Sincerely Louise

September 1915 When I tried to comfort Mama, she would push me away, then run to me, gather me in her arms, bury her face in my hair and sob, “Oh, my little Louise, what are we going to do?” She used to water down the milk in Ruthie’s bottle, and when the landlord knocked on the door, Mama would whisper, shush, and hold us both so tight we could hardly breath. She’d give Ruthie a sugar cube to keep her quiet until the knocking stopped. Sometimes when the landlord knocked on our door late at night asking for the rent money, Mama would let him in. I’d lay quiet in my bed, smelling cigar smoke and beer. The next morning Mama would bundle us up and take us to the grocery store to buy food. She would give us pennies to buy candy. Whenever I asked about our Papa, Mama would tear up, or get angry, and tell me he was dead. I was pretty sure she was lying, because sometimes a letter would come with money in it. Mama would cry then and curse, and I knew it must be from our Papa. When the letters stopped coming, that’s when Mama took us to the farm to live with our German Grandma and Grandpa. I was five then, and Ruthie was only two. Mama promised to come see us, and when she didn’t come, Ruthie cried. After a while when she promised and didn’t come, Ruthie didn’t cry anymore, She just got more ornery every day. Gram just shook her head, taught me how to milk the old cow, Hilde, and signed me up for kindergarten. CHAPTER 1 A hot July day in Connecticut, 1916 She said she would come. Other times when she said she would come, she never came. We giggled then, pretending we didn’t care. Grampa’s farm is far from the nearest town, so far that the green bus comes but once each day. Today the sun hangs high overhead, paling the summer sky. It is near time. We walk toward the road, kicking at stones, drawing lines in the dirt with our toes. Dust cakes our feet turning them powdery brown. Our wash-weary dresses hang straight down and, save for the large bow in my hair, we are like orphans. The time she did come, we pushed against each other like kittens in a basket. I was seven and Ruthie was only four. She scowled up at me and asked in her sour, scratchy voice, “Is that our Mama?” She came mincing toward us, her skirt cropped close around her ankles, her hair flat against her head under a stylish hat with a feather. She was pretty then, and she laughed. Out loud. Later we sat at her feet, our arms wrapped tight around our knees, listening wide-eyed to her stories, stories filled with promises, while Gram sat tightlipped in her rocker knitting. That night I lay in our bed wondering. I lay still so as not to wake Ruthie, fearing she might be wondering, too. But now, far off beyond the curve in the road, a dusty swirl angles toward the sun. Slowly a green speck, hardly visible at first, rumbles toward us like a rusty toy, sending crows to resettle. The road shimmers as the bus grows to full size. As it ambles toward us, I take Ruthie’s hand and face us toward the farm. I do this, not from pride alone, but for fear when the door hinges open and she won’t be the there. August 1916 Dear Mama, You promised and we waited. Ruthie cried. She turns five next month. It would please her if you would come for her birthday. Me too. Sincerely, Louise