her actions?”

“No.”

“Then she knew exactly what she was doing. I may sound harsh, but your Flora made a bad decision to which there were serious consequences, of which she must certainly have been aware. It is the twentieth century now, Miss Swan, not the Dark Ages. Why is Flora’s pregnancy the man’s fault?” He had used my own beliefs about choice and decision in an argument that displeased me, and the realization turned my tone accusatory and pedantic.

“You’re not understanding me, Mr. Gallagher. I’m not talking fault. I’m talking responsibility. As soon as Flora found out she was expecting, the man who promised undying faithfulness was nowhere to be found. He knew exactly what he was doing, too, and was surely as aware of the consequences as she, only he could leave the consequences behind and Flora couldn’t. He should at least have been there with her even if he couldn’t bring himself to do the right thing.”

After a moment Drew Gallagher said gently, “Miss Swan, don’t blame me for last night’s sad happening. I was not the father of your Flora’s baby.”

“Not Flora’s baby, anyway,” I answered sarcastically without thinking and then stopped suddenly, aghast at my words. “That was rude and uncalled for, Mr. Gallagher. I’m not usually so offensive. I beg your pardon.”

We silently reached the front walk and he went halfway up the porch steps to retrieve his coat and hat, then took an inordinately long time to put on his jacket before coming back down to the walk to face me.

“I’d like to say I enjoyed our walk, but I can’t. You have a habit of giving me more to think about than I need or want, Miss Swan, and I can’t say I like it. I’ll send Fritz for Mrs. Stanislaw on Tuesday.”

“Thank you. She’ll be pleased and grateful as I am. And I really am sorry for my bad manners,” I added once more, trying to sound penitent and meek.

“Your attempted humility is even more unsettling than your sarcasm, Miss Swan.” He put his hat on at exactly the right, debonair angle, went down to the automobile that waited at the curb, and drove away without looking back.

* * *

Flora’s baby was gone from the Anchorage when I returned there Monday morning.

“I had already lined up a young couple for the baby. From the beginning Flora made no secret about the fact that she didn’t want it,” Hilda told me. “Now her son has two wonderful parents who treasure him, a good home, and a future of comforts and opportunities. This couple is unable to have children of their own and were thrilled and excited at the prospect of a son.”

“Somehow it doesn’t seem right.”

“It is right, though, Johanna. We never coerce our mothers to give up their children and make every effort to keep mother and child together, but if a girl chooses to do so for reasons entirely personal, why shouldn’t a couple who have been deprived of children of their own have the chance to hold a baby in their arms and give it a loving home? In this particular case, I believe Flora’s baby will be as happy in his new home with his new parents as he would have been with Flora. Don’t sentimentalize the situation. We have to do what’s best for the child.”

I knew she was right and couldn’t explain why her prompt action troubled me. We were a legitimate organization, not some white slaver or baby trafficker, and we were responsible for both mother and child. I suppose the memory of Flora lay at the bottom of my unease, Flora pretty and defiant and in love with life, now gone, almost as if she’d never been, leaving the baby as her only legacy. A baby she didn’t even want at that. How baffling life was sometimes!

I felt the sudden need to share the good news about Yvesta’s future and went in search of her, only to be baffled again by life’s contrariness. Yvesta was not as delighted as I thought she would or should be.

“I don’t know anything about living in a neighborhood and a fine house like that, Johanna. I won’t be able to cook to please him. What if the children bother him? They’re good children, but they make noise. He won’t want them around. I saw him when he was here the day Flora died, and I don’t think I’m what he wants. Look at me. I know you mean well, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Her lips pressed together in a stubborn line.

“All right. What’s your plan then?” I spoke calmly and waited for her response.

“Well—” I could see that she was searching desperately for an answer and finally had pity on her.

“Yvesta, I know you’re uneasy about this, but it could be the perfect arrangement. You can keep your children with you instead of having to farm them out during the day and it’s far enough from your old neighborhood that your husband won’t bother you. If it doesn’t work out, what have you lost? You can always come back here and we’ll think of something else, but for now, please say you’ll give it a try. Mr. Gallagher seems like a pleasant man and I’ve seen his house. It’s large and it’s my guess he truly would appreciate having someone take care of it for him. He certainly isn’t inclined to do the housework himself. You’re really doing him a favor.”

