Eastland by Marian Cheatham

Mulligan thrust up a fleshy arm. “Let
Delia tell it her way.”
I went on with my story until it took that inevitable, deadly
turn. I hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “Something to drink,
please.”
“Eamon! Go!” Mrs. Mulligan cocked her thumb at her eldest
son.
Eamon disappeared through the front door. I heard him
racing barefooted up the interior staircase. A moment later, he
reappeared on the porch with a jelly jar.
“Then what?” He shoved the makeshift glass at me. “What
happened then? Huh? What?”
I downed the lukewarm water in one long gulp, surprised at
how thirsty and hungry I’d become. But I knew I couldn’t hold
everyone off long enough to eat, so I set down the jar and braved
on. By the time I got around to the doctors and their pulmotors,
the smelling salts had made the rounds. Twice.
“Should I go on?” I stared at all the beleaguered faces.
A few nodded, but the response lacked the earlier frenzy. I
explained about the aftermath, but skipped the bit about Lars
and my attempted plunge into the river, and ended with the
nameless family.
“But what about my boy?” someone yelled.
“My husband!” Mrs. Ivanko shrieked, agitated beyond reason now. She pounced on me, grabbing a fistful of my hair. “Tell
me about my husband! I need to know!”
I tried to wriggle free, but I only managed to tear my hair at
the roots.
Mrs. Mulligan jumped in between us. “Leave her be, Elena!
The poor child didn’t murder your husband.”
At that, Mrs. Ivanko deflated, collapsing into a sobbing heap
on the steps.
Mrs. Mulligan threw her arms around her. “There, there,
Eleny, my love. ’Twill be aw right.”
But I knew Mrs. Mulligan had it wrong. Nothing would ever
be all right again.
“There’s no more?” some man hollered.
“I wish I had answers for all of you. I’m truly sorry, but I’ve told
you everything I know. There’s no more.” And then I remembered.
“Mae!”
I streaked down the steps but stopped on the sidewalk and
looked back at Mama. Her black eyes were glassy with tears, her
pallid cheeks flushed with worry and grief. She needed me to
stay with her, but I couldn’t.
“I have to see Mae’s parents. She and I got separated. Karel
stayed behind to find her.”
“Must you leave so soon?”
“I made a promise.”
Mama sighed. “Then you must keep it. Oui . You may go.”
9
     
    Mae lived only a block and a half away, yet her world had
always seemed miles apart from mine. The Kozneckis were
one of only a handful of Cicero families lucky enough to own
their home. Like Mama and me, most people paid rent, not
mortgages. After years of doling out our hard-earned money to
our landlord, we would have nothing but our furniture to show
for all our efforts.
    But the Koznecki family had a stately Victorian home,
peacock-blue, with a full wraparound porch. As schoolgirls, Mae
and I had spent many a summer night sitting on the stoop eating ice cream ’til our tummies hurt. As we grew, we would glide
away rainy afternoons on the porch swing, giggling and singing
and making plans for our lives.
    “When I get married,” Mae had said when we were thirteen,
“you can be my maid of honor.”
“And wear green?”
“No, purple.”
“But my favorite color is green.”
She pushed her hands into her hips. “It’s my wedding.”
“But then at my wedding you have to wear green.” I spit on
my palm and held out my slimy hand to her. “Blood brother
swear?”
Mae shook her head. I glared at her.
“Blood sister swear.” She spit into her own palm. “Good for
the next fifty years.”
Mae had sworn to be there. She had sworn!
An unbearable sob threatened to strangle me. I nearly
stumbled off the curb. I was dragging on, fighting to contain my
emotions, when the blue Victorian came into view.
Some eight or nine women stood about the porch and the
steps, their husbands pacing and smoking on the sidewalk below. Mr. and Mrs. Koznecki sat on the porch swing, her head on