Strings Attached

Twenty-nine



Providence, Rhode Island

April 1945



I waited until after school the next day and then I stood in front of the door so that Jamie couldn’t go out to play.

“We’re going to fix this,” I told him. “We can’t depend on Da.”

“How can we fix it?” Muddie asked. Jamie just eyed me in that way he had, waiting for the payoff.

“We’re going to the only person we know who can make this go away,” I said.

Muddie still looked puzzled as she bent over to buckle her shoe. But Jamie nodded.

“Mr. Benedict,” he said.

“We’d better leave a note,” Muddie said. “Da will be back before we are. He’s coming straight home from work now.”

“We never leave a note,” I said.

“Things are different now,” Jamie said, and he got out the pencil and paper. “Now we’re the perfect kids, remember? What if the social worker comes again, and Da doesn’t know where we are?”

By the time we reached Atwells Avenue, we were hungry and my socks had disappeared into my shoes. We stood outside the plain brown building, hesitant. I had been expecting an office building, something impersonal. This looked like someone’s house. The gold lettering on the window, NATE BENEDICT ATTORNEY-AT-LAW, made everything seem too serious. Would he help us?

I walked to the house, stood on tiptoe, and tried to peek through the slats of the blinds. I got a fractured image of a man sitting at a desk.

“Come on,” I said to Jamie and Muddie. “We’re here, so we might as well go in.”

And before Muddie could think of a reason not to, I rapped on the door.

The door opened, and there he was, standing in his shirtsleeves and looking at me in surprise. “Kitty Corrigan,” he said.

“Maybe you remember my brother, James, and my sister, Margaret. We’ve come to…” I hesitated. Why would he let us in if he didn’t know we were serious? I had a sudden inspiration. “Hire you.”

“I see. Maybe you should come in, then.”

I beckoned fiercely to the others. We walked into a dark foyer. There was a closed door on one side, and a staircase facing us. To the left, the office door was open. Nate gestured for us to go in.

We stood uncertainly on the rug until he gestured again to a couch against one wall. We sat. He pulled up a chair and tilted his head to one side.

“Now. What seems to be the problem?”

I liked that, what seems to be the problem, like maybe the problem was in our heads and could be easily solved by someone like him.

“It’s about our Aunt Delia,” I said.

He reared back a bit, then knotted his fingers together. “Go on.”

“She wants to take us away.”

Nate got up abruptly and went to the table near his desk. “Would you like some cookies? I have cookies.” He was already opening a bakery box and putting the cookies on a plate. With his back to us, he said, “Please go on, Kitty.”

“She says Da is unfit, and she wants us,” I said. “We don’t want to go!” Muddie burst out. “She thinks we’ll be better off,” Jamie said. “But we won’t.”

“Is she suing for custody, then?” Nate asked. He stood, holding the plate.

“A lady came around and talked to us. And then a letter came in the mail.”

“And your father opposes it?”

“Of course!” Jamie cried. “He told her to go away and never come back. She’s already moved out!”

Muddie swallowed rapidly, her eyes on the plate. “So Kit thought maybe you would know what to do.”

“Seeing that you knew our dad back when you were pals,” Jamie added.

“And we don’t have anybody else to turn to,” I said. I’d heard a line like that in the movies; people in the movies were always saying they didn’t have anybody to turn to. I pictured them spinning round and round, turning, as the people they knew became a blur, impossible to pick out.

He looked out the window. “When did this happen?”

“Last month. She came home early — we thought she was away, on one of her retreats, but she came home, and… she saw our dad….”

“He was fornicating with Elena,” Jamie said. He looked at Muddie when she gasped. “Well, we might as well tell him.”

“Elena?”

“She used to cook for us,” Muddie said in a hushed voice. “In the summers, and weekends, when Delia was away. But now she’s just our friend. She’s… Portuguese.”

“Anyway, she wants to take us away from him, and it’s not fair at all,” I said. “If you could only help us somehow. Da said you’re important, that you know how to get things done. He says you’re a great man,” I added, even though Da had said no such thing.

