Michelle Hoover - Bottomland

Every night after shift, I came home with my fingers curled, my feet pinched from the throb of that pedal. I was almost asleep when Keyes cleared the dinner plates. Upstairs, Myrle sat at our desk with a stack of paper. At the end of the month, she’d run through so many fits and starts, her balled-up letters filled the garbage pail. But that night when I came in, she stopped her pencil, closed it in the drawer. She was more pale than ever, a milky glow to her skin. She folded up a single sheet and dropped it in an envelope, licking that envelope twice.

“Can you mail a letter tomorrow?” she asked.

I lay on our bed with my eyes closed. “I’ll try.” I told you , I’d argued. They’ll find us. Tom Elliot will be wanting his money, sure. She slipped her letter in the pocket of my coat. I heard her pat that pocket twice. Then she was out the door and down the hall to the washroom.

I waited until her footsteps faded and slipped out of bed. That pail was full to spilling. Dear Father , one scrap said. And the others: I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t help. I’m sorry that we did. The pencil blurred, a scratch where she’d tried to black out what she didn’t want. I wondered how that letter in my coat was different. How she’d finally gotten it right.

The doorknob turned. I hurried to bed. Coming in, Myrle wiped her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She dropped beside me, her hands to her face. I threw my arm over her stomach where I could feel her breathe.

“Esther?”

“What?”

She turned until our noses almost touched. “You’ll send my letter, won’t you?”

I swallowed. The house below us had fallen to a sure hush.

“I’ll send it,” I promised. “First thing tomorrow.”

She lay on her back, gripping my wrist. Soon her breath was slow and even, but her grip on me never let up. At night my hands snapped and flinched the way they did on the line. Threads and needles, that’s what I dreamed about. Pinpricks up and down my arm. Myrle had her dreams too. But after a month, I didn’t have a clue what they were. As long as she stayed in this room, in the house, I didn’t have to worry if she was safe or not.

The next day, I took her letter before shift like I’d promised. I opened it a crack and read what I could. But when I tried the postbox, the door wouldn’t budge. The Elliot boy and his money, that’s why we couldn’t write. And the Elliot boy’s new wife, the way we’d left without a word, and how they’d track us if they had an address. Myrle wouldn’t listen, but I’d never have to tell her what I did with that letter. Right where I stood, a garbage bin loomed big as postboxes, and no doors to get stuck. I dropped the letter in, wiped my hands on my thighs. No matter what Chicago did, that old house we’d left didn’t have anything new for us. Everything would be forgiven as long as we never went back.

The next night at dinner, one of the girls was missing. Her chair stood empty at the far end, and Mrs. Keyes hadn’t set a place. Keyes stayed in the kitchen, and the girls were quiet. All I could think of was Myrle’s letter. Dear Nan , she’d written with her pencil. We’re safe in Chicago and working hard. She talked about her work in the house, how I came home in the dark every night and didn’t have a breath to talk. And then: . I should have explained before, and now we’re so far away. Just let me try. But why would Myrle write about Chicago if she didn’t want them to find us? What did she have to explain?

“That was Isabelle’s place,” Charlotte whispered.

“Isabelle,” I said, as if tasting it.

“Don’t you remember her?”

“Jezebel, more like,” I heard. In the chair next to me, Dolores stared at me like the nit she was.

“What did you say?”

“Jezebel.” Dolores grinned. “It’s not like a person couldn’t guess what was going to happen to her.”

From across the table, Abigail let out a chirp. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?” Dolores aped. “I mean that anyone in their right mind could tell she’d get herself in trouble, going out every night. I don’t know why Mrs. Keyes didn’t throw her out months ago.”

“Heard they sent her to Loretto Hall,” added a girl at the other end.

“The Catholics!” another said.

“She’ll be a sister next,” Dolores laughed. “Hey, Abigail, what kind of girl are you, pins or needles?”

“What?” Abigail looked around.

“She doesn’t get it,” the girl at the end said.

“I mean pins . ” Dolores sat up straight and blinked, her hands clasped in front of her like praying. “. or needles?” Making a circle with forefinger and thumb, she stuck her finger through. The girls shrieked. Dolores crooned, “Here comes Abigail in her white. ”

“Knock it off,” Charlotte snapped. The table went quiet. Every eye shot to the kitchen, but Keyes was humming to her radio. “Just wait until your chair is empty too,” Charlotte said. “Nobody’s here for good.”

The others went back to their food, not a word. For good , she’d said, but what if this place was everything I wanted? I’d thought Myrle had wanted it too, but when I looked, my sister was staring at the empty chair. Her plate was full. She hadn’t even touched her spoon. “Myrle,” I hissed. Abigail elbowed her. Myrle’s head snapped back, her eyes wide. She pushed at her chair and was up the stairs in a rush, the others staring after her. In the kitchen, a bell rang. A creak as Keyes opened the oven door and dropped a pan of bread on the counter to cool. That bread smelled like earth. Our room upstairs, it smelled like that.

“She’s sick,” I said.

“Mr. Preston was sick something awful today,” Abigail let out. “Every time he walked by, I was scared he’d sneeze on my head.”

“You wish,” Dolores said.

Abigail giggled.

“She’s got a crush,” Dolores went on. “And the man is old enough to need bifocals.”

The kitchen door opened. Keyes bounded out. “You girls have been awfully quiet. Where’s Myrle?”

“She’s sick,” Abigail said.

I would have kicked her if it had done any good. “She’ll be fine by morning. She’s never sick for long.”

“See to it that she isn’t,” Keyes said. “I’ve had just about enough of sickness and who knows what else. You girls have got to learn to take care of yourselves. Terrible things can happen. The kinds of things you can’t take back.” She shook the thought out of her head. “Now hurry up, the rest of you. It’s time for bed. Esther, you can help me with the dishes if your sister can’t.”

Keyes blew into the kitchen again, the radio louder by a good turn of the knob. The chairs at the table banged, everyone off in a rush. Everyone except Charlotte. She squeezed my knee, her face hard as Nan’s. “Myrle’s all right,” I said. But that look on Charlotte’s face, it didn’t change. Not an inch. What business was it of hers? Charlotte squeezed my knee all the harder. “She’s fine,” I spat and tore my leg away. With her sitting there, I snapped up the plates and rushed into the kitchen to wash.

After an hour Keyes let me go. I climbed the stairs and opened our door. Myrle stood in front of the mirror in her nightgown, staring down at herself.

“I thought you’d be asleep.”

She jumped to the bed, covered herself with the sheet.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She didn’t move. Her eyes were closed, the rest of her curled toward the wall.

“Myrle?”

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“If it’s nothing, you do the dishes next time.” I dropped onto the mattress and let out a groan. I couldn’t bend enough to take off my shoes, my hands swollen. The chain clicked against the lamp as I turned it off, the heaters kicking for who knew what, and outside an icy rain scraped the windows. Lightning flared, flashing shapes on the wall: a tree, a bird, the face of a stranger.