When the Bough Breaks Page 8

  I feel almost happy, that is, as happy as I can be so soon after Mother's death. Wheeling Eddie along our street in the afternoon sunshine, I'm no longer peering over my shoulder for shadows….

  I should have known that Hamish hadn't heard the entire conversation properly, and had repeated only part of what was said, because he'd got so mad at me. I know I'm too bossy sometimes, and that I'm at my worst when I'm tired – which is most of the time, unfortunately.

  As for Elsie Bates, maybe, at this very moment, she is packing up the bits and pieces she's been collecting and planning to take a bus, at last, to her sister's place.

  Grace asked Sadie and me to meet at her house, so that the three of us can walk together to arrive at Mrs. Wilmot's at the same time. The truth is, I'm a bit nervous about the afternoon ahead – we've all been wondering who else might be there….

  “You will be good, Eddie, won't you? It's very kind of Miss Tracy to invite you.” Eddie seems to understand the tone of my voice. “The old lady is a bit of a dragon, but I don't suppose we'll even see her. I'm sure she has a Sunday afternoon nap, just like you do, and it's very important that you don't cry and disturb her. Not everyone adores babies, you know.”

  The tea ends at five o'clock, so I plan to be well on our way before Mrs. Wilmot wakes up. But, just in case, I gave Eddie a bit extra in his two o'clock feed. I don't want him screaming with hunger and disgracing me!

  I tried my best to tire Eddie out this morning, even taking him into the chicken coop to hear the hens clucking and to watch them flap their wings, making a commotion. I'd never done that before. “Millicent Carr, you look a perfect picture. Is that a new outfit?” Grace's mother smiles at me warmly, her voice is as kind and loving as though I were her own daughter. She and Mother were good friends long before Grace and I became best friends in grade one.

  “How's my baby?” Grace coos.

  “ Our baby you mean,” Sadie, who has arrived before us, says, asserting her claim to the buggy.

  We turn the corner onto Victoria Avenue and reach Mrs. Wilmot's white picket fence almost at the same moment as Denise Tetrault, who is walking arm in arm with Francine Leroux. Grace links her arm through mine. I can't help wishing Miss Tracy had asked anyone other than those two to join us.

  Denise raises her eyebrows at us, as if surprised that we have been invited. Turning to Francine, she whispers something, which sends Francine into gales of laughter. They compose themselves the minute they see Miss Tracy coming down the path to greet us.

  She opens the gate and says, “Welcome, girls, and isn't it a perfect day for our tea party? How clever and thoughtful of you to have planned your arrival so punctually. My goodness, you all look so well turned out. What a charming hat, Francine. May I take a peek at the baby, Millie? He is such a handsome little boy! You and I will find a quiet spot for our ‘gentleman’ guest. Meanwhile, I suggest the rest of you take a stroll around the garden to admire Mrs. Wilmot's roses before we sit down for tea; the roses are her pride and joy, and quite famous in the neighborhood. Run along.”

  She turns to me and says, “Millicent, that grassy place under the elm trees will give ample shade for the baby. You will be able to keep an eye on your little brother quite easily while we have our tea on the veranda.”

  I wheel the buggy up the path to the gentle slope under the elms and make sure the wheels are secure. I turn back the light pram cover, careful not to disturb Eddie, whose eyes are already half closed.

  “Thank you, Miss Tracy, this is perfect,” I say, and offer her the jar of homemade crab apple jelly that I decided to bring at the last minute. Mother never went anywhere empty-handed.

  “How very kind of you, Millie. Come along, girls. I do hope you are hungry.”

  The table on the veranda is beautifully set for six. A lace cloth is spread over another of white linen. A big silver teapot, milk, lemon, and a dish of sugar lumps stand on a low table beside Miss Tracy's basket chair. A four-tiered silver stand holds plates of bread and butter, scones, finger sandwiches, and an iced ginger loaf. There is also red currant jelly, a jug of cream, and a dish of strawberry jam. I wonder how Miss Tracy can afford to give us such a generous treat – surely teachers are not that well paid?

  Miss Tracy pours our tea, offering us a choice of milk or lemon, and I wish I dared take a couple of sugar lumps home for Hamish.

