The new house felt strange. Peculiar in some way. Perhaps it was the dark wood paneling that gave it such an oppressive atmosphere. Eileen cared little about aesthetics and thought the house was lovely.
I hated it.
We moved after Mama died. My father could no longer stand living in a house he bought for my mother and moved us to London, of all places. When I asked him why, he said in a strange tone, “I want to see.”
“See what, Papa?” I was busy dusting built-in shelves in the sitting room. My father had asked me to quit school so that I could care for Eileen and I spent my days cooking and cleaning with no end in sight. “There is nothing… to see,” I huffed, leaping down from the ladder. “When can we hire a maid?”
“A maid?” he repeated, as if he did not understand the question. “Do we need one?”
“Papa!”
He had not been sleeping well. Nor had any of us, for that matter. I suddenly felt like an ungrateful heathen after everything he’d been through. “That’s all right, Papa. I don’t mind not being in school.”
“That’s my good girl.” He smiled a little. “It’s only for a little while, Anne. Just until we get Eileen settled.”
“Yes, Papa.”
I picked up the broom, determined to sweep every nook and cranny free of dust and whatever those things were that clung to the ceiling. “What about your new job, Papa? When do you start?”
“Wednesday,” he said, holding the dustpan for me. “It’ll do me some good to get out and about. See new people.”
“What about Eileen? Her school term will start soon.”
“You can take care of that. Your mother always did. Just make certain the headmistress knows about Eileen’s allergy to chalk.”
“She can sit in the back.”
I swept all the dust into a massive pile and found more lurking under a battered carpet. “Papa…?”
“Yes?”
“Will you be talking to Scotland Yard?”
He paled. “What makes you think I—”
“We could have moved anywhere, Papa. Josh died here. In this city. And no one knows why.”
“We know why,” he answered gruffly. “Didn’t they tell us about that scuffle outside the pub?”
“There had to be more to it than that,” I said, dumping a pan of dust into the bin. I coughed and let out an unladylike sneeze. “Joshua wasn’t a fool. He may have had too much to drink, but he wouldn’t have done something stupid.”
“Don’t be so certain,” my father muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “He was my son, your brother, and all men must do one stupid thing or another in their foolish lives.”
The broom slipped from my hands and clattered to the floor with a horrendous echo. I bent to retrieve it. “Papa, do you say you did stupid things?”
“Anne, men always do stupid things. It’s part and parcel of being a man. When you marry, your husband will have done his fair share and then some.”
“I shall never marry,” I declared, surprising us both. “I’d rather be an independent woman.”
“In this day and age?” my father scoffed. “Anne!”
“I am sorry, Papa. But by the time Eileen is old enough to fend for herself, I shall be an old woman. No man will want my wrinkles.”
“Of course he will. You’re a lovely girl. Just like your mother.”
“Mama was pretty. I am not.”
“And your mother knew when to accept a compliment.”
“Yes, Papa.”
* * *
Eileen did not want to go to school, much to my chagrin. But when everything was said and done, she wore her uniform with pride as I dutifully played the nursemaid. While my father was hard at work at the university, I walked her to and from school, helped her with her lessons, and made certain she had a normal upbringing.
We were never wealthy, at least not in my eyes.
But we did all right with what was given.
Before we moved, my father was an architect. He helped design and build many hotels gracing the New York skyline. After we moved, he settled into a thankless job at the university. He had once been a professor and decided teaching was just as good as any. I was dumbfounded when he told me we’d be selling the house and moving to London. Even more so when he informed me he had quit his job at the firm and would teach modern architecture at the university.
“But why, Papa? You are no teacher! That’s my job!”
My father was adamant. “It’s for the best, Anne. I’m tired. My hands are not like what they used to be.” He flexed them painfully. “I am afraid I have what ailed your mother.”
“Oh, no!”
“That is why I must do this. For you girls. The money won’t be as much as we’re used to, but we will manage.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And I’ll be home in time for supper.”
That much was true. He was home in time for supper. But he was usually so exhausted from lecturing all day he went straight to bed. We wasted so much food that way. Eventually, I began cooking for two and usually laid out bread and cheese for my father if felt peckish.
With Eileen in school and my father teaching, I had the house to myself.
We still had not hired a maid to help with the laundry. I had to boil and scrub everything myself. I was unused to such labor and learned many a hard lesson in what not to do when wringing out miles of bed linens. I ironed. I scrubbed floors. And I felt as though I was wasting away.
School had been a haven for me. A place to nurture my bookish brain. Without that, I quickly succumbed to melancholy. I had fits of weeping when I should be glad. I had feelings of resentment when I should be grateful. All these things frightened me to where I dare not tell my father.
He had enough on his plate already.
My problems were insignificant to what he experienced on a daily basis. Long hours on his feet sapped his strength and appetite. I literally had to force-feed him. He was too tired to go to the barber, and I had to trim his mustache. I finally pleaded with him to quit.
“You cannot go on this way, Papa,” I said, striving for a gentle tone. “We’ll manage.”
“With what, Anne? You know as well as I what happened to all our money.”
My face fell. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t your mother tell you?”
“Tell me? Tell me what? Papa, you make no sense.”
He let out a troubled sigh. “Your brother was a man of many talents, Anne. One of them was guzzling hard liquor. And another was losing his hard-earned money at the racetrack.”
“Oh no, Papa,” I said, refusing to believe it. “Josh wouldn’t—”
“Knew him so well, did you?” My father patted my hand. “Your mother and I were hard put dealing with such a child.” He shook his head sadly. “Your mother was in denial. It was I who paid off his debts when I could and cleaned up his messes.”
I had to sit down.
For years, I labored under the delusion that Joshua was the perfect son. He did well in school. Played football. We never had enough room for his trophies. Now, my father had just revealed that my brother had been a hard drinker and a gambler. “What about his job at the bank?” I asked, striving to find some good out of all this. “Surely—”
My father shook his head. “They let him go.”
“Why?”
“Joshua helped himself to the till, Anne.” My father shrugged. “It was only twenty dollars, but they suspected he had taken more. They agreed not to press charges if he left quietly.”
I was understandably dubious. “Did you make a deal, Papa?”
“Not in so many words.”
“And they let him go? Just like that?”
“I’m afraid they had bigger fish to fry.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s too much for anyone to understand. But it seems there were others helping themselves to other people’s money. The bank made a deal with Josh if he…” My father lowered his voice as Eileen was in the other room. “Confessed what he knew.”
“You mean he snitched?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is that why he’s dead? Someone wanted revenge?”
“Who can say?”
I noticed my father was shivering despite the roaring fireplace. I fetched him an afghan and draped it over him. “Papa?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Are those people still out… there?”
“Who?”
“The people who… killed him.”
My father drew the afghan up to his chin. “Not now, Anne.” He yawned. “Your father is very tired. Ask me… tomorrow.”
“Papa…”
But he had already fallen asleep.
