up, I grabbed the milk bottle from the icebox, a spoon from
the drawer, and a Blue Willow teacup and plate. I sat back down
and spooned out the plug of thick cream that had settled on the
top of the milk bottle.
“Did you ever see or feel Papa after his death?” I slurped
down a drippy spoonful of cold, delicious cream.
Mama cocked her head and stared at me with those penetrating black eyes that could see not only the present, but into the
future. “After he died? I do not understand.”
“You have these premonitions, but can you see spirits as
well?” I ate the last of the cream and then poured myself a cup
of milk.
“Ghosts? Non . No ghosts.” She held her hand over one
of the six cook plates on the range and nodded. The stove
was hot enough. “You are thinking that Mae might come to
visit?”
My chest tightened, hearing her name. “Well, yes. I was
thinking, no hoping , Mae might come to me. Maybe send me
some word that she’s settled and safe.”
Mama set her cast-iron skillet on the hot cook plate and plopped
in a spoonful of lard. The grease crackled. She dropped the three
pieces of bread with the hollowed-out middles into the sizzling
skillet and cracked an egg into each center. As my egg sandwiches
fried, Mama came to me and put her hands on my cheeks.
“Oh c hérie , you must not worry. Mae is happy now.”
“Promise, Mama?”
She looked to heaven. “I swear to God Almighty.”
I thought I had cried everything dry, but a new flood of tears
broke loose.
Mama squeezed me to her and then screamed. “The eggs!”
She rushed back to the smoking stove. “Oh, the nests! They are
burned!”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m so hungry I could eat charcoal.”
I brought my Willow plate to her. She scraped three very
crispy sandwiches onto the china with her metal spatula. I hurried back to the table.
“I must get back to work. Mrs. Ivanko needs her dress for
tomorrow.” Mama let out a tormented sigh. “So many dead.
Father Raczynski thinks there will be twenty-five, maybe more,
funerals at St. Mary’s.”
“In one day?”
“At one Mass.” Mama shook her head and padded back to
her Singer.
I sat alone in the kitchen trying to imagine twenty-five,
maybe more, coffins lined up across the front of St. Mary’s. But
the horrific image was more than I could manage on an empty
stomach. I shook all thoughts of funerals from my mind and
concentrated on my meal, devouring my three Birds’ Nests in a
few big bites. I washed my plate and teacup at the sink, and then
rinsed the empty milk bottle before leaving it out in the hallway
for the milkman.
After a quick sponge bath in our bathroom sink and a change of
clothes, I strolled into the parlor on much sturdier legs than before.
Mama gave me the easy projects like buttons, and torn
seams, and hemming. I set right to work, eager for the chance
to provide even the smallest relief to my distressed neighbors. I
may not have been able to bring them news of their loved ones,
but I could mend their mourning clothes. I passed the afternoon,
listening contentedly to the crink-crink of the metal foot pedal
on Mama’s manually operated Singer.
As sunset approached, I lit the two kerosene lamps on the
mantle, plus a third oil lamp on the round parlor table near
Grandmère Pageau’s green velvet sofa. I’d paused to rub my
tired eyes, when Mrs. Mulligan burst through the front door.
“Saints preserve us! What has this world come to?”
Mama lifted her foot from the sewing pedal. The Singer
stopped. “What has happened?”
“The VandeKipp house has been burgled!”
“They are back home?” Mama crossed herself. “Sank the
Lord!”
Mrs. Mulligan shook her frazzled red head. “They’ve not
returned.”
“Then they’re all …” I managed.
“Dead. All six of them.”
The room fell silent, the weight of those words bearing down
on my soul. But I pocketed the grief for another day. Right now,
we had a more urgent problem.
“So if the VandeKipps are all gone, how’d you find
the drawer, and a Blue Willow teacup and plate. I sat back down
and spooned out the plug of thick cream that had settled on the
top of the milk bottle.
“Did you ever see or feel Papa after his death?” I slurped
down a drippy spoonful of cold, delicious cream.
Mama cocked her head and stared at me with those penetrating black eyes that could see not only the present, but into the
future. “After he died? I do not understand.”
“You have these premonitions, but can you see spirits as
well?” I ate the last of the cream and then poured myself a cup
of milk.
“Ghosts? Non . No ghosts.” She held her hand over one
of the six cook plates on the range and nodded. The stove
was hot enough. “You are thinking that Mae might come to
visit?”
My chest tightened, hearing her name. “Well, yes. I was
thinking, no hoping , Mae might come to me. Maybe send me
some word that she’s settled and safe.”
Mama set her cast-iron skillet on the hot cook plate and plopped
in a spoonful of lard. The grease crackled. She dropped the three
pieces of bread with the hollowed-out middles into the sizzling
skillet and cracked an egg into each center. As my egg sandwiches
fried, Mama came to me and put her hands on my cheeks.
“Oh c hérie , you must not worry. Mae is happy now.”
“Promise, Mama?”
She looked to heaven. “I swear to God Almighty.”
I thought I had cried everything dry, but a new flood of tears
broke loose.
Mama squeezed me to her and then screamed. “The eggs!”
She rushed back to the smoking stove. “Oh, the nests! They are
burned!”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m so hungry I could eat charcoal.”
I brought my Willow plate to her. She scraped three very
crispy sandwiches onto the china with her metal spatula. I hurried back to the table.
“I must get back to work. Mrs. Ivanko needs her dress for
tomorrow.” Mama let out a tormented sigh. “So many dead.
Father Raczynski thinks there will be twenty-five, maybe more,
funerals at St. Mary’s.”
“In one day?”
“At one Mass.” Mama shook her head and padded back to
her Singer.
I sat alone in the kitchen trying to imagine twenty-five,
maybe more, coffins lined up across the front of St. Mary’s. But
the horrific image was more than I could manage on an empty
stomach. I shook all thoughts of funerals from my mind and
concentrated on my meal, devouring my three Birds’ Nests in a
few big bites. I washed my plate and teacup at the sink, and then
rinsed the empty milk bottle before leaving it out in the hallway
for the milkman.
After a quick sponge bath in our bathroom sink and a change of
clothes, I strolled into the parlor on much sturdier legs than before.
Mama gave me the easy projects like buttons, and torn
seams, and hemming. I set right to work, eager for the chance
to provide even the smallest relief to my distressed neighbors. I
may not have been able to bring them news of their loved ones,
but I could mend their mourning clothes. I passed the afternoon,
listening contentedly to the crink-crink of the metal foot pedal
on Mama’s manually operated Singer.
As sunset approached, I lit the two kerosene lamps on the
mantle, plus a third oil lamp on the round parlor table near
Grandmère Pageau’s green velvet sofa. I’d paused to rub my
tired eyes, when Mrs. Mulligan burst through the front door.
“Saints preserve us! What has this world come to?”
Mama lifted her foot from the sewing pedal. The Singer
stopped. “What has happened?”
“The VandeKipp house has been burgled!”
“They are back home?” Mama crossed herself. “Sank the
Lord!”
Mrs. Mulligan shook her frazzled red head. “They’ve not
returned.”
“Then they’re all …” I managed.
“Dead. All six of them.”
The room fell silent, the weight of those words bearing down
on my soul. But I pocketed the grief for another day. Right now,
we had a more urgent problem.
“So if the VandeKipps are all gone, how’d you find
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