Speak Through the Wind Page 4

  “Of—yes, there is.”

  “And is there a light? Or would you rather I broke my neck tryin’ to bring you your Easter dinner?”

  “A lamp. Yes, I’ll get one,” Kassandra said. “Wait here.”

  She stepped back into the kitchen, grabbed the kerosene lamp off the shelf above the stove, lifted the globe—amazed at the steadiness of her hands—lit the wick, and held the burning match while she replaced the glass, remembering to shake it out only when she felt the first twinge of the ñame against her skin.

  “You all right?” he called.

  She scurried back around the corner, holding the lamp in triumph. “You go on down,” she said. “I’ll hold the lamp for you from up here.”

  “Scared to go down to the pits of hell with me?” he said, cocking his head and sending her what she was sure was a wink.

  Before she could reply, he was descending the ladder, lamb balanced perfectly on his shoulder, leaving her at the threshold of the cellar, breathless.

  n the evenings after supper, Reverend Joseph retired to his study with his pipe, his brandy, and his Bible. He was left there alone for exactly thirty minutes while Kassandra helped Clara clear away the supper dishes and put the kitchen back in order. When all was tidied away, Kassandra went to the study door and knocked softly three times. Sometimes she would be given a muffled, “Good night, Sparrow,” through the heavy wooden door, but other nights—and these were the nights she treasured—she would be summoned inside to sit on the thick, soft rug at Reverend Joseph’s feet.

  It was here that Kassandra first learned to speak English, carefully mimicking Reverend Joseph’s pronunciation and intonation as she recited Scriptures in the firelight. Meaningless words at first, but as her understanding of the language grew, so did her comprehension of God’s holy Word. One evening, when Kassandra was still a very little girl, Reverend Joseph leaned forward in his big leather chair and settled his Bible on his knees, running his well-groomed finger along the words as he read aloud in slow, clear English: “Are not two sparrows sold for ajarthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.”

  Kassandra brought a hand up to her hair–just grown long enough to reach the bottom of her ears—and made a joke in broken English about what an easy job God would have counting the hairs on her head. Reverend Joseph had laughed gently, then took her small hand in his own.

  “Do you understand, mein kleiner Spatz, what this means?” he asked her. “It means that God—God, who created all of the universe, all of the world—knows exactly who you are.”

  “And He sees me?”

  “Always. He saw you when you were all alone in the city. He sees you now.”

  At that, Kassandra had shifted her gaze above Reverend Joseph’s head, her large gray eyes scanning the ornate ceiling, much to the older man’s amusement.

  “No, no, my Sparrow,” he said, chuckling. “This is not a cause for fear. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  Reverend Joseph let go of her hand and stood to cross the room to a wall lined end to end, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves stocked solid with leather-bound tomes of religion and history with the occasional frivolous novel stuffed in between. The monotony of gilded spines was interrupted occasionally by the odd knickknack—most brought by his mother wrapped in soft cloths to survive the voyage from the old country. He scanned the shelves, as if looking for the perfect title, but his hand instead came to rest on a tiny figurine, a little brown-spotted bird that seemed poised to take flight from the brown china branch clutched in its perfectly painted claws. Reverend Joseph brought the tiny treasure over to where Kassandra sat, still coiled on the rug, and held it balanced in his open hand.

  “May I touch it?” Kassandra asked, her hand already hovering.

  “Yes,” Reverend Joseph said, kneeling, “but be careful. It is very fragile, you see. If it were to fall from my hand, it would break into a hundred little pieces.”

  Kassandra allowed her fingers to graze over the smooth, cool surface of the wings while her eyes took in the work of such intricate detail. The artist had taken great pains to give the tiny bird texture, with fine brushstrokes creating miniscule feathers on both the outstretched wings and the soft white belly. The sharp black eyes of the bird held a determined glint, as if great adventures were waiting for the moment of flight. She moved her finger to the tiny beak and giggled a bit at its sharpness.

