Chapter 21 #2
“Thank you.” I poured my coffee. I knew what her compliment really meant. In her mind, I’d carried on with my rules about Shirley for too long. I was being dramatic. Enough was enough. We both knew I didn’t have to be at the library until eleven.
“I’ll feed her,” I said. “Go take a bath.”
She kissed me on the cheek and said she’d be quick. As soon as she was out of the room, Shirley let out a howl of sorrow.
“Now now.” I closed my eyes, trying to get in character.
I hated the sound of Shirley’s crying, the helplessness of it, the persistence.
I hated hearing it even when I was back in my bed, the covers pulled over my head.
Some people just shrug off a baby crying because that’s what babies do, but if you look at them, you see their pain, their frustration.
Their worry and sadness—it’s all real to them, and frightening.
Still, as Shirley pounded and cried, part of me thought, Oh, you’re upset because your mother left you for ten minutes?
Try a lifetime. Think how that feels. I told myself that my own daughter was probably just fine, getting love and everything she needed from the nice people with the piano.
When I picked up the bowl of carrots and tapped the spoon against the bowl’s edge, Shirley went quiet, staring at the bowl. I sat at the table beside her.
“I like carrots, too,” I said. “Which makes sense. You and I are sisters.” I was pushing myself, trying.
I knew if I kept not looking at Shirley, and never holding her, my list of regrets might grow even longer.
But I rarely got this close to her. From where I sat, I could pick up the sweet, milky scent of her breath.
“I’m sorry,” I said, still stirring. “It’s not your fault. Never said it was.”
She glowered at me with teary eyes. Behind me, water for Mae’s bath whistled through the pipes. Shirley resumed crying, banging her spoon on her tray.
“She’s coming back.” I blew on the carrots.
“I promise.” I turned on Mae’s little radio for distraction.
What I got was the opening strains of “White Christmas,” hardly a surprise in December, but I started to laugh in a giving-up kind of way.
I thought of the nurse at Shaded Acres who’d yelled at us for feeling sorry for ourselves.
I wondered if her husband was still in Korea, and if that nurse was yelling at a whole new crop of crying pregnant girls, and pointing out that “White Christmas” wasn’t written for them.
Shirley reached for the carrots. When I told her no, they were still too warm, her screaming grew louder. I got a piece of ice out of the freezer and stirred that in, then tasted a spoonful on my tongue. “Okay,” I said. “Problem solved. Thank you for your patience.”
She really was crazy about carrots. As soon as I nudged the bowl in front of her, she used the spoon she’d been banging to dig right in.
I knew Mae meant for me to watch her, so I stayed where I was, listening to “White Christmas,” and wondering about Wanda, again living in whatever town she’d come from, scared of blue moons and more betrayal; Lucy might be in college, getting ready for final exams, maybe still at war with her mother, but free forever from marrying Vernell.
I wondered about the unknown girls who were at the home now, sleeping in the beds we’d slept in, scared out of their minds, and going downstairs to listen to the same crew of volunteers: the makeup artist, the ballet instructor, the woman who’d had us make collages.
I wondered if Miss Berry was still working in her office, or if she’d married the man who sent the roses.
And I of course wondered about Carol. When I first got back to St. Pete, I still had her address memorized, and I wrote it on a scrap of paper, then taped the scrap to the ceiling of the closet I shared with Janet.
But I hadn’t written to her, and I had no plans to.
When she gave me her address, she thought she was keeping her baby, or she was pulling my leg.
Shirley had only eaten maybe a third of the carrots when “White Christmas” ended and the news came on.
The North Koreans and Chinese, as part of cease-fire negotiations, had released their list of UN prisoners, and the list included the names of over three thousand American soldiers currently held captive in North Korea.
President Truman said that this list was unverified and should be treated with skepticism, but The New York Times had gone ahead and published the list in its entirety, printing each man’s name, rank, and service number.
The reporter moved on to news of a Thai prince getting married in Paris, then said he had to break for another commercial.
Shirley swayed her head to the Pepsodent jingle, which made her spoon miss her mouth by an inch. She thought that was pretty funny. I laughed with her, but I had the feeling of walking in high heels. When I heard the bathwater turn off, I was glad.
I gave Shirley the thumbs-up. “She’s almost done,” I said.
When she finished eating. I cleaned her face and arms and got the message that she needed a new diaper, so I carried her back to the room she still shared with my father and Mae.
Almost every day, Janet wanted to know when Shirley’s crib would move into our room.
Mae kept putting her off, and I understood she was continuing to give up both spaciousness and privacy out of kindness to me. But that couldn’t go on forever.
When Mae came out, dressed and refreshed, I handed Shirley over, packed my lunch, and left for the library on my bike.
It was a pretty winter day—the breeze pleasant, the sun bright.
I didn’t pedal with any particular urgency, but I arrived early enough for my shift that I had time to walk around the lake before I went in.
Instead, I went right up the steps and inside, where I said hello to the librarian at the front desk before making a beeline to the newspapers.
The library had its own subscription to The New York Times.
The front page noted the prisoner list, along with a forecast of more icy weather and a report of Russia executing two American spies.
I set the paper on a nearby table, and turned one page, and then another, my gaze moving over smaller news items and advertisements for Christmas gifts.
Give her what she’ll love! Ho ho Hoover.
The list of prisoners started on page 14, the names printed so small I had to lean over and squint.
I found Leonard’s name on page 15, between Lieb, Thomas, and Liles, Paul. I still had his service number memorized, from writing it on so many envelopes.
I folded the paper, and I put it back in its place. I walked back over to the librarian I’d just said hello to and told her I was sorry I couldn’t stay for my shift. She asked if I was okay, and I told her the truth. Before she could ask me anything else, I was already out the door.