The Grave of God's Daughter (6 page)

I hurled my boots from my feet and was about to climb back into bed when my bladder reminded me of why I’d gone outside in the first place. There was no way I was going back to the outhouse, but my stomach had begun to ache. I was trembling from the fright and the cold, which made the need to urinate even more urgent. I scanned the room, searching for some sort of inspiration, and my eyes caught on the kitchen sink. Martin was asleep just feet away, so I opted to go into the washroom instead.

A single bulb was the only illumination in the washroom and it was controlled by a pull chain that was long gone and had been replaced by a length of twine. I stood on tiptoe to tug on the light, then quietly closed the door behind me and studied the basin, unsure of exactly what to do. The white porcelain stood out against the sink’s rusting underbelly. The tiny teacup of a basin was hardly built to accommodate an adult pair of hands let alone someone sitting on it.

I hoisted up my nightdress and pushed myself up onto the sink’s edge. The porcelain was like ice on my skin, but that made it easier to go. Relief swept over me. My heartbeat slowed and my
muscles began to relax. Then, without warning, the door to the washroom opened. It was my mother. She was in her nightclothes and robe, long strands of hair framing her face. Her expression upon seeing me was pure shock.

“What are you doing?” she demanded as I clambered off the sink, desperately yanking down my nightdress.

I couldn’t explain myself. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. She looked beyond me and into the sink.

“I had to. I couldn’t go outside. There was a rat. I’m sorry. I couldn’t…” I was stammering, near tears, and a drop of urine was slowly running down my leg.

My mother was staring at me as if she had never seen me before, as if I were an uninvited guest who had barged in on her. She snatched a rag from behind the tub’s faucet and hurled it at me. “Clean yourself up.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I—”

“Don’t you ever do that again. Ever. And clean up the mess you made.”

She left, shutting the door behind her resolutely. Then the tears came and wouldn’t stop. I ran the water to wash away any trace of urine from the sink and scrubbed the basin with soap and the rag she had thrown at me. I scoured the sink for what seemed like hours, rinsing it again and again until my hands throbbed from gripping the rag. When I allowed myself to be finished, I looked up and found my reflection in the mirror again. My eyes were red from crying and my face was flushed with the heat of my mortification. Not only did I fail to resemble my family, I now failed to resemble even myself.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, both my mother and I tried to act as if nothing had happened, but I still couldn’t bring myself to look at her directly. To make matters worse, my father hadn’t come home again. Martin kept a constant vigil at the window waiting for any sign of him. Even when my mother ordered him to the table to eat his breakfast, Martin positioned his chair to face the door and could hardly concentrate on his food. My father never arrived. We got ready for school and my mother prepared to go to work as usual. She tied on her apron, a plain linen one that Father Svitek had purchased for her, then wrapped her hair up in a thin, flowered kerchief.

“You’re going to get him, right?” Martin asked.

My mother took her time to respond. “No,” she said. Her voice was bitter, but her expression wavered. I couldn’t tell if it was from disappointment or resignation.

“But—” Martin began.

“Get your things,” my mother ordered, cutting him off. “I have to be at the church early today.”

Martin waited for me to back him up, but I dodged his glance and busied myself making our bed. He accepted that his argument was a lost cause and did as he was told. After I’d finished making the bed, I noticed my mother gazing at the spot where the Black Madonna had hung. Her lips were moving in silent prayer and she was blinking hard to keep from crying. It was the one time I’d ever seen my mother close to tears, and it would turn out to be the first of only two occasions in my entire life that I would ever witness such an occurrence.

My mother walked us to school at a brisk clip and left us on the steps of the schoolhouse without a word.

“I think she’s lying,” Martin declared.

“Lying about what?”

“I think she is going to the Silver Slipper. She just doesn’t want us to know.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because. She’s like that.”

Part of me wanted to believe that my brother, in his seven-year-old wisdom, was actually right, that somehow, because of his age and innocence, he had the ability to sense whatever truth my mother was attempting to conceal. Perhaps my mother was on her way to the Silver Slipper as we spoke. Perhaps she would march into the tavern and drag my father out of the bar or make a scene
until he was too embarrassed to stay. We would never know. Maybe it was better that way.

I considered telling Martin what had happened the night before in the washroom so he’d understand why I hadn’t taken his side that morning, but I was too ashamed to do so. That shame had lodged itself in my stomach and lay there like a brick. In the aftermath of my disgrace, I had forgotten what awaited me that afternoon. It was my first day as Mr. Goceljak’s delivery boy. That sudden realization cleared the shame from my mind and made way for a pang of dread that was as potent as pain.

“What’s wrong?” Martin asked. “You look like you forgot something.”

“I did.”

W
HEN THE SCHOOL DAY
was done, I hurried to Martin’s classroom and waited outside for him. The instant he came out, I grabbed his hand and began hauling him down the corridor.

“Where are we going
now
?” he asked. “Back to the butcher’s shop?”

