Chapter Nine

Margaret paced back and forth in front of the parlor window. It seemed to her the postman had been late every day this week, and was late today as well. She moved the curtain panel back for another peek outside — must have been the hundredth time — still, no postman. She let the curtain panel go and resumed her pacing.

Despite Devin’s torment of her, the first five months of her pregnancy had gone well. Only recently had her hands and feet swelled and she had begun to walk with a slight waddle.

Margaret wouldn’t have traded places with anyone. She loved the baby growing inside of her with all her heart. She’d been too afraid when she was a pregnant unmarried seventeen-year-old with a deeply prejudiced father.

The memory still caused her to feel heartsick. And, sometimes, it also triggered a shortness of breath. For the baby’s sake, she forced herself to calm down by caressing her stomach.

“This is May, precious,” she said to her unborn child. “Come September, you’ll be in my arms, and we can leave this place. I still don’t know where we’re going, but wherever it is, I promise that it will be peaceful and safe. That’s all that will matter. Everything else will come, in time. Somehow.”

The thought of having to survive on her own both exhilarated and frightened her. She tried to resist the fear, but at times it subjected her to bouts of depression and wishful thinking. Over and over, she would ask herself why she hadn’t been able to make Devin care for her, or at least, their baby. Maybe then she would have had a reason to consider staying in the marriage.

But there was no use in trying to fool herself. Despite all of her efforts, Devin hadn’t so much as helped her to pick names for the baby.

She had finally given up asking for his input, and had chosen two names on her own. Iris, if she had a girl, after her favorite motion picture star. Jake, if she had a boy, because her father had once said that’s what he would have named a son.

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed again. It was noon. By requesting the letter to be sent to her home, she hoped Devin’s daily habit of being away from the house until dinner would go unchanged.

Yesterday, however, he’d surprised her and come home for lunch. She had offered countless Hail Mary’s, praying that he wouldn’t do the same today.

She prayed even harder that her visit to the Mother Cabrini Orphanage would not just lead to another dead end in the search for her daughter. Time was running out, but she couldn’t go anywhere until she knew for certain that her oldest child was all right.

Mother Superior had promised to find out what she could, but had also warned Margaret not to have unrealistic hopes.

Margaret’s deepest concern was that she’d already done everything she could think of to find her daughter. If the orphanage couldn’t help her, she couldn’t imagine what to try next. Not that that would stop her.

Nothing, outside of death would stop her … not ever. Not until she found her daughter. However long it took, or however far she had to go, one day she was going to find her.

Again, Margaret stopped pacing and chanced another look out the window. The postman was opening the gate. It was all she could do not to run to the front door to greet him. Instead, she forced herself to watch through the curtains until he walked up the porch steps.

He was partially out of Margaret’s view, but she could still see him as he searched through his leather bag. From the bag he removed a small package wrapped in plain brown paper, a handful of business-sized envelopes, and two magazines, Harper’s and Vanity Fair.

In quick order, she heard the mailbox open and close, and heard the postman’s heavy footsteps as he left the porch.

Margaret counted slowly from one to ten. Just as she mouthed the number seven, the quiet was broken by the telephone ringing in the foyer.

She stopped counting and held her breath. She could feel her heart thumping wildly as the phone continued to ring. At last, Walter answered it.

She listened to Walter talk. Whoever called wasn’t asking for her. She felt a sense of relief. All she wanted to do was get the mail.

She rushed out the front door to the mailbox. Her hands trembled as she pulled open the mailbox and took out the package, the stack of envelopes, and the magazines.

She put the package and magazines back in the mailbox but sorted anxiously through the envelopes. Tears of pain and frustration welled in Margaret’s eyes. She had been wrong to hope. Not one letter was addressed to Mrs. Margaret Browne.

With her heart heavy with disappointment, she took the mail inside. She hadn’t heard Walter come to the door and collided with him as she stepped forward. The package, the envelopes, and magazines all fell to the ground. When she looked down at the scattered mail she thought that her tear-blurred vision was merely playing tricks on her.

There, on the porch floor, poking underneath the cover of Vanity Fair, was a palm-sized white envelope, addressed to Margaret in perfect penmanship.

As Walter bent to retrieve the fallen mail, Margaret practically pushed him out of the way. “No,” she shouted, “let me.”

She kneeled down and slipped the small white envelope into her pocket, then gathered the other items, stood, and handed them to Walter. “Please put these on Mr. Browne’s desk,” she said, avoiding Walter’s eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with the stiff formality he’d lately adopted, and carefully accepted the mail from her hand. Neither wanted to suffer the possibility of even just their fingertips touching.

