October, 1918

Chapter One

We buried my mother today, under an oppressively hot sun.  Now in the cool of afternoon shadows, church bells tolled out across the city, heralding another death. I stood alone by the bay windows in the parlor, hoping I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Just then, a hand squeezed my shoulder, jarring me.

“Come join us, Carrie,” my aunt said, invading my private little refuge.

It was more a command than an invitation. I followed her to the love seat, my gaze slipping into the room where Mother had died. For five endless days, I stayed by her bed and bathed her burning face with cool water. I held her hands, stroked her hair, and begged her not to die. I remembered how frightened I was at the thought of being left alone. Thinking of myself when all my concern should have been for my mother.

I settled myself beside Aunt Grace. We wore identical black taffeta dresses with lace collars. On the last day of her sister’s life, my aunt had stitched them up on her Singer sewing machine. She must have been ready, known something I hadn’t.

“You should try to eat something, dear,” she said. Aunt Grace resembled my mother. They shared the same high cheekbones, wide-set eyes, and dark hair. But their smiles were different. Mother’s had been warm and vibrant. Aunt Grace rarely smiled, and when she did, her lips seemed stuck together, pressed into a hard line.

“I’m not hungry.”  My lungs felt hollow and empty. I glanced around the room and tried to take a deep breath. My brother Ben, home on leave from his army encampment in Boulder, sat on one of the wing chairs in front of the fireplace. He was stuck talking to Uncle Clyde, Aunt Grace’s husband. Our neighbors, the Lamberts, perched on the edge of the sofa, politely nibbling their cake. They’d lost both their sons in the last few months, one to the war, and their younger boy to influenza. Now they were here, mourning someone else.

On the wall above them hung one of Mother’s watercolors. It was a view of Mt. Evans from Denver. The bulk of the mountain loomed out of the background, and colors and shapes suggested the city at its feet. Mother had struggled with that painting, mixing colors over and over and splattering them onto her smock. That was the image I wanted to hold onto and cherish. Not the horrifying sight of blood oozing from her mouth and nose before she died.

 This was not the celebration of her life Mother deserved. Not only were my mother’s friends absent, but Ben’s and mine, too. Only a few days ago, the mayor had banned public funerals. My best friend, Sarah Ryan, had rung me up and promised to visit. But I knew she was scared of getting the flu if she stepped her foot over the threshold.

I leaned forward a little and listened in on the conversation between Ben and Uncle Clyde.  

“So, it’s back to Boulder for you tomorrow, eh Ben?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben answered.

“Then what?”

“In a week or so, I’ll take a train to the east coast. Then it’s off to France.”

“General Pershing needs more doughboys at the front. Every patriotic young man should be fighting the Huns for the honor of our country,” Uncle Clyde said.

Ben clenched his jaw, but said nothing.

“If you ask me,” my uncle continued, “the influenza problem among the troops is exaggerated. Some boys are just cowards at heart, trying to shirk their duty.”

That was enough for Ben. He shot to his feet and excused himself. I’d heard my uncle make his self-righteous proclamations so many times I wanted to scream. He’d been a saloon keeper until Denver went dry in 1916. Since then, he and Aunt Grace had to scrape by until Uncle Clyde became a Liberty Bond salesman. That was right after America entered the war. He preyed on the innocent and helpless, making them feel unpatriotic if they didn’t pay up.

Clyde was an ignorant fool. Everyone knew the Spanish flu raged through the army encampments, killing soldiers before they could even get to Europe. The safest place for Ben was right here with me, but there was no stopping the U.S. Army or the will of the President.

I rose and began to gather up dishes and cups. As I passed Uncle Clyde on the way to the kitchen, he jumped up and threw an arm around my shoulder. Before I could shrug him off, he pulled me closer. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear, he said, “Now that Ben’s leaving, Grace and I want you to live with us.”

Only if I were truly desperate, I thought. “No. Thank you, but I’m staying right here. It’s what Mother would have wanted.” Actually, I had no idea what my mother might have wanted. Worn down by fever and delirium, she hadn’t spoken more than a few sentences while she waited to die. A couple of times she raised her hand and brushed my cheek, and I knew that somewhere inside she worried about how her daughter, who could do only the simplest of household tasks, would survive on her own.

When I tried to wriggle away from Clyde’s grasp, he pressed his arm hard against me. He reeked of brilliantine, the oil he smeared on his hair to keep it slicked back. His suit radiated stale waves of cigar smoke. I slammed the heel of my shoe onto his toe.

“Unh,” he grunted, and I made my escape.

In the kitchen, I unloaded my stack of plates and cups. I looked out at the side yard while I tried to compose myself. If only I were outside shuffling through the bright yellow leaves. I wanted my real life back, the one with school and friends, and especially my mother.

