After the dishes are done, Nancy prepares the batter for the morning muffins, combining the sugar and butter until they are one. The house is slowly quieting down. Ethan has retired to his study. William is in his room. Even Gerald, who’s already had his bath and been put to bed but has run downstairs three times since then, seems to have settled. This is usually her favorite time of the day, when everything is peaceful, when she can be by herself, to bake, to read, to have a cup of tea. To breathe.
It’s the girl’s turn for a bath, though. At the dock, Nancy had been shocked by the look of her, with her skin so pale, dirty white socks disappearing into heavy boots, eyes black and watchful. What on earth had they signed on for? What must this be like for her? To be sent away from home, by yourself? Nancy wonders what kind of a parent could make this choice, although she knows she has no idea what it’s like to live through a war. She doesn’t think she could do it, though; she can’t imagine putting William or Gerald on a ship by himself. And, Lord, what will happen if the United States enters this war. She prays each night that it won’t happen or, if it does, that her boys will still be too young.
The batter ready for the morning, Nancy pulls out the box she’d stored in the back hall closet. She’d brought it over from her sister’s house last week when they’d returned from Maine, and it’s full of girl things: dolls, books, tea sets. Some of the items had belonged to Nancy as a child; others, like these fancy china dolls, had been her nieces’. Beatrix doesn’t seem like a doll girl; Nancy hadn’t been one, either. Nancy pulls each item out and sets it on the kitchen table. Her mother’s miniature dolls, with their Victorian dresses. A cracked teacup that Nancy remembers as once being part of a set. The Katy Did books, which had been her favorites. They’re old and worn, though, with pages no longer attached to the binding, and Nancy isn’t sure they would appeal to Beatrix. Although, really, she has no idea what the girl is like. She packs up the box again and pushes it back into the closet. It all seems so childish for a person who has lived in war. Nancy has been haunted by the first letter from the parents: In her room, we found a stash of newspaper articles about nerve gas. She had circled this line: “Victims will die within two minutes of exposure.”
Nancy walks noiselessly down the upstairs hall. The door to the spare room is opened a crack. The girl sits in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, talking to a framed photograph. Dad, she says, I made it. I’m here. Nancy backs against the wall, wiping her face with her apron.