“Yes, kid,” he said, picking up on her reference to the Shoeless Joe Jackson scandal and playing along, “I’m afraid it is.”
“No more foxes in the henhouse,” the other man chimed in, either unaware of the baseball banter or unable to add to it.
“We’ll miss you, boys.” Muriel linked arms with Lily and the two girls slipped sideways out the back door.
“Where are we going?” Lily asked, trying to button her coat one-handed.
“You’ll see.” Muriel let go of Lily’s arm and the two walked single file along the chapel side of the building.
“What if we get caught?” It had only been three days since Lily’s arrival, yet she found herself struggling with the button at her belly.
“I haven’t gotten caught yet.” Muriel pulled Lily into a natural alcove behind some overgrown forsythia bushes that ran the length of the wall. “Anyhow, Mother Mary Joseph is meeting with some of the benefactors. She’ll never miss us.”
“But what if Sister Immaculata . . . ?”
Muriel silenced Lily with her eyes. “We can go back in as soon as I have a smoke.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a matchbook. “I don’t know about you,” Muriel said, “but I’m in no hurry to get back. Who needs lessons in needlepoint, anyway?”
“I embroidered two pillowcases once, and Mother put them in my hope chest. Her hope chest, really, but she said it’ll be mine someday.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all.” Muriel cocked her head and laughed. “Are you rich or something?”
“Hardly.”
Muriel glanced at Lily’s threadbare coat. “You don’t look rich,” Muriel said, “but you sound it. Hope chest. That’s almost as funny as foyer.”
“I’m going to be rich,” Lily said, as confidently as if she’d said, I’m going to the store, or, I’m going to have a birthday.
“Hope chest.” Muriel shook her head and laughed again. Just as she was about to strike a match, a maroon Model T started up the driveway and stopped at the foot of the main entrance. Instinctively, she stepped farther into the bushes, pressed her back against the wall, and put a finger to her lips. Both girls watched as the driver emerged from the car, feet and head first, unfolding himself to a height of six and a half feet. “Jack Barrett,” Muriel whispered. “A benefactor.” With legs almost as long as the car was wide, the man climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and entered the building in under ten seconds.
Lily broke out in a fit of giggles. “I don’t think you’ll be winning at hide-and-seek anytime soon.” She glanced at Muriel’s stomach poking through the branches, and they both started laughing.
“That was a close call,” Muriel finally said, still smiling as she struck the match and lit her cigarette.
Lily sobered and pointed to the passenger side of the car where a pudgy woman stared straight ahead and fidgeted with her uncombed hair. What do we do? Lily mouthed.
Muriel started laughing again. “Jack Sprat could eat no fat,” she singsonged. “His wife could eat no lean.”
“What is wrong with you?” Lily whispered as she eyed the wall to see if she could sneak back in, staying hidden behind the forsythia bushes.
“And so betwixt them both, they licked the platter clean.” Muriel took a drag on her cigarette, and for that moment she was a study in contentment. “That’s just Mamie,” she said, blowing a smoke ring, then erasing it with her hand. “Crazy as a bed bug. Never says a word. Just stays put when her husband comes by.”
“How sad.” The bushes were too thick farther up, so Lily decided to stay and wait the Barretts out.
Muriel licked the ends of her thumb and index finger and extinguished her smoke. “For another day,” she said, her tone reverential, as she tucked the cigarette back into her pocket.
Lily kept her eyes on the car.
Muriel peered through the bushes for a better look. “I heard talk about how Mamie lost a baby girl and can’t have any more. Never been right since.”
“That happened to my mother,” Lily said. “Had a nervous breakdown after she lost my other sister.” When Muriel didn’t say anything, Lily added, “That was a long time ago, before I was born.”
“You just never know,” Muriel finally said. “Here I thought you had the perfect life.”
“I do. I mean, she’s better now. I never knew her that way. She still has sad spells, now and again. Not often.”
“How’d she get better?”
“Me.” Lily stood straighter, momentarily prideful. “At least that’s what everyone says. I was a miracle baby, and that got her living again.”
“I wonder if a baby could cure Mamie.” Muriel pulled back a few branches to get a better look. “Nah,” she said, watching the woman who was now as still as a statue, “she’s too far gone.” She let go of the branches and turned back. “So life is perfect.” Muriel noticed that Lily’s coat was unbuttoned at the belly. “Almost perfect.”
“Everyone was always worried. They never let me out of their sight. It’s unnatural to be brought up that way. If they could’ve wrapped me in cotton and locked me in a room, they would have, just to keep me safe. What if something happened to me? That kind of love suffocates a person.”
“I don’t know. I think I could use a little suffocating.” This time Muriel’s laugh sounded hollow. She stepped out of the bushes, pulling Lily along with her, and started back.
“They always tell me I’m special, but if I’m so special, why am I poor?” Lily turned to Muriel for an answer.
“Don’t look at me. I’ve accepted my lot.” Muriel eyed Lily up and down. “But you? I see you in a mansion someday, high on a hill.”
“Married to a benefactor,” Lily said. “A man who can afford to give his money away because there’s always more to be had.”
“And I’ll swing by for a visit sometime, and we’ll needlepoint pillowcases all day long.” They both giggled now, and Muriel added, “You’re spoiled, but I don’t mind.”
“I am spoiled,” Lily said, glancing at her disappearing waistline. Spoiled for George, she thought, but didn’t say it.
* * *
Mother Mary Joseph shared the couch with Thelma Powell, the railroad magnate’s wife, whose plumed hat molted as she spoke. “I truly believe the worst of it is behind us,” she said, fanning a feather away from her nose.
In a chair opposite, Stephen Francis Poklemba looked more serious than usual. “Harder times are coming, I’m afraid.” As the business school dean at Villanova, his opinion usually carried weight.
“I disagree,” Thelma said. “Did you read today’s paper?” She pulled the Public Ledger out of her handbag and read the headline. “Effects of the Stock Market Crash Have Disappeared. They wouldn’t print it if it weren’t true.” She scanned the article. “Says it’ll all be over,” she swatted another feather, “in thirty to sixty days.”
“With all due respect . . .” Stephen began.
Thelma handed the paper over to him. “Read it for yourself. They don’t make these things up.”
As usual, throughout the meeting Jack Barrett stood behind a tapestry-covered chair, tipping it back and forth. He had energy to spare and could never sit for very long. “The point is,” he now interjected, “we’re all committed to the Good Shepherd, and whatever the future