My tears dripped down into the sink like a leaky faucet. Ben came up behind me, and I pressed my face into his chest. The scratchy wool of his uniform rubbed against my cheek. Don’t leave me Ben, I wanted to say. Don’t go.

“Moving in with Aunt Grace and Uncle Clyde isn’t such a bad idea, CJ,” he said.

“Please don’t make me live with them, Ben,” I pleaded.

“Even if it would give me peace of mind? I’m your guardian now, you know. You’re barely sixteen, hardly old enough to live on your own.”

“I’ll be fine. I have the house and the money Mother and Father left us.”

Ben backed away and shot me an irritated look. “You have the house, all right, and all the problems that go along with it. The roof leaks and the gutters need cleaning. As soon as the weather turns, you’ll have to shovel coal for the furnace.”

I interrupted. “I’m not worried about any of that. According to the Denver Post, the war won’t last much longer. You’ll be home in no time.”

 ”And, my God, CJ,” Ben went on, as though he hadn’t even heard me, “with the influenza epidemic, all sorts of folks are roaming around with no place to go.”

“That’s not true!” I protested.

“It’s been in the papers, Carrie. Orphans, and people who’ve been evicted from their homes because of flu.”

“And you think they’re going to come here? Why would they choose our house over all the fine homes in Denver?”

Aunt Grace interrupted, her voice insistent. How much of our conversation had she heard?

“Ben is right, Carrie. You shouldn’t stay here by yourself. You’re an orphan now, dear. Why not move in with Clyde and me, at least until Ben is home?”

“I’ll think about it,” I lied. I didn’t consider myself an orphan. Even though Mother and Father were both gone now, I still had Ben. I might not know much about how to run a home, but I could learn. I wasn’t helpless.

At the front door, I hugged Aunt Grace. Uncle Clyde helped her with her coat. “We’ll come by soon to check on you,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me.

And I won’t let you in. I made a mental note to keep the doors locked.

On their way out, the Lamberts paused to say goodbye. Maude Lambert took my face in her strong hands. “You’re a brave girl, Carrie.”

I knew who was brave, and it wasn’t me. Never me.

I threw my arms around her. “How can I ever thank you, Mrs. Lambert?” Without her help, I wouldn’t have slept, wouldn’t have eaten, after Mother came down with the flu.

Mr. Lambert nodded at me. “If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

Since I’d never done any of the jobs Ben had mentioned, I was sure I’d wear out a path between our house and theirs. And soon.

#

The next morning I waited on the front porch while Ben loaded his bag into the taxi parked in the street. Another day promising plenty of sunshine, still unnaturally warm. Ben bounded back up the porch steps and wrapped his arms around me.

“I guess there’s nothing I can say to change your mind about moving.”

“No, and let’s not waste these last few moments arguing about it.”

He released me and clenched his jaw. “Damn stubborn girl.”

I smiled and thought how handsome Ben looked in his uniform. I’d inherited Mother’s dark hair and brown eyes, but Ben was fair-haired like Father had been. He’d grown tall and rangy during his college years. At twenty-one, Ben had barely graduated before being called up for military service last June. Mother had been furious, but Ben would have joined up even if he hadn’t been drafted. Like all the other young men, he wanted to help defeat the Kaiser.

“Stay away from those hussies who follow the troop trains,” I joked. “You might fall for one of them.”

Ben laughed. “My little Carrie Jane,” he said, studying my face. Then he kissed me goodbye and was gone.

I paused a moment before going back in. If something happened to Ben, I couldn’t bear it. The terrible stories in the newspaper about mustard gas and soldiers standing in water up to their ankles in the trenches tormented me. Bullets delivered death sharp and clean, but there were slower and more torturous ways to die.

One thing I was truly grateful for. Thank God, Ben hadn’t pressed me further for so adamantly refusing to live with Aunt Grace and Uncle Clyde; hadn’t asked my reasons. I could never have told him the truth, because the truth was raw, like a wound. The truth shamed me and burned my cheeks red whenever I thought of it.

The last time Aunt Grace and Uncle Clyde had visited, before my mother’s illness, I’d ended up alone in the parlor with my uncle while Mother and Aunt Grace washed the dishes. When I tried to leave the room, he stood up and blocked my way. I tried to push past him, but he grabbed me and pulled me close. I remembered the sound of my heart. Ca-boom. Ca-boom. And the bulk of his body against mine.

“You’re a pretty thing, Miss Carrie,” he’d said. He blew his foul cigar breath in my face.

Then, before I had time to react, he put his mouth on mine. Not like a kiss at all, but brutal. I pushed hard against his chest and jerked my face to the side. When he finally let me go, his hand brushed across my body. I heard him laughing as I ran upstairs to my room. I’d slammed the door shut and buried my face in my pillow, to stifle my sobs.

