Breathe

Happy Birthday, America. Goodbye, childhood.

I pull the water-heavy air deep into my corset-less chest. The scent of tree bark, firecrackers, and pending rain come with it.

Well, it’s been nice knowing you. I pat the old apple tree’s fissured bark right above our carved initials. But I really must go. I have an important ball to attend tonight. A hundred of Mama’s closest friends and all of my classmates wait with bated breath for my official introduction to society.

As I prepare to leave my favorite hiding spot since I was seven, Daddy’s bottle-green Cadillac Phaeton turns into our courtyard. I freeze, hoping the apple tree’s lush foliage is adequate cover. My breath catches as Daddy’s chauffeur slides out of the driver’s seat and rushes to open the passenger door.

It’s going to be a long night, Marco. Go have Angelina fix you something to eat. Daddy hands Marco his black leather bag—which goes everywhere with him—before climbing out of the Cadillac with a groan.

Thank you, sir. Marco’s voice echoes around the courtyard. First, I want to check the Phaeton’s engine. Tonight of all nights wouldn’t be a good one for a breakdown.

You’re a good man, Marco. Daddy claps Marco on the back. Your father would be proud.

My father would know how to fix that odd clicking noise.

Yes, Mr. D’Orio could always diagnose a car’s ailments with miraculous ease. That was his gift. Maybe it’s your gift, too?

About that, sir. Could I possibly —

Daddy fumbles for his gold pocket watch. Look at the time. My wife will have my head. I’ll let you get back to your tinkering, Marco.

Yes, sir.

I cling to the tree’s weather-beaten trunk as Daddy limps at a snail’s pace beneath me and then up the shallow steps to the kitchen. Meanwhile, Marco gathers Daddy’s medical accoutrements while whistling. His playful tune bounces around our tiny, brick-lined courtyard. Just as he passes under the apple tree, the wind picks up. A letter flutters off the top of the crate of medicines, and Marco mumbles what is probably an oath in Italian. He puts the crate down on the steps and chases after the letter which now rests at the base of my tree. I tuck my feet up and pull a branch in front of myself. Marco slides off his chauffeur’s cap and wipes the sweat from his brow. He must have visited the barber this morning. Marco’s sometimes unruly dark curls are trimmed and oiled flat into a wave. Not that I’ve been studying his countenance over the past month since he took this position.

A lot on your mind today, Miss? Marco snatches the letter from the base of the tree but doesn’t look up. He leans against the tree trunk and surveys our surroundings. The courtyard is clear. Do you require assistance getting down?

My face burns.

No. I clear my throat and repeat with confidence. No, I do not.

Marco looks up and finds my hiding spot immediately. It’s an important night for you, no? New dress. Official escort. I’m sure it’s a lot for a young girl like you to handle.

An indignant fire lights in my belly. "I seem to recall that you are also seventeen."

Eighteen. My birthday was in April.

Barely eighteen then. I’m sure driving us to the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel is a lot for a young boy like you to handle, no? I mock.

Believe me. I have been a man for a while now.

Don’t be vulgar.

Who’s being vulgar? My father—God rest his soul—is gone and Dom is overseas with the doughboys. As I said, I’ve been a man for a while now, at least in my home. Marco looks up at me and smiles. Do I need to climb up there and help you down? ‘Cause, I could do that for a damsel in distress.

I wish Marco could see his expression when I stand up on the branch and scoot out on the limb toward the side of our house.

I was teasing. Marco jerks up straight. Don’t go any further, Miss. You’ll fall.

I pretend to lose my balance even though my bare feet grip the limb with ease. Marco swears and rushes underneath me. His arms spread wide to break my fall. I laugh. I let go of the branch above my head and slide into the open window of my bedroom with all the ease of someone who’s been doing that trick for a decade now. I peek my head back out the window and stare down at Marco.

I’m not a damsel. And I don’t need your help. I’m a modern woman. And to retain the last word, I tug the window sash sharply closed.

I do, however, need Angelina’s help to be a modern woman. Especially with this blessed corset.

