Empire Girls. Литагент HarperCollins USD

But from what? Oh, Papa!”

      I wanted him so badly at that moment. I wanted him to come into the garden and have tea and toast. I wanted to tell him of the horrible dream I’d had. Nothing seemed real.

      It occurred to me that grief is like a tunnel. You enter it without a choice because you must get to the other side. The darkness of it plays tricks on you, and sometimes you can even forget where you are or what your purpose is. I believe that people, now and again, get lost or stuck in that tunnel and never find their way out.

      I had no intention of doing that. I’d leave myself notes in my pockets saying, “Father is dead,” if I had to.

      I got up from the table quickly, held back my tears and packed the rest of Ivy’s dresses.

      * * *

      Later, I was sitting on our front porch, reading, when Ivy came and sat at my feet.

      “It’s like he left us a present, Rose. Papa gave us one last adventure. I can’t tell you how that comforts me,” she said, a dreamy look in her eye.

      “Did you know about him?” I asked.

      “Know about who?”

      “Did you know about Asher? Did father tell you on one of your trips? I know you two had your own language. Be honest, Ivy. I need to know.”

      She stood up, her face red and angry. “No. I didn’t know. Do you think I could have sustained this whole charade? Do you think so little of me that I would have kept so large a secret from you? Honestly, Rose...sometimes I think you don’t know me at all.”

      Then she stormed back in the house.

      I followed her inside. My whole world was bobbed, like Ivy’s hair, at bold angles. Very little was making sense, so I did the proper thing. I made supper.

      * * *

      A few foggy days full of packing and planning passed. Ivy flitted around, but I wasn’t surprised. I saw her at breakfast and at dinner. She must have been wandering by the lake, because she’d come home disheveled and muddy. If she’d chosen to grieve alone, it would have been nice to let me know. As it was, I thought she was simply running away again.

      I was surprised at how easy it was to empty the house of our personal belongings. Life is much more fleeting and changeable than I’d thought.

      I was the one who sheeted the furniture and put the better china in the secret attic space. I was the one who got the locksmith to put dead bolts on the doors. I was the one who rang Mr. Lawrence when we knew the date we were to leave. And it’s a good thing I did, or we would have had to drag our trunks to the station.

      The morning Ivy and I left for New York City, Mr. Lawrence came to fetch us.

      “How very gallant of you, Lawrence...but I’ll walk. I feel as if the air would do me good,” said Ivy. “Besides, I’ve always had this vision of myself walking down the road without turning back. I’m no Lot’s Wife. Not me.”

      “Would you like to make sure you have everything you need, Ivy?” I asked.

      “You are the most organized person I’ve ever met, sister. I’m sure I’ll be all set.” Then, with a quick nod to Lawrence, and a “See you on the platform, Rose!” to me, Ivy left for the train station where she would send the telegram to Empire House letting them know what time we’d be arriving, and purchase two one-way tickets to New York City.

      “Father babied her, and now I’m going to have to make sure she doesn’t get ruined by New York. She really is impossible,” I said.

      “I know it isn’t my place, Rose. But do you think you could learn to trust one another, you and Ivy?”

      “Trust her? You must be joking. Have you sat too long in the sun?”

      “Would it make a difference if I told you that your father mentioned he wished the two of you were closer?”

      “Are you hiding something, Lawrence? Because if you are....”

      “Let’s go, Rose. I’d hate for you to miss your train,” he said, saving me from trying to conjure up an empty threat.

      As he started his motorcar, I walked through the house one more time. Saying goodbye to it. “I’ll come back to you,” I said. But it didn’t answer me, the house. It felt hollow, and its hollowness hurt my soul.

      * * *

      I found Ivy sitting on a bench at the very end of the platform.

      “Hiya!” she said, getting up to greet me.

      “You didn’t even say goodbye to Mr. Lawrence. You can be a very self-centered girl,” I said.

      “I don’t like anything drawn out—you know that,” she said, melting back onto the bench, slouched over. I sat next to her as tall as I possibly could.

      “I’m afraid your dress may make the wrong impression when we finally meet Nell Neville,” I said. She was wearing a purple satin drop-waist dress with a beaded fringe. The back fell into a deep V and the front exposed more neck than I wanted to look at. Her stockings were showing, and her shoes were black heels with a small strap, showing the top of her foot as well as her ankles. She was as good as naked.

      “No, Rose. You are the one who will make a poor impression. I told you to leave those clothes behind. You look like a servant or an old lady. Either way, it’s not good. Plus, you’re going to sweat to death in The City. No lake breeze there, honey.”

      She threw one of her legs over the iron arm of the bench and leaned into me.

      A train far off in the distance sang its song. Ivy bit her nails. “When we were little you loved that sound,” she said. “Did you know that? We used to lie in bed together and play that game ‘Where is it going?’ and then we’d make up fantastic adventures.”

      “Don’t bite your nails, Ivy. It’s a childish, unclean habit.” I said, not acknowledging her memory, even though I did, in fact, recall it.

      She looked at me and smiled. A true, infectious smile, one that always softened any roughness I felt toward her. Ivy has that affect on people, causing whiplash of affection. “Darling, of course I remember,” I said. “I’m just not in the mood for memories right now. Tunnel of grief and all that.” She nodded her head and sat back up.

      On that platform, with my high-laced boots crossed at the ankle, and Ivy slinking lower down on the bench every second, all I could do was read my copy of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s A Few Figs From Thistles. I especially liked the poem entitled “MacDougal Street,” though it made me cry.

      

      

      “He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,

      (I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears!)

      And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;

      (Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)”

      

      

      I clutched the book to my breast and hoped against hope that Empire House wasn’t anywhere near MacDougal Street.

      * * *

      Ivy settled in by the window on the train. She had father’s leather rucksack on her lap and kept buckling and unbuckling the straps. She was quite talkative, which was different than usual.

      I was hoping she’d sleep on the train and I could read. Ivy slept when she was excited about something she had to wait for—she was always the first to bed on Christmas Eve. But as she spoke, I began to understand that she was as nervous as I was about the trip. I found myself worrying about what the city would do to her. It never once occurred to me to worry about myself. My objective was clear: find Asher, convince him to sign the house over to me and get a job to acquire the money to pay the back