Nate focused his attention on me. I clasped my hands together. The time had gone when I could rely on being cute. I was twelve, with bony knees and a skinny face. My red hair made me look freakish now, I was certain. But I tried to conjure up some semblance of my old adorableness.

“If I help you, you’ll owe me a favor,” he said to me. “You understand?”

He was looking at me seriously, not humoring me, the way adults usually did. I nodded.

“Shake on it?”

I put my hand in his. I remembered to grip it hard. We shook.

“All right, then. It’s a deal.”

There was a sharp rap at the front door.

“Well,” Nate said. “It appears that this is my busy day.”

We heard the murmur of voices and we exchanged a panicked glance. It was Da. If we could have scrambled out the back window, we would have.

Da followed Nate into the room. One look told us how much trouble we were in.

“I’ll deal with you lot in a bit,” Da said to us. “Go outside while I apologize to Mr. Benedict.”

“Jimmy, it’s all right,” Nate said. “The children are upset. They have a right to be.”

“It’s family business, Nate, and none of yours.”

“Why not, if he can help us?” I burst out. “It’s not like you’re doing anything!”

“Kitty Corrigan!” Da roared. “Mind your manners!”

“I’ll mind them outside, if you don’t mind,” I said primly. I walked out with all the dignity I could. Nate Benedict had treated me like a grown-up, and I wasn’t about to let Da turn me back into a child.

But we were desperate to hear what Da would say, and so instead of waiting outside on the sidewalk, we followed the concrete walk on the side of the house to a backyard, hoping to sneak near the open window.

On the patio was a round table and chairs, and a boy sat on top of the table with a camera, aiming it above at the sky. He heard our footsteps and turned, and I remembered him from the night we’d had ice cream. Billy.

We approached him warily. We knew, the whole city knew, that his cousin Michael had been killed in a car crash just a month or so before. He’d been sixteen, just two years older than Billy. Hundreds of people had attended the funeral. We didn’t know his cousin and didn’t know him, but the death of a young relative was serious enough to make us kinder than we might have been normally.

“Hello,” I said. “That’s a nice camera.”

He looked down at us, and I figured he knew who we were.

Ignoring us, he put the camera back up against his face. That was okay, that was fine — we were in his neighborhood.

He turned and looked at me through the camera. “Whatcha doing?” I asked. “Shooting birds.”

I’d never seen a camera like that before, with dials and gears and levers. And people didn’t take photographs much — it was too hard to get film during the war.

“What kind of camera is that? A Brownie?” I asked, even though I knew it wasn’t.

He snorted. “It’s an Argus C3.”

I hoisted myself next to him. “How do you get film?”

“My dad gets it.” He lowered the camera.

I looked down at the camera, then back up at him. For a moment, we looked into each other’s eyes. Something ran between us, like we each had hold of a string by the end and were pulling it level and taut.

“We came to hire your dad. Our dad’s in there now.”

“Yeah?” he said. “My dad is good at making things go away.” He didn’t say it in a bragging way. He said it in a way that made his mouth twist. “You got kicked out?”

“Yeah.”

He regarded me silently for a moment. I’d never met a boy with a gaze like that, unblinking, like his camera, just taking me in. Most boys never met my eyes. They stared at the ground, or hooted at me, or pulled my hair, or ignored me completely even though I knew they were aware of me the whole time.

“You want to see what’s going on in there?” he asked. “I’ve got a way.”

I shrugged.

“It’ll cost you a nickel.”

I shrugged again. I knew better than to show too much interest.

“We need a lookout.” Billy looked at each of us appraisingly. “Her,” he said, pointing to Muddie.

“Okay,” Muddie said, relieved not to have to join in whatever he was planning.

He held out his hand for the nickel.

“Forget it, then,” I said, even while Jamie fished in his pocket. “How about it’ll cost you a dollar so I don’t tell your father that you spy on him?”

