Page 48 of My Darling Girls

“The simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

Jo meets Ira’s hard gaze. It must be Gertrude.

When Gertie is upset, we all are.

This is the simplest explanation. And it’s the most logical one. She hates herself for not seeing it clearly, for not piecing it all together faster. For not even considering the possibility. But more than that, she hates that she let Grace down.

“What are you going to do?” she asks. Suddenly, she desperately wants to be back in Millville, by the river, where the trees are tall and lush, and the warm morning sun plays softly on her skin. She wants to be with Miss Lambert, her hair wild and falling into her beautiful eyes. Her lips, beckoning Jo into oblivion. Jo wants to be anywhere but here.

“Gertie’s my sister. Her methods might be unconventional. She gets angry easily. But she still loves her children.” His tone is soft, but it does little to lessen the dread that takes root in Jo’s bloodstream. “I’ll talk to her. Ask her to stop. But it doesn’t change anything. I still don’t want Grace coming here.” He finishes his whiskey, sets the empty glass on the vanity, by the burn mark. He takes a step toward the door and pauses. “This marriage is a gift. It’ll get Grace out of the house. Away from her mother.”

It starts to rain outside. The soft whisper of rain against the glass does nothing to calm Jo’s racing thoughts. “Who’s the lucky man?”

“Why, Finn, of course. That boy needs to settle down too.”

“He’s her cousin,” Jo exhales, shocked.

Ira laughs, a dry sound. A rattle of a snake. “They’re not related. Finn was a runaway boy when I took him in. A scrawny, wild thing.” He looks briefly at Jo. “I’ll hire you to do the wedding photos. Unless you prefer only the dead nowadays.”

“Grace doesn’t want to get married. She doesn’t love Finn. She doesn’t want any of this. You know about Sally, don’t you? You’ll put Grace in a cage and ruin her life.” Biting down on her lower lip, Jo looks out the window at the gray sky. She shouldn’t say things like that. Not to a man. Certainly not to Ira.

“You’ve got some mouth on you,” Ira says darkly, but then he chuckles. “I like that about you.” Jo tightens the shawl around her, her mattress creaking under her weight as she tries to shift deeper into the bed, away from him.

Without another word, Ira walks out of the room, retreating into the gloom and, finally, leaving her alone.

Little Trinkets

Jo leaves the studio and splurges on a hansom in the direction of Clark Street, where she takes a northbound trolley. She finds a seat and allows herself to relax. The bumpy motion of the cable car lulls her into sleepiness, but she forces herself to stay alert; for what she’s about to do, she needs a clear head.

She walks the rest of the way, blocks and blocks north, and when she arrives at her destination, the gray daylight is fading, and there are tall shadows on the concrete.

Jo strides across the path, ascends the stairs, and steps closer to the door. She reaches her hand to knock but hesitates. It’s a reckless and stupid venture—returning to the house where she witnessed torture. Where violent men plan their crimes. Why is she really here? To talk Grace out of marrying Finn? What if Ira’s right, and this marriage is Grace’s true escape? If Grace is not in love with Finn now, perhaps she’ll feel differently about him as time passes. A dull ache brings August back to her mind. She isn’t sure he loved her, for how else would he have been able to sleep in the same bed as her, to eat their meals together at their kitchen table, to look at her, and lie day after day? She isn’t certain she fell in love with August either. But she definitely cared for him—the man she thought she knew. Now, he feels like a stranger.

There’s no point thinking about it now. She lied to August about her own past in a big, profound way too. About Millville. About her father and what had happened to her by the river. With a startling clarity, Jo realizes that neither she nor August knew each other at all. They had built their marriage on a shaky foundation of lies and half-truths but somehow managed to support each other throughout it all. They didn’t let the treachery of their lies consume them.

Are you certain, my darling?

The voice in her head is low and fluid, made of rushing water and a soft breeze. She misses that voice. Jo closes her eyes to catch whatever it says next, but there’s only the sound of the children stomping around the house and a hum of the traffic a block away.

The least she can do is ask Grace what she thinks about this marriage.

As the decision crystalizes, she opens her eyes and lifts her hand again. A child’s shriek pierces the air, startling Jo. Her hand suspended in the air, she listens to children’s shouts and jeers and giggles. Grace’s voice says something, but the words are drowned out by the traffic noise, the horse’s hooves on the street behind Jo. Perhaps she is foolish to think she can help Grace avoid the marriage. But she must try. Jo will carry her mistakes for the rest of her life. Grace doesn’t have to.

And so she raps on the door.

The children go quiet. Then light footsteps approach, and Grace appears on the threshold.

“Jo,” the girl exhales uneasily, shifting her weight on the creaking floorboards. “What an unexpected surprise.” Grace’s white blouse has red spots that look like a smeared jam, and her long black woolen skirt is so severely wrinkled, Jo suspects Grace might’ve slept in it. Her feet are bare. The little boy—Charlie, Jo recalls his name with difficulty—wearing nothing but a long white shirt, stands behind her, wide eyed and curious, head bent to the side. His hair is matted, and the shirt has ashy spots on it, but the shape of his face and the blue in his eyes are identical to Grace’s. He nibbles at his thumb.

Jo smiles. “I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by.”

“Oh, I see.” Grace inspects Jo, probably taking in every detail—her face flushed from a brisk walk, a slightly disheveled hairdo with a few pins coming loose, the shortness of breath. Grace’s chin relaxes, and her expression acquires its usual softness. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you.” Jo nods. They go to the kitchen, Charlie following Grace. It’s warm inside, and the heavy smell of must and stale food fills the air. Jo forgot how colorless the space inside is—white, mostly bare wall contrasting the brown floorboards. The three mirrors in the hallway are covered with the bright-white cloth. Jo remembers this house. This hallway—its dimness and its shadows. The mirrors are familiar, and the stale air that fills her lungs brings back the night of her first visit. She looks around to make sure there are no men in the house. That it’s just Grace and the children. Her only excuse, prepared in advance and so pitifully foolish, is that she’s here to discuss with Ira his offer to take the wedding photos. “No one else in the house?” she asks to be certain, and when Grace shakes her head, Jo doesn’t bother to suppress a sigh of relief.

At the table big enough to sit six people, Grace takes a chair, and Jo lowers herself in another. There are some dirty cups on the table and crumbs of bread pockmarking the surface. The boy, after some consideration and some more chewing on his fingernail, sits in the third chair. He quickly rearranges the cups, moving them circularly around the table, replacing one cup with another and changing saucers and spoons.

“Charles,” Grace says tiredly. “It’s enough.” She picks up the cups and takes them to the counter.