From her look, I could tell she didn’t believe that last remark, but her eyes had been fixed on my face as I spoke and whatever she saw in my expression must have convinced her.

“I’ll try it a week and I’ll do my best. Then he can send me packing if he wants.”

I stood up and gave her a quick hug. “He won’t, but if he does, you have a place to come back to, no questions asked.”

After a moment of hesitation, Yvesta shyly added, “I don’t want to disappoint you, Johanna, after all you’ve done.” I was touched and uncharacteristically flustered.

“Don’t be silly” was all I could think of to say and because I was embarrassed, I made an unconvincing excuse and went back to my office. That this woman who had known such a hard life should feel grateful for my little gesture of assistance made me uncomfortable. What seemed like a small thing to me had more import for her because so few people had ever extended her a helping hand. What a sad and humbling realization!

The next day, we all stood on the porch and waved as Yvesta and her daughters with their one meager satchel drove off in the back seat of Drew Gallagher’s very fine automobile.

Mrs. McElhanie, slow and bent from arthritis, spoke for everyone when she said, “She’ll be fine now—with honest work and her children with her. I’m sure she’ll be just fine.” She didn’t sound as convinced as the words indicated, but everyone nodded anyway, wanting to believe someone had found a future that included a little hope, often a rare commodity for the inhabitants of the Anchorage.

That evening I came home to find an engraved invitation waiting for me on the table in the front hall. I noticed it immediately propped against a vase of fresh flowers, my name and address carefully handwritten across the front of the envelope. On the back of the envelope were the name and address of Allen’s architectural firm and inside was an elegant invitation to a dinner and dance to be held in ten days, celebrating—so it said—the firm’s most recent and most acclaimed construction, the Lancer Building. Festivities would be held at the Lancer Building itself. Handwritten at the bottom of the announcement were the words, Please honor me by coming as my guest, Johanna, followed by Allen Goldwyn’s signature.

My heart gave a curious thump that would have been visible through my skin if anyone had been in the hallway with me, and I felt a rush of pleasant anticipation I hadn’t experienced in a long time. I liked the idea of dressing up in something pretty and spending the evening with Allen, seeing new sights, dining on fine cuisine, and dancing to the latest tunes. It had been a very, very long time since I’d done anything really fun, and I was inordinately pleased, besides, that Allen Goldwyn wanted me to accompany him as his guest. I got along well with Allen, enjoyed his company, admired his talent, his intellect, and his quiet humor. I wasn’t sure if there was anything more than friendly affection there, but friendship was enough to promise an enjoyable night.

I sent a quick response to Allen the next day accepting the invitation, then gave a critical look at my closet. I thought the lavender dress would do again, even though I knew it was less than becoming on me. When I mentioned the coming evening to Grandmother, she suggested I shop for something new to wear, and although I wasn’t averse to the idea, I was honestly at a loss. I never paid much attention to fashion and didn’t know where to start. Jennie had an innate sense of style, but I learned early on that it did me no good to copy her. The colors and designs that looked good on Jennie were never similarly becoming on me. I had assumed years ago that my form or face would not show to advantage, regardless of how it was packaged, and I still recalled the odd, almost adolescent, surprise I’d felt when Drew Gallagher had called my face remarkable. He’d meant it as a compliment and although I saw nothing remarkable in the mirror, it had been gratifying to think that someone somewhere did. My unbecoming streak of vanity again. Perhaps ‘remarkable’ wasn’t the same as beautiful or even pretty, but it wasn’t plain or common either, and I was not one to disdain an honest tribute.

“You’re looking bright-eyed today,” Crea told me the Friday of the dinner. She examined my face. “I’d guess you have special plans for the evening.”

“I do. Does it show?” I asked with a smile.

She nodded, saying, “You have a face like window glass, Johanna. Everything shows.”

“Mr. Gallagher told me very much the same thing once. Which reminds me, has anyone heard from Yvesta? She’s been gone ten days.”