Angelina peeks her head around my door. You are ready to dress for your party now, Miss Virginia?

Unlike her little brother’s, Angelina’s voice still carries a melodic Italian accent.

I would like a glass of lemonade first. I am over-heated. I dab at a trickle of sweat rolling down behind my ear with my sleeve. I thank Providence that at least I had enough foresight to throw my old work dress over my shift before ducking out my window earlier.

Yes, Miss.

After Angelina closes the door, I wander back to the window. I know Marco won’t still be there, especially with a rain shower threatening to come, but I look anyway. Part of me is disappointed that he isn’t there. Now I know I must be getting ill. But not tonight. Tonight is my time to shine. My dance card is already full. I grab my old friend Teddy from his place of honor on top of my bookshelf and brush the dust from his nearly threadbare head.

Oh Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? I repeat the lines I once delivered during our class discussion of Romeo and Juliet to class clown Anna, which completely dampened the romantic element of the piece. Such is the hazard of attending an all-girls school.

I run my finger over the coarse stitches I put in Teddy’s ear when I was about seven. Mama insisted that she didn’t have time to fix Teddy before bedtime and I couldn’t sleep without him, so I performed the surgery myself. I chuckle at my clumsy knot. I’ve come a long way with my needle skills since then.

Angelina raps on my door and enters with a glass of lemonade, thankfully with many ice chips floating on the top. I open up my hope chest and place Teddy on top of one of the skillfully stitched linens I’ve done this past year to prepare for my future home. The room turns fuzzy and gray when I stand back up. I grab the bedpost to fortify my uncooperative knees. Angelina’s dark brows furrow.

I’m fine. I didn’t eat enough at luncheon today. I sip my lemonade, letting the cool liquid slide down my irritated throat.

Angelina pauses but then goes dutifully to my wardrobe to pull out my white silk gown. She drapes it on my bed before putting out my freshly-polished high-heeled shoes.

I pray no one will recognize this dress from Kit’s eighteenth birthday extravaganza from nearly three years ago. At least the seamstress was able to rework the dress into something more modern. With the war raging on in France, I heard that Margaret Vaughn had to buy her debut gown off the rack at Wanamaker’s. She vehemently denies it, of course.

Angelina gushes in Italian as her calloused fingers slip over the luxurious fabric. She mostly talks to herself as she pours the silk over my head and down my now tightly-corseted torso. Mama hired Angelina to also dress my hair. She pulls Granny Jackson’s silver-handled brush through the knotted strands of my hair with her deft but gentle hands. Angelina makes a surprised noise and pulls out an errant apple tree leaf. I don’t offer up an explanation, and she doesn’t dare ask.

I watch in my vanity mirror as Angelina brings my dark hair up to a high gloss. She tucks and pins and rolls my hair into a dramatic coif. Thank heaven, I was able to talk Mama into letting Angelina do my hair instead of going to Mrs. Davenport, Mama’s crotchety hairdresser. The two of them would have insisted on some old-fashioned Gibson Girl atrocity that a family of squirrels could make into a comfortable nest. No, this will be much more stylish and modern. Angelina truly has a gift. It’s a wonder she doesn’t dress ladies’ hair for a living instead of working in our kitchen. I’m sure my classmates would be lined up around the block to have Angelina dress their hair for their debuts, Christmas parties, and such. The pain in my temples spreads down into my neck, but I hold my head still so that Angelina can add baby’s breath, navy ribbon, and three red roses—barely out of their bud stage—into my hair. Angelina tuts and talks to herself as she makes adjustments.

Beautiful, Angelina proclaims after she tucks the tiny apple tree leaf back into the decorations in my hair.

I suppress the urge to embrace Angelina. Somehow, she has taken this tree-climbing, ugly duckling and transformed her into an elegant, swan-like debutant.

Virginia! Mama pokes her head around my door. You are going to be late to your own party. Come down immediately. Your father and I will be waiting in the Cadillac.

I’m almost finished, Mama.

