Geraldine tried.
She sang to Emilia Mae, songs her mother used to sing to her.
She went back to brushing her hair more than one hundred times a day, but it never got back the gloss of its youth.
She dressed Emilia Mae in lacy bonnets and hand-knit sweaters.
She worked for years to lose the weight she’d put on while pregnant.
She took Emilia Mae to the park each day and pushed her back and forth on the swing.
She tried a fashionable up-do hairstyle, but it made her Romanesque nose jump out of her face.
At night, she read stories to Emilia Mae.
She dabbed on Guerlain, Joy, and Evening in Paris, but no one told her she smelled of gardenias.
She’d read that getting angry made you furrow your brow and cause permanent wrinkles. She tried not to furrow her brow.
Geraldine was older now, old enough for men to pay her no heed other than in a polite way.
She tried to love her daughter, and in a familial way, she did. But she still couldn’t forgive Emilia Mae for stealing the part of her that had turned heads and run wild. Even her own husband, who used to come at her with renewed hunger every time they made love, seemed to have lost his appetite for her since Emilia Mae’s birth. Emilia Mae had made Geraldine a mother, and for all the poetic things said and written about mothers, no one seemed to think they were sexy.
The next years lurched by like that, with Geraldine intermittently resentful of her daughter and trying to be a mother whose daughter actually liked her. When Emilia Mae was in fifth grade, The Wizard of Oz came out. The first time Earle took Emilia Mae to see it, she gasped when the movie blasted into Technicolor after Dorothy opened the door to Munchkinland. The second time, she went with her friend—really, her only friend—Nina Tyler, and grabbed her arm every time the green Wicked Witch of the West alighted. The third time, she went back with Earle and was thunderstruck by the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion. It was like the time she walked by the Touch Up Salon near the bakery and saw herself reflected in their storefront glass, hunched over, a big girl trying to shrink herself. The Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion took up residence in her imagination as the Oz brothers as she became their leader, Dorothy. At night, Emilia Mae would lie in bed and envision them sitting next to her. They’d have conversations about the day, about school, and how she would speak out in class and bring cupcakes from the bakery to school and make friends with other kids. Although words were never spoken, she always felt that they were cheering her on, and in the morning, she could swear she saw the indentations on her blanket of where the Oz brothers had been sitting.
Not long after, Geraldine came home from the bakery one night and said to Emilia Mae, “I have a surprise for you.” She handed her an illustrated copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. “I know how much you like the movie, so I thought you ought to read the book. The pictures are beautiful, take a look.”
Emilia Mae couldn’t remember a time when her mother gave her a present when it wasn’t her birthday or Christmas. The Cowardly Lion, Tin Man, and Scarecrow agreed with her that this was a sign that her strong Dorothy personality was working. She ran her hand over the cover and slowly turned the thick gilded pages to pictures of lions, dogs, and scarecrows. The book was heavy and smelled like paste and wood. She clutched it to her chest and said: “This will always be my favorite book.”
She thought to throw her arms around Geraldine and say, “Thank you, Mommy,” but instead she mumbled, “Thank you, Mother.”
More than anything, Emilia Mae wanted to call Geraldine Mommy. She wanted to love her mother. If she loved me, I know I could love her, she thought. But with Geraldine’s severity and disapproval, Emilia Mae could never find a way in. When she was sick or scared or lonely, she’d think, “I want my mommy.” But there was never a mommy there, just a perfectly coiffed trim woman with red lipstick whose hard eyes reflected back to Emilia Mae what she thought her mother saw: a chubby girl, with unkempt curly hair and her father’s pallor.
Emilia Mae longed to have her mother stroke her cheek, touch her in the soothing way that mothers touched their children, but Geraldine didn’t seem interested in those things. Emilia Mae thought her mother was pretty. She knew how to get things done. She could be funny. People noticed her. She was all those things, but she wasn’t a mommy. Emilia Mae took The Wonderful Wizard of Oz to her room and learned more about Dorothy, who lived on the sun-bleached prairies of Kansas with her Uncle Henry and Aunt Em. Aunt Em, she read, had once been a young pretty wife, but the sun and wind “had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled, now.”
