A Pledge of Silence (2 page)

The cabby refused the money. “Ma’am, this place doesn’t look so safe. How about I take you to back home? I won’t charge you. Free,
gratis
. It’s a service I offer, helping people in need. My way of giving back.”

Margie’s voice arched. “I’m not in need.” She dropped the cash on the seat and stepped out of the cab, seeing the driver’s puzzled look as he backed down the driveway. The drizzle had stopped, and the sun peeked through patchy clouds. Underfoot, the muddy ground was slippery. She walked to the house with the help of her cane, passing remains of the gardens she had spent so many hours tending. She yanked a few weeds, shook off the dirt, and put the edible ones aside to take home for later. On the porch, her mud-covered garden boots still stood in the corner.

Familiar smells welcomed her when she opened the door. She stared in dismay at her kitchen, however, the countertops strewn with fast-food containers and other detritus of moving, the sink grimier than it had ever been when she lived here.

She turned up the collar of her coat for warmth and walked through the dining and living rooms, both in disarray with furniture displaced, boxes scattered about, and open drawers displaying rejects of the move. Everything would be gone soon, an estate sale, Gary said. She straightened the heavy chairs around her grandmother’s dining room table and closed the drawers of the china cabinet. The room was dingier than she remembered, the drapes hanging limp and the patterned wallpaper curling at the seams.

Her footsteps echoed as she climbed the stairs. Hanging onto the handrail and leaning on her cane, it took a long time to get to the top. Turning, she looked at their steepness. How was she going to get back down? Her hip did not move well in that direction; she had not thought this journey through.

The central hall opened to three bedrooms and a bathroom. The floors were hardwood smoothed from use, and the walls wavy from layers of paint. A leak in the roof had left a stain on the ceiling, and Gary warned her about the upcoming expense. She would be better off in a condo, he urged. A new development was opening near his house.

In the front bedroom, an old flowered rug, still rich in color and soft underfoot, covered a section of floor, damping its squeak. Her grandmother’s cherry highboy and four-poster bed had gracefully aged to a satin patina, and a white chenille spread covered the mattress. Sheer curtains framed tall windows, and roll-down shades provided privacy.

Breathless from the climb, she sat on the end of the bed. This room had been Wade’s and hers from early in their marriage until the day he died, not long after his 65th birthday. They shared an unusual history, and because of it, they were closer than most couples. She embodied his wish for a saner life; he was her rescuer, her rock.

Her cedar chest sat under the window. She opened the lid that felt heavier than she remembered. She dug down through the layers of wool sweaters, blankets, and table linens, uncovering a hatbox filled with letters and mementoes from the war years, memories too precious to destroy but painful to revisit. She placed it on the bed, and her hand lingered over the blue ribbon that held it shut
. “No,”
her mind whispered
, “not now.”

Returning to the cedar chest, she found Barbara’s christening dress, so tiny it looked as if made for a doll. She hugged it to her bosom, longing to recapture the warmth of the petite being who wore it. She gently placed it in the tote bag.

Under the dress, she found the scrapbooks she sought; one navy-blue with bold letters, “Gary Lee,” the other white with gold script, “Barbara Ann.” She put Gary’s aside and took Barbara’s to a comfortable chair in the corner.

She touched the script as if it were Braille, and then opened the cover and slowly turned the pages to read the many new-baby cards of congratulations sent by family and friends. She pored over grainy-gray pictures of her dark-eyed daughter sleeping in the crook of Wade’s arm while he gazed lovingly at her. And others of her looking sleepy and satisfied on Mama’s shoulder after a bath and bottle, and posed with Frank, Irene and Billy in front of the glowing Christmas tree.

Going back in time brought back darker memories of those early years—her feelings of fear and self-loathing, Wade’s distrust, Mama’s worry, and the harrowing sessions with Dr. Garber. Her heart began to pound a wild rhythm, and she quickly closed the scrapbook.

Frightened by her mounting anxiety, knowing its ability to escalate and overwhelm her, she rummaged through the bedside-table drawers, hoping to find a pack of cigarettes. Successful, her hands trembled as she fumbled to light one. Inhaling greedily, she blew out slowly. She smoked it to a stub while mumbling the wisdom she had chanted as a mantra those many years ago,
An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior.
The ritual calmed her, and she dozed.

