The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

With a shrug Lottie stomps over and starts helping me out of my sweat-stained nightdress. The bedroom is cold, not winter cold, but there’s an uneasy autumn chill in the air, and my skin crawls with gooseflesh when the nightdress is lifted away. I wrap my arms around my nakedness with a shiver.

I perch on the edge of the shallow tub, dipping the washrag into the warm water that Lottie pours around my feet, and I soap myself as quickly as I can. I hang my head. Lottie wrings a towel out, pouring tepid water over my head, and it drips down my cheeks and runs off the tip of my nose. A few tears make their way into the rivulets of water, trickling off my face, but Lottie affects not to see them. She mutters, in identical tones that I remember her saying last week, “That Edward’ll be the death of me.”

“What’s going on?” I whisper softly under the sound of the water plashing over my shoulders and into the tub.

“Where’s my cameo?”





CHAPTER 3


I have to find Herschel.

He’ll understand what’s happening.

Well, maybe he won’t, but even if he doesn’t, I mind less the things I don’t understand when I’m with him. And this doesn’t make any sense. False retrospection only lasts a moment. Mornings don’t just repeat themselves exactly. Not like this.

I dress myself hurriedly, annoyed that the bodice on my day dress is too tight. I have to rearrange my breasts with a scoop here and there so that they don’t feel painfully squashed. I need new clothes, but Mother doesn’t see it. Or doesn’t want to see it. I should just ask Papa, now that the celebration is over. Papa won’t be as distracted as he was.

“It’s cold!” Beattie whines as she eases her feet into the bathwater.

“Then you should’ve gone first,” Lottie points out. “I don’t care who goes.”

Beattie whimpers under the scrubbing of the washrag, but I can’t worry about her right now.

Rushing, I hop as I cram one foot into a slipper and nearly topple over onto the wrecked bed. I don’t know what day it is. If it’s Saturday, I won’t be able to see him. And if it’s Friday, I won’t be able to see him at night. In fact, I can almost never see him Fridays, as that’s the day they have to get ready for Saturday. And on Sundays, he generally can’t see me. But it’s not Sunday.

Of course, he’s not supposed to see me at all.

He’s usually at his uncle’s shop on Pearl Street, not far from the Brooklyn ferry landing. He calls it a schmatte shop, which I guess is supposed to be sarcastic, but it’s just dry goods as far as I can tell. There’re a hundred shops like that one. Maybe more than a hundred.

When I go there, I buy thread.

I’ve bought so much thread in the past few months that I couldn’t hide it in the house anymore. I filled Beattie’s overlooked sewing basket. I bribed Lottie with it until she started getting suspicious. I gave it to Winston to carry home for the freedwomen in Seneca. I even started secreting it under the stockings and bloomers in my drawer, but then I worried Mother would find it and so I threw it in the privy. That made me feel guilty, though. Now I give it to beggar women that I pass in the street on my way home. They’re always shocked and grateful. I try to choose the ones with sucking babies or small children. Sometimes they remember me from the last time. One even argued with me once about the color, and followed me cursing down James Street for two blocks, and tried to throw a brick at my head.

I don’t walk down James Street anymore.

I’m excited to see Herschel, and tell him about the flotilla last night. So many fireworks! I’d never seen so many. And the music playing! And the military salutes, and . . . and . . .

I frown.

Anyway, I can’t wait to see him, and tell him we’re back home. I’m sure that the minute I see him everything will click back into place and I’ll feel like myself again. The thought of seeing Herschel sends a shiver of pleasure through me, and I close my eyes, recalling his particular smell, and the tickling texture of his young beard against my cheek.