Chapter 2
The fire crackled. Mother and father were looking into it, staring. Mother’s eyes were red and father looked exhausted. Jane, Anne and Amy were sitting on the sofa. Father was going over the mail. They were all bills. They came to life and engulfed the parlor. Everything melted. Mother and father just sat there doing nothing.
I woke with a start. I was surrounded by darkness. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I looked at the clock. 3: 28 am. I threw myself back down onto my pillow. The ticking of the grandfather clock threw out its calming sounds as it called the hour. I stared at the ceiling, watching the lights from cars below on the streets creep onto the ceiling. I pushed back the comforter and sat criss-crossed in my bed. The white nightgown bellowed around me. I tried to recall why I had woken up.
Then I heard it. Sobs from the bathroom. I pushed the covers back and got out of bed. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and grabbed the wool blanket. The cold wood floor made my toes flinch as they hit the ground. I draped the blanket around me, like a shawl, and padded to the door. I opened the door slightly. Jane was sitting with her back to the door. Her breathing was labored and her shoulders shook with fury. I stifled a gasp. Poor Jane, I thought as my strong older sister sat on the bathroom floor. She got up and went to the sink. She washed her face, staring at the mirror. I heard the floor boards creaking against the weight. I turned my back to the door. I stayed there for some time, listening for any other signs that Jane was still awake. My heart ached to go into their room and hold her in my arms. I sat in the dark while the rest of the house, even Joy, dreamed up their perfect world. A silent heartbreak, a yearning, can eat at you. Even the loveliest of dreams can have you wake up in a terrible position. But eventually the pain would die down, it would numb, fade. Soon you would see the scar and wonder how you had gotten it and ask, “When did that happen?” People move on even when they don’t want to. Because to wallow in the past is the stop living.
I must have dozed off for when I woke up; I heard Anne humming as she got ready for the day. I knew that if I went into the bathroom, I would see her bending down gathering her dark hair into a ponytail, adorning it with a white ribbon. I got out of bed and prepared for the day. I picked out my clothes: a white blouse with a black skirt strewn with pink, red and blue colored flowers. Mother said that the outfit was beatific. I laid them on my bed and went to go take a shower. I figured that the rush of water would wake me up. I sat down on the floor and let the warm water stream over me, the smell of soap and the fumes of my raspberry shampoo was almost too much to handle. I turned the water off and pulled the white towel off of the golden rod. The cold of the room hit me like icicles. Compared to how much steam had found its way onto the mirror, anything would feel freezing after a shower that warm. I began to get dressed. I heard the sound of pots banging and the muffled voices from the radio. I slipped on the black stockings and the knee-length skirt. The blouse felt soft and cool against my feverishly warm skin. I brushed out my curly hair. I fished the red clip from the basket of hair accessories and put it on the bathroom counter. I pulled back the lace curtain from the window and looked out at the pureness of it all. The white of the world was brilliant as the sun shone through a gap in the clouds. The trees strong branches drooped against the weight of the dense snow. I saw the birds hop from branch to branch the patterns of lace on the sidewalks made by people and animals were lovely. Joy was running around out in the yard, eating snow and chasing the red ball that father was throwing to her. I laughed out loud, seeing father in his bath robe and slippers, his hair unruly as Einstein’s.
I went back the wall mirror and brushed my hair again. I parted it down in the middle, then, took a small clump of hair from the front and clipped it on the other side of my head, the right side. The red clip was a sharp contrast on my brunette hair. I slipped on my black Mary Jane shoes. I stared down at the stairs as I descended down them. My mouth watered as I smelt mothers’ pancakes. It was a recipe that grandmamma had created. They were made using cottage cheese, sour cream and Bisquick. They were delectable.
There were three for me already on a plate. I grabbed them and put some syrup on. I did not usually put butter on them for they were cooked in butter. I had taken a long shower, longer than usual, and had missed breakfast with the family. I ate the pancakes slowly.
I found mother writing on a note pad. She was looking at the Fannie Farmer cookbook. She silently read the ingredients to the Potato leek soup. She wrote down the familiar ingredients: celery, potatoes, leeks, bouillon cubes. She wrote a few more items in her lovely, spidery hand writing. The words flowed along the lines of the paper, creating lace patterns. She bustled about straightening the kitchen and replacing the cookbook in the spot on the shelf above the writing table. Mother tore off the piece of paper from the pad and folded it into half as she placed it in her pocket.
