Suzanne & Loretta Hayes & Nyhan - Empire Girls

I was surprised at how easy it was to empty the house of our personal belongings. Life is much more fleeting and changeable than I’d thought.

I was the one who sheeted the furniture and put the better china in the secret attic space. I was the one who got the locksmith to put dead bolts on the doors. I was the one who rang Mr. Lawrence when we knew the date we were to leave. And it’s a good thing I did, or we would have had to drag our trunks to the station.

The morning Ivy and I left for New York City, Mr. Lawrence came to fetch us.

“How very gallant of you, Lawrence...but I’ll walk. I feel as if the air would do me good,” said Ivy. “Besides, I’ve always had this vision of myself walking down the road without turning back. I’m no Lot’s Wife. Not me.”

“Would you like to make sure you have everything you need, Ivy?” I asked.

“You are the most organized person I’ve ever met, sister. I’m sure I’ll be all set.” Then, with a quick nod to Lawrence, and a “See you on the platform, Rose!” to me, Ivy left for the train station where she would send the telegram to Empire House letting them know what time we’d be arriving, and purchase two one-way tickets to New York City.

“Father babied her, and now I’m going to have to make sure she doesn’t get ruined by New York. She really is impossible,” I said.

“I know it isn’t my place, Rose. But do you think you could learn to trust one another, you and Ivy?”

“Trust her? You must be joking. Have you sat too long in the sun?”

“Would it make a difference if I told you that your father mentioned he wished the two of you were closer?”

“Are you hiding something, Lawrence? Because if you are....”

“Let’s go, Rose. I’d hate for you to miss your train,” he said, saving me from trying to conjure up an empty threat.

As he started his motorcar, I walked through the house one more time. Saying goodbye to it. “I’ll come back to you,” I said. But it didn’t answer me, the house. It felt hollow, and its hollowness hurt my soul.

* * *

I found Ivy sitting on a bench at the very end of the platform.

“Hiya!” she said, getting up to greet me.

“You didn’t even say goodbye to Mr. Lawrence. You can be a very self-centered girl,” I said.

“I don’t like anything drawn out—you know that,” she said, melting back onto the bench, slouched over. I sat next to her as tall as I possibly could.

“I’m afraid your dress may make the wrong impression when we finally meet Nell Neville,” I said. She was wearing a purple satin drop-waist dress with a beaded fringe. The back fell into a deep V and the front exposed more neck than I wanted to look at. Her stockings were showing, and her shoes were black heels with a small strap, showing the top of her foot as well as her ankles. She was as good as naked.

“No, Rose. You are the one who will make a poor impression. I told you to leave those clothes behind. You look like a servant or an old lady. Either way, it’s not good. Plus, you’re going to sweat to death in The City. No lake breeze there, honey.”

She threw one of her legs over the iron arm of the bench and leaned into me.

A train far off in the distance sang its song. Ivy bit her nails. “When we were little you loved that sound,” she said. “Did you know that? We used to lie in bed together and play that game ‘Where is it going?’ and then we’d make up fantastic adventures.”

“Don’t bite your nails, Ivy. It’s a childish, unclean habit.” I said, not acknowledging her memory, even though I did, in fact, recall it.

She looked at me and smiled. A true, infectious smile, one that always softened any roughness I felt toward her. Ivy has that affect on people, causing whiplash of affection. “Darling, of course I remember,” I said. “I’m just not in the mood for memories right now. Tunnel of grief and all that.” She nodded her head and sat back up.

On that platform, with my high-laced boots crossed at the ankle, and Ivy slinking lower down on the bench every second, all I could do was read my copy of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s A Few Figs From Thistles. I especially liked the poem entitled “MacDougal Street,” though it made me cry.

“He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,

(I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears!)

And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;

(Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)”

I clutched the book to my breast and hoped against hope that Empire House wasn’t anywhere near MacDougal Street.

* * *

Ivy settled in by the window on the train. She had father’s leather rucksack on her lap and kept buckling and unbuckling the straps. She was quite talkative, which was different than usual.

I was hoping she’d sleep on the train and I could read. Ivy slept when she was excited about something she had to wait for—she was always the first to bed on Christmas Eve. But as she spoke, I began to understand that she was as nervous as I was about the trip. I found myself worrying about what the city would do to her. It never once occurred to me to worry about myself. My objective was clear: find Asher, convince him to sign the house over to me and get a job to acquire the money to pay the back taxes on our home. And I told her as much when she asked me.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” she asked, frustrated.

“I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t, Ivy. But please remember, I don’t intend to get involved in any sort of life once we get there. I plan on finding work, finding Asher and then finding my way home. What you do after all is said and done is your prerogative.”

“So you’d just give up whatever life we make for ourselves, and return to that desolate place?”

Desolate?

I leaned across the narrow space between us and took her chin too sharply in my hand. “Have you ever even considered that as you made your life plans, that I was making plans of my own? Or did you think I was an empty-headed fool who lived to serve you and Papa?”

She yanked her face away and leaned her forehead against the window.

“I suppose I thought you’d... I don’t know. Did you? Did you have plans?”

“Of course I did. My plan was to live quietly at Adams house until I died. That sounds terrible to you, doesn’t it? A wretched sort of existence. But let me tell you something, Ms. Ivy Adams. As we grew older, the fact that I would not marry was not lost on me. How could I? Who was I to meet? I thought you would finally get up the courage to leave Forest Grove, and I would look after Father until he was an old, old man. I would be the keeper of our traditions...I would be a safe harbor for you, if you ever needed anything. And I would always have the house. And just look at the both of us now. Our father died too soon. He left us with lies, secrets and no money. I no longer have the peaceful future I set out for myself. And yet? Here we are! On our way to YOUR future. So, to answer your question...YES. I would return to that desolate place. Because that was my dream.”

Ivy took a moment to respond. I could almost see the thoughts brewing behind those lovely eyes of hers. I could see her deciding whether to be mean, or sarcastic or simply honest. In the end, she chose humor.

“Well, now, Rose. That was quite a monologue. I should note that down. Really. I’m not kidding...you’d be a good writer I think. You read enough. Have you ever thought of that instead?”

“And you, Ivy, would make a good politician,” I said. I had to smile at her. She could have lashed out at me, but she chose not to.

“I think I’ll read my book now, if it’s not too rude,” I said.

But I never got the chance, because we’d already arrived at Grand Central Station.