The Girls with No Names Read online

  In the ancient, musty chapel, we were forced to kneel in rows on hard, wooden benches. Gas sconces blurred in front of me and a pallid evening light eked through the stained-glass windows where St. Paul, with his sword and scroll, stared disapprovingly at me, and Jesus, shepherding a baby lamb, gazed at me with sympathetic eyes. I clasped my hands, following Sister Gertrude in prayer: we have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done. Tears welled behind my lids. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit a trembling lip. It was cold and there was a draft at my feet. I wiggled my toes inside the soft leather of my shoes. Sister Mary had let me keep my shoes and I felt a sudden irrational attachment to them. Hours earlier these shoes had been sitting in the hallway of my home, a home that was just over the hill, and yet, somehow, existed in an entirely different universe. In what universe did my sister exist? Where was she? I looked around the dim chapel. Luella was truly not here. How had I made such a tremendous mistake?

  Stripped of physical strength, I managed to get through evening prayer and stumble up to the dorm room where a sour girl wordlessly tossed a nightgown at me and pointed to an empty bed.

  I clutched the nightgown to my chest, my heart accelerating. I’d never spent a night away from home. I’d left my parents a note saying I was going to get Luella, but if she wasn’t here, where would they think I’d gone? I imagined Mama pacing my empty room, tapping out the seconds on the back of her hand the way she used to when counting the length of my blue fit. What if she tapped all night and into the morning, her worry consuming her? I saw Daddy walking down the street with Miss Milholland on his arm, her hat tilted to one side, her cream-colored coat swishing from side to side. What if he didn’t care that I was gone? What if he was glad to be rid of me so I wouldn’t tattle like Luella?

  * * *

  Edna appeared beside me, linking her arm through mine as if we were old chums as she drew me to a bed where a girl was turning down the covers.

  “Get on.” Edna jerked her chin at the girl. “You’re sleeping over there now. You snore.”

  “What about my sheets?” The girl darted her sharp eyes at me. She was small, but looked vicious as a badger.

  With a sweep, Edna yanked the sheets and blanket from the bed, and dumped them in the girl’s arms. “Go.” The girl sulked away and Edna nodded at the nightgown still clutched to my chest. “You waiting for someone to help you on with those?”

  The room was frigid, but none of the girls seemed to mind as they stripped naked, flinging off dresses and chemises to pull nightgowns over their heads, some lingering in their underclothes, chatting and laughing while others crawled wearily into beds.

  Embarrassed, I pulled my nightgown over my head and wiggled my wool dress out from underneath.

  “That’s a good girl. Now, go get your sheets and make up this bed before Sister Mary comes for the nightly check-in.”

  The sheets were in a large wardrobe at the end of the room. When I returned, Edna eyed me as if she knew I’d never made a bed in my life. Remembering how Neala did it, I found the gathered corners of the bottom sheet, tucked them over the mattress and shook the top sheet out over it.

  Edna looked unconvinced. “There’s something funny about you.” She reached around and unbuttoned her dress, pulling it over her head, her bare arms pale and round, the outline of her heavy breasts visible beneath her chemise.

  With a creak of springs, Mable leapt onto the bed opposite us, landing on her stomach with her hand propped under her chin.

  Without thinking, I touched my tender cheek.

  “You still sore about that?” Mable kicked her legs in the air, her nightgown falling down to expose her shapely calves. A smattering of freckles dotted her tight, pale skin. “I have to establish myself with the new girls right away, otherwise, no respect.” She flipped onto her back and hung her head over the edge of the mattress, her hair like a white flame licking the floor. “It looks like Edna’s given you a bed right between us. She must like you, but then she’s a softie, especially for the newbies.”

  Edna dropped onto the mattress next to Mable. “There’s something suspicious about this one.” She twisted her hair over one shoulder as they exchanged conspiratorial glances.

  Mable nodded, slowly. “I suspected as much.” Swinging her feet to the ground, she drew something shiny from under the mattress and stood in front of me. “Put this on.” She held out a small cosmetic pot with a gold label that read, Rouge Coral, Bourjois.

