Eastland Read online

  myself peer inside. I took in air and forced it out slowly until my

  breathing returned to nearly normal. I lifted my eyes. Mae was as white as her coffin, her unique lavender eyes

  closed for all eternity. Her cheeks had been rouged far more than

  her usual light blush, and her lips had been painted ruby red, a

  shade Mae never would have worn in life. Though her hair had

  not been crimped, she did have a natural wave that helped to

  soften her appearance. She’d been dressed in her favorite plumcolored suit with the swirly pattern that had always reminded

  me of peacock feathers. The skirt had the modern three-quarter

  cut that showed off her shapely ankles. She wore pale-purple silk

  high heels, the pointed toes covered in a rich, eggplant-purple

  brocade.

  “What do you think?” Gracie asked softly.

  Mae had always been a “looker,” and now, even in death, she

  commanded admiration.

  “You were right. She’s angelic.”

  I leaned in closer, inspecting her for signs of bruising, but her

  skin was flawless. There were no wrinkles of fear, no contortions

  of terror, and absolutely no black-and-blue marks. Her expression seemed serene. I collapsed in relief. My hands landed on

  hers, and before I could stop myself, I shrieked and burst into

  tears. Mae was as stiff and hard as Mama’s ironing board. Karel came rushing across the room.

  “I … don’t want … to remember her like this,” I sobbed. “Then don’t. Think about how she lived, not how she died.

  Mae is still alive in our thoughts.”

  I put my hand on my watch. And in our hearts.

  “C’mon. Let’s give Dee some privacy.” Karel took Gracie’s

  hand, and they quietly disappeared.

  Mae and I were alone.

  “This is hard, you know.” I sniffled and stopped crying.

  “Harder than you can imagine.”

  I waited, but she did not respond.

  “You’re free, damn it! But I’m still here. Working. Waiting.

  Trying to breathe.”

  That brought on a small smile. Perhaps Mae was smiling, too. “You told me last Friday that the day of the picnic would be

  the best day of our lives. Maybe, in the end it was for you. But

  what about for me?”

  I stared at her, begging her to answer as images bombarded

  my brain.

  Karel reaches for my basket. I feel the heat of his approving

  stare as he eyes me up and down. Lars rubs my arms as though he might set me on fire. He smiles, his turquoise eyes catching

  mine.

  At Iroquois Memorial, I step forward to tell Mrs. O’Hara

  about her Katy. I brave my way up and down the rows at the

  Armory.

  “Okay, okay. So maybe you weren’t entirely wrong about that

  day. For either of us.”

  20

  Mama and I arrived forty minutes early for the funeral Mass at St. Mary’s of Czestochowa Wednesday morning. Given the number of people at the wakes last night, I had anticipated standing room only like at Christmas or on Easter. Yet far more people than I could possibly have imagined had come today to say their final good-byes. Hundreds of mourners sat shoulder to shoulder in the hardwood pews with the overflow turned away to wait outside in the rain.

  This three-story, orange-brick building that served as both church and school had only been consecrated seven years ago, and already the structure was too small for our growing parish. Father Raczynski had plans in the making for a larger, gothic-style cathedral with twin spires, but that would probably not be built for years. We would have to make do with what we had today.

  The newspapers had dubbed this day Black Wednesday, the official day of mourning in Chicago. Businesses, schools, and churches throughout the city and suburbs had been draped in funeral bunting. St. Mary’s was no exception. Long streamers of black, purple, and white cloth hung over the altar, around the supporting pillars, and along the side walls. The stormy, dismal light streaming in through the tall windows seemed to match the dark mood of the mourners inside.

  Father Raczynski had underestimated the number of coffins. Twenty-nine, not twenty-five, caskets had been arranged along the communion rail or perched across the tops of the first three pews. All six members of the VandeKipp family had been laid out together, tallest to smallest, in expensive-looking walnut caskets donated by Mr. Drojewska. Next to that last, tiny walnut coffin rested a white casket with a gold crucifix on the side. I’d hoped to sit in our usual Sunday spot up front, because then, I’d be close to Mae. But today Mama and I would not have a choice. We’d sit wherever we could find two seats together.

