scouting furnishings for the kindergarten.”
“Kindergarten?”
“For young children. Next fall. The school board’s adding one. It’s a shame Hilly will miss out this year.”
“What do they do in kindergarten?”
“It’s a new idea from Germany,” Cora said, leaning toward Elvira. “They learn their ABCs and simple numbers and they color pictures with crayons and cut shapes out of paper. And there’ll be a sandbox. And the teacher will read the children stories.”
Elvira was pleased that her question had lit a spark of animation.
“They’ll play games, of course,” Cora went on. “I want to find beautiful books for them and colorful pictures for the walls. Four more years and Laurence will march off to kindergarten.”
Then Cora grew quiet, perhaps imagining Lizzie marching Laurence to his first day of school.
When Nell arrived home the following day, Elvira told her, “I have shopping to do.” In Lundeen’s, the young woman gathered up a pair of children’s scissors, a thick pad of cheap paper, and a wooden box of crayons.
George Lundeen himself rang up the sale. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s about Hilly and kindergarten. I don’t want him to miss out on all that.” Elvira smiled. “I sound like a mother hen.”
Wrapping the items in brown paper and tying them with string, George said, “Hilly’s a lucky boy.” Like Cora, George was moving into that pale landscape where the sun shines dimly through a scrim of vanished possibilities. Elvira wished she could lay a comforting hand on his.
Outside, Elvira stood pensive for a moment, then plunged on toward the Water and Power Company to scour the shelves for children’s books. Like the post office, this building was golden brick, and the broad interior lobby boasted a terrazzo floor. Elvira thought it hinted at a promising future for Harvester. Entering, she squared her shoulders and hoped that she looked a tiny bit soigné, a word newly acquired from Cora.
Shuffling through the bookshelves, Elvira found a little primer, nearly lost among the larger books. Seeing its quaintly illustrated alphabet, she tucked it into her satchel.
“What’s kindy garden?” Hilly asked, later, when Elvira showed him her purchases.
She repeated what Cora had told her. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
He nodded. “I kin do those things?”
“Most of them. We can’t have a sandbox, but we can learn the ABCs and numbers and do coloring and play games.”
“You’re a lucky boy,” Nell told him, echoing George Lundeen. “What do you say to Elvira for being so good to you?”
“I love you, Elvira.”
Elvira lifted him, hugging him. “Someday I want a little boy just like you.” Setting him down, she added, “But I don’t know how to manage that without a husband.”
“You could go to Boston and get a baby,” said Hilly. “Mrs. Lundeen got one there.”
An autumn Saturday morning, flaxen and mild. Nell sat at the kitchen table, drawing up lesson plans. Hilly had descended the stairs, promising not to wander off. “I’ll play by the pump,” he told his mother.
On one side of the vacant lot behind Rabel’s, a three-hole outhouse squatted; on the other sat one of the village pumps where, winter and summer, Nell and Elvira drew water.
The vacant lot was now drifted with leaves. Hilly ran through them, bending to toss them into the air, gathering them into piles and throwing himself down on them.
Someone moved into the space between the boy and the sun. Shielding his eyes, Hilly looked up. “Gussy,” he said, struggling to sit up.
“Not ‘Gussy,’ dummkopf. ‘Gus.’”
“What’s ‘dummkopf’?”
“You. A dummy. Somebody who doesn’t know nothin’.”
“Elvira’s gonna teach me. Like kindy garden.”
“I’m in first grade, dummkopf. I know lots mor’n you.” Young Gus Rabel kicked leaves into Hilly’s face. “Dummkopf.”
Hilly flung his arms in front of his face. “Please don’t, Gussy.”
“I told you, my name is Gus. Now you’re gonna get it, dummkopf.”
The bigger boy fell upon Hilly, knocking him backward and rubbing leaves into the boy’s face.
“Please, Gussy . . . Gus. Please don’t.” Hilly struggled to roll away, but Gus’s knees dug into his ribs, pinning him. “Hurts.”
“Ooooo, poor little dummkopf. Little baby dummkopf.” Gus’s face was so close, Hilly could smell the pickled pig’s feet on his breath. “Does it hurt, baby?”
“Yes.” Hilly had begun to whimper, as Gus bounced his weight on top of the smaller boy’s ribs.
“Here! What you think you doing?” Butcher Gus Rabel, wearing a broad white apron over his work clothes, grabbed his son roughly by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “What kinda dummkopf are you?” He smacked the boy hard on his backside. “I am ashamed. You should learn from this little fellow how to be a man! A gentleman.” He shoved young Gus out of the way.
“I am sorry,” he said, helping Hilly to his feet. “You come. I give you oyster crackers. You like oyster crackers? We get you a little bag of oyster crackers.”
Hilly took the butcher’s hand and followed him through the back door of the meat market. Never before had he been in the big room where Gus butchered meat. How important he felt, being let into the mysterious place behind the meat counter.
It was dim and smelled of a number of things: blood and sawdust and pickling spices and smoke. It was a homey, familiar smell since these odors rose up through the big hot-air register into the Stillman living room.
When Gus had filled a little bag with oyster crackers, handing it to Hilly, he said, “You always be a good boy, won’t you? Everybody love a good boy.”
chapter fifteenchapter fifteen
ELVIRA HANDED CORA A CUP of holiday punch and drew a chair close. “Every year you’re more elegant,” she said, admiring the simplicity of Cora’s pale-gray gown. Near them, dancers swept across Laurence and Juliet’s parlor floor to the insistent pulse of “Under the Bamboo Tree.”
“Thank you.” Cora set the cup aside and took one of Elvira’s hands. “And every year you’re kinder.”
“Baloney, sez I.”
“I’m going to ask a favor again,” Cora said.
Elvira laughed. “‘Dance with George?’”
“He needs to dance,” Cora said, her gaze so unwavering Elvira had to look away. “He’s growing old.” Eyeing her husband from across the room, immersed in store talk with Howard Schroeder, Cora continued, “It’s because of me—don’t say a word. Not a word.
“If I could . . . dance, everything would be different. If I could do so many things.” Her voice grew sardonic. “I’m becoming a matron, Elvira.”
Never had Cora spoken