  I didn’t move to take it. I’d never been pushed around by anyone. At school, the girls knew to leave me alone. I was Luella’s little sister, and besides, I was sick. No one pushed around the sick girl.

  Mable smirked. “Haven’t you ever painted your cheeks? You’ll insult me if you don’t take it. Do you know what it took to sneak this in here? Show her, Edna.”

  With a toss, the pot went sailing through the air and Edna caught it, pulling down the strap of her chemise to reveal her large white breast with its bright pink nipple. Lifting her breast, she promptly secured the pot beneath and raised her arms with a little curtsy, the pot held in place.

  Mable clapped. “Stupendous what one can hide under those things. Now, give it here.”

  Retrieving the rouge, Edna tossed the pot at Mable who snatched it in the air like a ballplayer and unscrewed the lid. She smiled, rubbing her finger methodically into the red cream.

  From behind. I felt my arms pinned to my sides. “Don’t struggle,” Edna hissed, her breath hot on my neck. “Otherwise it’ll get all over and you’ll look like a whore instead of a lady.”

  I thought of Luella’s fierce glare and the determined purse of her lips when she was angry. She’d never stand for this. She’d destroy these girls. I squirmed, trying to twist out of Edna’s grasp, but all I could do was yank my head to the side as Mable came at me with her red-tipped finger. Frantic, I kicked her, hard, right in the shins. She winced, screeching, “You devil!” and together they threw me on the bed.

  Edna sat on my stomach clapping her hands over my ears and holding my head still as Mable smeared cold, sticky rouge on my lips and cheeks. My breath caught and my heart sped up, the room muffled beneath Edna’s hands. Mable’s suffocating finger pressed to my mouth as I kicked and twisted, weakening. I’d never win. I’d never be like Luella. I was as flimsy and frail as the filaments I traced in my botany notebook. These girls would shred me like a leaf.

  This time, the room didn’t brighten and dissolve peacefully like the time on my bed. This was a violent death, a black noose closing around the edges of my eyes, around my neck. I choked and slipped and fell at a terrifying speed, images flashing like a deck of cards: Daddy’s fingers on the inside of my wrist, Luella’s braid on a pillow, a baby doll with glazed, taffy curls, piano keys, a ruler rapped over my knuckles, a pot of cold cream spilling to the floor, the white of Mama’s scars.

  Gasping, I clawed my way back through smothering darkness, dug at empty space until a ceiling beam came into focus, the edge of a window frame and the corner of a wall. The rush in my ears gave way to a ringing and I recognized Sister Gertrude’s face floating out of reach.

  Her mouth moved and I heard, “How long has she been like this?” I couldn’t make out a reply.

  The walls fell into place around me and I sat up, feeling like I’d been sucked through a tunnel and dropped out on the other side. The room was silent, save for the rain battering the windowpanes. Sister Gertrude stood cradling the pot of rouge in her palm, her coif and wimple shrouding all but the intimidating circle of her face. Mable and Edna lay in their beds gazing at the ceiling with innocent, bored expressions.

  “You think you can lie here and pretend to sleep with a painted face? It seems the girls failed to inform you that I check each and every one of you before the lights go out. Or maybe—” she tilted back on her heels “—they didn’t care if yo
u were caught. Come with me.”

  My legs wobbled as I stood up. Finding my footing, I followed Sister Gertrude out of the room and down the hall into an antechamber where Sister Mary stood on a braided rug in front of a bright fire, a small figure secured in black, a witness.

  There was a clink as Sister Gertrude placed the pot of rouge on a round table positioned between two wing-backed chairs. This room was lived in, with its bookshelves and trinkets, a figurine of the Virgin Mary on the mantel, paper and pen on a desk. “Go, wash it off. All of it.” She pointed to a washstand in the corner of the room.

  I’d forgotten about the rouge smeared on my face.

  As I closed my eyes to lather and rinse, I could have been at home, with the violet scent of soap and the crackle of the fire, Neala ordering me clean. When I looked up at the sisters’ blanched, stern faces, I felt disoriented.

  Propping a finger under my chin, Sister Gertrude ran her thumb roughly over my lips and I was reminded of my mother lifting my face the day she asked about Luella, how I’d pulled away from her. I should have told her everything.

