Forgive Me

Guilty Wealth

When you have been on the brink of poverty for so long, having a plethora of bills in your pocket brings a gushing of relief and excitement.

-2/6/1920

Outside door 203, I stood, heart heaving with a deceiving thrill, and rehearsed once more. I had not returned that morning, busy observing the brutal murder scene, but I had a magnificent excuse: a found career. There was no chance I would confess the truth to her, but Abigail needed to be aware of my sudden employment. That would certainly wipe the disappointment and intoxication from her face, knowing her nights of excessive dreading were over.

The pleasant scene greeted me with child shrieks. The noise was no longer of any issue to June or me; instead, we had learned to expect and even draw pleasure from it. Where the onslaught of defiance and chained chaos was, home followed.

It is confusing how home can be one place at this moment and that place another. Home, back in Italy, had been no singular building for a prolonged amount of time. First, it was a tower, then bay, then alley, then basement, and then a hospital. It became so ambiguous and unpredictable, I decided June, no matter our location, was what determined my stay, not anything else.

Abigail was in her usual position: leaning her slender chest over multiple pots of soup and, with her free hand, embracing three or four children clinging to her leg. There was never such a relaxed pose for her body to execute, with nothing in her flexibility but liquid. No one else could demonstrate such ability; I, as an example, would be too occupied with their sticky, warm fingers to ever keep the soup stirring hot. In such an ushered scene, a gossamer substance breached her very heart and fluttered her soles above the counter. No longer was there the fatigued woman on the sofa, hand caressing a dismal flask and breath aching of alcohol, but another girl had taken her place. This one was bubbly, caring, and gentle: all the facets of a perfect mother.

"Mama!" the customary cry arose, belonging only to the angelic face of my daughter. Her locks were done in a ribbon, though not quite long enough to be a standard length, and bounced behind her when she came near. She latched onto my legs with a face of undeniable pleasure.

"My sweet June," I answered, leaving no enthusiasm untouched, and gripped her shoulders in a loving embrace. The night had been long and the morning longer; it felt as if my addiction to her cloudy gaze and sunny smile was rearing up in my face.

But, with my exuberance swelling, another blistering thought rose: the hands around her waist were the same hands belonging to a murderer.

"Mama," she began, shuffling in her pockets with her fingers, "I made you something! I made you something!"

"Really? That was very kind of you!"

Shame to those who ornament their children in the hopes of an attractive smile! What distinguishes a little girl's smile from an adult's is her carelessness and authenticity! When June shined the spotlight of her teeth toward my face, the imperfections dazzled it! The lips were thinned, pulled from one ear to the next, and showing all of her crooked teeth-- too wide, however, for she seemed more furious than joyful. Still, as her mother, I could distinguish between the two, and her smile brought a bounty of warmth to my heart.

Holding up an object, she squealed, "A present! A present!"

I had never thought to teach June how to write or read, but the need became apparent when I took the gift from her hand. Pieces of ripped, blue parchment were tied together with a thick piece of golden thread, wrapping around the paper with such looseness I feared it might slip off. Attached to the contraption was a common clothespin-- aged and brittled to its core-- but the real treasure lied where eyes could seldom reach. Written in blue ink, barely readable, were the words Only Together in shuffled, sloppy penmanship. Abigail had aided her in the writing, I could see, but only by guiding the child's hand in her own.

The weight of the words dropped into my stomach: Only Together. Only Together.

"Oh June," I croaked, failing to keep my words from breaking in two, "I love it!"

Embracing, we stood in the midst of the hallway as I pinned the ribboned paper to my inner pockets, and took in each other like we never had before: fully and leaving no love behind us.

"Are we almost there?" Abigail asked impatiently.

"Almost," I grinned.

The evening air funneled through our skirts and into the throats of the ten interlinked children. We made our way across the Boston streets-- Abigail, Lars, June, and the night group of daycare children-- with our hands locked and eyes furrowed. Sure, the children struggled between their bonds to break loose, but not one of them was willing to let go of the hands surrounding them. The streets were roaring with the moon flare; one could be lost in the magic as easily as if wading in the middle of the ocean.

Lars, too, had no knowledge of our destination. He had been stealing curious glances my way the entire trip with that wondering twitch of his. It invigorated him, knowing nothing, and he wished to correct it. But, even as he nagged at my shoulders and complained about his lack of foresight, I would not give it up to him. The surprise was massive enough to deserve even his bewilderment.

Slowing, I thrust my arm into the sky. "I welcome you," I beamed, "to Arctic Gold!"

Understandably, the children mouths shortened to form o's and began their exasperating gasps. Arctic Gold, if I may elaborate, was considered one of the more upper-class clothing stores in town. It certainly could not beat the businesses planned entirely for the wealthy, but if you were above middle-class, this was where you brought your precious currency. It was sprinkled entirely in white, beaten only by the specks of gold dust about the doors. The shop windows sported wondrous colored lights, dancing over the multitude of unattainable dresses and suits. Just staring inside the building made the commonwealth mouths water.

Abigail pulled a puzzled look and shot it my way. "I don't understand," she questioned. "What are we doing here?"

"Defining the undefinable, my dear! We are experiencing what we once thought could not be experienced!"

Again, she showed confusion.

"See, this," I withdrew from my pocket, after some rustling, a wad of something heavy and green, "is what I speak of."

Her eyes, once dull, lit to the size and shape of the stardust raining from the heavens. Her jaw fell from her mouth, unable to be controlled any longer, and her hands began to fidget in uncertainty. She did not believe they were real.

"H-how," she stuttered, incapable of formulating her sentence without spluttering her disbelief all over the road.

Here it was: the rehearsal. "I finally acquired a job with a lovely, wealthy family near the bay as their personal cook. They promised me a higher wage than usual, and so they complied! But, that was not all! I was sent to deposit my earnings at the bank when, lo and behold, I discovered an account already with my surname! My American relatives, long ago, had died and, with no one else to take their place, left a bounty of wealth in their possession with no heir to claim! But, as it so happens, I was the closest living relative to them and was granted the money!"

Oh, how unbelievable the story was, but it was difficult to fashion up another. I had no knowledge of how the Americans handled unclaimed money, nor did I know of the modern wages. It was simply a guess, and one I had to work around. There was no telling the amount of havoc the truth would bring on Abigail.

From her ducts sprung tears, and they would not stop streaming down her red, freckled face. She could not restrain her arms, instead taking me in them and squeezing.

"This is absolutely amazing," she whispered, not speaking to me but to herself. The high off her bliss would not calm. "I thought we would be stuck in poverty forever, but you come along with your money draining and manage something as amazing as this! How! How! What did I do to deserve God's blessing?"

I returned her gesture, leaning my head on her own and grinning. "Your children are rarely clothed in something other than rags, Abigail, as are you. Go: make something of yourself and enjoy what this world has to offer."

From the corner of my eye, Lars met the scene with a blatant color of worry painted over his face. He stared, burrowing eyes wide, into my soul and drew from it my lies. The clever man: he knew from the start the entire story was imaginative, and there should have been no conceivable way of obtaining that cash. But, and this ran through his head several times before being discarded, what if there was a way-- an unwilling, horrendous way?

He saw me, for what I was, at this moment: a concealer.