Angelina buckles my shoes and then hands me my gloves and fan. I snatch my diamond-studded, silk evening bag—honestly, they are paste jewels, but they look authentic—off my bed. At the door, I remember myself because it is past the time for Angelina to return to Little Italy and her own family.

Thank you, Angelina. You did an excellent job.

It is my pleasure. Angelina does a very unnecessary curtsy. Miss Virginia, your head is very hot. I feel it as I work. Would you like some medicine before you go?

No. I’m fine, Angelina. And do not mention this to my father. You know how he worries at the tiniest things.

Yes, Miss.

I rush down the staircase, but skid to a stop at the front door to—as my mother would say—comport myself like a lady. When I open the front door, the Cadillac waits on the street with my parents and Marco tucked inside.

A lot for a young girl like you to handle. Hmpf, I mumble.

I can feel Marco’s gaze as I descend the stairs to the sidewalk. Between my headache and these heels, I wobble to the Cadillac like a new born colt. Marco remembers his job and meets me at the passenger side door.

Are you certain that you are well? Marco’s overpowering spicy hair tonic makes my vision swim. Your cheeks are flushed. And I’m certain your mother doesn’t allow you to wear rouge.

I am perfectly well. No need for concern. I don’t mind a little extra coloring tonight. Now I won’t have to pinch my cheeks like Kit does because indeed my mother prohibits us from wearing cosmetics.

Marco opens the door, and I slide into the Cadillac next to Mama. I lean over to smooth the wrinkles out of my dress. When I sit up again, my head throbs like someone is using it as an anvil.

Daddy peers over the top of his newspaper. You look lovely, Ginny.

Thank you, Daddy, I say, but he’s already buried his face back into today’s gloom and doom.

This heat is oppressive. Mama’s fan snaps open with a whip-like crack. Did you remember your fan, Virginia? A lady always comes prepared. She does not perspire.

Mama and I fan away in silence all the way to the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel. It does not help. To distract myself from the vise-like pressure in my head and the rivulets of sweat rolling down the back of my neck, I study Marco instead. At least, the back of Marco’s head. Also occasionally the side of his freshly-shaven face when he looks over his shoulder to pass around some delivery truck or the occasional country folk riding into Philadelphia in their old-fashioned, horse-drawn carriages. Marco pushes away a trickle of sweat that sneaks down the side of his face toward his formal coat. After all, men are allowed to perspire. The temperature in the car soars, and the town passing outside blurs. I close my eyes to make it all stop.

Virginia. Mama taps my leg with her closed fan breaking me out of my daze. I said, we’re here.

Mama ignores Marco as he assists her from the Cadillac. She flicks her deep sapphire silk dress impatiently as Daddy and I collect ourselves.

Miss Jackson. Marco offers his hand when it is my turn.

My vision grays when I step out onto the Cadillac’s running board. I grab Marco’s hand to steady myself. Marco’s dark eyes telegraph his concern, but he thankfully stays quiet.

Come along, Virginia. Our guests are waiting. Mama clings to Daddy’s arm for the benefit of the public. Events like this are the only time I ever see my parents pretend like their marriage is happy and contented.

As we enter the foyer of the hotel, the pain radiating up from my hips is so intense that I nearly collide with Everett Winthrop the Third, my appointed escort for the evening. I shiver. Not that Everett isn’t accomplished, attractive, and descended from one of Philadelphia’s founding fathers, but—as Anna likes to say—he doesn’t ring my bell. Everett is, however, currently at the top of my mother’s list of potential husbands. My parents allow me a moment with Everett as they drift toward the dramatic plush staircase leading to the ballroom on the second floor.

Happy Birthday, Virginia. Everett leans in to kiss my cheek.

I turn my head so he kisses the hair above my ear, and probably a rosebud or two. Everett attaches my now gloved hand to his arm and gives my hand a squeeze.

Miss Virginia, wait, Marco’s voice calls from behind.

We turn to see Marco standing just inside the gold and gilt lobby, holding my purse out. Everett walks stiffly towards him.

