Empire Girls. Suzanne & Loretta Hayes & Nyhan
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out of bed, flew down the stairs and then brought his bedtime tea back up.
“Here you are, Papa. See, I will always bring your tea. No matter how late I must stay awake,” I said, placing the cup by his lamp and pulling the quilt up tight around him as I fluffed his pillows. He didn’t complain or tell me not to fuss over him like usual.
“Is something wrong, Papa?” I asked.
He settled back against the pillows and took his tea. The cup clattered in the saucer. I held his hands steady as he took a sip, and then guided them back to place it safely on the nightstand once again.
“I suppose I could tell you that everything is fine. But you are Rosemary Lillian Adams. Not Ivy. And you deserve the truth.”
“You are scaring me, Papa. What did Lawrence say?”
“Just a bit of trouble with money. But don’t worry too much, Rose. I’ll sell the new book any day now.”
“I can sew more dresses, Papa. And I should be charging more for the lace collars anyway,” I said, sitting on the bed next to him.
“Well, to be honest, Rosemary, we may need far more than my book of plants and your sewing skills. But I must tell you that now may not be the best time to speak about it, because I am very tired. Perhaps the sun will shine on us tomorrow and our financial future will be less bleak. Let’s look at it from a new perspective in the morning...what do you say?”
“I believe it will all work out. And I don’t want you to worry about anything,” I said.
He reached up and placed his hand on my cheek.
“You’ve taken such good care of us. Promise me you’ll keep looking out for Ivy. No matter what. She needs you. Things may get... Well... If I’m busy. Promise me?”
“Of course I will,” I said and kissed his cheek.
“Rose?” he said, stopping me as I went to leave...and stopping my heart because he’d called me Rose and not Rosemary.
“Yes, Papa?”
“I love you.”
Hot, unbidden tears came to my eyes. Father was always lavish with his love for Ivy. It was not the same with me.
“I love you, too, Papa,” I said.
I read my book late into the night and thought about ways to make money. I’d convinced myself that I’d go work at a mill or even become a housemaid. Something that would keep us afloat until our father sold his books.
I woke feeling unworried, and stretched in the silvery morning light.
I heard Ivy’s laughter as she entered our father’s room, and smiled. Though I was sometimes jealous of their closeness, I was happy that morning because I knew Ivy could cheer our father like no other.
But then her voice broke off, and a deep wail began. It grew into a hollow sound that broke my heart before I knew it could be broken. I ran to her, my sister. I ran to her and tried to make sense of what she said to me through her choking sobs.
“He’s dead. Rose. He’s dead!”
She hid her head against my chest. My knees must have gone weak, because I stumbled backward, and we both fell against the wall. We slid down it, together, grasping at one another, staying entangled there until the sun rose too high for us to ignore our reality.
CHAPTER 2
Ivy
I DIDN'T KNOW how to grieve.
While the undertaker began discussing finalities with Rose, I sneaked out the back door. The weather was pleasant, and I imagined my father throwing up his arms as he always did on the warm days of late spring, shouting, “aces-high in the ever-loving sky!” to the blinding sun. The garden he’d recently turned ran wide and deep, leading to a freshly planted field of barley. Beyond that, the road beckoned, the one leading to Albany, and beyond even that, New York City. After squelching the urge to hitchhike, I stretched out across the damp grass and tried not to think about the sound of the casket being transferred to the waiting hearse. The ground held the trace of a chill, and I shivered, closing my eyes as the cold seeped into my dress. What would it feel like to sink into the endless earth? To never feel it under my feet again?
“It’s time to leave, Ivy.”
I blinked up at my sister. She wore a dress she’d sewn the night before, a prim, black buttoned-up number that covered everything but her face and hands. Rose’s eyes were puffy and raw, and her soft blond hair was twisted into a tight, unforgiving knot behind her head. I wished she’d let it loose, unfurled like Rapunzel’s rope. I could climb it up to the bright blue sky, leaving this awful day behind.
“Do we have to go now?”
She frowned. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
The sun’s rays kissed the top of Rose’s head. I didn’t want to do anything but watch it shimmer. “You should let your hair down,” I said. “You’d feel the breeze if you did.”
Rose grasped my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. “I’m not sure where your mind is at, but the undertaker is ready for the procession to the cemetery.”
Procession? The few mourners from town—some clients of father’s and the odd academic or two—had departed once they’d satisfied their morbid curiosity. Our neighbors, respectful of our privacy, left sandwiches and canned asparagus at the back door, along with a prayer card. I preferred their method.
Rose brushed the dirt from my dress and guided me toward the hearse parked on our cobblestone portico. Dressed in black suits, the undertaker and his men rushed about like a flock of Poe’s ravens, flittering in and out of the house, opening and closing doors, ushering us into the hot cocoon of the hearse’s inner cabin. I immediately opened a window and stuck my head into the spring air. Rose kept her window closed and turned her back to the glass.
The car moved slowly through downtown Forest Grove. We passed the grocery, where Mr. Madden was sweeping the entryway. He stopped and saluted as our sedan passed.
“Does he know father wasn’t in the armed forces?” Rose asked. I nearly jumped a foot when she said it. I hadn’t noticed she’d moved so close to me.
“I don’t think he knows what else to do.” I saluted him back.
We passed the butcher, the watchmaker, the cobbler—the three men standing in front of their establishments, heads bowed as we lumbered by.
Rose leaned forward to get a better look. “Are they praying?”
“I think so.” A lump formed quickly in my throat. Father had been an eccentric presence in town, but never failed to offer a smile and a tip of the hat to every soul he encountered. They remembered him, and their tribute touched my heart. I twitched with the unexpected desire to embrace the entire town.
We turned down Plum Street, just blocks from the graveyard. Mrs. O’Neill herself stepped out of O’Neill’s Coiffures. Father brought me to her salon the previous fall, where I sat perched at the edge of a lavender stool while the old lady bobbed my hair with a ruler. I’d asked her to make me look like Clara Bow and she didn’t bat an eyelash, humming “Ain’t We Got Fun” the whole time she had the scissors at my neck. I waved and called to her.
“This isn’t a parade,” Rose muttered. She retreated to her dark corner of the cabin.
“But it is,” I said. “Open your window and have a look behind us.”
Mrs. O’Neill joined a group following the hearse on foot. I spotted Mr. Madden, white starched apron still tied tightly around his waist, and Mr. Lawrence, father’s solicitor. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. Mrs. O’Neill offered him a quick smile, and he took her arm.
“Do you think they’ll come back to the house afterward?” Rose asked, worrying at her