  “Now watch,” he said, looking down at her. With a quick movement, the tiny bird was in flight, soaring up towards the ceiling, spinning as it flew.

  “Nein!” Kassandra screamed, but it was too late. The bird was plummeting, wobbling in the air, destined to be shattered on the polished wood floor until—plop—it landed in Reverend Joseph’s outstretched hand.

  “I want you to have this, Kassandra,” he said solemnly. “I want you to keep it to remember what you are in God’s eyes. You are beautiful and precious to Him, do you know that?”

  “Yes,” Kassandra said, never taking her eyes off the treasure.

  The little bird stared at her now from its new perch on the bureau in her room as she stood staring into the mirror that hung above it. It was a Friday afternoon, and her face was flushed from the run home from school. Teacher had insisted on holding the class until everybody completed their history recitations, and that dull Sarah James seemed determined to forget every detail of the first Continental Congress. Kassandra had torn through the neighborhood, flew through the door, barely able to compose herself enough to give a polite greeting to the assembly in the parlor. This afternoon there were two ladies—the Misses Austine—with their niece visiting from Boston.

  “You look like you’ve been tossed by the wind a bit, my little Sparrow,” Reverend Joseph said, peering at her over his cup of tea, seemingly oblivious to the shudder of disapproval the women gave over the affectionate name.

  “Yes, Reverend Joseph. School got out late,” she said. Then with a swift nod and a smile, she turned and left the parlor, clamoring up the stairs to her room.

  The pink tinge to her cheeks, Kassandra thought, was a little becoming, but her hair was another matter entirely. The spring breeze combined with the ferocity of her running had torn much of it from the blue ribbon that secured the mass at the nape of her neck. With one swift motion, she tore out the ribbon, grabbed the bone-handled brush that sat atop her bureau, and dragged the bristles through the mass until it crackled. Her hair was long now, past her shoulder blades, and heavy, though it hung straight from her scalp without the slightest bit of curl. The brushing brought an electric life to it now, and singular strands stood straight out from her head, making her look like she was indeed in flight.

  “Jealous?” she whispered to the little bird before crossing over to the basin and dipping the bristles of the brush in what was left of her morning wash water. Returning to the mirror, she once again brought the brush through her hair and pulled back just those strands that framed her face, twisting and coiling them at the top of her head and holding them securely with one hand as she used the other to open the top drawer of her bureau. She searched under the top layer of clean stockings and found the comb, lacquered and ornate, decorated with tiny, shiny stones. He’d given it to her the last time they’d met, said he’d been carrying it in his pocket for weeks, waiting for the right opportunity. She used it now to secure the knot, the rest of her hair hanging down her back. Kassandra gave herself one more scrutinizing look in the mirror. Still not pretty, but different. Older? She turned around and twisted her head, trying unsuccessfully to get a glimpse of the comb adorning her hair.

  Sighing, not quite satisfied, Kassandra walked out of her room and tiptoed down the back stairs leading to the kitchen. She was on the third step from the bottom when she heard the first knock, and she had the door open before the third.

  Same wool cap, same red curls. But this time the smile
was waiting the minute Kassandra opened the door.

  “Hello, Kassie.”

  His name was Ben Connor. She’d learned that after their second meeting when he delivered a package of flank steaks that Clara pan-fried and served smothered in fresh mushroom gravy the next day. When he showed up with a dozen links of freshly ground sausage, she learned that delivering meat for the butcher on North Canal Street was just one of his many jobs—one he said he’d never enjoyed until that Friday afternoon when he walked a lamb into Reverend Joseph’s cellar. The next week, when Kassandra complained that the sausage had been too spicy for the reverend’s delicate constitution, he tried to make amends with an extra-nice piece of liver and the bejeweled comb that now sat on top of her head.

  “You’re looking particularly lovely this afternoon, my girl,” he said, taking off his cap as he walked past her into the kitchen. “Let’s see now … what’s different about you?”

  Kassandra closed the door and stood for a moment, her back to him, giving him plenty of time to notice her new hairstyle before turning to face him—briefly—and dropping her eyes to study her boots.