“That call was from the Denver police. The local precinct,” Walter said, seemingly more to break the tension than to give her the news. “Mr. Kyle has been arrested for vandalism. The officer wouldn’t go into any more detail since Mr. Browne wasn’t available. I told him that I was sure Kyle’s stepmother would be on her way to the station as soon as possible to take care of the matter. Shall I call a taxi for you?”

Margaret felt perplexed and worried. “Yes,” she replied, forgetting to avoid Walter’s eyes. “Please.”

⟞ • ⟝

Margaret stood on the sidewalk in front of the police station and studied the two-story building’s entrance as if beyond its doors waited some unimaginable terror. She had never been in a police station and feared that her well-intentioned effort to secure Kyle’s release might result in doing her stepson more harm than good.

“Hey, lady,” a man’s voice in back of Margaret barked, “how much longer ya plan on blocking the bloomin’ door? Nobody’s got all day.”

Margaret stiffened and looked around. A ruddy-faced Denver police officer firmly grasping a colored woman by the arm was leaning in close to Margaret’s ear. She felt her face go flush. “Uh, uh, I was just, uh …”

The officer didn’t wait to hear Margaret’s response; he just pushed his way past her. “Come on, Lulu,” he said to the colored woman, in what struck Margaret as an oddly familiar tone of voice.

Margaret noted the woman’s dress, a red satin flapper sheath fringed from top to bottom, shimmied when she walked. It was similar to one that Gwen brought from Paris. The colored woman’s hair was even styled like Gwen’s, cut in a bob and marcelled.

Margaret had never seen a woman with such a haughty attitude, not even among the country club members.

No matter how rudely the policeman jerked the woman or how much she struggled against his hold, the woman managed to keep her head high, her back and shoulders squared.

As the police officer pushed the station door open and took the woman inside, Margaret got a peek into the station lobby.

She saw another police officer sitting behind a desk atop a platform and a line of ordinary citizens that extended back from the desk.

Just as the station door was about to close in Margaret’s face, she pushed the door back open and hurried inside. Immediately, Margaret knew that she had entered a foreign world.

A fist of fear clutched at her chest. The woman in the red dress was studying Margaret as if trying to remember knowing her a long time ago, maybe from some far away place.

Embarrassed that a colored woman would dare to meet eyes with her, Margaret blushed with indignation. The nerve of the woman, Margaret thought, as she turned on her heels and headed to the police desk. Anyway, she needed to get this matter with Kyle behind her. She headed toward the line of people.

“Psst, psst,” a boy’s voice beckoned. “Mrs. B., over here.” Margaret stopped in her path.

She looked about but saw no one she knew. Perhaps she was just tired and imagining things. After all, the day had been anything but easy.

Again, she headed toward the desk. The line was the shortest it had been since she’d entered the station. She wasn’t going to waste anymore time getting in it.

“Hey, Mrs. B.,” the same voice called, “we’re over here.”

This time, to her amazement, Margaret saw her stepson Kyle and his friend Spud. They were sitting next to each other in chairs obscured by their location in a dark corner. They were handcuffed to the chairs like the colored woman. It was Spud calling to her in his usual disrespectful manner. A rare flash of anger jolted Margaret’s composure.

Hadn’t she forbidden Kyle to pal around with Spud? He was an ill-mannered urchin who apparently never had to report home. The way he spoke and dressed made it obvious that his background left a great deal to be desired.

Obviously, her warning about Spud had been right. If only Kyle had heeded her fears.

As soon as they stepped foot outside of the station she was going to make Kyle swear that he would stay away from Spud and the rest of that unsavory bunch of boys.

Once more, Margaret looked over at the colored woman. She admired the woman’s grace, especially the way she held her head erect and kept her back so straight.

Margaret drew in a breath so deep that her chest lifted. She, herself, was a far cry from being a colored woman, but there was nothing that said she couldn’t raise her chin and square her shoulders too.

Oddly, Margaret’s improved carriage made her feel a sense of kinship with the colored woman and, unexpectedly, a modicum of confidence. In fact, Margaret felt able to meet the police captain head on, and just wanted to get to his desk. She needed to get Kyle out of this awful place, to take him home where he belonged.

She turned back toward the desk. The line of people was gone, but now the police officer at the desk was reading a newspaper.