After that day, I wondered what I had ever done to encourage his advances. Alone, I would wait out the war and the influenza epidemic. I prayed that my uncle would be so consumed with selling Liberty Bonds, he would forget all about me.

For now, I’d see what I could do about the things that needed fixing around the house. I changed into an old shirt and some baggy trousers of Ben’s, cinching them tight around my waist. Then I headed next door to borrow the Lambert’s tall ladder. Might as well get started on the gutters.

Chapter Two

Tinkling glass roused me out of a restless sleep. I raised part way up and strained to hear through the thick darkness. I dreamed it, I thought, and lay back down, pulling the blankets around my shoulders.

Then, another sound, more distinct. Footsteps crunching across broken glass.  I stood up on wobbly legs and grabbed my shawl from the end of the bed. Wrapping it around myself, I stepped into my slippers and slowly eased the door open. On my way into the hall, I snatched the poker I’d brought upstairs from the parlor fireplace.

Softly moving down the hallway, I dodged creaking floorboards. I did the same with the steps, pausing to listen about halfway down. I heard objects scraping across shelves. Dear God, don’t let it be a rat. My foot hit the bottom step. Silently, I walked the short distance to the kitchen, my heart thumping wildly.

I groped for the light switch and flipped it on. Grasping the poker in both hands, I raised it, ready to strike. A child stood there, a hunk of cake halfway to her mouth.

“You’re not gonna hit me with that, are you?” A girl. I hadn’t been sure until she spoke.

“That depends.” On her head was a boy’s cap, her hair tucked up under it. She wore boy’s trousers, shirt, and thin jacket, and on her feet, heavy, scuffed shoes. No wonder she woke me up, clomping around in those things.

She shoved the cake into her mouth while she darted her eyes from cupboard to shelf to stove. “You got anything else to eat?”

Feeling ridiculous, I lowered my arms and leaned the poker against the wall. My stomach muscles relaxed. If I just had time to mull this over, I thought. The girl might be a thief, part of a gang of thugs and robbers. Just what Ben had warned me about. I should shove her right out the back door. But something about her told me not to.

“The bathroom is down the hall. Go wash up.” While I waited, I rested my back against the wall cupboards and wondered why she chose my house to break into. Our Capitol Hill neighborhood was full of homes with better prospects.

The toilet flushed and water splashed into the sink. The girl returned and stood in the doorway looking at me.

“Go ahead, sit down,” I said, gesturing toward the kitchen table and chairs. She pulled out a chair and collapsed onto it. Hunger pinched her face and put tremors in her small hands. When she caught me staring, she shoved them under her thighs.

I looked away. Out on the porch, I fumbled around in the ice box for leftovers. Grabbing a platter of roast beef, along with a bowl of green beans, I carried them back to the kitchen and fixed the girl a plate. I can’t believe you’re doing this. You should get rid of her now.

Instead, I set the plate and a fork and knife in front of her. She grabbed the beef with her hands and ripped off bites with her teeth. After finishing the meat, she started on the beans.

“You gonna watch me the whole time I’m eating?” She scrunched up one corner of her mouth.

I backed away. “Sorry.” I grabbed the broom and swept up the glass that had shattered when she’d broken the window.

“Hey, miss. You got any milk?”

I filled a tall glass and handed it to her. She drank it all down in one long swallow. Her empty plate stared up at us.

“There’s cake,” I said, “but I guess you already knew that.”

The girl’s mouth curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. While I sliced a piece of cake, I heard her chair scrape against the floor. I spun around fast.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re mighty jumpy,” she said.

“Well, maybe that’s because a prowler just broke into my house.” I stood there, backed up against the cupboards.

“I’m no thief, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She carried her dishes over to the sink. Once there, she turned the faucet on and off, on and off, the pipes clanking with each rush of water.

“Your plumbing works good,” she said.

I smirked. “Thanks for checking on it. Here’s your cake.” I plunked the plate down on the table along with a clean fork and refilled her milk glass.

She downed every bite, licked her finger, and used it to mop up the crumbs. Then, she pushed her chair back and stood up.

“Thanks for the food.” She headed for the back door.

“Wait! What’s your name?”

The girl paused and turned. She stared straight at me, as if deciding whether or not she could trust me with something so personal. Her glazed-over eyes reflected fear and pain. The look of someone suffering. A heart-wrenching look.

“Kit. My name’s Kit.”

“I’m Carrie. You can spend the night here if you want.”

“I don’t need your charity.” She hustled toward the door and I followed her.

“How many died in your family?” I whispered.

“What?”

“The flu. How many have you lost? Your parents? A brother or sister?”

“That’s my business.” She choked on the words.

“My mother died a few days ago.” I took a step closer to Kit. Her expression softened for just a second, but before I could say another word, she fled down the porch steps and into the darkness. Just as well. I knew absolutely nothing about her.