I hushed him, glancing around to see if anyone had heard. “I told you that’s supposed to be a secret. And no, you’re not coming today.”

“Then where am I supposed to go? Home? I’m too little to be left alone on my own.”

“That’s why you’re not going home.”

I led Martin to the school’s library, and once he realized
where I was taking him, he ceased complaining. The library remained open for an hour and a half after school, but it was uncommon for children to go there. Most went home or out to play. Given the opportunity, Martin would have stayed there all night if he could have.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Sister Teresa isn’t going to let me stay here without you around.”

“She will if I say Mama asked me to ask her.”

“But she didn’t ask you to ask her.”

“But Sister Teresa doesn’t know that. And you’re not going to tell her. Right?”

Martin hemmed his lips, uncomfortable.

“Just look at all of those books, Marty. Hundreds of them. Just waiting to be read.”

The school’s library was a narrow room with two study tables in the center, and it was lined from floor to ceiling with books, some teetering from the tops of shelves. For Martin, it was a paradise.

The library door was open and he leaned in, tempted. “All right. But I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You won’t. Not if you don’t say anything.”

Sister Teresa was the oldest of the nuns still working at the school. Due to a bad hip and her ever-worsening senility, Sister Teresa was relegated to the library, where her main job was to check out books, a task that only involved pressing a rubber stamp to the back page of each selection. The real labor of retrieving and reshelving the books was left to the other nuns who came in early in the morning and straightened up. As I entered the library, I prepared myself for what I was about to do—I was going to lie again. Given that I’d already lied to Mr. Goceljak about being able to ride
the bicycle, it consoled me to think that this lie was necessary, but only slightly.

Sister Teresa’s eyes were closed. She was napping. “Sister Teresa,” I said. She gave no response. “Sister Teresa,” I tried again. She stirred.

“Oh, good afternoon,” she said in Polish rather than English. “I must have nodded off.”

“That’s all right, Sister. I’ve brought my brother in. My mother was wondering if it would be okay if he stayed here until the library closes. I’ve got to help her at the rectory and there’s no one else who can watch him.”

Sister Teresa and all of the other nuns knew who Martin and I were because they knew what my mother did. Anyone who did anything for Father Svitek was beyond reproach in their minds, so I had little doubt that Sister Teresa would not deny me this favor, especially since I said I was going to be helping Father Svitek as well.

“Of course, child. The boy will be fine here with me. But he’s not loud or a troublemaker, is he? I can’t have any troublemakers in here.”

“No, Sister. He won’t make a sound.” Martin was watching me from the door. He’d heard my lie and put on a perturbed scowl. “Isn’t that right, Martin?”

“Yes, Sister,” he replied grudgingly.

“What did he say?” Sister Teresa asked, clearly deaf.

“Yes, Sister,” Martin shouted.

“Okay,” Sister Teresa said with a smile.

I guided Martin to a study table and waited as he got settled. “I’ll be back before the library closes.”

“You’d better be.”

I checked the clock on the wall. It was nearly three-fifteen. I left my books with him and dashed out the door. I ran all the way from Saint Ladislaus to Field Street in what felt like a minute flat. I charged in the front door to the butcher’s shop still panting as the bell sounded my arrival. Mr. Goceljak was waiting for me. He noted the time on his watch.

“Am I late? I’m sorry. You didn’t say—”

“No, you’re not late. You’re here earlier than Donny was at least. That’s a good thing.”

Mr. Goceljak’s sentiment made me breathe a little easier.

“Hope you came ready to work. I’ve got a lot of deliveries to go out today.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, feigning full confidence in myself. Not only did I have to learn how to ride a bicycle in an hour and a half, I also had to make deliveries. The full force of that fact had yet to settle in my mind, and that was probably another
good thing
. If I’d really given it any thought, I might have fainted there on the spot.

“Come on then, I’ll get you the packages and load up the bicycle for you.”

I followed Mr. Goceljak into the back room where a stack of parcels wrapped in butcher paper waited on the wooden block.

“I put all of the names on them so you’ll know who gets what. Go to Mrs. Zahorchak’s house first. She can get nasty if she doesn’t get her sausages on time. You can leave Mr. Beresik for last. He doesn’t care when he gets his delivery, as long as he gets it. Got it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, yes, sir.”

“I like that. ‘Yes, sir,’” Mr. Goceljak said, repeating me. “Donny never called me ‘sir.’ Sounds…dignified.”

“Okay, sir,” I said. I was glad I had pleased him. Nothing I ever
did or said at home seemed to please either my mother or my father. It was heartening to learn that it was actually possible.

“I’ll help you with these.” Mr. Goceljak took the packages in his arms and headed out the back door. He gingerly placed each parcel in the bicycle’s basket, then twirled the dial on the lock.

“I don’t give out the combination. At least I didn’t give it to Donny. Afraid he’d steal the thing. But if this works out, maybe I’ll give it to you.”

I was taken aback by Mr. Goceljak’s offer. He must have stunned himself as well because he grew bashful in the silence that followed.