  “Do help yourselves, girls. Perhaps you would like to start with bread and butter. The jam is wild strawberry – I picked the berries myself. It's been such a good year for them. Millie has kindly brought a jar of my favorite apple preserve. I'm just going to put some out, so you can all have a taste. Oh, and we will need another spoon.” She goes indoors, leaving us alone.

  “Did you think there wouldn't be enough to eat, Millie?” Denise says spitefully, before launching into an account of her recent visit to Toronto with her grandparents. “We had a most elegant tea at the King Edward hotel.”

  Sadie, Grace, and I look at each other. There she goes again; I don't believe half the stories she tells. If she's so wealthy, why is she so eager to take over my job at Mercer's Drugstore? Grace kicks me under the table. I wink at her.

  When Miss Tracy returns, she urges us once more to help ourselves. I can't remember ever having eaten so many delicious things at one meal before, not even at Christmas.

  It isn't until we have second helpings of jelly and cream that Miss Tracy says, “No doubt you are wondering why I have asked you here today. I wanted to tell you my news personally, so that you would not be taken by surprise on the first day back of school.” There is a short pause. Miss Tracy holds out her left hand, so that the cluster of tiny diamonds on her ring finger sparkle, catching the rays of the afternoon sun.

  We exclaim at her exquisite engagement ring, admiring the precious stones and the setting.

  “Yes, I am to be married,” she says.

  We congratulate our teacher, plying her with questions:

  “When are you getting married?”

  “Will the wedding be here?”

  “What will your new name be?”

  “Where will you live?”

  “You will still teach us, won't you, Miss Tracy?” I ask.

  I can't bear the thought of something else changing. I love Miss Tracy's gentle manner in class, though some parents say that she is not strict enough.

  “What a lot of questions to answer. I hardly know where to begin.” Miss Tracy looks happy and excited; her cheeks are flushed. “My fiancé, Mr. James Farrel, has been offered a position as head of the science department in a school in Cobourg, which, as you may know, is my hometown. We met at a skating party last Christmas and will be getting married in the spring of 1936. I have naturally offered my resignation: it is only fair to the pupils, and to my successor, that he or she be hired at the beginning of the school year. Also, in these difficult times, preference is rightly given to male teachers and to single ladies. I hope you will help your new teacher all you can. This is an important year for you – your last year before high school. I am truly sorry to leave you and I will miss you all very much.”

  Denise asks, “You won't miss teaching us all, will you, Miss Tracy? Will you really miss teaching the boys?”

  There is an uncomfortable pause. I don't know how Denise gets away with being so impertinent. We look at Miss Tracy, wondering how she is going to respond.

  Miss Tracy replaces her teacup carefully on the saucer and dabs her lips with her starched linen napkin. The corners of her mouth twitch, and her smile changes to laughter. We are only too happy to join in. When we have calmed down, Miss Tracy says, “Well, Denise, I must admit, in the strictest confidence of course, that you are correct. Do you remember when I had to strap James and Henry for releasing a mouse during our Empire Day ceremony? I went home after school and cried. You know this has been my first teaching position, and I had never lived away from home before.”

  We assure her that no one would ever have guessed and how much we will miss
her.

  Then the talk turns to weddings and dresses and flower arrangements. We finish every delicious crumb of the ginger loaf. A small bell rings, and Miss Tracy looks at her watch. “That will be Mrs. Wilmot, up from her nap,” she says. “It's almost half past four. She requested to meet each one of you before you leave. Who would like to go in first?”

  Grace and Sadie volunteer because both their mothers, Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Ludlow, sing in the choir of Cambridge Street United Church, at evening service, and they had promised them to be home in good time. They emerge a few minutes later and thank Miss Tracy for the lovely afternoon. Then it's Francine and Denise's turn to pay their respects, and I help Miss Tracy clear the tea things.

  “You will keep in touch, won't you, Millie? You have always been one of my best students. I am anxious to hear how you will balance your studies with all the other responsibilities that have fallen onto your shoulders.”

  I promise to write, and then the others join us again. I am the last to go inside to meet the formidable Mrs. Wilmot. I hope she won't remember me!

  I hear Denise beg Miss Tracy to show them a photograph of her fiancé, and they follow me indoors.