After she’d gone, I stared at the window, now cavernous, with shards of glass poking out here and there. I couldn’t just leave it like that. An idea occurred to me. I headed for the parlor, stepped up on the sofa, and lifted mother’s painting down. I carried it to the kitchen and propped it up on the window sill, hooking the hanging wire over the window lock.

“Thank you, Mother,” I said to the empty room.

I locked the doors and turned off the kitchen light. When I crawled back into bed, I realized I’d forgotten the poker downstairs in the kitchen. But I didn’t think I’d need it.

Chapter Three

She came back.

I’d rung up the glazier first thing in the morning, and he’d already been and gone. While he worked on replacing the broken glass, I carried a load of tablecloths and napkins to the washing machine out on the porch, dumped in some laundry powder, and started it churning. I liked the sound of it. Familiar and comforting.

Later, I hauled the laundry outside to hang on the clothesline, pausing for a minute to wipe my brow and pull my sweater off. When I bent down to lift tablecloth, that’s when Kit reappeared. She grabbed one end and helped me drape it over the line. I had to stifle a groan when I glimpsed the dirt caked under her nails.

At first I didn’t say anything, afraid of scaring her off again. We arranged the tablecloth and secured it with clothes pins.

“Thanks for the help,” I said.

She nodded. “You got any clothes line props?” The line drooped with the weight of the linens, nearly brushing the grass.

“In the shed.” I pointed toward the ramshackle structure Father had built when Ben and I were children. “But you’ll never find them, there’s so much junk in there.” I hollered, because she was already headed toward the shed.

Kit walked back dragging two props. She handed one to me, and we propped up either end of the line. I wiped my damp hands on my skirt while Kit looked at me with her intense gaze.

“I’m good at housework,” she said. “And I can cook. You don’t look like somebody who could cook.”

“Ha!” I croaked. How had she guessed? I was a passable seamstress, a good knitter; I played the piano and painted, water colors, of course. But, I’d never really learned to cook.

“So?” I asked.

“What I mean is, if I could stay with you for awhile, I could help you do just about anything.”

I’d already invited her to stay last night, so what choice did I have? Given her appearance in the light of day, I might have re-thought my offer, made in a rush of emotion. A layer of grime covered her face, and the rest of her was probably none too clean either. In the baggy trousers and shapeless jacket, she looked like a miniature hobo.

“Why did you run off last night?” I asked, stalling for time to think.

She shrugged and I pondered, fingering my tangled hair behind my ears. Should I take a chance? There was no denying I needed help with the house. What would Ben say, never mind Aunt Grace?

“What made you choose our house?” I asked, “to break into?”

“I watched for a day or two. I saw you had a death in your family. You had the black cloth on your doorway and people coming and going. Then yesterday, you hugged a boy goodbye, and I thought maybe-”

“You thought I’d be alone and an easy mark?” I asked, knitting my brows at her. Her small face wilted, and I wished I could take the words back.

Kit backed away. “No! It wasn’t like that at all. I thought you looked nice, and if you caught me, maybe you wouldn’t call the police.”

She continued edging backwards, and I knew if I didn’t speak now, she would disappear again.

“Don’t go. You can stay here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Where have you been staying?”

“In people’s backyards, mostly.”

“You can’t do that!” I grabbed her arm and tugged. “Come on, let’s go in.” I wanted to ask about her family, but I’d have plenty of time to question her. If her parents had died of Spanish flu, maybe there were other relatives who could take her in. But if that were true, why was she here?  

“Wait a minute,” Kit said, pulling out of my grasp. She ran toward some low shrubs bordering the yard. When she returned, she held a filthy pillowcase in one hand. It bulged with God knew what. I didn’t ask and Kit didn’t explain.

As I led her toward the house, a powerful odor of dirt, sweat, and moldy leaves drifted my way. “I think you need a bath, first thing.”

Kit groaned. “I was afraid you were gonna say that.”

I ran water in the tub while she undressed. “How old are you?” I asked.

“Just turned eleven.”

“I’ll find you some clean things to wear. Something I wore when I was your age.” I scooped up her filthy clothes.

“I hate dresses,” she announced.

“Well, that’s all I’ve got, so you’ll have to wear one.” Not entirely true. Some of Ben’s old clothing was packed away somewhere, but I didn’t want to look for it now.

She stood there shivering, covering herself with her hands, and I backed out the door.

 ”There’s a nail brush on the table. Use it,” I said. “And scrub your head hard.”

“I don’t have lice, if that’s what you’re worried about. My head doesn’t itch.”

“Well, if you’ve only got nits, it wouldn’t itch yet.”

“For crying out loud, I haven’t got nits!”

I sighed. “Scrub anyway.”

