The Mirrors (part fifty-one)

The Mirrors

(part fifty-one)

A cord ran from the tea table, a burner warming the pot. A Christmas basket sat next to this, tins of holiday cookies open for display. And missing, from months of frugal hostessing, their twos and threes.

The crash had harmed Mrs. Turner’s dignity. Or an earlier poverty, from the time she had stopped buying clothes. She was Esta’s age…so, what an interesting life she’d led, a young woman of the ’80s; a seasoned practitioner, custodian to a world underground, when the clinic burned…

“This is all so lovely, ma’am. Thank you so much for having us.”

Mrs. Turner looked at Charmante. “I was always right here for a visit. I don’t mean that to chide you.”

“I remember how much my father was pleased to have found you. He would talk about what he couldn’t do himself, without Mrs. Turner.”

“I know he did, bless him.”

Her mother had stood reserved to such references. Charmante could recall the vaguest impression of…well, for learning what she had…disgust.

“Were you a nurse, all your career?” she asked.

“You understand. They had a colored side to the city hospital, like they do, and they couldn’t have a white nurse. I’d just gone down to ask if they’d hire me on, because my husband didn’t have a living those days. That’s how I got trained, not going to school for it. And then one of the doctors wanted me to work for him privately.”

William said: “Mrs. Turner. Tell Charmante about your family in Washington.”

Charmante, nibbling a shortbread cookie, half-listened.

Twelve years old, a schoolgirl. Aware, but barely, of differences—that she and her parents lived in the right place, that there were lower places, but that her father’s status meant this—

A uniform, and teachers whose religion was not theirs. For mission, for service, the sisters taught colored daughters. They told her and the other girls: “You are the best of your generation. You will make your mark, and for gaining that foothold, you will lead the generations to come.”

It sounded grand. She hadn’t known why, as to Charmante Bonheur, such a prediction should be, but she’d had a notion…maybe notion wasn’t a word to do herself credit…of studying chemistry. The canal, that would open vast commerce to North America, wasn’t beaten as a challenge yet, in 1901. Because of the yellow fever. Someone, some destined soul, must discover a cure.

The day had been fine, the sky blue. She stayed outside…her mother hadn’t come to the door right away, to call her in. Charmante was growing beans in Mason jars, a project foolish to Esta.

“Grow beans in the garden.”

97

The Mirrors

The Mirrors (part fifty-two)

(2020, Stephanie Foster)