  “Is that a new dress you’re wearin’?”

  “No,” she said shyly, smoothing the pretty blue woolen skirt, wishing it were new.

  “And you haven’t grown any taller? Because if you did I’d never see the top of that pretty head of yours.”

  Kassandra smiled, looked up, and brought her hand up to check that her hair was still pulled back and smooth.

  “Well, it is your hair, then?” He deposited his packages on the kitchen table and, placing a hand on Kassandra’s shoulder, turned her around once, letting out a slow whistle before bringing her back to face him.

  “Does it look all right?” she asked.

  “Looks lovely. Like one of them little crowns a princess wears.”

  “A tiara.”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed a bit, losing their glint, though his smile didn’t waver. “What?”

  “That is what you call those little crowns. They are … urn … tiaras.”

  “Well, I guess that’s one of the benefits of such a fine, fancy education then, isn’t it? Knowing all kinds of fine, fancy words.”

  “Reverend Joseph, he thinks I should finish secondary school,” Kassandra said, her gaze once again on her boots. “He thinks I might be a good teacher some day.”

  “Oh, now, that’s a fine thing.” Ben reached out his hand and pinched just the tip of Kassandra’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him. The smile was back—all of it—the gleam in the corners of his green eyes dispersing the momentary chill. “Why would he want to take such a lovely young girl and turn her into some old spinster teacher? Well, I can just see you now …”

  Ben let go of her chin and assumed the bent posture of an old woman, shuffling from the table to the stove, rattling pots and cutlery with exaggerated palsied hands.

  “We have a nice pork loin for supper tonight, Reverend Joseph,” Ben said in a comic high-pitched voice, losing his warm Irish brogue in a nearly perfect imitation of Kassandra’s lingering German accent. “And a nice cup of tea to keep away the chill. Let me be sure to fetch you a soda powder. That tea can be a bit too spicy …”

  Kassandra tried not to laugh, made a sincere attempt to feel offended by the mockery of her beloved companion, but when Ben whisked the comb out of her hair and planted it in his thick red curls, she could not stop her giggles.

  Ben retained his bent posture, wringing his hands, his eyes fixed heavenward. “There was a time,” he continued in his comic voice, “when I was a lovely girl. A princess. With a tiara. But thank God the reverend saved me from such a frivolous waste.”

  By now the kitchen was full of laughter of such great volume and hilarity that Kassandra clasped her hands over her mouth and hissed a warning “shush” lest they bring Reverend Joseph and the Misses Austine in from the parlor. When they had quieted themselves to nearly silent giggles, Kassandra made one mad swipe to get the comb from Ben’s hair. He quickly hopped to the other side of the table, pulled out a chair, and held it between them like a lion tamer fending off a ferocious beast. And Kassandra truly had the appearance of a beast at that point, her hair long and loose, flying about her head, obstructing her view.

  “Give it back!” she said, her voice full of hushed play.

  “I gave it to you once, lass,” Ben said, his brogue returned in full force. “And if you ask me, you let it slip away far too easy”

  “Give it to me again.” Kassandra used both of her hands to rake her hair off her face, her words as measured as her newly recovered breath. “Give it back, and I’ll never let it out of my sight.”

  The silence was now as thick as the laughter had been as Ben, never letting his gaze falter from her, dislodged the comb, grasped Kassandra’s hand, and placed the comb within it, closing her fingers and holding them tight until Kassandra felt the teeth digging into her flesh.

  “Do you ever ask yourself, Kassie, why you’re here?”

  “Reverend Joseph. He—”

  “Now, we all know about the kind reverend.” Ben relinquished his grip on Kassandra’s hand. “He’s a famous man back at the Points. Snatchin’ children right off the streets, takin’ them away to nice new families.”

  “You make it sound like he is stealing them.” Kassandra looked down at her uncurled fingers, each of which bore a tiny red mark. Not bleeding, but distinct.