I dropped Kit’s clothes on the porch and headed upstairs to the chiffarobe in the hall. I riffled through it until I found some old dresses I thought would be about the right size for Kit. From my bureau, I grabbed a few under things I hoped wouldn’t be too baggy.

 I opened the bathroom door just far enough to toss everything in. “I’m going to the grocery,” I said. “I won’t be long.”

#

A stack of Denver Posts rested near the door of the market. After filling my basket with a loaf of bread, butter, coffee, cornflakes, and milk, I set it down and picked up a copy of the paper. We’d had the newspaper delivered as far back as I could remember. But, Mother was so angry about President Wilson getting us into the war, she canceled our subscription. And she hated what she called the “patriotic claptrap” the editorials spouted about the war. We ended up buying newspapers all the time anyway, because we needed them to start the fire in the woodstove.

A quick glance at the headlines decided me. I wanted to read more than just the front page, so I put the paper in the basket with the rest of my groceries and went to the counter.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Mr. Randall said as he totaled up my purchases.

“Thank you,” I choked out as I handed him my money.

“I see you’ve got a newspaper. Says dozens of new cases of flu in Denver.” A forest of hair sprouted from his nose. Disgusting.

“I hope you and your family stay healthy, Mr. Randall.” I grabbed my basket and hurried outside. A different headline had stuck in my mind, the one about our soldiers dying of Spanish flu in France. Ben would be sailing any day, and I had prayed he’d be leaving flu behind.

The rumble of an automobile signaled yet another funeral procession. There were a few every day, right here in our part of Capitol Hill. Because of the ban on public funerals, it was a meager affair. One car followed slowly behind a hearse. A small boy stared out one of the windows of the car, and I recognized him. It was little Joshua Allison from up the street. A hand pulled him back down, and I glimpsed his father’s grief-stricken face before I looked away. It reminded me of my own.

 Joshua’s mother must have died. We hadn’t known her well, only enough to wave to her now and then. How horrible for Josh and his father. Tears blinded me as Mr. Allison turned away from the window, and the car passed by.

Chapter Four

Back home, I called out Kit’s name. Nothing. Had she taken off already? I set down my basket and spotted a trail of water drips. I followed them outside.

In her huge, worn shoes and my old dress, Kit stood at the clothes line hanging up her shirt and the knickers and chemise she’d been wearing.

“Hey,” I called. “I’m home.”

Her shoulders jumped, and I realized I must have frightened her. She finished and turned toward me.

“Look at the mountains,” she said. “Snow.”

“It may be warm now, but it’ll be snowing down here before we know it,” I said.

Back inside, I eyed Kit closely. “You look fresh. And a lot cleaner.” Light brown hair waved softly around her face. Her tender skin, free of dirt, made her seem younger and even more vulnerable. I glanced down at her feet. “I’ll see if I have any shoes that might fit you.”

Kit’s neck flushed, and the red crept up to her face. Now, I’d embarrassed her and probably hurt her feelings.

“I don’t care. These are okay.” She pounded a foot on the floor as if to prove her point.

I put the groceries away, handing her the bottle of milk to take out to the ice box. She reached out and grabbed it, but just stood there staring at me.

“Can I have some bread and butter, miss?”

How thoughtless of me! The poor child probably hadn’t eaten anything since the food I’d given her the night before, and it was nearly 2:00 in the afternoon.

“Kit, if you’re going to stay with me, you’ll have to call me by my name. It’s Carrie. Let’s see what we’ve got to eat.” I bustled around getting out the beef and green beans that were left. I set the loaf of bread from the market on the worktable and grabbed some glasses for milk. “There might be some potatoes and onions in the basement,” I said.

“I’ll go look.”

I started to protest, but Kit was gone before I got the first word out. If she’d found those clothesline props in the shed, she could find anything. She returned in a minute, hugging jars of carrots and tomatoes against her body. She clutched a few potatoes in her free hand and had tucked an onion under her chin.

“You got a lot of food in jars down there. Did you know that?”

“Well, of course.” Another lie. I never set foot in the basement if I could help it, but now that Kit had reminded me, I pictured Mother and Mrs. Lambert canning vegetables in the summer and making jelly every fall.

“Now, miss-Carrie-why don’t you get out of the kitchen and let me cook us something?”

“I think I know how to run my own kitchen,” I said, raising my chin.

“Sure you do. But, remember what I told you? I’m a good cook. I know you have other more important jobs to do.” We stared at each other for a few seconds until Kit turned and busied herself opening jars.

“But you don’t know where anything is,” I whispered.

“Don’t worry. I’ll holler if I can’t find something.” She slipped the loaf of bread from its sack, sliced and buttered a piece, and bit into it. “Want some?”

“No, I’ll wait.” I was quickly losing my authority. But, Kit was right. Since I wasn’t any good at cooking, I might as well turn my hand to something else.