You will refer to her as ‘Miss Jackson.’ Everett snatches the purse out of Marco’s hand and returns to me. The nerve of those people. To think they can refer to us by our Christian names. I’ll have a word with your father about it.

I look back over my shoulder as we walk away. Marco continues to stand there. His hands clench into fists at his sides.

No, don’t. Everyone makes mistakes. I wrap my arms lightly back around Everett’s right arm and look up at him. Let’s not spoil the evening.

Everett’s scowl melts into a smile. He leans in. Anything for the birthday girl.

As we follow behind the crush going up the staircase, I hear Marco muttering in annoyed Italian. Part of me doesn’t blame him. Everett is insufferable. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other until we enter the hotel’s magnificent two-tiered ballroom. I look at the sea of faces around me and sitting up in the balconies overlooking the area. Everett peacocks as he leads me around the perimeter of the room like a prized pony to receive well wishes and empty compliments from my classmates and their high society parents. All eyes are on me. All the people who have been a part of my life for years and yet know nothing about me. Except for one.

May I cut in? Anna doesn’t wait for Everett’s response. She grabs my arm and pulls me out of his grip.

You made it! I say. The cavernous room suddenly fills half full.

Father and I made a deal. I allow Aunt Gertrude to chaperone and dress me for this evening without protestations, and Father allows the two of us to come to Philadelphia for this most miniscule of visits. And by allow, I mean that I badgered him for weeks about it until I broke him. Therefore…. Anna twirls around in her peach dress. I am all yours tonight. Especially as your dear sister has missed the boat. I bet your mother was apoplectic.

It was a train, not a boat, and Mama took to her bed for a full day. I wince remembering Mama’s tirade after receiving Kit’s telegraph from California. "Daddy had to give her laudanum to calm her nerves. Or maybe it was simply for his nerves. Either way, he’s ordered me never to use the word suffragette—"

"Suffragist. Unless she is heaving bricks through windows while in California. Then again, maybe Kit is a suffragette."

She most certainly is not. At least, I don’t think so. Daddy says we are not to utter that word in our household again. Kit will be in the doghouse until the next century.

Anna laughs, but then her face hardens. You look like hell.

Anna!

My apologies. I forgot. I’m a lady tonight. Anna pulls her gloves off. One hand reaches for my pulse as the other rests on my forehead. Correction, you feel like hell.

An-na!

Ginny, you’re sick, and you know it. Anna takes a step backward. It’s from going to Devil’s Pocket, isn’t it?

Don’t be ridiculous.

It is. You went down there two days ago on my behalf. The incubation time for influenza—this Spanish flu, the papers are calling it—is one to four days. Anna steps back in and takes my hand, even though she shouldn’t. This is all my fault. I only wanted to help Mrs. Flanagan. I should have never asked you to go down there.

Just because I don’t agree with what you are doing, doesn’t mean I won’t keep a promise.

Anna squeezes my hand. You are a good friend, Ginny. The best.

The best? The sick. I wish I would have taken Angelina up on her offer to fetch me some aspirin. I rub my throbbing temples. But as Mama says, we are women. We endure. Tomorrow, I shall stay in bed all day.

Speaking of enduring, here comes Everett. Anna slides her gloves back on. With your mother. Good luck, my friend.

Anna ducks away and heads toward the crowd of people who don’t accept her either. Anna, Kit, and I are quite the trio.

They’re waiting for you. Mama grabs the purse from my hands and herds us toward the dance floor.

The crowd parts as Everett and I walk to the middle of the ballroom. The leader of the palm court orchestra Mama hired introduces us and says a few words. The words sound like a muffled buzzing in my ears. I glance around the crowded room trying to find Anna. Instead, I catch Cecelia’s eye. I don’t recognize her at first. For as long as I can remember, Cecelia has always come wrapped in a white nursing apron and a gentle smile. Tonight, this handsome matronly woman wears a deep emerald gown and a frown of concern. She taps on Daddy’s arm with her fan and whispers something to him.

