Flo Fitzpatrick - Legacy of Silence

Two of the books turned out to be filled with recipes. Great. Something else to remind her that she often acted like a brat around Farrah and that she’d hurt her father by not attending their wedding the year before, because, naturally, she’d been working. She’d just been cast in Illumination and couldn’t fly down for one night. Pile on that guilt, girl.

She tried to keep her expression neutral as she methodically printed the dates of the books onto labels. After about ten minutes she glanced up. Russ was staring at her.

What now? Is he going to tell me Virginia not only changed the will but warned him to make sure all the cats were safe before I entered so I wouldn’t be tempted to turn them into tennis strings?

“What?” she asked, thankful he couldn’t hear the combined quiver and anger behind the one word.

He shoved a journal at her. “You might want to read this.”

She glanced at the first page and blinked back tears. Virginia had carefully noted the names and the date right below a photo that depicted three children.

November 1, 1994

Amber Shapiro, age twelve. Jillian Shapiro, age twelve. Miranda Nolan, age seven.

Last night I met someone who will be a special friend. She is the same age as my precious son the year he was murdered in the camps. She knocked on my door with two other children, all of them dressed in their Halloween costumes. I invited them in for pastries and hot chocolate and to meet other children in the neighborhood. Americans are odd in this way. Children meet in their schools, sometimes in their churches, but often do not know their own neighbors. This night I was amused to see the mix of costumes. There were spacemen and superheroes and witches and blue creatures they called Smurfs. There were goblins and other characters from cartoon shows. But this little girl stood out because she and her ballerina costume were both so pretty.

She came inside with her older friends but instead of joining the children who were eating cookies she walked up to me with no fear and said, “Want to see me do a pirouette? That’s French for spin. I have to warn you, it’s not very good yet but I can do one without falling down.”

I told her I would love to see her pirouette. She very carefully set down her bag of Halloween treats and solemnly got into position. When she finished, she curtsied and I applauded and truthfully said she was wonderful!

“Do you want to be a ballerina when you grow up?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nope. First off, I’m going to be too tall. I love ballet but I also love to sing and act. I’m going to be a triple threat.”

Miranda couldn’t help but smile even as her heart constricted. More than twenty years had passed and she remembered that night with absolute clarity. She positioned herself so her back was comfortably resting against the sofa, then closed her eyes. She could hear Virginia’s gentle voice, a voice that had retained a slight accent even after fifty years in America.

“Triple threat? My, my! That sounds quite scary but very important. What is your name, young lady?”

“Miranda Nolan. What’s yours?”

“People call me Miss Virginia.”

“That’s pretty. It’s also a state. I learned that in school. Its capital is Richmond but I visited Williamsburg last year with my dad and it was neat. We had the best gingerbread ever and we watched these guys making lutes and violins. I want to go back someday.”

“What grade are you in, Miranda?” Virginia had asked.

“Second. We’re learning cursive and I’m terrible. But I’m going to be a Native American princess for our Thanksgiving play at school.” Miranda still recalled how upset she’d been when she told Virginia, “My teacher wants me to do a dance to ‘This Land is Your Land.’”

“Are you worried you can’t do it?”

Miranda had been scornful. “Oh, no! I can do it. It’s a really easy dance! It’s just... Well, Native American princesses didn’t do ballet back then and that song wasn’t written until the 1940s. I looked it up. I’m not stupid just because I’m seven.”

Virginia’s composure had never broken although now, as an adult, Miranda realized the elderly lady had doubtless needed to stifle a laugh or two over Miranda’s serious attempt to resolve her dilemma—the desire to perform versus anachronisms and reality. Virginia had quietly steered the young Miranda into a solution that helped set Miranda’s career in theater in motion.

“This is a fantasy play, Miranda. It is not historically accurate. After all, I do not think the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag tribe sat down to a turkey dinner with stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry jelly and pumpkin pie with whipped cream.”

Miranda had giggled. “Bet they would’ve liked that more than eels and gooseberries! My teacher said that’s what they probably ate. Icky!”

Before she and Virginia could continue the conversation, one of Miranda’s friends had called out, urging Miranda to try a cupcake. Miranda had again curtsied with the grace of a budding ballerina, then thanked Miss Virginia and run to join her friends.

Miranda opened her eyes and continued to read the journal.

As they were leaving I asked if I could take a picture. Miranda and the twins all posed for me in their costumes. Amber and Jillian went outside, but Miranda stopped and again carefully set her bag on the floor. She hugged me.

“Will you come to my Thanksgiving play, Miss Virginia?”

“I will. But only if you come back and perhaps show me a preview of your wonderful dance.”

Miranda beamed at me. Her young blue eyes sparkled. “I’ll do more than that. I promise to come and visit and show you my dances from my studio, too. And sing if you’ll play the piano. I’m taking lessons but I’m not very good. My teacher says my talent is in my feet and voice, not my hands.”

Miranda couldn’t stop herself. She glanced up at Russ even though her eyes were now moist. She’d kept that promise to Virginia—to come entertain her neighbor throughout her own childhood. High school had slowed down the visits but Miranda had still dropped by to sing or dance or ask Virginia to run lines with her. During Miranda’s years in college the visits became far fewer and once Miranda moved to New York, they’d stopped completely. Miranda’s failure to make it home and see the woman who’d been like a mother must have hurt. No wonder Virginia had made Russ her family.

Russ was still staring at her but his expression seemed to have softened slightly. He appeared puzzled.

Miranda squared her shoulders. She rose and handed the journal back to Russ. She didn’t know how to sign but she figured this was an easy phrase. She tapped her watch.

“Time to go.”

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