She led Andrew to the fourth floor. Their apartments were at the end of the hallway, two doors next to each other. One for her mother, and one for her and Holly, connected by a door between their living rooms. It cost a great deal more to rent two apartments, but Birdie was adamant about keeping Holly away from Mother’s work, even if it meant more hours at the clock factory.
“Well. Here we are,” Birdie said between labored breaths. She turned a key in the lock. Inside, a threadbare, patternless carpet lay beneath a rickety dining table and mismatched chairs. The tiny kitchen off to the side was scrupulously clean, but the enamel of the sink was worn down to its iron bones. Teacups were drying nearby, showing chinks and chips at their edges.
“Holly? Mother? I’ve got a visitor,” she announced.
The pattering of feet preceded a spindly little girl who came running around the kitchen corner. She skidded to a halt when she saw Andrew and hung back, a finger in her mouth. Even now, though Holly’s features were emblazoned in her mind, Birdie never tired of that face. Holly’s cupid bow of a mouth was perpetually red, as if stained on strawberry ices. Her dress was faded yellow-and-white gingham that looked like a sunset smudged by smoke. She hadn’t brushed her brown hair yet, and sleep still caked the corners of her eyes. No one had helped her wash that morning.
Birdie opened her arms—“Holly Berry!”—and the little girl ran into her embrace.
Holly was pretty in a brown-bird sort of way—lovely, but without the arresting beauty Birdie herself possessed, the kind that stopped men midstride. Thank goodness Holly was plainer. It was a blessing.
After a long embrace, Holly dropped down to hide behind Birdie’s skirts.
“Who’s that?” Holly pointed a raw-tipped finger at Andrew.
“Don’t point, my dear. It’s not polite. And stop biting your nails. This is Mr. Biddle. He’s a friend of Miss Allene’s, and he brought me home.”
“Is he going to talk to Mama?” she asked. Andrew quirked his eyebrows, and Birdie shook her head.
“No, sweetie. He’s going to help us get groceries. Is Mother out of her room yet?”
“No. She had a talker, but he’s all gone away.”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
“No. And I’m awful hungry. The milk is pinchy”—Holly’s made-up word for sour milk—“and I’m all hollow inside. Lookee.” She grabbed at her belly through her dress and squeezed the loose fabric around her waist.
“Well, we’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?” Birdie said, trying to be chipper. She tied an apron over her tarlatan dress and put water in the kettle. Ignoring Andrew for the moment, she was drawn to a stale smell emanating from the icebox. She opened it and found a pool of dirty water in the basin at the bottom. The ice had melted, and a small, rancid block of butter sat softening on a shelf within. The milk bottle held a curdled inch of thick whiteness.
There was half a crust of bread in the bread box and a nearly empty jar of huckleberry jam. A box of crackers was full of crumbs. There were some oats left in the oat crock, but no milk to make a decent porridge. Embarrassment flooded her, and she heard Andrew clear his throat.
“It’s a beautiful day for August,” he remarked. “Not too warm. Don’t you think so, Holly? Maybe the jigger shop is open.”
Holly frowned. “It’s Sunday. God says: ‘No chocolate phosphates on Sunday!’”
“Is that a fact? What else won’t God let you do on a Sunday?”
“Oh, heaps! Heaps and heaps.” Holly climbed onto a chair, growing comfortable. She kicked the chair rungs with her bare heels. “Chewing gum. Bad words. Go to school.”
“All the fun things, eh?” He grinned down at her.
“And candy.” Holly wasn’t really listening. She was too busy listing. “And chewing gum, and . . .”
Andrew suppressed a chuckle.
Birdie’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two. She covered her mouth with the back of her fingertips, hiding a smile. Andrew drew closer to her and smiled too, as if they were sharing a secret. Which, Birdie remembered—they were. None of this was supposed to be happening. Not quite. There was something wrong about Andrew being here, alongside the few tattered doilies decorating the furniture and the spare kitchen. Birdie felt naked, and there was no way to conceal herself. But she still didn’t have the answers she wanted.
And then it got infinitely worse.
“Birdie? Is that you?” her mother’s low voice intoned from the other side of the wall. The doorknob between the two apartments turned, the tumbler clicking with the twist of a key. Hazel Dreyer emerged, tying a blue satin robe tightly around her narrow waist, which hadn’t thickened a single inch after childbearing. Her flaxen hair, just like Birdie’s, was loose around her shoulders, but some of it clung in ropy locks. She needed a good shampooing. Faded silk slippers covered her feet, and her generous breasts were noticeable beneath the thin fabric of the robe.
Mother was still pretty. Her thinness had made her eyes larger in her face, big orbs of green that flitted from face to face, unwilling to rest peacefully on any one person. Her cheekbones were high and the skin of her neck had yet to sag. There was good breeding in the way she held herself, as if she wore an invisible corset. She pulled the edges of her mouth up when she saw Andrew, and crow’s-feet sprouted from the edges of her smiling eyes.
“Oh. Is it already one o’clock? I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Did I forget to say it was apartment 4B, not 4A?”
Birdie wanted to die of shame. She quickly stepped forward. “Mother, you misunderstand. This is Andrew Biddle. Allene’s fiancé? He escorted me home this morning. As a favor to Allene.”
“Oh! I see. Well! Andrew, please make yourself comfortable.” She laughed and swept her hand through the air, an attempt to erase her mistake. “I haven’t had my medicine yet. I’m afraid I’m a little fuzzy.” She laughed again, and it sounded like tin cans tumbling down an alley.
“I’ll get your medicine, Mama.” Holly jumped onto the countertop like a little monkey, procured a small glass jar from a cupboard, and fetched a large brown bottle from the other apartment. Holly messily poured a few drams of dark liquid into the jar. She carefully delivered it to her mother, leaving a trail of sloshed liquid on the floor.
“Thank you, Holly. So, how was the party?”
“Good,” Birdie said. She didn’t want to talk about it.
“And James?” How odd to hear Mr. Cutter addressed as such. Mother fiddled with a stray thread on her robe, keeping her eyes downcast.
“He looked well, I suppose.” Birdie shrugged. “We hardly spoke.”
“I see.” She was frowning now. When she looked up, Holly caught her eye, and she smiled, a little too brilliantly. “Come, Holly. I need to change. You may play the Victrola while I dress.”
Holly squealed and followed her into the other apartment. Birdie had no words. She wished that Andrew would go away.