That night, she discussed it with the Oz brothers. Maybe Aunt Em was sad. New Rochelle wasn’t sun-bleached, but the Tin Man said that there were other things that could take away a person’s sparkle and glow. Emilia Mae thought about this for a long time. Maybe her mother was sad, too, because she had a daughter who was boring, who never really said very much. The Scarecrow suggested she could change all that. How she could talk up more, be braver. The Cowardly Lion said that if Dorothy was brave enough to face the Wicked Witch of the West, surely Emilia Mae could try harder to make a good impression. To be noticed. Emilia Mae agreed. Her mother would like to have a daughter who got noticed.
Earle always tried to give Emilia Mae enough love for both him and Geraldine, but by the time she was a teenager, the girl had taken her sadness inside and locked the door. On weekends, she helped Geraldine and Earle out at Shore Cakes. She unloaded deliveries, swept up, and carried pans of cakes and rolls from the baking room to the store. One morning a little girl pointed to a butterscotch square behind the glass shelf and started crying that she wanted it. The girl’s mother took out her purse and counted out her change. She didn’t have enough money. The girl cried harder. Geraldine must have seen what happened. She went over to the mother and said, “We’ve just started making those squares, and I’d love to know how children like them. Mind if I use your daughter as a guinea pig?”
Geraldine handed the girl a butterscotch square and said, “I hope you like this, sweetheart, I made it just for you.”
Emilia Mae had never heard her mother use that tone of voice with her. Geraldine had never called her own daughter “sweetheart.” It made Emilia Mae want to shake her mother and cry out, “I’m a sweetheart, too!” She had noticed how her mother elongated her neck and batted her eyes at the male customers and spoke in a sweet, condescending voice to the women. The only way she could think of to punish her was to act just the opposite. “All that stupid small talk, ‘how are you,’ ‘you look pretty today,’” she told her mother. “It gets you nowhere. If someone wants an apple pie, I’m happy to tell them everything about the apple pie but I don’t see why I have to also discuss the weather or their new shoes.”
Geraldine rubbed her neck. “You know, Emilia Mae, we’re selling more than cakes and bread here, we’re selling at-mos-phere, a happy, welcoming at-mos-phere.”
Emilia Mae rolled up her sleeves. “You’ve got the good looks and personality, so you handle the at-mos-phere,” she said. “I’ll take care of the cakes and bread.”
Geraldine smiled at her daughter. “Holy moly,” she said. “You’re starting to sound like me.”
Emilia Mae and the Oz brothers took that as a sign that she was making inroads.
After the first semester of ninth grade, Emilia Mae’s English teacher wrote on her report card: Emilia Mae is an excellent student, but she keeps to herself. She seems to be an unhappy child. May I schedule a conference with the school social worker?
Geraldine tried to hold back her anger when she read those words but could feel her brow furrowing. “I’m going to tell that Mrs. Morris a thing or two,” she told Earle.
“What can you say?” he asked. “At least she’s an excellent student, but right now, Emilia Mae is an unhappy child. There’s no denying that. It’s a phase. Let it be.”
“Earle, Emilia Mae is not just an unhappy girl. She’s a loner who’s carrying around an extra ten pounds on her body. She doesn’t need a social worker; she needs to quit eating and make some friends. This is about discipline, not some fancy social worker.”
When he’d first met Geraldine, Earle had found her fieriness and passion exciting. She was so different from everyone else he knew. It never dawned on him that someday “fiery and passionate” would scorch his marriage and family. He’d thought they’d have a big family, three or four kids, but after Emilia Mae, he knew there’d be no more. By now, her anger and disappointment had worn him down, and he began stretching his hours at the bakery, leaving Emilia Mae and Geraldine to themselves.
