Songs of Willow Frost (24 page)

“I heard he’s an ex-con that got let out after Prohibition,” another boy said. “He just got out of prison, Walla Walla or Sing Sing …”

“He doesn’t look that scary,” a girl added.

William looked down into the courtyard, where he saw a slender man standing next to a DeSoto coupe with white-rimmed tires. The man was chatting pleasantly with Sister Briganti. William thought that he didn’t look like a felon or a monster either; he wore a suit and tie but didn’t have a hat. In general, he looked like an average father.

William ran downstairs and lingered near the front door with a dozen other onlookers—boys mostly, who’d been fascinated by the thought of a hardened criminal paying a visit to Sacred Heart.

“Don’t look him in the eye,” one of the boys said.

“He doesn’t look that tough,” someone retorted.

“Is that him, is that really Charlotte’s dad?” William asked, but he didn’t need to hear an answer. As the man walked toward the wide double doors, it was clear by his nose, his cheekbones, his hair, even his smile—he was the spitting image of Charlotte, which was
comforting and yet disturbing. William had expected a bald, tattooed ogre of a man, with visible scars, wearing a blue, sweat-stained work shirt. He had pictured Mr. Rigg with a five-day beard and chewing the unlit stump of an old cigar. Instead, this man was rail-thin and looked quite pleasant. His shoes were old but had new laces. And he carried a plush brown teddy bear beneath his arm.

“You must be William,” the man said as he walked up the steps and extended his hand.

William shook it absently. The man’s grip was soft and warm and damp.

“Sister here was just telling me all about you—how you’re Charlotte’s comrade in arms. Like two blind mice—see how they run.”

William wasn’t sure if that was a joke or an accusation, until the man smiled. William noticed that one of his front teeth was chipped. Aside from that slight imperfection, he was a handsome fellow, with a gentle, likable carriage.

“Boys and girls,” Sister Briganti announced with fanfare, “this is Mr. Rigg—he’s come to visit our good Charlotte. And next week, saints be willing, she’ll be going home. Let’s keep them in your prayers.”

I’ll be praying that something heavy falls on this man
. William thought Sister Briganti looked self-satisfied, as though this news was the fulfillment of her mission—solving familial puzzles, no matter how poorly the pieces fit back together.
What about me?
William thought as he stared at the stranger with freckled cheeks and a short, ruddy beard.
What about my family?

The rest of the orphans looked upon the curious man with the shiny car as though he were Saint Christopher, the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus all rolled into one. They reached out and touched the mohair bear, petting it as the man passed smiling through the crowded hallway.

But Charlotte wasn’t among the happy children who were so easily impressed.

“William,” Sister Briganti said, “why don’t you run along and tell Mr. Rigg’s daughter that her father is here and that he’ll be over to visit her shortly?”

Thanks for making me the messenger of misery
. William watched as she led Charlotte’s father down the hall toward her office. Mr. Rigg looked back and frowned.

William knew that parents had to be interviewed before reclaiming their children. He’d seen quite a few moms and dads fail that part of the process, much to their children’s disappointment. Too often parents would show up twitching, lice-ridden, or reeking of booze—demanding their sons or daughters, then leaving emptier than when they’d arrived. And sometimes a home inspection was required as well. But the whole routine seemed ridiculously unfair when compared to fresh adoptive parents, who merely had to show up and sign a few papers before taking their new children to some unknown home where they’d be living with strangers.
They were unfamiliar
, William mused,
but they’d never given up one of their own
. That obviously counted for something.

As William walked down the hall and out the door, he realized that word of Mr. Rigg’s arrival had spread faster than William could travel. He overheard dozens of girls gossiping. They all seemed bitter, probably because they were jealous. Mr. Rigg’s visit and Charlotte’s pending departure were reminders of how much everyone else had lost and how badly they longed to have their loving parents back—their homes, their siblings—to be part of the outside world. Family reunions were fleeting, like sunshine on the horizon, seen from beneath perpetual clouds of cold mist and rain.

As William walked up the hill to Charlotte’s cottage, the boys outside seemed giddy. But William didn’t smile. He couldn’t even fake it. He felt more like a postman delivering the death notice of a loved one. He heard her voice before he knocked.

“The door’s open,” she said. “Please tell me that’s you, William?”

As he walked in he realized that Charlotte’s cottage didn’t have any lights—no lamps or curtains. She remained in shadow. Her worldview never changed.

“He’s here, isn’t he,” she stated. She’d been standing near the open window counting the beads on her rosary. “It’s been years, but I recognized his voice.”

William didn’t know what to say. “He has a car.”

“He shows up in a car and we all get taken for a ride.”

William shook his head. Sister Briganti had once shared that unwed mothers received a government stipend each month. William wasn’t sure if such a thing applied to fathers—probably not, but perhaps because Charlotte was sightless he would somehow be compensated in her mother’s absence.

“He looks nice enough,” William said, hoping to ease the tension.

“You don’t know him like I do. He’s not an honorable person,” Charlotte said. “How would you feel if your uncle Leo showed up and wanted you back—wanted to suddenly have a son and be a father and play house after all these years?”

Would it be much worse than this?
William didn’t have an answer for such a damning question. He’d shared his mother’s story about Uncle Leo with Charlotte, but he never considered the possibility of his showing up. He supposed he’d run away again—William planned to anyway, regardless of the hazards. He desperately wanted to reconnect with his ah-ma; even if she didn’t want him, he would speak to her, face-to-face. He needed answers. But he didn’t want to leave Charlotte either, not now. “Maybe when you leave …”

“I told you, William, I’m not leaving.”