I thought about dragging the ladder out and working on the gutters, but it seemed too late for that. Instead, I lifted the newspaper out of the basket and headed upstairs. For now, I could busy myself catching up on war news, and then I’d search for more clothes-and shoes-for Kit.  

#

I spread the newspaper out on my bed and scanned it for news of our doughboys. Troops were being sent overseas by the thousands, yet the Germans were making peace overtures. That just didn’t make sense. And soldiers were dying of Spanish flu on board ships and in the ports. Drat the war! Why should boys going off to fight have to worry about getting the flu as well? It wasn’t fair. I pictured Ben holed up in some shipboard bunk, miserable and homesick, and still exposed to the flu.

I turned the page. Set off in its own little box was the “Surgeon General’s Advice to Avoid Influenza,” which had already been in the paper at least a dozen times:

Avoid needless crowding

Smother your coughs and sneezes

Your nose not your mouth was made to breathe thru

Remember the 3 C’s, clean mouth, clean skin, and clean clothes

Food will win the war…Help by choosing and chewing your food well

Wash your hands before eating

Don’t let the waste products of digestion accumulate

Avoid tight clothes, tight shoes, tight gloves-seek to make nature your ally not

     prisoner

When the air is pure breathe all of it you can-breathe deeply

The last one always made me giggle. As if you could somehow take in extra air and store it up.

A pounding on the front door reverberated up the stairs. I raced down and into the kitchen. Kit huddled in the corner between the sink and cupboards, her eyes wide. Through my brand new kitchen window, I glimpsed Uncle Clyde striding around the back of the house.

“Kit. Run upstairs and hide.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Under a bed, or in one of the closets. My uncle’s out back, and I don’t want him to know about you yet.” If ever, I thought. He and Aunt Grace would probably call the police. Kit took off down the hall and clomped up the steps.

I snatched Mother’s apron off a hook and tied it around my waist. None too soon, either, because, as if he owned the place, Uncle Clyde burst through the back door and into the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you answer the door?” he asked. “I knocked loud enough to wake the dead.”

Poor choice of words, I thought. But then, tact never had been Clyde’s strong suit.

I lifted the lid off the bubbling pot on the stove and stirred. The pungent smell of onions drifted out into the room. “Sorry. I was down in the basement.” I kept my voice even and risked a quick glance at him. He stood only a few feet from me. Was I strong enough to lift this cast iron pot and heave it at him?

“Go pack some things. Grace took sick and we need your help. She may have the Spanish flu.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding in. Aunt Grace had helped me while Mother was sick. How could I possibly refuse? On the other hand, it could be a ploy to lure me out of the house.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I studied his face for a moment. Strands of greasy hair hung down on his forehead. Bloodshot eyes stared back at me from a saggy face. Clyde looked like a man who hadn’t gotten much sleep last night.

“I’ll just be a minute,” I said, and took off for the stairs, untying my apron as I went.

Kit, I thought. What should I do about Kit? I heard the sound of a dining room chair scraping across the wood floor and a groan as Clyde sank down on it.

Once upstairs, I paused in the hallway. “Kit!” I said in a loud whisper. No response. I stepped into my room and tried again.

“Kit, are you in here?”

She squirmed out from underneath my bed, dust bunnies clinging to the bodice of her dress.

“You need to take a dust mop to that-”

“Hush! He’ll hear you. I have to go with my uncle. My aunt is sick, and they need my help.” I grabbed a beat-up suitcase from my closet and dropped in an extra chemise, blouse, and underpants. What else would I need? I glanced at the pin cushion on my dresser. Maybe a hatpin to ward off my uncle.

“You’re gonna leave me here alone?” Kit asked.

“I don’t have a choice,” I said, still whispering. “He’d suspect something if I refused.”

Kit grabbed my wrist so tight I thought my bones might crack. “You’re not coming back, are you? You want to get away from me.” Her eyes swam in tears.

“Oh, no, Kit. That’s not it at all.” I turned away and buckled up the bag, Kit now clutching on to my skirt.

“What’s taking so long? Hurry it up, Carrie!” Uncle Clyde’s voice bellowed up the stairs.

I walked toward the door. Now Kit seized my hand and dropped to her knees. I took a few steps, dragging her along with me. This wasn’t working. I stooped down beside her, feeling sick inside. She was just a child, a little girl. Of course she was scared. Everybody else had deserted her; why not me?

“Kit, I’m not going to leave you. I promise.” I smoothed her hair off her face and tilted her chin up until she was forced to look at me.

Tears streamed from her indigo blue eyes. “I need your help,” I said, grasping her by the shoulders. “Will you take care of the house while I’m away? Please?”

She sank back on her heels and nodded, crying silently.

