Michelle Hoover - Bottomland

Myrle went quiet. “I don’t think he’d come.”

I pulled my nightgown over my head so she couldn’t see my face. “We don’t have paper for letters.” My nightgown fell. I could have been any girl I wanted, but there was Myrle watching my every step. “All right, all right,” I said, but I didn’t look at her. “We can get paper tomorrow.”

Myrle turned to the wall. I searched through the desk drawers. No letters without paper. Under the top ledge, a thinner drawer, no deeper than a finger. It whined when I pulled it out, but Myrle didn’t give a twitch. Inside, a single sheet with a girlish scrawl: sister . The rest was a blank space, the word sister crossed right through. I folded the paper up tight and looked to hide it, but the room was bare as a cup. Not a rug, a crack. At last, I dropped it in my mouth. It was a sour piece of chew, but it couldn’t be used for letters, not anymore. At the back of the drawer, something rolled against the wood. I reached in. It was a small silver ring. The ring was lighter than a dime, a flat blue stone and a silver band, just sitting there wanting to be someone’s. I tried it on, but it wouldn’t budge over my knuckle. I tried it again. Crouching on the bed, I shook Myrle’s shoulder and called her name.

“Look, isn’t it something?” I slipped the ring over her finger.

“Whose is it?”

“It’s no one’s.”

She held the ring close to her face. Already her eyes were closing again.

“It’s yours,” I said.

She smiled a little. “Isn’t it time to go to sleep?”

“Sure.” Though I was more than awake. Still I slipped under the sheets with her and turned out the light. It was only then I thought of that piece of paper in my stomach. Sister , it’d said, and nothing else. As if a girl knew I would read it, knew I was just beginning at that blank space at the top. A strange thing to keep a girl fed for the night.

The wake-up knock rattled down the hall, one door after another. Five a.m., Keyes had said. The windows were black. Black when we’d gone to sleep and black in the morning. I lay against my pillow and wondered if it would ever turn light. A slip of curtains hung over the windows, hardly enough to stop drafts. Papers, Keyes would want, just like Myrle, but we didn’t have any papers. We didn’t have anything yet. Myrle slept curled to the wall, her nose whistling. Our clothes were wadded rags and smoky from the train, a fine stink. A snatch of dirt in the bottom of our bags had left smudges. I wondered where that dirt came from. The train or earlier, when we’d slept by the road under the bushes, listening for anyone who might come looking. But no one did. No one seemed to have tried.

Voices rushed from below. Myrle sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What’s that?”

“Come on. If we want breakfast, we’ve got to run.”

Down the stairs, a dozen heads turned at the sound of our feet. The girls were a blur in blue uniforms, their hair pulled into ponytails with strings. On the table sat bowls of porridge and muffins, glasses of yellow juice with pulp on the rims. I stopped on the bottom step, Myrle at my back. At the far end, an older girl sat with her elbows on the table, the yellow tips of her fingers pressed together like a tent. She had red hair and curls, the rest of her bluish pale. She didn’t look up with the others, but when she did, she stretched out her arms, offering us the empty chairs at her side.

The others went on eating. Some were skinny and big-eyed, some not. Some so dull-looking, I feared I’d be the same in under a month. But it was the redhead who Myrle watched. The redhead gave back such a grin, it could have spun milk.

“There you are.” The kitchen door swung and in rushed Mrs. Keyes. “Most the girls come dressed. You won’t have time before the whistle if you don’t.” She gave us plates, silverware. “Go on, why don’t you? Serve yourselves. This isn’t a restaurant.”

Myrle kept her head down, her sleeves pulled tight to her wrists.

“You have those papers I asked for?”

I started to speak, but something crashed in the kitchen. Mrs. Keyes looked sharp. “Ellen!” she called and pounded back.

The redhead ducked her chin. “You don’t have work, do you?”

I kicked Myrle to keep her quiet. “We have a place.”

“You don’t even have a uniform,” Red said. “Listen, you can’t let on or Keyes’ll have a fit. I know Kupp’s got a spot. That’s garments. You can work a sewer, right?” The girl looked at my hands. “Right. A spot for one, but I don’t know about your sister. She old enough?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Mrs. Keyes rushed in again, the flowers of her blouse loud under her apron. “Those papers?”

“I’ll bring them tonight,” I said.

She huffed. “Very well, but that door closes at nine. Not a second after. And you best be in or you two will be sleeping on the steps.” Mrs. Keyes stopped herself. “What place did you say again?”

“Kupp’s.”

“Ah yes, Kuppenheimer’s. Like nearly every girl here. Garments.”

Another glass broke in the kitchen, then what sounded a whole tray. “My sakes.” Mrs. Keyes ran off. My napkin flew from my lap as she went. The other girls pushed back their chairs. The kitchen door swung. On the other side, a girl in pigtails stood pale-faced with a mess at her feet. Mrs. Keyes loomed over her like a bear. “That’s the last I tell you, Ellen.”

The redhead laughed. “Ellen’s dumb as a plate. But don’t let those pigtails fool you. She’s been here for years. Longer than me, at least. I’m Charlotte.” She held her hand out. Like a man, she did.

“Esther,” I said.

“And this one?” Charlotte turned her head. “You’re some pretty, aren’t you, and shy too.”

“That’s my sister.”

“Myrle,” my sister whispered. When she glanced up, her cheeks colored, seeing Charlotte all at once.

“Sisters,” the redhead let out. “I never had one myself.”

“Never?” Myrle asked. “I’ve got three.” She covered her mouth.

“Never,” Charlotte said again. “Not yet.”

The table was empty now of everyone but us. Charlotte slapped her hand on her chair. “Come on now, we have to get you to Kupp’s. We’ll be late.” She stood with a rush. Tall as a tree, so much I straightened to see her right. “Meet you in front, five minutes,” she called back and raised her hand to show five long fingers. Without another word, she disappeared down the hall.

We sat alone, staring at our plates. The blush in Myrle’s cheeks had stayed. I thought about Charlotte. I thought about our room, small as a stable. There wasn’t a Nan at the door. Not a Father with his cane. No Agnes eyeing us, either, watching for what we’d do, as if we’d do anything. Tom Elliot, he was gone. No more lofts, no fires in the yard. That room, it was all our own. The walls pocked with nails and tape, a key for the door, a desk, and a bureau’s empty drawers. All of it, ours, and only strangers in the rooms down the hall. Every morning when the house woke, we could be anything we wanted. Now Myrle stretched her fingers, liking her ring. Already she seemed different. In the café, speaking up the way she did. At the table with Charlotte. Even now, not a drop of worry and me almost out the door.

We had a room and a bowl of porridge. We had the city and a wide stretch of lake. We had Kupp’s too, and not even a full day yet. Home, it seemed a long ways off. And trains, they seemed hard. Already I felt I’d eaten breakfast at this table for weeks. I’d learned the name of every girl in the house, easy, as if I’d always known them. As if I’d been born here, and I might as well have been. I couldn’t imagine a better place.