The crowd claps at the end of the orchestra leader’s speech, pulling me back to the task at hand. Everett positions us to dance a traditional waltz, just as Mama firmly instructed him to do. I argued for a jazz band but lost. Everett, of course, sided with my mother. Anything to keep our private dance lessons going for another week or two. Everett leans forward and whispers something in my ear. Probably sweet nothings. I nod, pretending like I can hear anything over the blood pounding in my ears.

Endure, Virginia. That’s what women do.

Everett’s face crowds my vision. I watch his lips count the downbeats, but I still miss the step off. Everett pushes me into motion anyway. I stumble backwards a few paces as the room starts to tilt. I hear a bell ringing in the distance. It has nothing to do with the countenance of my dance partner, and everything to do with my head striking the parquet floor in a most undignified manner.

Get away from her, you insufferable idiot, Anna’s voice echoes from somewhere deep in my mind. I’m sorry, Ginny. I’m so, so sorry.

Step back, everyone, please, Cecelia’s voice is as soothing as her cool hands on my face. Stay with us, sweet Ginny.

But I can’t will my eyelids open. The weights on my limbs drag me under.

Mother, please allow me a moment. Kit's voice echoes up from downstairs. I haven't even had a chance to remove my hat.

She's home. I am equally irritated and ecstatic. Though I appreciate Cecelia’s countless games of 500 with me while my home was under quarantine, I look forward to putting my playing cards away for a bit and having someone else to talk to. Meanwhile, Cecelia is probably glad to sleep in her own bed tonight. The settee in the parlor is not comfortable for an hour, much less seven nights. My lungs feel like raw sausage, and my mind is quickly turning to porridge, but Daddy refuses to let me leave my bedroom. Granny Jackson’s ancient chamber pot under my bed adds to the humiliation. I can't wait to hear all of Kit's adventurous tales from California. Though we may have to save the juiciest ones for after Mama has turned in for the night.

Don't scrape the wallpaper! Kit and Mama shout in unison.

A series of thuds, grunts, and mild oaths echo up the stairs. I hear one of the picture frames in the hallway collide with the floor.

Could you open the door for me, Miss? Marco's voice is tight. Please.

The doorknob turns, and my stomach clenches. I pull the bed sheet up to my chin and contemplate ducking all the way under it. The door swings open, and Kit blows into our room like a hurricane. Marco staggers in two steps behind her under the weight of Kit's steamer trunk.

Put it by the fireplace, Angelo. Kit places her hat box and traveling gloves on our vanity. Angelina can unpack my trunk after luncheon today.

It's Marco. My voice sounds unnaturally low and gravelly.

Marco D'Orio. Marco executes an overly dramatic bow. At your service, Miss Katherine.

Ah, yes. Marco. Angelina’s younger brother. Kit steps between Marco and me to block his view. And our new chauffeur, I hear.

I am. Marco peeks around the Wall of Kit to look at me. You are looking better, Miss Virginia.

My empty stomach clenches. These stupid, little girl braids. I should have never agreed to them after Cecelia’s humiliating sponge bath yesterday. My cheeks burn. Thankfully, I can blame them on my fever.

You gave your family quite a scare. Marco pulls a small paper cone out of his vest pocket. Angelina instructed me to give these to you. She says you have a notorious sweet tooth.

I do not. My stomach contradicts me with an audible growl.

I'll return the lemon drops then. Marco tucks the paper cone back into his vest pocket.

Don't be ridiculous, Ginny. You love sweets. Kit steps to the side to block Marco’s view again. Thank you, Marco. I will take them. Also, thank you for helping Father carry Ginny up the stairs after she collapsed at the party.

My cheeks flame again realizing that truth. Of course, my father wouldn’t be able to carry me up a flight of stairs by himself. He hasn’t been able to carry me up the stairs since I was a small child.

Though he vehemently denies it, my father isn't the spry young man he seems to think he is. I'm happy to hear that you will be assisting him, Kit says. "At his age and with his bad leg, Father shouldn't