When John had left, I hoisted Rudolph onto my hip and grabbed the rolled-up rug with my free hand. Together we made the perilous journey down the steep, narrow stairs that descended the outside wall to the yard below. My son rested his cheek against my shoulder and looked up at the cloudy sky above.
“Birds.” He pointed with his chubby hand. I could still see sticky flecks of porridge on his fingers even though I had dried them off. Small children are often a challenge like that, always filthy in some way, but my boy was worse than most. No matter how often I was at his face with my damp cloth, he always seemed to grow a mustache of grime above his upper lip. I thought that it might have to do with how we lived. It was not a clean house, dusty and infested with coal smoke. It did not matter how often I scrubbed the floors of our apartment when everything outside of it was filthy. I did not complain, though; it was better than what I came from—we even had a bedroom—but I could not help but dream of having a house of our own. A place where the dust stayed outside whenever I closed the door and I did not always smell the neighbors’ potatoes boiling on the stove. I knew, though, that in order to get good things in life, one had to be patient and plan ahead. Take stock and save—be wise. Paying for Little Brynhild’s crossing would certainly upset every plan I had laid, but then again, perhaps my son would not always be so grimy if I had a sister around to help me out. Perhaps my days would be better if I did not have to do all the work myself, and maybe—just maybe—I would not lose another child if I did not have to be so tired all the time.
We arrived at the bottom of the stairs and stepped out in the yard: a cramped, uneven space framed by fences of graying boards. On one side, outhouses and sheds stood huddled together like a flock of frozen sparrows. There was no pavement, only the trampled soil, and whenever it rained, puddles would form and the ground would turn muddy. Above our heads, laundry hung on taut lines that crisscrossed the space between our building and the one on the other side of the fence. The sheets and shirts moved with the wind like little sails. They made a rustling sound, like leaves, scraping against one another on the lines, stiff and hard but doubtlessly clean. A bright red skirt had bled excess dye down on the shirt that hung below.
I never much liked to hang my wash out like that for everyone to see. I always dried our own underthings in the apartment. It was different with wash I took in for money—I did not much care if my neighbors saw the mended pants and yellowing undershirts the unwed immigrant men brought in for me to scrub. My line was always full.
I put my son down in a patch of grass next to the outhouse, scanning the sparse greenery for hazards: rusted nails or pieces of glass, sharp edges of metal. I had performed the same survey the day before, but one never knew what people dropped. One day the summer before, I had found him squeezing a dead rat. Sometimes the older girls in the building looked after the little ones, but so early in the morning they would be busy helping their mamas or readying for school. I was on my own for another half hour at least before my friend Clara would come out with her small daughter, Lottie, having sent her posse of older children out the door. It was easier then, when there were more of us. I did not fret so much whenever I had to turn my back on my little one if there were other women about to keep an eye.
In that bleak early morning, though, I was all alone as I hoisted the rug onto the line that traveled all the way from the building to the fence and got the beater out from the shed. No one knew whom it first belonged to; we all used it to clean the few rugs that covered the worn floorboards in our apartments. My rug had been bought from a fellow Norwegian, woven from scraps of fabric, mostly blue and gray. I dreamed, of course, of thick rugs with oriental patterns; flowers snaking across vivid red and emerald green, but that was not something we could afford, and so I settled to take care of what we did have the best that I could.
Rudolph laughed as I started beating the rug before me; he always did like the sound. It scared him but thrilled him too. He all but clapped his little hands and the sound of his joy filled the chilly yard. I could not help but laugh a little too, just from the sound of that childish laughter. Soon I did not even feel the chill, as my vigorous beating had me sweating and huffing. Underneath the blue plaid headscarf my hair was drenched through, but I went at it a little longer than I had to, just to keep him laughing like that.
Little Brynhild had not been so easy to please as a child.
“Come,” I said when I was done, then hoisted my son back onto my hip and brought him with me as I went to put the beater away. I carried him to the stairs and sat down on a step with Rudolph in my arms, cradling him tight while waiting for Clara. “Once there was a—” I started, but I was not in the mood to tell fairy tales. They reminded me of Little Brynhild too, and no matter how much I tried, I could not quash the worry that rose in me whenever I thought of that letter.
It was written in my sister’s hand, that much I knew, but I did not know if they were her words, or if it was Mother who had asked her to write that plea for money. Not that it mattered—I had no reason to doubt the truth of the tale, and even if Little Brynhild had changed since I left, I could not imagine that she had lost that pride that always got her in trouble before. Whenever I thought of my little sister, that was what I remembered: how she always refused to bend her neck but held her head high and stubbornly clenched her jaws. When other children teased her, or a schoolteacher or neighbor scolded her, she never shed a tear but bit back the best that she could.
It would have cost her to ask for that money—the situation had to be dire.
The worry in the pit of my stomach moved again, made me feel a little sick. Without thinking, I tightened my grip on Rudolph, who wriggled and complained until I loosened my hold. “I am sorry, my sweet,” I murmured into his soft, dark hair. “I did not mean to hurt you.” I did not know if it was he I spoke to or the phantom child of my sister, who had seemed so close all day, as if she sat right there, in my lap, next to my son: a stubby little girl with a square jaw and eyes that cut, even when she was small.