A noise from downstairs startled her awake. Gary was coming! She limped to the top of the stairs in anticipation, but it was her mother’s voice she heard coming from the kitchen.

“Is that you, Margie?”

She stepped into the shadows, her eyes wide in disbelief.

Her mother said, “You’re early. Daddy was going to pick you up at four.”

She leaned over the rail to peek into the kitchen and saw her 17-year-old self standing by the back door, dressed in a blue-plaid skirt and white sweater. Her red hair was wild and curly. “Oh,” her breath escaped in a whisper. “That’s me! I am so pretty!” She leaned sideways to see more.

Her young self said, “Abe drove me home, Mama.”

“You know I don’t like you riding with Abe. He’s reckless. Yesterday he almost hit the Wilsons’ dog.”

“Abe’s a good driver. The Wilsons should keep their dog out of the road.”

At the kitchen table, 14-year-old Frank, all feet and elbows, taunted, “Abe and Margie sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

Mama said, “That’s enough, Frank. Run out and tell your dad he doesn’t have to pick up Margie. And Margie, as long as you’re here, you can peel the potatoes.”

“I can’t. I have three costumes to finish sewing for the dress rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Don’t say can’t. Peel the potatoes and set the table, and I’ll help you with your sewing after dinner. There’s mail for you on the hall table.”

Young Margie found two pieces of mail addressed to her. She admired the sleek hair-do on the long-necked model on the cover of
Vogue
, an unachievable style with her thick, curly hair. She flipped through a few pages and put it aside. Recognizing the return address on the letter, she wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue.

From the top of the stairs, Margie watched the scene play out before her astonished eyes, willing her young self not to open the letter. She remembered its contents—if only she could pluck it away and change the course of her young life!

Young Margie tore off the short end of the envelope and picked the letter out with two fingers. She read the message from Grand Arbor Hospital School of Nursing in Ann Arbor, congratulating her on her acceptance into their fall class. She shoved the letter back into the envelope and tossed the unwanted message into the hall table drawer.

The phone rang. Answering it on the first ring, she chatted with a smile on her face and a dance in her step as she pivoted in a tight circle. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and yelled, “Mama, can I go out with Abe tomorrow after dress rehearsal?”

Mama’s voice came from the kitchen, “Don’t say
can
. Yes, you
may
.”

Chapter 2

Little River, Michigan, May 1936

The night before the premiere of Lincoln High School’s production of
The Pirates of Penzance
, emotions ran high. After a frenzied dress rehearsal, Margie inspected a poufy dress for rips and stains, then hung it on a rack with a dozen others. She admired the rainbow of colors. With their bright cummerbunds and coordinating lacy bonnets, these simple dresses looked elegant enough for any modern Major General’s bevy of daughters.

Loose-jointed, blond and toting a toolbox, Abe Carson surprised Margie with a kiss on the back of her neck. He and his crew worked for weeks, drawing designs, and building the sets that turned the stage into a rocky seashore. When she turned, he said, “Have you heard? Alan broke his arm.”

Margie covered her mouth with her hand. The chaos of the evening climaxed when Alan fell into the orchestra pit and was rushed to the hospital. Through her fingers, she said, “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, well. The idiot doesn’t know left from right. Are you done? Let’s get out of here.” He helped her with her jacket and led her out the back door. A fine mist made the muddy parking lot slippery and transformed the streetlights to fuzzy orbs against the dark sky.

Abe revved the motor of his dad’s 1934 Oldsmobile and peeled out into traffic, weaving around slower-moving vehicles. He opened the side vent to clear the fogged window, and adjusted the wipers. Not seeing a red light, he accelerated toward a car in the intersection.

“Abe!” Margie screamed as she grabbed the dashboard.

He jerked the steering wheel to the left, causing the car to fishtail and the tires to squeal. Thrown sideways, her elbow bounced off the passenger-side door. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he scoffed, “Aw, I missed it by a mile. You all right?”

“Yes,” she said, although her elbow still hurt when they arrived at the diner. Abe trotted around the front of the car to open her door. Taking her arm, he propelled her through the drizzle, their shoulders hunched up and their heads tucked in turtle-style. Inside, they snaked around mismatched tables and chairs to a booth in the back, hoping they wouldn’t be found by their friends. Tonight, they were celebrating.

