“It arrived today,” Jasper said. “I should . . . I’ve got to go home.”
“Lucy,” Birdie called. The maid was at the ready in the hallway. “Please put Holly to bed.” She stooped down to hug her. “I’ll be back later. Be a good girl?”
Holly looked at Jasper’s contorted face with wonder and shock, and obeyed Birdie without a word.
“Allene, I need to borrow your driver,” Jasper finally managed to say. “It’ll be the fastest way to get there.”
“You think your uncle is in danger?”
He waved the letter. “One was found when Florence died. One showed up when Hazel died. This one was sent to me.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who else do I have in my life anymore?”
Allene and Birdie reeled from the acid in his voice. They both stepped forward, where human nature said that they should flee, and quickly.
“No, you’ve got us,” Allene said. She snapped her finger at George, who was staring at them with wide eyes. “Call for the motor. Immediately.” She looked at Jasper. “Should we telephone the police?”
“God, and say what? We got a letter that says ‘You’re welcome’? They’ll think we’re mad!”
In two minutes, Dawlish had pulled up, and they climbed into the back of the motorcar together, with Jasper sandwiched between the two women. Dawlish drove swiftly without a word, but from the puffs around his eyes, it was obvious he’d been awoken from sleep.
“I shouldn’t have left him alone,” Jasper let out.
“What do you mean?” Birdie asked.
“We had a row. About . . . about money. I yelled at him. God almighty, I was cruel. And I was wrong.”
Birdie squeezed his arm. She understood the frustration of parenting your own parent—or uncle—and having to watch over and take care of them. She understood having no security in the future, even if that meant the next five minutes. You swayed on a little trapeze of fate, waiting for the slightest breeze to knock you off. A lost job, a broken bone that might bring expensive doctor’s visits. Or something worse.
“Did you know,” Birdie confessed, “that in the last month before Mother died, she made it clear that I needed to quit the clock factory and join her?”
“Join her,” Allene repeated.
They all knew what she meant. Hazel’s work had been far more lucrative than any factory job, and the hours weren’t as bad.
“She’d always hinted at it before, but this was different. Our expenses were growing because of the war. She thought that with my face, I’d make so much money and—”
“But that isn’t fair!” Allene cut her off.
“No,” Birdie said. “It’s not fair. But I’m busy enough, trying to survive. Who am I to change what’s fair and isn’t in this world?”
Birdie had never said out loud how she’d felt about being thrust out of Allene’s life. But in moments like this, Allene seemed to understand. She asked to be forgiven with small gestures, like sliding closer and slipping her hand around Birdie’s waist. Her hand was warm and possessive. Too warm.
She’d seen that look in Allene’s eye with less and less frequency, thank goodness. Oh, Allene had tried to hide it, but it was obvious to her. The men wore it like a second skin when visiting her mother. An expression of fleeting hunger. Sometimes Allene could hide it. Sometimes she couldn’t. And Birdie would tolerate it because she didn’t want to upset her. But it was tiring, so tiring to never be in full possession of yourself. She was a woman, after all. It was their lot in life, wasn’t it? Never to own yourself completely.
The motorcar sped downtown, across Canal and to Eldridge before they could speak of anything else. Jasper opened the car door, not waiting for Dawlish. He shoved the building’s door open and tore up the stairs. Allene followed him just as swiftly. Birdie wasn’t able to manage their speed with her aching limbs. She was able to catch the front door just before it closed, when something caught her eye. She turned to look down the dark, quiet street. A shadowed figure halfway down the block had watched them exit the motorcar.
They had made a scene, bursting out of the car all at once. But the figure—it looked like a tall man—just stood there, watching Birdie.
She nodded her head in acknowledgment, her heart thumping. It was a bold movement, but Dawlish was behind her. She knew that sometimes the anonymous would disappear, fading to something more benign, when forced to show themselves as real flesh-and-blood beings. It worked. The man receded into the darkness, turning the corner onto Delancey.
She climbed the stairs with effort, her hip joints aching with each step. But she would do this for Jasper. Whatever they found, she needed to be at his side. A dumpy old woman—possibly the landlady—had come out of her ground-floor apartment to chatter in some European language, but she ignored her.
Finally, on the fourth floor, Jasper’s apartment door was wide open. Inside, the main room was empty and quiet. A few small pieces of paper lay strewn on the floor. The furniture was worn and bore concave shapes from overuse. There were no sounds inside, no gasps of relief, no cries of grief. She didn’t know what that meant.
Birdie walked slowly to the hallway, which led to the kitchen. Allene stood there, her hands covering her mouth as she stared at the kitchen floor. Birdie prepared herself, clutching her chest as she approached.
At first, she saw the kitchen with its countless bottles lined up on one of the counters and the stacked cases of alcoholic tonics. But as she passed into full view of the room, the table in the center came into view—covered in an explosion of broken glass and brownish liquid. The glass had fallen onto the floor, and Jasper kneeled within the mess of it, clutching his uncle, who lay wide eyed, arms spread as if beseeching heaven. There were cuts across the man’s face and wrists, and his skin was a waxy pale that Birdie, from tragic familiarity, understood.
Jasper didn’t howl or cry or apologize. He held his uncle soundlessly.
Allene backed out of the room. “He was already dead when we found him,” she whispered. “It looks like he fell over onto his equipment.”
“Fell? Or was thrown?” Birdie asked.
She shook her head. “Maybe he had a fit? Or maybe he was too drunk and tripped?”
“This is sounding too much like what happened when Florence died.”
Allene sniffed the air delicately, but this time there was no almond odor. Instead, the kitchen reeked of spirits. Shattered bottles and liquid marred the floor.