Eastland Page 8

  “No! I’m going with you.”

  I swallowed my nausea and fear, and followed Karel to the Armory entrance where another somber-looking man reviewed our pass.

  “Your sister. I see. Well, bodies are numbered and arranged in rows of eighty-five. Any personal belongings found with the bodies were sealed in envelopes and placed alongside them.” He stepped back to admit us. “Western Electric volunteers will assist you. Please start to your left.” He touched Karel’s arm. “May God be with you.”

  “Last chance, Dee,” Karel said. “I beg you, wait outside.”

  I shook my head and marched through the doublewide doors into the cavernous chamber of the Second Regiment Armory. Bile shot up my throat. The stench that had wafted out the doors barely held a clue to the revolting stink inside that morgue. Hundreds upon hundreds of corpses, many drenched in the disgusting water of the Chicago River, lay drying and decaying on the cement floor. Some had already been embalmed, and some were in the process. I could see tables off to the side where undertakers were working at a feverish pace.

  All the bodies on the Armory floor had been covered in blankets of every sort, but their death-mask faces had been left exposed for viewing. Families and friends searched the aisles, their screams of identification knifing the air.

  A man wearing a familiar Western Electric identification badge charged toward us.

  “This way, please. Take all the time you need. I’m here for you all night.”

  I held my hand over my mouth to keep from gagging as we drifted up one aisle and down another. After hours of waiting in the dark, the bright lights stung my eyes.

  Every once in a while, Karel would approach a body and peer into its lifeless face. Then he would rock back, shaking his head.

  “Not her. No.”

  Maybe not that girl or the one after, but soon, we could come upon Mae, stiff and cold. A number without a name, all humanity stripped from her. Yet right now, at this very instant, there lingered one last pinprick of hope that Mae had survived, that she’d made it safely home and all of this was some hideous mistake. We’d seen nearly six hundred bodies. None had been Mae. Only a hundred or so appeared to be left.

  Maybe Mae wouldn’t be among them.

  A few feet away, someone screamed. I turned to see a woman and man, both in their twenties, sink to the floor beside a tiny corpse in a blue blanket. In fact, all the corpses in that area were small, and I realized with a painful constriction of my heart that all the dead babies had been placed together—off to one side in a corner.

  I whirled away, gasping for air.

  Karel went for a nearby chair. “Sit!”

  I wanted to argue, but my body sank onto the seat before my mouth could form any words.

  “Take deep breaths.” He knelt beside me. “In, out. That’s it. Deep and even.”

  My breathing slowed, and with it, my racing thoughts. I remembered Lars Nielsen and how only hours ago, he had ministered to me in much the same way.Lars and Karel were such different men, yet somehow I’d managed to bring out similar qualities in each with my weak-willed demonstrations.

  I stood. Karel reached for me, but I gently pushed his arm aside.

  “I’m good. I can do this.” I touched his cheek. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

  He took my hand and kissed my palm. “The best I can, as long as you are near.”

  We continued our deathly tour, hand in hand, until we came to the last row. A young man was on his knees in front of a slender, female body.

  “Sarah! No! No!” he bawled as he stroked the dead woman’s hair. Her features were distorted, her expression revealing the horror of her last moments of life. She had probably been a beautiful blonde. But now, greasy, greenish strands of hair stuck to her ghost-white face, making her look as though she wore a dirty mop for a wig.

  I had to fight the temptation to cover my ears against his woeful cries as we scuttled around the tormented man.

  Farther down the aisle, a group of female mourners stood clustered together. Several of the women looked familiar, one in particular. I’d seen that feathered, aqua hat and those wild, red curls before. In an instant, I knew. As if the girl had read my thoughts, she turned.

  I stared into the moist, emerald eyes of Dolly O’Brien, switchboard operator at Western Electric.

  “Who is that?” I pointed to the blanket at her feet. She stepped back to reveal the corpse.

  I released Karel’s hand, yet I couldn’t move. My limbs had gone numb.