Margaret stood silently at the front of the desk, staring at the front page of the Rocky Mountain News until she gathered the pluck to speak. “Um, pardon me, officer. I’m here to see about my stepson,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah,” the captain said without putting down his paper. “Name?” he said, and turned a few of the paper’s pages.

“Name?” Margaret implored.

“The kid’s name, lady. What’s the kid’s name?” the officer said and turned several more pages, still without the courtesy of looking into her face.

“Oh, ah, ah …” Margaret quickly looked at Kyle, then once more at the Negro woman. The officer crunched his newspaper closed and stared at Margaret, impatiently waiting for her to answer.

“Kyle. Kyle Browne,” she said, finally. The captain’s expression quickly softened and his face turned a bright red.

“Browne, you say? Not Devin Browne’s boy?”

“Yes, that‘s right. Someone called our home, saying Kyle was here. My husband wasn’t in, so I came. I hope that’s all right.”

“Why, of course it is,” the officer said, then leaned forward. “Your boy’s probably had a very fine upbringing,” he whispered, “but between you and me, you might not want him hangin’ around with the likes of that friend of his.”

He nodded slightly in the direction of Spud. “That there’s trouble looking for trouble, if you know what I mean.”

“I do indeed, officer,” Margaret said, “however, I thank you for the advice. I’m sure my husband will be grateful as well. May I take Kyle home now?”

“Why sure, missus. Your husband can come back later and attend to the small matter of paying for the broken synagogue window and the Mexican’s peanut cart. Witnesses, you know. Your husband is a lodge brother of mine, which guarantees him to be a trustworthy bloke. I’ll send a sergeant right over to uncuff your boy. What about his friend?”

“Well, he is just a boy, officer,” Margaret said, glancing over at Spud. “I’m sure Mr. Browne will want to pay his fine too.”

The officer nodded in agreement and signaled a nearby sergeant to go release Kyle and Spud.

“Humph,” someone behind Margaret said, “isn’t that just dandy.” Margaret turned to see who it was.

She was stunned to be looking into the face of her husband’s mistress, his colored mistress. Margaret felt her own face prickle with the heat of anger and embarrassment.

She tried to step by Rowena, but Rowena extended a leg and blocked Margaret’s way. Margaret remained calm. Rather than allow herself to be frustrated, she merely attempted to pass by on Rowena’s opposite side. This time, though, Rowena stepped fully into Margaret’s path and collided with Margaret’s pregnant belly.

Margaret stepped back in alarm, instinctively putting her hands to her stomach as a shield. She looked to the officer for help, but new arrivals to his desk blocked Rowena and Margaret from his line of sight. Margaret was left to fend for herself. She felt frightened.

She also felt someone, other than Rowena, looking at her. Margaret’s eyes darted to the arrested colored woman, but the sergeant unlocking the woman’s handcuffs stepped in between them, obstructing their view of each other.

Margaret decided to walk away from Rowena, but Rowena stayed right with her.

“Not so fast, queenie,” Rowena said and grabbed Margaret’s shoulder.

More exasperated than anything, Margaret stopped midstep and squarely faced Rowena.

“Take your hand off of me,” Margaret said as quietly as possible, and jerked loose of Rowena’s grasp as Spud and Kyle approached.

Ignoring Rowena, Margaret spoke to Kyle. “We can leave now. Your father will be down tomorrow to pay the damages. And Spud, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you not to come to our house anymore. You boys apparently aren’t a good influence on each other and it would be better if you went your separate ways.”

“What?” Kyle protested and stomped his boot into the ground.

“Kyle,” Margaret pleaded, hoping her stepson would notice the colored woman listening to their every word. “Please don’t argue with me, especially not here. We can talk about this later when we get home. Now let’s go.”

Kyle and Spud hurried ahead of Margaret, and brushed past Rowena, causing Rowena to stumble backward slightly.

Margaret realized that now was her opportunity to escape and hurried past Rowena, only Rowena unencumbered by pregnancy, was faster than Margaret, and met up with her again just outside the police station’s front door.

Margaret guarded her stomach again. She watched helplessly as Spud and Kyle ran across the street and disappeared out of sight. Rowena watched too, but laughed. She seemed to be enjoying herself at Margaret’s expense.

The other colored woman was now standing behind Rowena, yet seemed to want no part of Rowena’s efforts. Margaret regained her composure and looked Rowena straight in the eye. After a lull of only a second or so, Margaret reached out and slapped Rowena.