I followed her into her bedroom and laid down on the bed. I watched as she smoothed out her maroon dress. She took the pony tail out and let her loose curls fly. She sat at the vanity and began to brush her hair. She looked enchanting. Mother was beautiful. She had the most doll -like features. She was bestowed with pink cheeks, porcelain skin, and soft, curly hair. I counted each brush stroke. Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen… She looked back at me from the mirror. I smiled. The dimples in her cheeks were pronounced as she returned the gesture. She grabbed a nice clip and pushed back her hair. Mother and father were from well-to-do families but because of the depression and the war, every family needed help.
“Are we going to the market mother?” I asked, even though I knew we were.
“Yes, will you call your sister’s down for me, Evy.”
I went halfway up the stairs and shouted for Jane and Amy. A few moments passed before I heard the familiar sound of rustling of coats and shoes. We donned our black pea coats and tied the colorful scarf’s onto our necks. Mother grabbed her mauve colored scarf and tied it slackly around her Snow White neck. Jane stuffed her red scarf into the pocket of her coat. Mother held open the door for us as we all shuffled out of the white washed archway. The green door was a barrier between the real world and the one of calm nights and peaceful days. The brass door knocker showed the distorted reflections of my slim face. I could feel the color in my cheeks begin to get even rosier as we walked in the cold. I shivered and began to walk briskly passing Amy and Mother, who was talking about spring and that they wished it would come earlier. I overheard that mother was worried about the Victory Garden. Our Victory Garden had died due to the bitter weather that we had had that year. We usually had tomatoes, squash, lettuce and a few herbs in the spring and summer.
I caught up with Jane. Her expression was a course mix of callousness and grief. Her hands were in her pockets. I noticed that she still had the locket that Jim had given her only a few months ago. She fingered it as she walked, holding onto the pendant. It was a small silver heart-shaped locket with a red rose hanging on the same chain. Her green eyes were red and watery. I knew that she had not slept well last night. I did not say anything. I just took hold of her hand and clasped it into mine. A small gesture of comfort, a kind smile, a hug, a compliment, and small things like that help in big ways.
We arrived at the quaint market. The smell of cilantro and parsley hit my nose and sent a shock wave to my senses, waking me up. Just like the time that Anne threw that snow ball at me just a few days ago, spraying the cold flakes onto my face as I attempted to pelt Amy. Needless to say, I did not get to reciprocate the attack.
Mother pulled her list out her pocket and unfolded it. I watched her as her nimble fin-gers unbuttoned the gloves. She pulled off the black kid gloves finger by finger, slowly reveal-ing her thin white fingers. She grabbed a basket and told us what we needed for the soup.
“Six medium potatoes, three medium leeks, and we will get one celery stock. Oh! And one loaf of fresh sourdough bread.”
We nodded and followed mother as she strolled the store.
“Can you believe that the price of a celery stock went up a nickel? And in these times, everyone is having trouble.” Mother told us as we stared at the produce sign.
The last sentence made my stomach clench. No one said anything. Jane went to fetch the leeks while Amy got the potatoes.
“Evelyn, would you be a dear and go get the bread for me. I am going to get a spot in line.”
“Of course,” I replied as I watched mother pour the coins into my palm.
^^^
I ran to other side of the store to the bakery department. There were two couples ahead of me. I stood there waiting, humming the song, “Life is just a bowl of Cherries.”I hardly heard the baker call “Next.” I smiled at him and asked for a loaf of sourdough bread.
“Eight cents, please.” The baker told me.
I counted it out from the hanker-chief and handed the exact change to him.
“Thank you, miss.”He said,
I replied with a nod and grabbed the loaf.
I caught up with mother just as she began to get rung up. I placed the bread on the counter. I went to go see Amy and Jane who were looking at the fashion magazines. There was The Good Housekeeping and Vogue. I stared at the covers pensively. The articles talked about accessorizing and adding layers to your outfit. Jane was the most fashionable of the Moretti girls. Her hair was always perfect. But on the rare occasions that it was messy, it still looked good. I saw the spring line up on the cover and wished for the dreadful cold to be gone.
“Ready girls?” Mother asked as she donned on her kid gloves. We each grabbed a bag of groceries. Mother smiled at us. I noticed for the first time that mother looked worried.The lines on her face had been more outlined and profound lately. She was always strong and brave for us.But at times, everyone breaks down.
The snow had begun to stick right as we had gotten into the store. Now, thirty minutes later, there was an inch covering the cement walkway. Mothers and daughters were walking hand in hand as they rushed home; their noses and cheeks a rosy red. We walked briskly along the street, part from how late the hour was and another from the cold. Young men had already began to line up for the soup kitchens. The line was long.
I watched them from the other side of the street. The men hunched over in their coats, waiting patiently in line for the food to fill their vacant bellies, to feed their hungry families, to help them somehow.
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