He eyed me furiously, his face suddenly flushing a dark red. “Fink.”

“Snake.”

Jamie looked from one of us to the other, the nickel in his fist.

“You’re just chicken,” Billy said.

Well, that was that. I knew the rules. I couldn’t back down now. I nodded at Jamie, and he put a nickel in the boy’s hand.

“Gotta get something first,” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

He hopped off the table and I followed. He went to a half door in the side of the building, the old coal cellar. He paused on the top of the ramp going down. “What are you doing?”

“Following you.”

He turned his back to me, but I shifted and watched him lift one of the bricks that lined the ramp and take out a key. He fitted it into the padlock.

The way he pushed open the door let me know he wouldn’t stop me from coming in after him. That he wanted me to come in.

I’d been expecting just a coal cellar, made of stone and brick, filthy from years of the coal coming down the chute that was there before the slanted walk. Instead it was a workroom, with a lightbulb hanging overhead, a table, and photographs stacked on it with wavy edges. A doorway led toward the cellar, shrouded in darkness.

Billy straightened a pile of photographs while I looked at the top of the pile closest to me. It was of a house with dark windows that looked like eyes. Another was of a man sitting on a chair outside in the sun talking to another man, except all you could see was their bellies and their hands. Somehow you knew they were having an argument, and maybe that they hated each other, and I didn’t know why. I pushed that one aside and saw another, a view straight down some train tracks, the landscape blurred on the sides. Billy came over to stand next to me.

“This one is scary,” I said.

“When I go someplace on a train, I like to be in the first car,” he said. “I like to see what’s coming at me. And I like to be the first one there. Subways in New York are the best. You can stand right up against the window.”

“I haven’t been to New York,” I admitted.

I picked up one of a man shot through a restaurant window. He was holding a forkful of something, and he was looking off to the side. I could see this guy, how carefully he combed his hair, how his shirt was too tight but he thought he looked pretty swell. I laughed.

“I’ve never seen pictures like these,” I said. It seemed like a great and wonderful thing, to be able to look at the world through a camera lens. “You make everything look more real than it is, somehow.”

“I develop them myself.”

“With chemicals and stuff?” I tried to keep the admiration out of my voice.

“Yeah, this is my darkroom. My dad let me set it up here. I can only use it on weekends, though. Weekdays are for school.”

“That’s too bad.” I touched one of the photographs. “If I could do this, I’d want to do it all the time.”

We looked at each other, and I saw that I’d made him happy, only he was trying not to show it.

“Yeah.” He turned to pick up a lens sitting on the table.

I moved toward the last stack of photos. This one was taken outside a window into a dimly lit room. I could see a woman from behind. She was pulling her sweater up, as though she was about to slip it over her head. I could see a couple of inches of white skin. A coat was thrown over a couch, I could just see the end of it.

I jumped back as he tossed the other stack on top of it. “Things get messy in here. Come on.”

I followed him out. I saw relief on Jamie’s face that I’d emerged. Billy led us to a tree in the sandy area near the garage and carefully screwed the lens into the camera while he asked, “Are you afraid of heights?” He pointed to the tree with his chin.

In answer, I grabbed the lowest branch and swung up. Billy followed, then Jamie, who wasn’t about to let me do this alone. Muddie looked up at us, her mouth open. I motioned for her to go out front and keep watch.

I sat on a high branch, legs swinging. Billy climbed on the branch above and motioned to us. We followed. We were at the roofline now, and the branch was wide, forking out so that there was room for the three of us to sit. I was conscious of his arm against mine. He handed me the camera. “Go ahead, look.”

I put the camera to my eye. I couldn’t see anything at first.

“Turn the lens to focus.”

I turned the lens. I saw the rug in Nate’s office. I shifted the camera slightly and saw Da’s feet. I tilted upward and saw Da standing in front of the couch, talking to Nate.

Da’s face was hidden, he was turned slightly away. I could just see his hands moving, like he was trying to explain something hard. I could see Nate’s face, frowning in concern.