“Alright, suit yourself,” he said. “Go see her teacher, but I’m telling you, it’s going to amount to nothing.”
The next afternoon, Geraldine marched into Mrs. Morris’s empty classroom. “You absolutely may not schedule a conference with the school social worker,” she insisted. “Emilia Mae is not an unhappy girl. She comes from a happy, churchgoing family. Unfortunately, she was born with a difficult nature. Nothing a social worker can do about that. Nature is nature and comes with the package. My husband, Earle, has an outgoing nature. I myself am a people person by nature.”
Was that surprise she saw in Mrs. Morris’s eyes?
School and the bakery: that was Emilia Mae’s life until, one day in December of her fifteenth year, the first thing resembling a miracle blew her way.
Sam Bostwick, the owner of the Neptune Inn, the oldest—and only—inn in the area, walked into Shore Cakes and pulled Geraldine aside. “I have a favor to ask. I’m looking for a charwoman for the inn, someone to clean the rooms, help serve the meals, and keep the place in order, an able-bodied young girl. I’m getting a little long in the tooth to do this by myself. I’ll pay handsomely and provide free room and board. If you happen to know somebody, I’d be much obliged if you’d pass along her name to me.”
Geraldine covered her mouth with her forefinger and hmmmmmed (Thank you, God), pretending to think about it. She let a respectable amount of time pass before shooting her finger in the air. “Wait a minute…I do happen to know somebody who might fit the bill: my daughter, Emilia Mae. A hard worker, that one, sturdy and capable of anything she puts her mind to.” Geraldine believed in truth telling and convinced herself that what she’d told Sam was correct in every sense of the word. Emilia Mae was a hard worker, and Lord knew she was able-bodied. She continued: “This sounds like a wonderful opportunity for her to learn about the real world and get some working experience at the same time. I’d allow her to leave school for a while should she fit the bill.”
“I’ve seen her around here, but don’t really know her,” said Sam. “Keeps to herself, that one, doesn’t she?”
Worried that Sam, like everyone else in town, knew how withdrawn Emilia Mae could be, Geraldine quickly added: “She’s grown into quite a young lady, smart and sturdy as a mule. You ought to get to know her.”
“Okeydoke, I’ll do that,” he said. “Will she be here this weekend?”
“Come by Saturday. She’ll be here all day.”
Geraldine was proud of herself. This was perfect: She was solving two problems at once. She was generously seizing an opportunity for her daughter’s future. And boy, what a relief it would be to get Emilia Mae out of the house. God knows she’d tried with that girl. Every week in church she’d pray for guidance. For patience. For a break. Whatever she did seemed to be wrong. Everything she said came out like criticism; every gesture she made, Emilia Mae rebuffed. The last time she took her shopping and picked out a dress, Emilia Mae shook her head and said, “That’s for your thinner daughter, not this one.” After she took her to get her hair done in a slinky Veronica Lake style, Emilia Mae came home, brushed out her hair, and put it up in a ponytail. When Geraldine brought home a copy of Black Beauty, Emilia Mae smirked and said, “Guess what? I’m not ten anymore.” It hurt her feelings, but she kept on trying. Geraldine bought her lotions and perfume and once a beautiful scarf made in Italy. Always Emilia Mae would thank her politely and shove the stuff to the back of her drawer. She had to face it: Her daughter didn’t like her, never mind love her.
Maybe she didn’t have the gift so many women had. Nothing seemed to come naturally with this child. She couldn’t bring herself to hug her, call her “sweetheart” or say “I love you.” Emilia Mae called her “Mother.” So dry and formal. It was hard looking in the mirror every day knowing that yours was the face your daughter despised. If she sent Emilia Mae to work at the inn, no one could call her a bad mother. People would understand that a job is a job. All she had to do was pray that Emilia Mae would act civil to Sam Bostwick when he came around.