“All right, then. Better be on your way.” He removed the lock and freed the chain from the spokes of the bicycle’s front wheel.

“Excuse me, sir. Could I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Would it be all right if you didn’t tell anyone I was doing this? You know, working for you.”

Mr. Goceljak registered my request as an insult.

“I’m trying to save up money, but it’s a surprise. For a present, sort of,” I explained. “I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing.”

Mr. Goceljak understood. “I won’t tell anybody. But what if the people you’re making deliveries to know you?”

Anyone who was well-off enough to receive deliveries at home probably wouldn’t recognize me. However, Hyde Bend was relatively small, so there was a chance, albeit slight. “I didn’t think of that,” I admitted.

“I’ve got an idea,” Mr. Goceljak said, then he disappeared into the store. He returned with a slouchy canvas cap in his hand and a pair of men’s trousers draped over his arm.

“Donny left the hat here and the trousers used to be mine. I was going to cut them up for rags. You put these on and hide your hair up in the hat, then nobody’ll recognize you, I bet.”

I took the pants from Mr. Goceljak reluctantly. I was still wearing my school uniform, the sweater and pleated skirt, and couldn’t imagine how this was going to work.

“You can pull the pants on over that school getup of yours and I’ll get a rope to make a belt.” My face betrayed my doubt as well as my discomfort. “Don’t worry,” Mr. Goceljak assured me. “Nobody can see back here, and I won’t come out until you say it’s all right. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, still reticent. Once Mr. Goceljak had gone inside, I opened the pants. They were far too long and the waistband was more than double my size. I put them on over my skirt, which took up a little of the extra room, but not much.

“You decent?” Mr. Goceljak called.

“Yes, sir.”

When he popped his head out the back door and saw me in the trousers, he couldn’t help but chuckle. “A little big, eh? This’ll fix you up.” He produced a long piece of twine. “You put this through the loops and it’ll be like a belt. I had to do it like that when I was a kid too.”

“But you weren’t wearing a skirt under your pants.”

“True.”

I fed the twine through the belt loops, then pulled it tight and tied it into a knot. “What about the legs?” I asked. My feet had completely disappeared beneath the fabric.

“You got to roll ’em up. I had to do that too. Always had my brother’s hand-me-downs, so nothing ever fit quite right.”

I turned up the pant legs until I could see my shoes. “I don’t think they’re going to stay like this.”

“I’ve got just the thing for that.” Mr. Goceljak went inside, then came out again, this time with a roll of butcher’s tape, then he got down on one knee and began to tape up the pant legs. “Now all you need is the hat,” he said, holding it out to me.

I pulled the hat down to my ears and tucked my hair up under it. Mr. Goceljak studied my face, tugged the brim down farther, and pushed a few stray hairs beneath the brim.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “I’d barely recognize you myself.”

The twine was synched so tightly around my waist that it made the pants look enormous and the white butcher’s tape stood out starkly against the dark trousers. Thankfully, the hat hid most of my face.

“Don’t I look a little strange?”

“Hell yes, you look strange. Strangest-looking thing I’ve ever seen. But you said you didn’t want anybody to recognize you. Now nobody will. They’ll think you’re, well, a boy.”

“I don’t know any boys who look like this.”

“Neither do I, but I certainly don’t know any
girls
who look like this neither.”

“Won’t people look at me funny?”

“I guess. But they’ll just think you’re poor.”

“I am poor.”

“Then you should be used to it.”

From inside came the sound of the shop’s doorbell ringing. “See you when you get back,” Mr. Goceljak said, then he headed inside.

I was finally alone with the bicycle but baffled about what to do
with it. First, I attempted to hoist my leg over the crossbar while steadying myself against the pipe railing. Before I could get my balance, the bicycle began listing from the weight of the packages in the basket. Next, I tried leaning the bicycle against the railing and scooting onto the seat from behind. However, the sagging crotch of my newly fashioned trousers got caught and I spent the following minute untangling myself. Already frustrated, I made one last-ditch effort to mount the bicycle by taking a running leap at the seat and swinging my leg over the top of it. I immediately slid off, nearly coming down hard on the crossbar, but managed to land on my tiptoes and steady the bicycle only to have the front wheel turn, causing the bicycle to take a nosedive. Fortunately, I caught the handlebars before the contents of the basket could go clattering to the ground. It was a losing battle and, I decided, another fitting punishment for lying about being able to ride a bicycle in the first place. The meat couldn’t stay outside for long, but there was no way I could use the bicycle to make the deliveries, at least not yet.

Mr. Goceljak had a small curing shed a few yards behind his shop, and beyond that lay the empty field. Tall weeds and briar bushes that had grown unchecked for years had overtaken the land. The tops of the bushes were higher than my shoulders. No one, not even the most adventurous of children in town, would attempt to enter the field for fear of the prickling bushes and sharp weed stalks. If I could hide the bicycle in the field, there was no way it would be found.