“What do you see?” Jamie said.

“They’re just talking,” I said. “Hardly worth a nickel.”

I swung the camera slightly upward to the window over the office. The blinds were open and I could see a shadowy interior. I realized that I was looking at the same couch that I’d seen in the photograph in Billy’s darkroom.

He pulled the camera away. “Let me focus it for you.” He looked through the lens, his mouth slightly open. “You can tell a lot,” he said, “by the way people stand. You can tell a lot by looking when they don’t think you’re looking.”

I felt guilty, sitting in the tree, spying on Da. Jamie was looking at the boy with a fascinated, intent look in his eyes. Billy handed him the camera and showed him how to work the lens. I was jealous. Two boys absorbed by machinery, and the girl always got left out. Their heads were together, bent over the camera.

“Come on, Jamie.” I sidled over on the branch, closer to the trunk. “Come on.”

“Nate has his arm on Da’s shoulder,” Jamie said, the camera raised to his face. “Now they’re shaking hands.”

“That means the meeting is over,” Billy said. “Gimme the camera.”

We shinnied down the trunk, hanging on to branches and swinging, our shoes finally hitting dirt with a satisfying thump.

Muddie came tearing around the side of the house. “He’s leaving! He’s looking for us now!”

We dashed toward her, but for an instant I turned to look back. Billy was leaning against the tree, the camera up to his eye again, and I heard the shutter click.



We’d expected a courtroom, but instead we were just in a room with a judge and a few other people who didn’t introduce themselves. We all sat silently, waiting, but we weren’t sure for what. The judge looked at papers. He didn’t seem friendly.

Da had brought the scrapbook with all our clippings. All the articles that said what a happy family we were and what a wonderful father he was. The pictures of us lined up on the couch, the first picture that was ever in the paper, Da with his arms full of three babies, a smile on his face, and sadness in his eyes. Da and the three of us at Maggie’s grave site. We’ve only gone once or twice, and then because a photographer wanted a picture. Da couldn’t stand the thought of our mother under the ground.

Da and the Corrigan Three at the Pennsylvania state fair. Da and the Corrigan Three at the Fourth of July parade. The Corrigan Three singing on the radio. On Decoration Day, on Thanksgiving, waiting for pie. Singing Christmas carols.

He tried to show the judge the scrapbook, but the judge waved it away. He looked down at his papers and looked at his watch and looked at his watch again. The minutes went by like long hours.

After what felt like an hour someone knocked on the door and came in and whispered in the judge’s ear. Delia hadn’t shown up.

We went down the courthouse steps and looked at each other in a daze.

“Something must have happened,” Da said. “She’d never give up like this.”

But what we didn’t realize that afternoon, standing on the courthouse steps, was that she was gone for good.



Everything else was still there in her room: her winter coat, her good shoes, her hats, dresses, sheets. Her books, her radio, even her rosary.

He wrote to the convent in Vermont, but the sisters hadn’t heard of her. Maybe we’d heard the name wrong. Sisters of Mercy, we thought, but could it have been something else?

“She’ll come back,” Da said.

“She’ll send us a card,” Muddie said.

“She can’t just be gone,” Jamie said.

Nobody looked at me. It was like Da’s old story of our birth. Everybody knew who was at fault. Everybody knew who was guilty. I was the one, after all, who had made the deal with Nate.



Nate promised Da he’d had nothing to do with Delia’s disappearance. He’d just talked to the judge and vouched for Da, for old time’s sake.

We waited to hear from her. We thought surely she’d come at Christmas, or send word. Surely she’d send a card on our birthday. Surely…

There was a shift then. Strange how Delia was the funkiller, the one who could flatten the fizz in the soda, could remind you it was raining, could tell you on a brilliant cold day that you’d catch your death. You’d think there would be more songs, more laughter after she was gone. You’d think that, wouldn’t you?

When a family breaks you don’t hear the crack of the breaking. You don’t hear a sound.