“No, and that’s no surprise. She was the only one who had doubts about her abilities. I’m sure she’s already made herself invaluable. I do miss the children, though.” Crea’s face, crowned by that glorious red hair, dimmed a little as she spoke. “It’s been much too quiet without them.”

“They were quiet children, Crea. I don’t think they ever spoke.”

“They did to me. I told them stories and taught them the songs my mother taught me.” Crea had never spoken of her family before.

“Where is your mother?”

“She died of typhus a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was twelve when she died, and she wasn’t much older than that when I was born.”

“Too young to have died.”

“Yes, and not much joy in her life though she loved to sing. She taught me all the old songs of Ireland. She came to America as a young woman and someday hoped to go back home as she called Ireland. ‘Tis green at home, Crea,’ she said often enough, ‘and nothin’ like this place. We’ll be goin’ back some day. I promise.’ We never did, of course. It’s easy to forget over time, but I can still hear her pretty voice.”

“Like yours, then, for I’ve heard you sing. You’ll have a chance to teach your own children those same songs and stories some day. You’ll make a wonderful mother.” At my words Crea turned away, the animation in her expression disappearing as if someone had pulled shutters across her face. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to say the wrong thing. Please forgive me.”

She shrugged and stepped back. “You didn’t say anything wrong,” but it was obvious I had. “You should leave now so you’re not late for whatever—or whoever—it is you’re looking forward to with such anticipation. Have fun, Johanna.”

I thought about Crea all the way home, how the light in her eyes when she first spoke of Yvesta’s children faded so quickly, how she lost her natural lively expression at my comments. I knew there was a history there, a painful history, and wished Crea trusted me enough to share it. She carried a burden inside that did not often show, but from what I’d sensed during our conversation, I thought it must weigh heavily almost all the time.

Grandmother came to my room just as I finished dressing for the evening. Framed in my doorway, she looked older and thinner, her face possessing an unhealthy pallor I hadn’t noticed before. Then she stepped into the room and the look was gone. A trick of shadows, I thought, and dismissed the unsettling moment.

I had just pinched my cheeks for color because the lavender that turned Jennie’s skin into blush porcelain only robbed me of what natural color I possessed.

When I faced her, she said, “I thought you might want to wear your mother’s diamond earrings, but now I think they’re not quite right with that dress.” I looked at the earrings longingly, a dangle of light in her hand that reminded me of the sparkle of Douglas Gallagher’s stickpin, but shook my head in reluctant agreement.

“I wish I could, but you’re right, they’re much too grand for this demure dress. I don’t have anything in my closet that would do them justice. Thank you, though.” I smiled at her, loving her very much at that moment—more for what she didn’t say than for the offer of the earrings. No prying questions, no admonitions to be careful, no fussing, none of the things that would have driven me to distraction.

“You’re welcome. You should have them, you know. They do no good in my jewelry box.” I heard the bell from below and grabbed a shawl, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as I passed her.

“As much good as they’d do in mine. I don’t lead a wild social life.”

“You could. You just don’t want to.” That made me turn at the top of the stairs.

“Jennie’s the beauty of the family, Grandmother, not me.” She looked like she wanted to reply, but May called up from the bottom of the steps that Mr. Goldwyn was waiting. “Don’t wait up,” I added, “I may not have much of a social life, but whenever I get the opportunity, I intend to take full advantage of it.”

Allen had hired a horse-drawn cab for the evening, a change from Grandmother’s motorcar that I found charming. The early June evening was pleasantly warm and unseasonably humid. I thought I could feel my hair springing into an abundance of curls as we rode but made a conscious effort to forget that I was neither elegantly sleek nor complimented by the color lavender. Allen didn’t seem to mind, so why should I? I wasn’t hideous, after all, was a good conversationalist and an excellent dancer, and I intended to enjoy the evening fully. I possessed good manners besides, and Allen knew I could be trusted not to embarrass him in front of his employers. There was, of course, that incident with Drew Gallagher where I had overstepped my bounds by miles, but although its memory still rankled, I consoled myself with the fact that this evening I was rested and in good spirits, nothing like my emotional state the day after Flora’s death.