“Good girl. I’ll see you again soon. Keep the doors locked and don’t let anybody in.” I was still whispering.

I picked up my bag and hurried down the stairs. Clyde stood near the bottom step. He seemed poised to race up and drag me down by my hair if necessary.

“I’m ready,” I said. He took my bag. I locked the back doors and we headed toward the front hallway.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

I glanced around and shook my head. “No. I think I’ve got everything.”

“Shouldn’t you close the drafts on the stove? Let the fire go out?”

“Just a minute.” I bolted for the kitchen and slid the drafts shut. Then I picked up the pot with some hot pads and set it on the work table.

“Why don’t you bring that?” Clyde asked.

I pictured Kit’s pinched, hungry face. “No! It’s probably awful. I never cooked before Mother-”

“Fine,” Clyde interrupted. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

After I locked the front door, we climbed into Uncle Clyde’s Tin Lizzie. Not to be cruel, but only because of the sliver of fear cutting through me, I said a little prayer that Aunt Grace really was sick.

Chapter Five

Uncle Clyde dumped me in front of the house and said he’d be back later. I tiptoed upstairs to Aunt Grace. Her eyes were closed and her color looked normal, except for a chapped, red nose. When I felt her forehead, her eyelids fluttered open.

“Carrie, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said through a stuffy nose.

“Your head feels cool, Aunt Grace.” I shrugged my coat off and threw it onto a chair. “I don’t think you have a fever.”

“A-a-choo!” She sneezed into a white linen handkerchief. “I’m sure I do.”

“Have you taken your temperature?”

“We don’t have a thermometer. Never needed one since the Lord didn’t bless us with little ones.”

I said a silent prayer of thanks for Uncle Clyde’s unborn children.

“How can I help, Aunt Grace?” I asked. “Do you want me to read to you? How about a cool cloth for your head?”

“No, dear. I want you to make me some chicken soup.”

I groaned. They got me over here to cook? I’d never made chicken soup in my life. Bread and butter sandwiches, hot chocolate, and anything from a tin can pretty much summed up my cooking skills.

“Aunt Grace-”

 ”It’s the best cure for a cold, you know.” She blew into the hankie. “Clyde is so helpless in the kitchen, or I would have asked him to do it.”

After she rattled off the steps for fixing the soup, I made my way downstairs. Aunt Grace had inherited this house from my grandparents. She and Clyde kept it as dark as ours was light. Most of the time, the drapes remained closed because Aunt Grace didn’t want her carpet or upholstery to fade. It was like being in a cave.

At least the kitchen window let in some sunshine. I found the chicken in the ice box and the vegetables in some bins that pulled out from under the cupboards. I filled a pot with water and dropped in the bird along with carrots, turnips, onions, and celery. After throwing a few scoops of coal into the fire, I adjusted the drafts and set the pot on the front lid.

I hurried back upstairs to my aunt.

#

While the broth simmered, I chatted with Aunt Grace.

“How are you getting along on your own, Carrie?”

“I’m doing just fine.” I jumped up and smoothed her bed covers.

“What about meals?”

“Mrs. Lambert gave me some recipes to try. In fact, I made beef stew today.” I picked up a quilt at the end of her bed and re-folded it.

“Don’t fidget, Carrie. You’re like a chickadee flitting from branch to branch.”

I dropped into my chair and tried to think of something to tell her that was actually the truth. “I’m worried about Ben. I read in the paper that hundreds of boys are dying from influenza in France.”

“You can’t dwell on what might happen. Ben will be fine.”

“When the war ends and Ben comes home, that’s when I’ll quit worrying.”

“I think I hear Clyde,” Aunt Grace said. “I asked him to stop by Kosinski’s and pick up some egg noodles for the soup.”

She explained the last steps in the soup preparation and I went downstairs. While I struggled to lift the chicken out of the pot onto a wooden board, Clyde walked in and set a package down on the sideboard.

“I’ll do that,” he said. He stabbed the bird with a carving fork and plopped it down. “See. Nothing to it.”  Clyde laughed, and I smelled alcohol on his breath. Even though Denver was dry, there were still saloons around town where people went to drink. I’d heard the owners bribed the police so they wouldn’t shut them down.

He winked. “How’s the patient doing?”

I waited for him to get out of my way. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” I said, eager to get rid of him.

He grabbed my chin and twisted my face so I was forced to look at him. “Brazen little thing, aren’t you?” he said.

Tears pricking my eyes, I jerked away from him and didn’t answer. He had no right to grab my face like that. Snickering to himself, he left the room. Nothing could induce me to live here. Ever.

I got to work, tying an apron on first. I spooned some of the greasy residue off the top of the broth, and then used a knife to slice hunks of meat from the chicken. After a minute, I figured out it was easier and faster to pull it off with my hands.

