prologue— 1928 —
Margaret Wilson clambered onto the kitchen chair, her four-year-old brow knitted with concern. She had a very important question to ask her mother. Her twin, Dorothy, climbed up beside her, fascinated by how neatly her mother could fold the laundry. All the seams matched up perfectly every time.
Their mother smiled. “What are you two up to?” Her gaze dropped. “Oh, Margaret. You skinned your knee again.”
“I put a bandage on it for her,” Dorothy said.
Margaret didn’t care about her knee. It was fine. Dorothy had washed all the blood off it, and Margaret had hardly cried at all. “Why’s the back room empty, Mommy? Where did all the stuff go?”
“I’m glad you asked. Sit down, please. We don’t climb on furniture.” She set the laundry aside then sat at the table with her daughters. “Do you remember Gus Becker? The little boy from up the street? His father is going away tomorrow, so Gus is coming to live here with us. That will be his bedroom.”
The twins exchanged a glance.
“But this is our house,” Margaret declared, arms crossed. “We don’t want boys in it.”
Dorothy sat beside her, saying nothing but mimicking her sister’s pose. The idea of having a boy living in the house didn’t frighten her as much as the idea ofanyonenew moving in. How would it feel, having five of them at the table, not just four? Who would he sit beside? Would she have to talk with him?
“Of course, Margaret. This will always be your house. Yours and Dorothy’s. But I want Gus to feel like it is his as well. You two have each other. He doesn’t have anyone when his father is away, and he knows very little English. I am counting on you girls to make him feel welcome.”
“But what if he’s abadboy?” Margaret asked.
“He is not a bad boy. I expect you to be nice to him,” their mother replied. Margaret doubled down on her pout, so Dorothy did, too. In response, their mother’s left eyebrow shot up. The one that always meant the discussion was over. “Come and help me get his room ready, please.”
Grudgingly, the girls followed her to the room at the back of the house, and Margaret swept the floor while Dorothy helped make up Gus’s little cot. Afterward, Margaret decided she and her sister should play in there, since the room was so tidy, but their mother took their hands and led them back to the kitchen, where she made it very clear that they were never to go into that room again unless Gus invited them.
“It’s like you have a brother now.” She crouched in front of them. “He’s probably going to be shy at first, but we must make him feel like part of the family, and that means giving him privacy.”
Dorothy twisted a lock of her blond hair between her fingers, feeling badly for the boy when she thought about it that way. She couldn’t imagine not having a sister—or a brother in Gus’s case. Dorothy’s sister was everything to her. Maybe it would be all right to have a big brother. Maybe she wouldn’t have to talk to him if she didn’t want to.
Margaret had no such illusions. Their house was just fine without a boy in it. Boys were big and bossy and sometimes smelled bad. “He should live in his own house, Mommy. We don’t want him here. What if he’s mean to Dorothy?”
“Gus is not a mean boy,” their mother replied. “If he was, I would nothave agreed to take care of him in our house. Now, I want you to imagine being in his place. What if Daddy and I were not here to take care of you, and a family offered to take you in? Wouldn’t you hope that they would love you as if you were already a part of their family?” Her expression cleared as if she remembered something. “You know, I think he might be very good at baseball, Margaret. Maybe you could play catch together.”
Gus arrived with his father the next morning, his blond hair disheveled under a black cap, his wary gaze darting around the front entry. Margaret stood in silent judgement of the boy while Dorothy concealed herself behind the grandfather clock. Her stomach hurt.
The two grown-ups spoke for a bit while Margaret and Gus remained in the entry, eyeing each other like a pair of dogs—without the wagging tails.
“Come in, Gus,” their mother said after his father left. “You can call me Mrs. Wilson. I think you already know my daughters, Margaret and Dorothy.” She peered around the grandfather clock, then scowled. “Come here, Dorothy. Say hello.”
Dorothy tiptoed over and whispered, “Hello.”
“Hello,” he replied, observing her closely.
“Margaret?” their mother prompted.
“Hello,” she said tightly.
Concern flickered across Gus’s pale brow then was gone. “Hello.”
Their mother took the boy’s little suitcase and told him where to hang his coat and cap, then he followed her to his room. Margaret and Dorothy trailed behind, then they loitered in the doorway after their mother got him settled and returned to the kitchen. He sat on the edge of his bed, feet dangling halfway to the floor, and regarded them through big blue eyes.
Dorothy wondered if he was as nervous as she was. When she was scared, she could hide behind Margaret. Gus didn’t have anyone to hide behind. She tilted her head, feeling a little sorry for him.
“How old are you?” Margaret asked.
“Six,” he said.
Margaret was impressed. Six was practically grown up. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad after all. Especially if her mother was right and he knew how to throw a ball. She decided to give him a chance.
