talk to me from his bed. Sometimes he’d play his violin.”
Mrs. Osthoff motions to me again to go on, but I can’t. “That’s all I remember,” I explain. “I don’t even remember when he died.”
Mrs. Osthoff nods her understanding, and I feel a strange pull on my heart. Stirring up these memories has made me miss my father more than I ever have before, and for the first time I understand what it is I’ve really lost. Seeing the pride in my father’s eyes in the picture, the way he looks at me so lovingly, I wonder if he would be proud of me still.
And then I realize that if I can miss a father I barely knew, how much harder it must be for Mrs. Osthoff, who lost her parents and siblings in the First World War and then her husband and now her only son. No wonder she screams, I think. No wonder she locks herself up in this house. How can she not think about all the people she’s lost, those people in her photographs? How can she not spend all her time missing them? And how can that not make her crazy?
Her eyes have taken on that faraway look. She’s remembering too. She turns to stare out the kitchen window.
“Thank you for the picture,” I say, but she doesn’t answer. Once again, it’s as if I’m not even there. I pick up the watering can, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I open the back door and turn to look at her once more and then ease the door closed. As I walk across her lawn, I hear that long, low moan. It doesn’t scare me this time, though. I understand it now.
I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed, the picture still in my hand. I study it in the moonlight, trying to remember every story my mother has told me about my dad. About how he taught high school before he took sick and how he and Mother had hoped to have lots of children and how he used to play his violin at the church dances. I fall asleep that night still holding that picture and feeling grateful to Mrs. Osthoff for the gift she gave me—the gift of seeing my father and me together—and I vow to find a way to thank her.
11 - Finding My Voice
I look for Mrs. Osthoff Sunday night. She doesn’t invite me in, but she smiles at me from her window and offers a shy wave. I leave a tomato and some string beans on her top step and hurry home feeling warm inside. The next morning I rise early for work. Mother and Grandma are already at the kitchen table when I stumble in. “That was quite a commotion last night,” Mother is saying.
“What commotion?” I ask.
“Some boys threw a rock through Mrs. Osthoff’s kitchen window. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.”
My heart sinks. “Is she all right?” I ask, rushing for the back door.
“Come back here and eat your breakfast,” Grandma says. “You’ll be late for work.”
“But I need to check on her,” I say, sliding reluctantly into my chair.
“Your grandfather did that last night.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. He knocked several times, and there was no answer.”
“Then I should go. She’ll answer for me.”
“Why? Because you’ve been looking after her garden?”
I glance at Mother. She’s looking at me over her cup. I should have guessed they would know.
“It would have been a lot easier to take the hose over rather than lugging that watering can and pail. If you hadn’t felt the need to sneak around, you could have done that,” Grandma snaps.
“I didn’t think you’d let me go,” I explain. “You’re always saying to leave her alone. Someone had to do something for her.”
“Hmm,” is all Grandma Kate can say.
“She asked me in on Saturday night, Mother. We talked. She gave me this.” I take the picture out of my skirt pocket and hold it up for Mother to see.
“I remember this,” Mother says. “This was our first visit home with you, Helen. Look, Mama. Look how well Calvin looks.”
Grandma looks over Mother’s shoulder. “Yes, he does,” she says quietly.
“Can I go, then? Can I check on her?”
“If you hurry,” Mother says.
I dash over to Mrs. Osthoff’s house and knock several times on the back door. Then I run around to the front of the house and do the same. I call through the open window, “It’s me, Mrs. Osthoff. Helen.” But there is no answer. She has retreated back inside herself.
I burst through our back door, out of breath. “She’s not answering,” I say. “We have to do something.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.” Grandma hands me my lunch sack. “Hurry, now. You’ll miss your train.”
I look up at her helplessly. “Maybe we should ask her to stay with us for a few days. Just until things blow over.”
Grandma’s shoulders droop. She looks tired. “How about this?” she says. “I’ll check on her later today, and I’ll call Mr. Anderson and have him order a new windowpane.”