  “Here, Mama.” I slid into a polished pew three rows up from the back of the church. “This is the best we can do.”

  Mama genuflected. The quick up-and-down motion of bending on one knee made her long, black chapel veil flutter around her face. She crossed herself and eased in beside me, placing her wet umbrella on the concrete floor beneath our pew. I did the same with my umbrella and then settled myself on the padded kneeler. Beside me, Mama began her Rosary, her muffled French prayers fusing with the hushed conversations and the all-too-frequent outbursts of sobs. I fidgeted with the bobby pin holding the small, round chapel veil in my hair, and tried to focus on my own prayers.

  Maybe it was the strong scent of incense in the air or maybe my nerves, but I quickly became nauseated. Mama rubbed my back until my queasy stomach quieted, yet not even Mama’s comforting touch could erase my dread. Today would be my last day with Mae. Soon she’d be buried in the ground. I would never see her mischievous grin again. I’d never have to listen to one of her cockamamie stories or tolerate her off-pitch singing. No more of her complaints about our chief, Mr. Hofstedder.

  From now on ’til forever, I’d have to walk to and from work all by myself.

  “Dee, pssst,” a small voice buzzed.

  Gracie waved to me as she shuffled up the side aisle. I returned the wave, hoping to catch Karel’s attention as he came up behind her. But as soon as I saw him, I knew Karel had no time for me today. Mr. Koznecki, who even at the wake had managed to look his dapper best, appeared to have changed overnight. His handlebar moustache hung limp on his drained, colorless face. He leaned on Karel for support as if the simple act of walking was more than he could manage.

  I glanced back down the aisle, waiting to see Mrs. Koznecki. But she never appeared.

  “Where is she?” I whispered to Mama when Mae’s entire family had taken their seats. “Where’s Mrs. Koznecki?”

  “Too much for the Mama,” my own Mama said. This was all too much for anyone. I shot to my feet.

  Mama tugged on my sleeve. I sank back down.

  How would I ever get through this day? But I’d been plagued by the same doubts yesterday, yet somehow I’d made it through the wake. Thanks in great part to Karel, but also to … I twisted in my seat hoping to see Lars.

  “Churches are open to everyone,” he’d said last night. So maybe he’d be here.

  My eyes darted across the pews, combing all the heartbroken faces. But seconds later, I had to give up my search when the pipe organ in the choir loft began to play.

  Mass had started.

  Conversation ceased while the sound of weeping rose in anguished anticipation. I touched the watch dangling from its golden bow and then remembered the other accessory I’d worn today. After seeing Karel’s regal-purple waistcoat at the wake, I’d fashioned a length of lavender ribbon into a bow and pinned it above my watch.

  Now I had two keepsakes of Mae to see me through this day.

  The Archdiocese of Chicago had sent Bishop Rhode to assist in the memorial. Father Raczynski usually said Mass in Polish for the predominantly Polish community of St. Mary’s, but today the service wou
ld be recited in the traditional Latin. The choir sang as the bishop, majestic in his crimson robe and tall hat, led a procession of priests up the center aisle to the altar. Under any other circumstance, an appearance by Bishop Rhode would have been the cause of much celebration. But this morning, people barely seemed to notice. Heads hung under the oppressive weight of so much grief, while the mournful sounds of crying nearly drowned out the organ.

  Deep down below the panic and pain, I knew Mae was not in that white coffin. Her spirit could not be contained by wood and nails. I closed my eyes and imagined her soaring through the heavens with wild abandon. My soul yearned to fly with her, but my time had not come. I’d been one of the fortunate survivors. But right now, right here, without Mae by my side, I didn’t feel the least bit lucky.

  I followed along with the Mass, standing and sitting and kneeling on cue. From memory, I recited the prayers, my head bowed, my hands pressed together. By all outward appearances, I was at this service. My body was present, but my mind had slipped away.

  When Bishop Rhode told the congregation to “Go in peace,” I stood, unable to bear one more moment of overwhelming sorrow or suffocating incense.

  “Sorry, Mama.” I pushed past her. “Meet you outside.”