A waitress provided paper placemats and cutlery swaddled like babies in thin paper napkins. A classmate who had recently dropped out, she looked tired; a swell under her apron revealed her pregnancy.

Margie avoided looking at the girl’s belly, knowing she would forever be trapped in Little River, this stifling farm town on the outskirts of Ann Arbor. “Hey, how y’doin’? Haven’t seen you around.”

The waitress smiled thinly. “Hangin’ in there. What can I get for you two?”

Abe ordered. “Two hamburgers, no onions, two fries, and two Cokes.”

When they were alone, Margie dug through her purse and retrieved a brightly wrapped gift. She placed it on the table. “Happy ‘going steady’ first anniversary.”

Abe reached in his coat pocket and produced his own gift wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with blue yarn. He placed it on the table next to hers. “Bet you thought I forgot.”

“Not you, fella. I have you trained.” She nudged the gift toward him. “You first.”

Tearing the paper off and tossing it into the ashtray, he opened the box. “Peanut butter fudge! My favorite!” He offered her a piece and took one himself. “Yum! It’s great, Margie. Will you give this recipe to my mom?” He smacked his lips in satisfaction and nudged her gift. “Here, open yours.”

She carefully untied the blue yarn. The tissue paper fell open, revealing a swirl of blues and greens, a touch of black, and flecks of brilliant yellow—a colorful silk scarf. She gasped at its splendor. “It’s gorgeous!” Her face screwed into an expression of discomfort. “Abe, I can’t accept this.”

His smile collapsed. “Why not?”

She loved the scarf. It was beautiful, but her mother would never allow her to keep such an extravagant gift from Abe. It wasn’t proper. She murmured, “This is way too expensive.”

He blushed. “It’s okay, Margie. It’s my mom’s scarf. She said the colors were perfect for you. She wants you to have it.”

Margie was touched by the gift. She was fond of Mrs. Carson, who gave her piano lessons on the ebony grand in the alcove off the Carson’s living room. She treated Margie like a daughter already. “Thank you. Both of you. The colors are my favorites.” She folded the scarf into a triangle and draped it over her shoulders, caressing its softness. She had never owned anything so luxurious.

The food came. Margie and Abe wolfed down the hamburgers and fries, and then lingered over their Cokes.

She asked, “When you leaving for Chicago?”

“I’m not. My uncle has to close the art gallery and can’t hire me.” He shrugged. “Plans change. I’m not crying. I’ll be taking flying lessons. A friend has a Taylorcraft monoplane.”

“Where’d you get that kind of money?”

“No money. I’ll do grub work at the airfield.”

She applied lipstick without looking in a mirror and blotted it on the thin paper napkin. “And this fall then?”

“Yeah. That’s a bitch. Guess I’ll live at home and go to the Michigan Normal College. Dad’s almost happy. We’re having this little altercation.” Abe picked up the spoon and balanced it on his finger. It clanged to the table, and he shoved it aside. “I want to major in Creative Arts, and he wants me to major in anything else. He thinks I should teach. I don’t want to repeat his life.”

Dr. Carson, chairman of the History Department at the college, relished a lively discussion. Margie learned more current events from animated debates over dinner with the Carsons than she ever had in a classroom. She said, “You could do worse.”

“Yeah, teaching’s great, but why just
talk
about life when you can live it? I want to LIVE life.” Abe’s emphasis drew the attention of the other diners. Grinning, he slouched back in his seat. “Why don’t we run away and live life together? Where do you want to go?”

“New York City to study fashion design. I’d give my right arm.” It had been her dream since she was a little girl making doll clothes. She loved sewing, and her teachers said she had a special talent. She pushed her unruly hair back. “You know Dad. He’s set on me being a nurse. I’ve been accepted at Grand Arbor. I got the letter last night.”

The diner filled with truckers coming in for the blue-plate special, a piece of lemon meringue pie, and a 15-cent shower in the shed around back. Margie watched two waitresses hustle between the tables and the long chrome-and-white counter, taking orders, delivering food, clearing dishes, and depositing dime tips into their red and white apron pockets.