My head bent to my task, I didn’t hear Clyde come back into the room. I should have smelled him-alcohol, tobacco, and brilliantine- but I didn’t even know he was there until he sneaked up behind me and grasped me around the waist. He pressed his body into mine. I tried to scream, but my throat had gone dry.

When I couldn’t stand it another second, I pleaded with him. “Please don’t, Uncle Clyde. Please stop.”

But my words had no effect on him He kissed my neck with his puffy lips as if I hadn’t even spoken. His hands crept up toward my breasts. Though I tried to twist out of his grasp, he was too strong. Sunlight glinted off the knife I’d been using on the chicken, and I grabbed it. Clyde must have noticed, because he let me go and backed away.

I spun around to face him, still holding the knife, my hand shaking.

Clyde laughed. “I’m not finished with you,” he said, striding out of the room.

The knife slipped from my greasy hand, clattering onto the linoleum. Trembling, I slid down onto the hard, cold floor and wept. The great, gulping sobs threatened to spiral out of control, like everything else swirling around me.

#

I slumped in a chair near the bed while Aunt Grace sipped the chicken soup. The greasy smell reminded me of Clyde’s hands on my body and made me want to retch.

“Mm. This soup is good for your first try, Carrie,” Aunt Grace said. “The noodles are a little mushy, but I know you did your best.”

Mushy noodles. Of course I’d overcooked them, half my mind screaming terror, and the other half alert for Clyde’s return. I wondered if I could get out of spending the night here. I thought of Kit, alone in our house, and the meal she’d fixed for us. Here I was, caring for someone who didn’t really need me, separated from someone who did.

“Dear? Will you take the tray?” Aunt Grace rippled into focus. She grabbed her teacup, and I lifted the tray from her lap and carried it over to her dresser.

“I’m feeling much better. Sit down, Carrie. Let’s have a little talk about you.”

Groaning inside, I refilled my own teacup and swallowed a big gulp. I’d made it strong and it had bolstered me enough to see me through so far. Could you get drunk on tea?

“How is your money situation?” Aunt Grace asked.

“Fine.”

“Do you know how much your mother left you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Well, make an appointment with Mr. Marks and find out about the will,” Aunt Grace said. She sniffed and stared at me through watery eyes.

Steven Marks was Mother’s attorney and the executor of her estate. “I’m sure there’s plenty of money, Aunt Grace,” I said.

“You’ll need plenty to run that house. You should check your supplies. Food, linens, soap, clothing. Have you had coal delivered?”

“No. But Ben checked the coal room before he left. He said it was about half-full.”

“You need more than that! You never know when a snowstorm might hit. Remember the blizzard of 1913?”

I nodded. “Aunt Grace, that was a once-in-a-lifetime storm.”

“Nevertheless, one should be ready for these disasters.”

I thought of the disaster raging around us now. Nobody had been ready for Spanish flu.

“When I’m feeling back to normal, I’ll help you get the house organized.”

I sipped at my tea and looked down. That was Aunt Grace’s unsubtle way of letting me know what she thought of my mother’s housekeeping. The two of them had always argued about it. Mother just shrugged her off. For my mother, painting always came before chores, and I loved her for it.

“One more thing. Where are all of Lydia’s paintings?”

I chewed on my lip and thought. “She auctioned a few off at a Red Cross benefit instead of buying bonds. There may be one or two in her studio; I’m not sure.”

“There must be more, Carrie.”

“She sold a lot of her work the last few years, since Father died,” I said.  

Aunt Grace looked irritated and said, “Never mind for now. The guest room is all ready for you, dear.”

“Are you sure you want me to stay?” I asked. “You said you felt much better.”

“I might need you during the night,” she said.

“But Uncle Clyde-”

She chortled. “Clyde’s a sound sleeper. He wouldn’t even hear if I called for him.”

Shoot. I guess I was stuck here. “I think I’ll just sleep in here with you, Aunt Grace. In the chair.”

“That really won’t be necessary.”

“I insist,” I said with a phony smile.

“Very well, then. There’s an extra blanket in the closet,” she said.

I spent a miserable night jerking awake every time the house creaked and settled. A couple of times, I thought I heard footsteps. And I discovered something about Aunt Grace. She snored and snorted like a pig running after its slops.

In the morning, I fixed a breakfast tray for my aunt. I kissed her on the cheek and said, “You seem well now, Aunt Grace. I’m going home.”

She didn’t protest. “Is Clyde up?”

“I haven’t seen him.” Thank heaven.

 I wanted to ask Aunt Grace for money for a taxi, but I thought she’d insist that Clyde drive me. On the lookout for Clyde, in case he jumped out of a shadowy corner, I tiptoed out the door and started walking. I arrived home weary and disheveled. And frightened…because I’d remembered that my aunt and uncle had a key to my house.