That night, after Emilia Mae went to bed, Earle and Geraldine retired to the living room. Earle was playing one of his jazz records on the Victrola and Geraldine was smoking a cigarette. Earle leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as Duke Ellington and his orchestra played “Mood Indigo,” one of his favorites. Geraldine figured this was the perfect time to tell him about Sam’s offer. Earle kept his eyes closed as she spoke. Only when she got to the part about Emilia Mae learning about the real world did Earle pop up, eyes wide open. “For Pete’s sake, Geraldine, the girl is only fifteen. That’s way too young for her to be living away from home.”
Geraldine puffed her cheeks and made a sound like air leaking out of a balloon. “May I remind you that the Neptune Inn is about five and a half miles from here? She could ride her bike back and forth that distance.”
“And what about her schoolwork?”
“Our little genius can catch up on her own. Let’s face it: We could use the money. Hard work will be good for her, teach her some life lessons.”
“She can learn life lessons at home,” said Earle. “We can’t toss her out like a stray dog. She needs to be around people her own age, not ragtag strangers from who knows where.”
Geraldine ran her tongue around the inside of her cheek. “Can you honestly tell me that our home wouldn’t be a happier place if she was gone?”
“I can honestly tell you that our home would be a happier place if you weren’t so angry all the time.” Earle got out of his chair, turned off the record player, and left the room.
Geraldine followed him. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. High-and-Mighty. We’ll let her choose. Sam’s coming back on Saturday, he’s going to talk to her directly. If she says yes, she goes; if not, she doesn’t.”
“No, absolutely not,” said Earle. “I will not have my daughter leave school and work at some inn where absolute strangers come and go and there’s no one to watch over her. That’s out of the question.”
Emilia’s bedroom was adjacent to the living room. The walls in the Wingo house were old oak, thin enough to let everything through except a draft. Emilia Mae could hear the click of the switch when her father turned the Victrola off. When he said the part about letting her go where there was no one watching over her, she heard his words as clearly as if he were standing next to her.
The Oz brothers must have heard him too, because they immediately appeared on her bed. It was never clear exactly who suggested that Emilia Mae not wait for Mr. Bostwick to come to the bakery Saturday but that she go to the inn and seek out the man before the weekend, but the thought flowed through her as if it had been in her head all along. If she was going to go work at the Neptune Inn, it would be her choice, not her mother’s. Isn’t that what Dorothy would do?
On Friday after school, Emilia Mae rode her bike to the inn. With its gray wraparound porch and white slat-wood rockers, the Neptune Inn was one of Westchester County’s landmarks, and Sam Bostwick one of its fixtures. She walked into the lobby and from a distance saw a little man with white foamy hair and spidery veins on his nose: Sam. She walked up to him and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Emilia Mae Wingo. I think my mother spoke to you about me. I’m looking for work, and she said there might be a job here.”
He studied her with his milky brown eyes: “Ah yes, the sturdy girl. I’ll get right to the point. I’m looking for help at the inn, someone to tidy up the place, keep the rooms orderly. I can’t do it on my own anymore. It would mean free room and board. It’s a well-paying job, and you’d be on your own. Your mother says you might be just what the doctor ordered.”
Emilia Mae couldn’t imagine that her mother would ever tell anyone she was just what the doctor ordered. “What exactly did my mother say?”
He was standing close to her. Close enough for her to smell the Sen-Sen on his breath. “She said you’re just the kind of gal I’m looking for, strong and capable of anything you put your mind to. What do you think?”
“My mother really said those things?”
Sam nodded. “Yes, she said all those things. Said you could leave school for a while and have a real-life experience. That’s what she said. Are you interested?” He sounded impatient.
Strong and capable! Her mother really thought that. Well, she’d show her mother just how strong and capable she was, and make her proud. It took Emilia Mae but a few seconds to answer: “Yes, sir, I am interested. Very interested. When can I start?”
“How about the day after New Year’s?”
“Perfect,” said Emilia Mae, trying to hide her smile. A fifteen-year-old at the Neptune Inn? Yup, there’s a girl who’d get noticed.