  I made my way out of the pew and down the left-hand aisle. I burst out the wooden double doors.

  Hundreds of people waited outside the church. I rocked back, startled by the sight.

  “Keep the landing clear for the Bishop!” A red-jacketed usher snapped his fingers at me. “He’ll be out after Mass for a final blessing.”

  The usher shooed me down the concrete steps, onto the walk, and into the rain—without my umbrella. I’d left so quickly, I’d forgotten it under the pew. I removed my delicate chapel veil before it could get too soaked and tucked it into my pocket, all the while scanning the somber audience for any sign of a Merchant Marine. I knew it was foolish to think I might find Lars in a gathering this large. Yet, despite the mass of humanity attending the wakes last night, Lars had somehow found me.

  But after two minutes of standing outside, I’d had enough rain. I wandered around the church and along the alley, taking shelter under the peaked roof of the church’s garage. I leaned against the wood-frame structure to rest.

  Po-poppp! I jerked up. Had I been shot? I was checking my arms for blood, when I saw a coal delivery truck, black smoke trailing from its exhaust pipe, heading up the alley straight toward me.

  “Outta the way, young lady!” the driver barked.

  His truck backfired again as he passed. I scrambled aside. He parked his fuming vehicle behind the hearses, wagons, motorcars, and trucks already lined up along the curbs. Some of the larger trucks bore the insignia of Marshall Field’s or Western Electric. With nearly seven hundred funerals in and around Chicago, hearses had to be scarce. Horses must have been hard to come by as well, because some of the wagons had been hitched to mules.

  I hurried around the church in time to see Bishop Rhode coming out the double doors.

  “May God bless and keep you today.” He sprinkled holy water on his rain-wet flock. He made a quick sign of the cross and fled back inside.

  Pallbearers appeared, carrying the twenty-nine caskets to the waiting vehicles. Grieving families followed. I watched until Karel and his father came down the steps.

  Karel’s once-vigorous complexion had turned waxen over the past few days. Lines crisscrossed his forehead. His lips appeared dried and cracked almost to the point of bleeding. His carefully slicked-back hair looked greasy and unkempt. The carefree bachelor of last Saturday morning had died as surely as if he’d drowned in the Chicago River.

  Karel settled his father into the family’s green coupe behind the white hearse. I hurried to him.

  “Dee! I’m so relieved to see you. What an ordeal.”

  I took his hand, enfolding it in mine. “I know. I’m here for you.”

  But did I really understand the depths of his pain?

  All week, I’d been consumed with the loss of my closest friend, but Karel had lost a sister. Someday, maybe, I might have another friend, but he would never have another sibling. Mae was his one and only. My chest tightened at the thought. I began to cry, but not for me this time. For him.

  “We’ll make it through this.” Karel managed a smile. “We’ve been through worse.” He raised my hand to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. “What would I do without you?”

  “You won’t have to find out. I’ll stay by your side all day.”

  21

  Given the fragile condition of his parents, Karel had been left on his own to make all the necessary funeral arrangements, beginning with the dozen miscellaneous vehicles hired for the procession from St. Mary’s to the Bohemian National Cemetery in Chicago. Salvatore had offered his services—free of charge today—to the Koznecki family. Mama and I had been assigned to his carriage. Gracie would ride with the family in one of the motorcars, but she seemed to have something else in mind.

  “Please,” Gracie asked of Karel, “may I ride with Dee?” Karel turned to Mama for help.

  “Oui. But of course.”

  Gracie pecked Karel on the cheek and hopped into the nowfamiliar hackney cab and out of the rain. I held back, urging Mama inside ahead of me.

  “I want to thank you, Sal, for the other night at the Armory. I don’t remember much after I saw Mae…” A shiver pulsed through me. “Anyway, Mama told me that you and Lucille had seen me home.” I moved closer to the chestnut mare. Lengths of Lucille’s reddish-brown mane had been braided with white satin ribbons. I stroked her long neck and whispered, “I can’t forget you, girl. Thanks for everything.” Her left ear twitched. She turned a huge, brown eye on me. I knew she’d understood.