The passersby on the sidewalk came to a dead halt and looked on the two women in amazement. Rowena just looked stunned and held her hand to her cheek.

Margaret was equally stunned. Her arms and hands felt numb and her legs were wobbly. It took a squad car screeching to a stop at the curb to snap her back to full awareness.

Margaret realized that she had her chance to get away. She hurried down the street without even a glance back at Rowena.

⟞ • ⟝

It was blocks before Margaret dared to stop and rest. She felt dizzy and needed to steady herself. She leaned against the wall of a building, and realized that she needed to sit. She took a deep breath, looked around to get her bearings, and saw the Orpheum Theater Palace. If she went inside she could sit for as long as she needed and get something cool to drink. Thankfully, admission was only ten cents.

She bought a ticket for the matinee screening of Charlie Chaplin’s “The Gold Rush,” but once in the lobby decided to go to the powder room instead of watching the film. The vanity area of the powder room offered plush sofas.

As she sank into the sofa in the far corner, Margaret remembered the envelope stuffed in her pocket. Had it really been just this morning that she’d put it there?

Her trembling hand retrieved the envelope and she studied it a long moment before opening it. It was now or never. She decided on now and ripped the letter open.

The words, “Dear Mrs. Browne, I regret to inform you,” might as well have been a dagger lunged into her heart. She cried out in pain and crumpled the letter in her hand. Her tears continued until her sobs reduced to dry heaves.

After nearly an hour of crying, she had only enough strength to smooth the letter back out and to read it once more. It still began, “Dear Mrs. Browne, I regret ...” This time she shredded the letter into confetti, and brushed the bits of paper from her lap.

She felt sick. She had to get air. She ran out of the powder room, then out of the theater. She walked a mile toward home before realizing that she had forgotten her handbag on the powder room sofa. Only it was raining and late. There would be trouble if she wasn’t home before Devin. She had to push on. It couldn’t possibly be much farther.

By the time she turned onto her street, Margaret’s feet ached and she was nauseated and shivering. It took all the strength she could muster to walk up the driveway to the house. She was within ten steps of the door when she collapsed on the puddle-riddled gravel.

⟞ • ⟝

Walter had gone upstairs to check on Mother Browne and to use her room as a lookout. Margaret should have been back by now, and from Mother Browne’s room he could watch for Margaret’s return. Before he went back downstairs, he looked out the window again. Margaret was lying still and crumpled in the driveway.

Walter rushed out of Mother Browne’s room, down the stairway, and out the mansion’s front door. As soon as he reached Margaret, he kneeled and lifted her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest.

His racing heart told him to run back into the house, but he’d been a medic in the war and knew that her condition was too fragile for him to do anything but walk slowly and gently. The splatter of down-pouring rain mingled with Walter’s tears.

As soon as he brought Margaret inside the house, Walter laid her on the parlor sofa, and went for a cold cloth for her forehead. She was moaning and tossing, but her eyes were closed as if she were asleep.

When Walter returned with the cloth, Margaret’s eyes were open, but they seemed to be looking at something, or someone far away. Her moans had turned into a plea for help.

“My baby,” she cried, “my baby. Please, don’t let them take my baby.” She clutched at Walter’s arms and struggled to get up.

“Shhhh,” Walter soothed, “no one is going to take your baby. Your baby’s fine. Just try to get some rest.”

After a while Margaret quieted and closed her eyes again.

All that Walter could do was to put a blanket over her and wait. It would be improper for him to sit alone in the room with her, but he was afraid to leave her unwatched.

He chose a chair against the farthest wall and settled into it, hoping that Margaret’s husband would get home soon.

An hour later, Walter awoke to Margaret’s screams. She was inconsolable and nearly hysterical. He needed to get her to the hospital, but how? Devin had the car, but worse, because Walter was colored, he would be stopped at the hospital entrance. Negroes weren’t allowed admittance to the city hospital.

Yet, sending her alone in a taxi was also out of the question. And, what if something was wrong with Margaret’s baby? Perhaps that was what she had been trying to tell him.

He had to go for help. There wasn’t enough time to wait for Devin. Walter went to the phone book and searched for the listing of Margaret’s best friend. Was it unlisted? Instead of calling, he decided to go get Gwen.

Fortunately, he’d chauffeured the two women many times and could find Gwen’s estate easily. He would run there.

He had run as fast as his legs would carry him once before. The night Klansmen had tried to run him down. That time it was to save his life. This time, he would be running to save the woman he loved.