He corrected himself. “
If
you leave.” He paused, waiting for her to argue. “And if you’re on the outside, I can come visit you. I’m leaving anyway. I have to see Willow again. If she takes me back, maybe I can help you …”

William heard a knock on the door and saw Charlotte’s body stiffen.

“Knock, knock. Anybody home?” Mr. Rigg stepped into the room. “There she is, my gingersnap. Look at you—you grew up when I wasn’t looking.”

“You weren’t able to look,” she said.

“Well then, that makes two of us,” Mr. Rigg said.

William watched as Charlotte took a step back and bumped into an old sofa. She seemed lost in the cottage that she knew so well. She sat down and stared ahead as though recognizing something in a dark corner of her childhood. William stepped toward the door as Charlotte’s father handed her the bear.

“I brought you something. It’s a Steiff,” he said. “You know, this is the best teddy bear money can buy. Its arms and legs move and everything. Here …”

She flinched when the stuffed toy brushed her cheek. Then she took the bear and touched its soft fur. She felt along the snout and the head, which gently swiveled back and forth. She caressed the ears and found the silver button punched through one of them as a label of authenticity. William relaxed and exhaled as she brought the teddy to her face and smelled its plush, velvety coat. Mr. Rigg turned to William and frowned again, nodding his head as if to say,
See—a father knows his daughter
. He held the door as William stepped out. William looked back as Charlotte smiled when she found the bear’s eyes. Then she gritted her teeth and ripped them out, dropping them to the floor, where they skittered away. The door closed as bits of thread and torn batting floated in the air between father and daughter.

Blackbird

(1934)

William waited at breakfast, pushing his lumpy oatmeal around his bowl, uncovering and reburying cooked weevils as he waited for Charlotte to arrive. The night before, William had watched from the stone steps of the main building, waiting for her or her father to leave. William had stared through the murky twilight as Mr. Rigg finally departed about thirty minutes before sundown, just as Sister Briganti appeared to usher the remaining boys back into their dormitory for the evening. William had hardly slept all night. And when he did he dreamt of dancing shadows, menacing shapes that resembled an imaginary Uncle Leo, a thin-lipped, scowling Mr. Rigg, and the pious yet condemning Sister Briganti. They laughed and twirled while Willow sang a sad lullaby, a haunting melody from his childhood.

“You gonna eat that?” Dante asked.

William shook his head as the larger boy traded bowls with him, then scooped out the bad parts and proceeded to eat the rest in large, heaping spoonfuls. William counted the girls as they walked in one by one. Charlotte was still missing. Maybe she went home? Maybe she ran away in the middle of the night. Either seemed possible.
Maybe Mr. Rigg did something to her …

She walked in as William was struggling to cast those thoughts out of the dark hollows of his imagination. She looked the same as
always. She took a bowl and a spoon in one hand and tapped her way to the table, where she sat across from him.

“Are you okay?” William asked. The question seemed ludicrous in the way people can pull someone from a smoldering train accident, bruised and broken, covered in shards of glass, and ask,
Are you okay, mister?

“I’m blind, William,” she said. “But I see what’s happening all around me.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just …”

“He’s coming back tomorrow,” she said. “I’m to pack my things.”

William didn’t understand—none of this made sense. His ah-ma was Willow Frost—she was a movie star and he wasn’t allowed to be reunited with her, let alone see her. Charlotte’s only living parent was a convicted creep who’d been sent away for five years. Now he’d shown up with a two-bit haircut and suddenly he was father of the year.

“We should just take off again,” William said. “Go someplace where they won’t find us. It wasn’t so bad the first time …”
Minus the bedbugs
.

“They’ll find us. Sister B knows exactly where you’d be heading. And I’m too easy to recognize. I don’t exactly blend in,” she said. “I get along fine here because I know every inch of my cottage. I know the exact number of steps from building to building, from classroom to classroom. But out there … I’d just slow you down.”

“I’ll talk to Sister Briganti. I’ll find a way to make this right.”

“It’s too late, William. What’s done is done. My father is coming back and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I’m sorry that I won’t hear your voice as often as I’d like,” she said.

William reached across the table and took her hands. He didn’t
care who might be watching or what the girlish gossips would say. He looked into her pale blue, haunted eyes, watching them quiver. If she were capable, he knew she’d be crying right now.

“You’re my best friend, William—my only friend—the one who’s never judged me. You’re the best person I’ve ever known. You’re kind and generous and thoughtful and you’ve always given my heart a soft place to land … and … I guess what I’m trying to say is that …”

I’m going to miss you
.

She squeezed his hands and then let go. “I hope you see your mother again.”

W
ILLIAM SAT IN
Sister Briganti’s office. He’d blazed through his chores and shown up early and refused to leave, waiting for two hours until she arrived after teaching class and attending to other meetings. She walked in and set down a large stack of papers.

“Ready for more truth telling, Master Eng?” she asked. “More stories? More answers? I knew you’d be back. Boys are always drawn to the macabre …”

William’s head was still reeling from Charlotte’s kind, anguished, heartbreaking confession. He’d never felt that type of endearment from anyone except his ah-ma—more than fondness or friendship or the pleasure of another’s company—this felt real, and true, and now nothing seemed the same. Suddenly the gray clouds had a pinkish hue that wasn’t there the hour before; everything smelled better, even the rain. Music sounded richer, as though every high note was written with him in mind. He couldn’t wait to fall asleep now, because he looked forward to dreaming of him and Charlotte in a better place, someplace with hope and possibility. But he also couldn’t bear the thought of waking up to a school where her desk would be occupied by another girl, or where her porch swing sat vacant, rocking in the lonely breeze.