  “It was an honor to escort you.” Salvatore held the door for me. “You’ve been very brave through all of this.”

  “But I fainted.” I stepped up.

  “So did dozens of grown men.”

  I sighed and climbed inside. I settled myself between Mama and Gracie as our cab fell third in line behind the hearse. Karel had ordered an ornate, white, covered wagon with two pure white horses, and a driver in tails and top hat. White hearses were usually reserved for children’s funerals, but Karel must have known that Mae would have gotten a tickle out of the whole fairy-tale-like scene.

  On the streets, all the normal Sunday morning traffic seemed to have eerily disappeared. The only vehicles in sight were from the cavalcade of Cicero funerals. Thousands of spectators had assembled along the main thoroughfares to wave and wish well, as though these processions were holiday parades instead of death marches. Gracie seemed entertained, though, smiling and waving back. Even I had to admit that after only a few blocks, I found myself peering out the carriage, once again in search of a certain mariner.

  But Lars Nielsen did not appear along our eleven-mile course, any more than he had shown up at Mass this morning. By the time we passed under the arched, brick entrance gate at the Bohemian National two hours later, I’d resolved not to give Lars another thought.

  Around a hundred and thirty caskets were scheduled for burial in the newly opened Section Sixteen of the cemetery. Though there appeared to be plenty of busy gravediggers, we still had to wait our turn for a gravesite. Karel seemed to have anticipated this problem. He had brought a catered picnic luncheon for each vehicle, plus extra for the drivers.

  We dined on smoked sausages, pork-filled pierogi, potato pancakes, and mizeria cucumber salad. For dessert, we had kolaczki cookies with apricot, prune, and raspberry fillings. I’d eaten with Mae countless times and had tasted all these delicious dishes before. But this was Mama’s first experience with Polish food. She seemed quite smitten with the unusual and exotic flavors. She had seconds and then thirds, but I had no appetite today and only pushed the food around my plate, making it appear to Mama and Gracie that I’d eaten my fill.

  “May I be excused, Mrs. Pageau?” Gracie asked, after helping to clear the service.

&
nbsp; “Oui.” Mama’s eyes drooped. Gracie hopped down from the carriage and disappeared into Mr. Koznecki’s green coupe. I saw a chance to stretch my legs.

  “And me, Mama?”

  Mama managed a sleepy nod before her head dropped back against the soft, leather seat. I covered her with a blanket and grabbed an umbrella. By the time I’d closed the carriage door, Mama was snoring.

  I wandered along the gravelly lanes, trying to read the headstones in the grim light of this devilish rain. From what I could make out, many of the dead had been buried during the last century. But as the dates became more and more recent, I noticed something new. Black and white ceramic portraitures had been attached to the gravestones, giving visitors a photographic remembrance of the deceased.

  I thought about Papa’s funeral.

  Mama had not been able to afford such a luxury for Papa’s gravestone. In fact, Mama had taken in extra mending that winter, trying to save enough money to even buy a headstone. I made a second resolution of the day. Besides not thinking of Lars, I would earn enough of my own money to have a photograph of Papa made into a ceramic impression for his headstone. The idea brought me comfort. I hastened back to the cab relieved and recharged.

  Our turn finally came around six in the evening. The storms had dwindled to a mist as the Koznecki family staggered, drained and wrinkled, from the vehicles. Pallbearers removed Mae’s white casket from her “Cinderella” hearse and then carried the coffin toward the empty grave. The mourners shuffled behind the pallbearers. I took one step and froze.

  Tomorrow I would return to work and begin life without Mae.

  Can’t you this once be brave, Dee?

  I forced down my fear and fell in line.

  A weary-looking Father Raczynski came over from a nearby gravesite and said a blessing over the casket. Two gravediggers, looking even more worn out than our priest, eased the white casket into the ground and shoveled mud back into the hole they’d just dug. Mr. Koznecki picked up a purple, long-stemmed rose from the arrangement left near the gravesite and was starting toward the coffin, when he wobbled and collapsed to his knees. Karel rushed to his side. He wrapped a supportive arm around his father’s trim waist, and together they hobbled to the side of the open grave.