  Satisfied that no residue of sedition came away on her thumb pad, Sister Gertrude folded her arms over her bulky chest and said, “I did not peg you for a troublemaker when you arrived this morning, but it appears I misjudged.” She savored each syllable, drew them out like flavors on her tongue. “I do not tolerate behavior of this sort. Which of the girls enticed you with this?”

  I understood few of the social cues here, but I knew enough to realize it would be suicide to tattle. Whatever punishment Sister Gertrude handed over wouldn’t be as bad as the girls’ revenge.

  “It was in my skirt pocket when I arrived this morning.” This was a quick thought up lie as good as any Luella could tell.

  “What possessed you to put it on before bed? Were you trying to make a show of it for the other girls?”

  I bit my lip and said nothing.

  There was a clucking from Sister Gertrude as she wagged her head in disapproval.

  “Sister Mary,” she snapped and Sister Mary’s still form came to life as she shuffled to the desk under the window and drew something from the drawer. “Turn around,” Sister Gertrude instructed.

  I turned to the window. There were no bars, just little squares of glass with tears of rain weeping down them. My stomach seized. Was she going to whip me? I’d never been whipped in my life. Some of the girls at school got the switch, but my father would never do such a thing.

  Before I knew what was happening, I felt my hair yanked backward and heard a sharp snipping. I whirled around to see my braid hanging like the pelt of a dead animal in Sister Gertrude’s hand. I clapped the back of my head as if I’d lost a piece of my skull, watching the sister drop my hair in the wastebasket and slide the scissors back in the drawer.

  She turned kind eyes on me, her disapproval sanctified by her righteous actions. “I will inform thee and teach thee in the ways wherein thou shan’t go, and I will guide thee with thine eyes.” She smiled. “It may appear a harsh punishment, my dear, but I assure you, rooting out one’s vanity is the first step to salvation. Beg forgiveness for your sin, and God will look kindly on you. Your hair will grow back. I have faith that, by then, you will be strengthened in goodness and no longer fall into temptation.” She looked at me as if the amelioration of the entire female race lay in our hands, as if we were in this righteous plan together.

  Again, I thought of Luella. “I haven’t done anything to beg forgiveness for. I’m not supposed to be here. My father’s Emory Tildon. Get him on the line. I want to speak with him. If he knows where I am, he’ll come straightaway for me.” I drew on my sister’s voice, held myself upright, chin lifted. I’d never stood up to anyone like this before.

  Outrage buckled the sister’s forehead and her lips pinched into hard lines, her soft face calcifying before me. She’d miscalculated. I was not as pliable as she thought. “I do not tolerate liars. Are you looking to spend your first night here on the basement floor?” Her hand clamped around my upper arm and she marched me from the room, the tips of her fingers digging into the tender muscles under my arm. Halting outside the dormitory, she dropped her voice and flicked a piece of my cropped hair. “Leaving you this was a kindness. One more misstep, one more lie, and I will shave this head of yours to the scalp and you will find yourself in the basement on bread and water for a week. Is that clear?”

  She tossed me through the open door and I stumbled and caught myself on the foot of an iron bed frame, the metal frigid, my confidence dissolving as I crept along to my empty bed. I had dared to imagine Sister Gertrude would do as I said. How was I going to reach my parents if she didn’t believe me, and how would I ever find my sister now?

  Sister Gertrude’s shrouded form receded into the hall and the door closed with a bang. The room went black and the ceiling snapped out of view. I touched my clubbed fingernails trying to resurrect the calming feel of Mama’s scars, picturing Luella’s face the night she woke me to braid my hair. Why didn’t Luella send me any message at all? I needed a word, a sentence, a beginning or an ending, something to explain this.

  There was nothing, just the pulse of a room filled with a hundred sleeping girls. Dear God, what had I done?