“But why can’t she stay here? She’s probably scared.”
“Oh Helen, Eva is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She’s been doing it for years now. I’ll check on her. You just go. Get to work.”
I’m still worrying about Mrs. Osthoff and hoping Grandma sticks to her word when I arrive at work. I’m angry with myself for not telling Mrs. Osthoff what the people in town have been saying. It wouldn’t have stopped those boys from throwing the rock through her window, but at least it wouldn’t have come as such a surprise to her when they did. I’m wondering why it is that even when I try to do the right thing, I never quite get it all the way right.
When the line starts moving, I bring my attention back to my work, but it soon becomes clear that Martha is bent on causing trouble today. She can’t seem to hold onto the timing devices. She drops them so often it puts us all behind. By lunchtime I’m furious, and I don’t even have Janie with whom to vent my anger. So when Martha ruffles my hair as she passes, I drop my half-finished sandwich back in the bag and do something I never thought I’d have the guts to do. I march right out the front door of Westclox and across the street to the main office and ask to see a supervisor. One of the office girls takes me upstairs and knocks on the door of a Mr. Kopek. He’s sitting behind a desk piled high with ledgers and files, but he stands up when I come into the room.
As soon as I sit down opposite him, though, I lose my nerve.
“How can I help you?” he asks, but I can’t answer. He settles back in his chair. “I see,” he says. “That bad, huh? Well, if it’s something I need to know, I sure hope you’ll find the voice to tell me.”
I let out my breath and start talking, my words rushing over each other like kids playing leapfrog. I tell him all about Martha and Betty and how they try to slow down the line and about Mr. Mueller and how he’s never around to make them stop and how I’m just trying to do my best and get my job done.
“Well, I guess you found your voice,” Mr. Kopek says, coming around to sit on the corner of his desk. “You know, I gave a commendation to a girl not much older than you the other day. She had found more faulty parts than anyone else on her line. She was scared when I came to talk to her. It had been explained to her, of course, that every rejected piece costs this company money. She thought I was coming to tell her she was doing her job a little too well. Of course I wasn’t happy about the money we were losing, but the fact is many of our Westclox boys have enlisted in the service now. If we don’t make our products well, we endanger their lives. I want to see each and every one of them come home alive. I can get my wish if girls like you keep working as hard as you can.” He takes my arm and draws me gently to my feet. “I appreciate you telling me your troubles, young lady. I’ll look into it.”
I’m stunned as I walk back down the wide staircase of the office building and across 5th Street. I hadn’t expected to actually see a supervisor, much less be heard, much less be praised. I’m feeling pretty proud of myself as I take my seat back on the line and excited to see what will happen next.
“What’re you grinnin’ about?” Martha asks, but I don’t answer her.
In fact, I ignore her for the rest of the day.
r /> 12 - Nothing Easy
A week passes before Mrs. Osthoff lets me in again one evening after supper. I apologize for not telling her what people were saying about her, but she just stands there hugging herself and doesn’t answer. She does agree, however, to let me call Mr. Anderson so he can fix the window the next day, and that gives me hope. I promise her I’ll come over after work to see how it turned out.
But when I get home from work the next day, something unexpected is waiting for me. It’s Janie, sitting on the tree swing, her feet stretched out in front of her, her hands gripping the ropes. She smiles at me shyly when I come through the gate. I walk over to her slowly, looking down at my shoes.
“Guess what?” she says.
“What?”
“I got a letter from John Beaumont.”
My head snaps up. “You did? My aunt only just got one herself! What did he say?”
She stands up. “He called me ‘My dear Janie’ and said I was sweet to write to him. Why don’t you come over to my house and read it? You can help me think up a reply.”
I look at her sideways. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?”
“I am a little. But I miss you too. All Maxine talks about is clothes.”
I laugh, and Janie laughs with me. My heart is so full it’s fit to burst. “Come inside,” I say. “I have to tell Mother where I’m going.”
“Ask her if you can spend the night.”
“But I have to get up so early for work,” I say.
“That’s all right.