  The entrance hall is cool and dark after the bright glare of the sun. I knock at the half-open sitting-room door. Mrs. Wilmot sits up straight in a high-backed rose-colored chair; her cane rests against the arm. The fierce small dog is curled up in a basket at her feet – luckily for me, he is fast asleep.

  Mrs. Wilmot peers at me shortsightedly. “Ah, the last one. You must be the blacksmith's daughter?”

  “Yes, ma'am. I am Millie, Millicent Carr.”

  She looks me up and down, and then says nicely “What a pretty blouse. Come closer, child.” She fingers the material. “This is exquisite work by a fine seamstress.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wilmot. My mother made it for me.” I clear my throat and say, “You have a lovely garden. Mother was very fond of gardening too, but we grow mostly vegetables. Our few rambler roses are not nearly as beautiful as yours.” I stare at the pattern of red and beige and green in the carpet.

  Mrs. Wilmot reaches for her cane and slowly rises from her chair. She looks at the clock on the mantel. “It is exactly five o'clock. Before the party comes to a close, I shall take a look at this angelic baby, who seemingly has learned to keep quiet – unlike the rest of you, who have kept me awake with your chatter and laughter for the past two hours. You may open the door for me, if you please.”

  I hasten to do so. I will be able to tell Eddie on the way home that Mrs. Wilmot's bark is worse than her bite!

  As soon as Miss Tracy has helped settle Mrs. Wilmot in the basket chair, I ask Mrs. Wilmot whether I should bring the baby over to her. She nods, and Miss Tracy offers to make her a fresh pot of tea.

  I'm surprised that Eddie hasn't woken up yet – he's been asleep for over two hours. I feel quite guilty and neglectful, not checking on him all afternoon. Careful not to tread on the perfect lawn, I follow the little path along the slope to the elm trees. When I reach the carriage, I say softly, “Did you have a good sleep, Eddie?” But I am talking to an empty buggy. Eddie's summer coverlet is turned back, the way I left it, his pillow is dented … but the baby has disappeared….

  Please, let this be a nightmare! Let me wake up the way I did before. This can't be real! I run down to the gate. There are no passersby on this Sunday afternoon, and the avenue is deserted, the way it was in my dream. I run back to the elm trees and check the buggy again. I search in the tall grass under the elms. But how could he have got there? He has not learned to sit up yet.

  I turn back to the veranda, where they are all standing in a row like figures made of wax, staring at me: Mrs. Wilmot, Miss Tracy, Francine, and Denise.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Wilmot asks me.

  I, myself, can hardly believe my reply: “The baby is gone, vanished!” Are the words coming out of my mouth real?

  “If this is some foolish game you girls have planned as entertainment, I do not approve, Miss Tracy.” Mrs. Wilmot looks at Denise and Francine, and then at me. I shake my head in despair.

  Francine screams, “He's been kidnapped, murdered, like the Lindbergh baby.”

  Mrs. Wilmot taps her stick on the wooden floor of the veranda. “Stop such foolish irresponsible talk. You have all been out in the sun too long, eaten rich food you are obviously not accustomed to, and laughed yourselves into hysterics. Did I not warn you, Miss Tracy, that no good would come of these gatherings – tea parties – whatever next?” She carries on and on. I can't make sense of her words….

  “No doubt a friend passing by, seeing there was no one in the garden, recognized the child and decided to take him home to his family.” Her mouth stops moving at last, and she clamps her lips together in a narrow line.

  Denise says, “I think I'm going to faint.” She sways slightly.

  “You will not faint. Sit down and hold your tongue!” Mrs. Wilmot orders. From inside the house comes the barking of the little dog. Denise sits.

  I must be going mad. Why are they all talking, wasting time? Where is Eddie?

  Miss Tracy comes down the veranda steps and puts her hand on my arm. “Mrs. Wilmot is quite right. I am sure there is a logical explanation. Perhaps your brother Hamish, or your father, came by and carried him home.” She turns away and lowers her voice to Mrs. Wilmot. I hear the words “missing” …“report” …“police.”

  Mrs. Wilmot taps her cane sharply on the veranda again. “Certainly not, I shall do nothing of the kind, Miss Tracy. It is a Sunday afternoon, and nothing untoward ever happens on a Sunday.”