  “Do I now? How could it be a crime if there’s women on the streets just lookin’ for someone to take their child? Everybody knows that poor people don’t really love their children, right?”

  “That’s not what—”

  “I mean, you go to the Points and there’s people just waitin’ to give their young ones away Sell ’em if they could. In fact, if it’s a lucky day and the kind reverend has a dollar in his pocket …”

  “I would be dead today if Reverend Joseph hadn’t brought me home,” Kassandra said, no longer feeling at ease in Ben’s company.

  “Maybe you would.” Ben crossed his arms in front of him and leaned back against the kitchen table, studying Kassandra through narrowed eyes. “But how long ago was that?”

  “It seems my whole life.”

  “And all that time he’s keepin’ you for himself. To himself. Tell me, did he ever try to find a family for you?”

  “I was ugly And sick. I didn’t speak English.”

  “And heaven forbid some rich, childless couple take in some-thin’ the likes of that. Just be careful you don’t go thinkin’ the man has so great a heart just because he’s kept your belly full all these years. And if you’re not careful,” he reached for her then, gently grasping her arms just above her elbows and drawing her closer, “he’s goin’ to have your belly full of somethin’ else in some soon time.”

  The implication of Ben’s comment dawned slowly, and would have escaped her completely if not for the accompanying leer. “That is a terrible thing to say.”

  “Now, Kassie dear,” Ben said, gently shaking her, his voice taking on a jovial twinge, “do you mean to tell me the man’s never touched you?”

  “Never,” Kassandra said, steeling herself against his charm.

  “He’s never kissed you?”

  “Of course he has kissed me. He loves me.”

  “Where does he kiss you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does he kiss you here?” Ben asked, dropping his grip on one of her arms and bringing his finger to bounce, lightly, on the top of her skull.

  “Sometimes,” she whispered.

  “Like this?” He pulled her forward until her nose was just an inch from his chest, her vision a blur of the coarse wool of his shirt and the smattering of freckles under his collarbone. “Right here?” She felt his lips on the top of her head, moving slightly against her hair. “Or here?” He moved his hand to the back of her head, tilting it back, moving his lips just to her hairline.

  Kassandra fought for
breath and balance.

  “Does he ever,” Ben said, letting go of the back of her head and running a finger along her lips, “kiss you here?”

  “Of course not,” Kassandra said, jerking her head to the side to dislodge Ben’s finger. “He’s like a father to me.”

  “All, but he’s not your father, is he, love?”

  Kassandra said nothing, but looked down in shame.

  “And since he’s not your father, he doesn’t have any real claim to you, now does he?”

  “He cares for me,” Kassandra said, keeping her eyes focused on the floor.

  “But if I kissed you here,” Ben grasped her chin and forced Kassandra to look at him, running his thumb along her lips, “I’d have a claim to you, now wouldn’t I? Would you like that? Would you like me to have a claim to you?”

  “I don’t know,” Kassandra said, her lips moving against his roughened skin.

  “Well, would you like me to kiss you?”

  She didn’t know that, either, but apparently Ben wasn’t interested in her answer, because in the next instant she was drawn full to him, his arms circled around her, his lips on hers, his smile becoming a part of her as he brought her closer.

  Kassandra’s arms hung limply at her side, her fingers twitching nervously as the comb dropped unheeded to the floor. Her mind raced. She knew she should feel embarrassed or wicked; a good girl would bring up those hands and push Ben away But she could no more command her hands than she could her heart, which she could feel pounding against her clean white cotton chemise. All the fear, all the discomfort she’d felt when he insulted her education, mocked her life with Reverend Joseph, even the nauseating accusations against the reverend’s character disappeared as the sweetness of his kiss took command.

  When Ben slowly, gently, teased her mouth to open, just a bit, every drop of blood was drawn from her, leaving her body powerless to stand on its own, on the verge of collapse saved only by the strength of Ben’s arms now wrapped tight around her. She fell against his chest, the pounding pulse in her head drowning out every sound except the breathing of this redheaded boy and—somewhere—the click of a door handle and a familiar heavy step.