  Book Two

  Chapter Twelve

  Mable

  I had no idea, watching Effie make her way across the laundry that first day, that the two of us would wind up tangled in each other’s lives. To tell the truth, I didn’t think much of her. Just one more girl added to the pile. What I could see, right off, was that she wasn’t as weak as she played it. That’s why I slapped her. It was nothing personal. She messed up and had to pay for it—that’s how life is. I knew she could take it. I’ll admit for a minute I thought I might have killed her with that rouge business, but she came back from that too.

  How little I knew of that girl’s true strength back then.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m no good at this storytelling business. Stories are Effie’s domain, not mine. Life, as far as I can tell, is a series of events best left untold, and yet here we are.

  I suppose some things you just can’t get away from. Not when you’ve done wrong like I have. Committed the worst sin a person can commit in this world. I’ve searched my soul for why I did it and haven’t come up with any answers. At least I’ll go to hell for it, so there’s that. I’ve tried to come clean, but I can’t. So, I’m hiding out until the devil comes for me.

  In general, I didn’t care much for people. It was burying Mama’s fifth baby that stopped me caring. After a while, you can’t look at their tiny blue faces and balled fists and feel anything but sorry you have to dig that hole.

  I buried the last baby on an early morning in July. It was raining. Water streamed down the dirty widows of the cabin and hammered against the roof. The rain made the sad day worse, the whole sky crying down on us as I stood in my parents’ bedroom doorway watching the doctor’s fat behind as he leaned over Mama’s splayed legs.

  “Now, Mrs. Hagen, you’re going to have to push. You don’t have a choice here.” Dr. Febland was round as a barrel with whiskers thick as corn husks and cheeks that looked like he was holding peach pits in them. He sounded tired and fed up. He looked at Papa leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Einar—” the doctor was on first-name terms with Papa by now “—talk to her.”

  Papa’s face remained fixed as stone, his ashen hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, his mouth shut firm, accepting the inevitable. When Mama gave up there was no encouraging her and we all knew it.

  Sighing, the doctor took the flat of his hand and began pushing down on the hefty lump of my mother’s stomach.

  I didn’t want to watch. I wasn’t of any help anyway so I climbed the ladder to my loft bed over the kitchen and lay on my back tracing the rhythm of the rain in the air with my fingertips.

  My parents wa
nted ten children. At least that’s what Papa told me. Mama kept whatever she wanted to herself, but her stomach kept swelling and the small mounds under the birch tree kept adding up. I was the only baby that made it past a month.

  “Born easy and grew into the beauty you are without any help from us,” Papa liked to remind me.

  I was their firstborn, and reckoned it was my fault they imagined the rest of their children would be as easy.

  Between the slats of my bedrail, I could see the kitchen table below and hear the hiss of the fire dying in the hearth like someone was squatting between the stones spitting at me. I couldn’t figure why my parents kept trying to have babies when there was nowhere to put them. We lived in a small cabin, deep in the woods outside the town of Katonah, New York. The walk from the main road—more a dirt path full of holes than a road—to our clearing was a good twenty minutes. Papa worked in town at the Hoyt Brothers furniture store for a man neither Mama, nor I, had ever met. Papa said Mr. Bilberry was a kind man when he saw fit, but that he didn’t see fit very often.

  A moan from the bedroom clawed its way into a wail. I was glad not to see my mother’s anguish oozing out onto the bedsheet. I pulled the pillow over my head and waited until the moaning faded before tossing it off to listen. There was no sound of a baby’s cry. Through the patter of rain, I made out the click of Dr. Febland’s bag and the tired shuffle of his feet to the door. Before he left I heard him tell Papa it was a girl, and he was sorry there was nothing more he could do.

  The house fell silent. I stayed where I was until hunger drove me down to the stove where I dug a chunk of spoon bread from the pan with my fingers. Mama was Italian, but a few months ago, when she and Papa were in their hopeful stage, Papa brought home a book that read Knoxville Cookbook in bold red letters next to a lady with a fancy hairdo I’d never seen the like of. I could read the word Knoxville, but couldn’t make out what it meant. I’d never been to school and my education under Mama was spotty. Papa said he found it in a box of free books outside the village library, and since the only other book we owned was the bible, he figured he’d pick it up. He was Norwegian and had long since given up on Mama cooking anything he might recognize anyway.