  Dolly came to me and put her arm around my waist. We hobbled closer to number 694, and I could tell the corpse was male. Another step and I saw he had a sweet face. One last movement—

  “Johnny Volo!” Mae’s dancing partner. Last person to see her alive.

  “I heard Johnny and Mae had been together when …” Dolly stared at me, her freckled face distorted by pity and pain. “I’m so sorry, Dee.” She gently turned me around.

  I shook her off and stumbled past 695, 696, 697. No Mae.

  Dolly had it wrong. Mae wasn’t dead.

  And then I saw it. A shredded length of lilac linen poking out from under the blanket of number 698. I sank to my knees.

  Karel staggered past me and stared down into the lifeless face. He buried his head in his hands.

  Mae! I had my proof. The world went dark.

  14

  “I don’t want to skate. I can’t. No, really!”

  “I’ll teach you. Come on.” Mae takes my hand. We fly

  through the air toward the frozen pond.

  “I can’t skate!”

  “How do you know when you’ve never tried?”

  “I don’t want to try! Now let go!”

  Mae drops my hand. I sink back to earth.

  “Can’t you this once be brave, Dee? Take a chance?” Clang. Something was banging … A metal door knocker? It

  clanged again.

  I struggled to open my eyes as Mae’s face faded from my dream. It took a minute or two for me to adjust to the dim light, but

  eventually I lifted my head and looked around. There was an oak

  wardrobe with clawed feet and carved etchings on both doors

  standing upright against a wall. Beside that closet, a Princess

  dressing table with an oval mirror attached. Across the room, a

  window with the fringed shade pulled down.

  I was home? In my own bedroom? How’d I get here? Last

  thing I recalled … I shot up.

  “Mae! Mae!”

  Mama came rushing through my open bedroom door. “Ma petite!” She dropped onto my bed and scooped me up.

  “You are safe now.” She rocked me in her arms. “Mae has gone

  to a better place.”

  “The better place is here! With me!” A stabbing pain shot

  through my chest. I was pressing my hand against my heart to

  stop the hurt, when I realized—

  “My watch!”

  Mama nodded toward my dressing table. “It is there. Waiting

  for you.” She brushed the bangs from my eyes. “Mae gave you

  that watch?”

  I nodded and sniffled. The jabbing in my chest intensified. Mama held me. I heard her heart beating a steady pulse in

  my ears, reminding me that we were both alive. And Mae was

  dead. The tears I’d been holding back burst forth, and I wept

  without restraint or apology. I didn’t care about Karel or his

  parents. I didn’t care about anyone but me.

  I had lost Mae. I would never see her again. I was alone. Mama rocked me, singing French lullabies until my agony

  faded to a dull ache. She pulled a hankie from one of the three,

  wide pockets on her work apron and gave it to me. I wiped my

  eyes and runny nose.

  “Where … did … they find Mae’s body?”

  Mama let out a long sigh and wiped away her own tears with

&nb
sp; the sleeve of her navy house dress. “Karel said they were in the

  salon near the dancing floor.”

  Mae probably never heard the warning. I hoped she’d died

  quickly, doing something she loved, with someone she liked very

  much.

  “You are trembling.” Mama retrieved my green, chenille

  bathrobe from the hook behind my door and wrapped it about

  my shoulders. I slipped my arms into the fluffy-soft sleeves. “Was someone knocking at our door earlier? I think that

  banging woke me up.”

  “Oui. A nurse from Western Electric came to check on you.

  She wanted to give you a tie-food shot. But I told her you did not

  fall in that dirty river.” She made the sign of the cross; touching

  her forehead first, then her heart, then her left shoulder, and

  finally her right.

  Tie-food shot?

  “Oh, you mean the nurse wanted to give me a typhoid shot if

  I’d fallen in that disgusting water.”

  But I hadn’t fallen. I never even soiled my new snakeskin

  shoes. I fought hard not to cry again.

  “What time is it, Mama?”

