Vivian poked her head around the door. “Only me, Mrs. Thomas. Florence picked up some groceries for you and asked me to bring them by.”
Mrs. Thomas was ladling out oatmeal to six children, four of them her grandchildren, who were crowded around her table. Regular thumping and clattering tumbled out from the other rooms, punctuated by shouts for someone to get more wash water, as the other members of the family tried to get ready for the day without tripping over each other.
“Well, put them by the stove, then,” Mrs. Thomas snapped. “I hope there’s milk in there, the babies have been asking for it since yesterday.”
“Two bottles, bought fresh not even an hour ago,” Vivian said, forcefully cheerful as she unpacked the groceries. “And some apples too, do you want me to cut those up?”
“What, do you think we’re so poor we can’t afford teeth? They can eat them whole.”
Vivian passed out apples to the six children, who were quarreling among themselves, while Mrs. Thomas continued to complain.
“And don’t think I don’t know why you’re the one coming by, instead of that sister of yours. Looks down on me, she does. Thinks she’s better than me, in that fancy shop of hers with those fine clothes she makes, and me trying to keep food on the table for my children and my children’s children while she resents buying a few groceries…”
“The fancy shop doesn’t belong to Florence any more than the clothes do,” Vivian said dryly as, without being asked, she began to make a new batch of coffee. “We both work there, as you know. And neither of us mind the groceries.”
“And why should you, I’d like to know, after all I’ve done for you,” said Mrs. Thomas without missing a beat, sinking into a rocking chair by the stove with a groan. “Who knows where you two would have ended up after your mother died, pale little nothing that she was. How she survived birthing two babies beats me. What would have happened to you if I hadn’t stepped in? Your father, whoever he was, sure as hell wasn’t coming back…”
“You know we’re very grateful to you, Mrs. Thomas,” Vivian said, holding in a sigh. The comments about her parents were nothing new. She knew from long, bitter experience that trying to cut off the flow of bile would only make things worse. And shewasgrateful. Nasty though Mrs. Thomas could be, she had kept Vivian and Florence together, feeding them from her own table until they were taken to the orphanhome, even visiting once a year to make sure they were treated well enough. She had earned groceries and a few minutes of conversation.
“As you should be. You wouldn’t have ended up together, that’s damn sure. And I made sure you ended up with them papists, too, because I knew that’s what your mother would want, and that they called you by your real names. How would you have liked to spend your life called Honesty or Charity or some nonsense like that?”
“Catholics name babies after saints, Mrs. Thomas, not virtues.”
Mrs. Thomas ignored the correction, instead turning to eye the children at the table, who were gnawing on their apple cores. “Are you done yet?” she snapped. “Get out, then, and let me have five minutes of peace. Sarah!” she yelled, and a ten-year-old head peeked in from the bedroom. “Get the babies dressed, will you?” She turned the same narrow-eyed glare on Vivian. “Taking long enough with that coffee?”
Vivian silently handed over a cup, then poured one out for herself as the children scampered from the room. She didn’t have long before she needed to meet Florence, but Mrs. Thomas would be angry if she vanished too quickly.
“Thanks,” the older woman said, settling back in her chair with a sigh. “Oh, my back is killing me today. I’m that ready to be done with hauling babies up and down those stairs. Never have children past forty, girl, even if your man wants them. He’s not the one who has to break his body over them.” She sighed noisily. “Though if your taste is anything like your mother’s, you’ll end up alone before you’re thirty. No family, even, not that wanted her or you. She always said they cut her off after she married your father, though Lord knows why, it’s not like you can go lower than Irish, and May Kelly was already that.”
“If his name was Kelly, he’d have been Irish too, wouldn’t he?” Vivian asked carefully. She always held out hope that Mrs. Thomas would let fall some new information about her parents, something that would help her discover who they were. Florence had given up long ago, but Vivian couldn’t bring herself to stop.
Mrs. Thomas snorted. “If that was his name. If she was marriedat all. Lord knows she kept quiet enough about him from the day she moved next door.”
Vivian turned to the basin to wash out her coffee cup, not wanting her neighbor to see how startled she was. “Do you think she wasn’t married to my father?”
“You know I’d never say anything ill about a dead woman, Vivian,” Mrs. Thomas snapped, as shocked as if she hadn’t suggested it first. “And you shouldn’t say such things about your own mother. Lord knows she deserves your respect, raising two little babies all by herself. And you’re lucky you look like her, you and your snooty sister both, she was a pretty little thing, aside from that orange hair. Shame she had such godawful taste in men.”
“How do you know he left?” Vivian demanded, drying her cup more vigorously than was necessary. “Maybe he died too.”
“That’s what she always said.” Mrs. Thomas sighed. “Don’t you have a job to get to? I can’t sit here and listen to your yattering all day, you know. Tell your sister to come next time. At least she lets a body get a word in edgewise.”
Vivian played through at least three sharp replies in her head, but out loud she only said, “Let us know if you need anything else, Mrs. Thomas,” before picking up the basket and heading out to meet her sister.
Florence was waiting at the bottom of the rickety stairs, holding a bag of sandwiches for their lunch and the dress for Mrs. Parker, carefully wrapped in brown paper and string. She took one look at her sister’s face and silently slipped the parcel into the basket, taking it out of Vivian’s hands. “Come on, we’ll be late.” She turned away, the heels of her sensible shoes sharp on the pavement as she headed to another day of work.
Vivian sighed and followed.
SIX
You can finish it tomorrow.”
Vivian stretched her neck as Florence’s voice pulled her back to reality, her eyes still swimming with the pattern of the lace she had been tacking onto a tea dress. Glancing at the clock, she was startled to realize it was already six o’clock. The sun was vanishing behind the buildings, and Miss Ethel didn’t like paying for the lights to stay on after dark, even if it meant her seamstresses could work longer hours. The other girls in the shop were packing up, chatting with each other about who had dates that night or whose parents were trying to convince her to leave the city and return to the family farm. Miss Ethel watched over them all with an eagle eye, lips pursed in disapproval, to make sure nothing valuable left the shop.
Florence was waiting by Vivian’s table, holding both their hats and bags, as well as the empty lunch basket. “Do you want to stop by the automat for dinner on the way home?” she asked as Vivian tucked her supplies back into her sewing box and hung the half-finished gown on a dress form.
“Sure, I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee that’s actually drinkable,” Vivian said as they waved their good-byes to the other seamstresses and stepped out of the shop.
“And maybe some food?” Florence suggested. They fell into step with each other, turning to cut through the narrower side streets—their usual route home—without either of them needing to say anything.
