The Orphan Collector. Ellen Marie Wiseman
chair and wiped her arm across her mouth, trying to control her roiling stomach. Sweat broke out on her forehead. When she could breathe again without gagging, she pulled the money from her pocket and counted it. Three dollars. More than likely the markets and vendor stands were closed too, and the nearest one was ten blocks away anyway, but maybe she could buy food from one of her neighbors.
Trying not to wake the twins, she pulled two grocery sacks from a wicker basket beneath the table and put them in the coat pockets. Then she took the pillow from her bed, picked up the boys’ rattles and bottles, and stood looking at Ollie and Max, dreading what she had to do next. Just the thought of it nauseated her. She took Mutti’s red scarf from the hook next to the front door, held it over the burning cigar for a minute, then tied it over her nose and mouth. It wasn’t perfect, but it would help.
She held the pillow in the cigar smoke too, then took a deep breath, went back into the bedroom, and put it on the floor of the cubby, pushing it down along the edges and the corners to make a soft bed. After leaving the bottles and rattles on the pillow, she went to get the boys, trying to decide which one to move first. Max slept more soundly, but Ollie usually slept longer.
Moving slowly, she swaddled Ollie’s blanket around him, lifted him from the bed, lowered the scarf from over her mouth, and lightly kissed his tiny, soft head. He squirmed and started to wake, then whimpered and went back to sleep, snuggling against her chest. She carried him into the bedroom and carefully laid him on the pillow inside the cubby.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
He took up more room than she’d thought. Maybe the twins wouldn’t fit in there together. For a second, she wavered, but then her stomach cramped again and she knew. She had to do it. A few hours of discomfort was better than letting her brothers starve to death.
Moving as fast as she could without running, she tiptoed back into the other room and picked up Max. His legs were pedaling and he was starting to wake. She swaddled him tighter in his blanket, kissed his forehead, and rocked him back and forth, humming softly. After a few moments, he quieted and went back to sleep. She breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way she could put the boys in the cubby if they were awake. She just couldn’t. It would be too hard.
She pulled her blanket off the bed and took Max into the bedroom, relieved to find Ollie still asleep. She knelt and laid Max beside him, placing them back-to-back. Ollie squirmed and she reached in and patted his side, holding her breath and praying he wouldn’t wake up. Finally, he put his thumb in his mouth and settled. She took her arm out of the cubby, put her hand on the door, and stared into the gloomy space, tears blurring her vision.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I promise, I’ll be right back.” She started closing the door, watching the twins until the last second. “Just keep sleeping and you’ll never even know I was gone.” Then the latch clicked shut and she sat frozen on her knees, her heart thumping in her chest, waiting to see what would happen. If one of the boys woke up, she wasn’t sure what she would do. But no crying came from inside the cubby, no whimpering or wailing or panicked shrieks. Ollie and Max were still sleeping. They would be all right. They had to be.
With tears streaming down her face, she stood and looked at her mother on the bed, praying she’d understand why she had to do this. Surely Mutti would’ve done the same thing if it meant life or death for her children.
“I’ll be back,” Pia whispered. “I promise. Keep them safe for me.”
Swallowing her sobs, she bit her lip and rushed out of the bedroom. She had to leave before she changed her mind. Not only because she felt terrible about putting her brothers in the cubby, but also because she was scared—terrified really—of what she might find outside their safe rooms, where everyone seemed to be dead or dying. She took off the scarf, then realized she needed a mask, like the ones the policemen and other people had been wearing the day the schools and churches closed, and retied the scarf around her nose and mouth. It would have to do. She put on her mother’s oversize coat, thrust her arms into the wool sleeves, and tied the belt around her waist. The bottom hem hung to her ankles and the sleeves hung past her wrists, but between its large pockets and the grocery sacks, she’d be able to carry home plenty of food. She went to the front door and started to turn the knob. Then she heard it.
A baby’s soft cry.
She stared at the bedroom door, trying not to breathe. The only thing she heard was the sound of her blood rushing through her veins and her pulse slamming inside her temples. Maybe she had imagined it. Then the cry grew louder. Pia cringed. It sounded like Ollie. Tears flooded her eyes and her heart thrashed in her chest. She yanked open the door and ran out of the apartment.
CHAPTER FOUR
BERNICE
Keeping an eye on the front door of the row house next to the Langes’, Bernice watched to see if Pia would come back out. If she’d gone to a neighbor’s to pick up something, more than likely she’d be quick about it. But what could possibly be important enough for Pia to leave the safety of her home? And if it was something for the babies, how could Mrs. Lange think it was acceptable to risk one child’s life for another? Bernice wondered again if Mrs. Lange was dead. And if so, who was taking care of those precious twin boys?
After what felt like forever, Pia was nowhere to be seen. Bernice couldn’t take it any longer. She had to know why Pia left and, most of all, if the twins were all right. She just had to. Without giving it another thought, she spun around, grabbed her coat, and hurried out of the apartment.
Squinting in the dank hallway, she walked as fast as she could without running. The aroma of fried onions filled the dim corridor, along with an underlying stench of something that reminded her of rotten meat. She nearly tripped over a rusted bucket, then gave a wide berth to a lumpy seed sack crumpled against one wall. It was tied shut at one end and covered in maggots and flies. She couldn’t imagine what was inside. Two black ribbons hung from the door handle of the apartment at the top of the stairs, the rooms that belonged to the widow, Mrs. Duffy, and her sons.
That’s what you get for being a know-nothing drunkard, she thought. You should have stuck with your own kind, instead of coming here to cause trouble with the rest of the bog-jumpers. Her thoughts were unchristian, but she didn’t care. Mrs. Duffy was lazy and trying. She let her sons yell out the windows, and she sang loud, strange songs in the hallways in her heavy Irish brogue, using words no one understood. She showed too much cleavage and came home late at night, her face flush with alcohol, her hair a mess. Bernice couldn’t count the number of times she’d peeked out her door after midnight to watch Mrs. Duffy fumble with her key in the hall, mumbling and unaware she was being watched. It wasn’t right for a mother to behave that way. Bernice wasn’t sure who the ribbons on the Duffys’ door were for, but one thing was clear: Mrs. Duffy had paid for her sins.
As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she cringed. If Mrs. Duffy was punished for her sins, what about me? What did I do to deserve losing my husband and son? She gripped the staircase railing to keep from falling and went down the dark steps, around and around and around, like the dizzying notions inside her head. She was a moral woman and loving mother. She was fair-minded and kind, and she had been a virtuous wife to her husband. She hadn’t done anything to deserve losing him or Wallis. The flu took whomever it wanted. By the time she reached the bottom floor, she was woozy and breathless, and one of her headaches had started. She stopped in the foyer and rubbed her temples, trying to focus on the task at hand. She needed to find out why Pia had left her building, and if the twins were still alive. She wasn’t sure what she would do if the babies were dead from the flu, but she had to know one way or another. Then she had another thought. What if Mrs. Lange answered the door and wanted to know what she was doing there? How would she explain herself? Anger churned at the bottom of her rib cage again. If Mrs. Lange was there, Bernice would let her know in no uncertain terms that she was crazy and careless for letting her daughter outside at a time like this. If Pia were her child, she’d have kept her home, where she was safe.
Crossing the foyer, she grabbed the handle of the front door, ready to march across the street and give Mrs. Lange a piece of her mind. Then