  Why am I wasting precious minutes standing here? Listening and waiting as though nothing has happened? Eddie has been kidnapped, and I know who has taken him.

  “Thank you for tea; I must go home now,” I say, and run to get the buggy, push it down the path, and out through the gate. I don't look back.

  Elsie Bates has stolen him, just as she did in my dream. She must have been watching me, watching the house, following me when I go to market, or to work, even when I take Eddie for walks. “[I'll go] when I get what I need,” she said. I thought she meant things, but it wasn't things at all that she needed. She was waiting to get my brother.

  Oh, please, please let Hamish be waiting at home. It must have happened when I was talking with Mrs. Wilmot, when Denise and Francine were indoors looking at photographs. That was almost an hour ago. Where would Mrs. Bates go? Where might she hide him? I have to find Hamish – he is the only one who knows exactly where she lives.

  I run faster than I have ever run in my entire life, wildly pushing the empty buggy. I am back in my nightmare, only this time there are no footsteps behind me and no baby in front of me. I need to slow down to catch my breath. My ribs hurt.

  There were others in my dream. I remember the figures of Mr. and Mrs. Price, following and then passing me. Could Father have taken Eddie and given him to Mr. and Mrs. Price? I stand stock-still and put my hands over my ears to block out the words that Hamish repeated to me.

  Father promised. “It is a terrible thing to have to give away a child,” he said, and he meant it. Father would never break his word.

  I keep running. What if Mrs. Bates is waiting at home for me? Maybe she only wants to hold the baby for a minute. She'll say what she said to me that time in the garden: “If you'll let me hold the baby just once, I'll go.” But in my heart, I know she wants to keep him forever.

  If only Father and Hamish are home … together we can go and find Eddie … I'll never ask for another thing as long as I live. I reach the house, shout for Hamish, run into the garden, and look up into the apple tree, where he sometimes hides to read his comic. He's not there.

  “Father, where are you?” I shout.

  Father is out, and his newspaper lies neatly folded on the kitchen table. The pencil he used to mark the auction section is lying next to it. Has he gone to look at something for the truck? Has he taken Hamish with him? Where sha
ll I start looking? I have to find Eddie.

  I run upstairs to the silent rooms and check inside Eddie's crib, made-up and ready for him. I have no time to cry, or to wish Mother were here.

  “Wherever you are, Eddie, Millie will find you and bring you home. I promise,” I say aloud, making believe Eddie can hear me.

  I run downstairs and search for paper. That's wasting precious time, so I rush back upstairs and tear out a page from my school exercise book. Taking two steps at a time, I run back down to the kitchen. Using Father's pencil, I print in capital letters: HELP! EDDIE'S BEEN STOLEN. I'VE GONE TO FIND HIM ON GLENELG WEST. HAMISH KNOWS WHERE, MILLIE. I prop the note against the blue jug on the kitchen table, where Father and Hamish are bound to see it.

  FINDING EDDIE

  Irun the four long blocks from home to Glenelg Street. Only a short distance away, someone is playing the church organ for evening service. The congregation sings, knowing nothing about our lost baby.

  I am aware of a pain in my chest, of my breath coming in sobbing gasps, of my feet thudding on the sidewalk. There is a voice screaming in my head: Help me find my brother! but the neighborhood is quiet and peaceful, and there is nobody around to ask.

  After I turn the corner onto Glenelg, I pause to rest, leaning against one of the shady trees that stand outside the fenced yard of King Albert School. I look down at a patch of stubby grass that has turned brown – it is so long since there has been any rain…. I study the ground as if it were a map that might show me the way to go to find Eddie.

  How do I even begin? Should I knock on every door? If only I knew which side of the street the traveling woman lives on … if only I'd tried asking Hamish more questions. Where is Hamish? Why is he never there when he's needed the most?

  It is almost time for Eddie's supper. Suppose Mrs. Bates doesn't remember to feed him? She doesn't seem to know much about infants. If she did, she wouldn't have asked Mr. Mercer so many questions. But Eddie will cry and that's good, because I'm bound to recognize his voice, and then I'll know in which house she has him hidden.