  She lifted the shade. The window was splattered with drops,

  the sky beyond an ugly blue-black.

  “One in the afternoon.”

  “I missed Mass?”

  “You missed Sunday.”

  “What? It’s Monday?” I threw off the covers. “I’m late!” Mama eased me back against my oak headboard. “No work

  for you today. Tomorrow the wakes. Funerals, on Wednesday.” She tucked my pink chenille bedspread with the puffy flower

  pattern around me. “Thursday you may go to work.” “Thursday! But I’ll be docked three days’ pay!”

  “You think I worry for pay? Paaa!” Mama caved onto my bed.

  “My child. My life. Only for you I worry.” She pressed her lips to

  my forehead, kissing me long and hard. I inhaled the comforting

  scent of her lavender toilet water.

  I wasn’t alone. I had Mama. I curled up against her, anxious

  to hear her steady heartbeat again.

  “How’d I get here? What happened?”

  Mama’s chest heaved with a sob. “Karel sent you home in a

  horse and buggy.”

  Salvatore and Lucille. They had waited, as promised. “I’ve

  been sleeping for thirty hours?”

  “Oui. You need much rest.”

  My stomach grumbled painfully. “I’ve had enough sleep.

  Please, Mama. I want to get up.”

  She studied me for a few seconds. “Maybe enough of this bed.”

  She pulled back my bedspread. “I make you some fried eggs. Oui?” I nodded hungrily. We got up, at least Mama did. My sleepy

  legs swayed. I landed back on my bed.

  “Lean on me.” She offered her arm. I clung to her as we made

  our way into the hall. I peered toward the parlor.

  “What’s all that?” I stared at a pile of black material near her

  Singer sewing machine.

  “Mourning clothes. Some need only buttons. Others I take

  in, take out.”

  I turned back to Mama and noticed for the first time since

  waking how exhausted she looked. Her sallow complexion had

  gone ashen. The shadows under her eyes were so dark, she looked

  as though she wore a mask. I started for the pile of clothes. “I can help.”

  “Non! Today you take it slow.”

  “But there’s so much mending.” Days and days of it, by the

  look of all those clothes.

  “Oui. Much work. Mrs. Ivanko needs a new mourning dress.” “Then Mr. Ivanko …” I touched my scalp in the tender spot

  where Mrs. Ivanko had pulled my hair.

  Mama nodded.

  “Poor woman. What’ll she do now?”

  “What we all must do. Help one to another. And live.” Mama made living sound so definite. But I didn’t possess her

  confidence. I knew I’d stumble in my efforts to make it through

  each day without Mae. At least I had Mama to lean on. “If I eat something, then may I sew?”

  She shook her head. “Tomorrow, when you are stronger.” “Please, Mama! I need something to occupy my mind or I’ll

  go stark-raving mad.” And then, I smiled. “Do you realize I’m

  begging to sew? And you’re demanding I rest, not work.” Mama shook her head and chuckled. “You are strong

  enough?”

  “Maybe, after I eat. Can you make my favorite?”

  “How many?” She looked annoyed, but I knew she was

  faking.

  “Three Birds in a Nest, if you please.”

  We ambled into the kitchen together. I plunked into my regular chair at our tiny table to watch and to wait. Mama opened the dampers on her black enameled-steel range, stacked maple kindling in the firebox, and lit the bundle with a match. While the wood-burning stove warmed, she cut three slices of bread from a thick, Italian loaf. Then using a glass turned upside-down, she

  cut out a circle in the center of each slice.

  “Will you check the fire?” She took three eggs from the icebox. I wrapped the hot firebox handle in a dishrag, opened the

  door, and added maple logs to the smoldering kindling. While I

  was 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 chérie, 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 Sing
er.

  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 out about

  the robbery?”

  “I sent my own sweet Maggie to hang a crepe of mourning

  flowers on their front door.” Mrs. Mulligan wiped her nose with

  her sleeve. “Maggie peered through their parlor window and

  what did she see? The devil, I tell you! Looked like a gang of