Or worse, such as what?
Mary just raised her eyebrows mysteriously and said she had to go. Im keeping house for him while he travels.
Although it rarely starts snowing in earnest until January or February here, God granted us a beautiful coating of snow for the wedding. The ceremony was lovely and we were giddy with the prospect of the future. Before we returned to my house for dinner and gifts and music, we had to pay Father Vincent his honorarium. As we were meeting with him and about to invite him over to the house, one of the Sisters rushed in and whispered in his ear. He frowned.
What is it, Father? asked Edward.
He crossed himself. Poor Mrs. Vzral, he said.
Though I said a small prayer for her and the family, I soon forgot about it, until Mary, who seemed rather stoic throughout the wedding and the party, excused herself early, saying that she had to meet with her employer, who had come back to town.
Mary, its my wedding day, I said.
I dont want to upset him, she said unapologetically, and slid out.
A few weeks later, Edward and I moved to St. Louis so he could set up his law firm with his friends from school. I tried staying at home for some time but got bored quickly, so Edward let me come work for the firm as a typewriter.
I received some good news from Ginny. Shed been rescued from contemplation of the convent when her shy admirer George from down the block finally proposed to her.
No more excitement for me, she joked in her letter. Except right now. The whole neighborhood is buzzing. Everyone is suspicious of Marys friend.
Im not surprised that everyone is suspicious of him, I wrote back. He's a very strange person. What does everyone suspect him of?
I received a telegram from Ginny before I even sent my letter.
VZRALS MURDERED, was all it said.
She filled me in via letters. Based on some neighborhood suspicion, Mrs. Vzral had been dug up and poison was found in her stomach, and how we did not guess that to begin with, Im ashamed to even speculate. Billik was picked up a few days later.
Ginny sent me clippings from the newspapers. The city seemed more enthralled than horrified. Reporters kept comparing Billik to a previous murderer, Holmes, who was executed while we were still children.
I felt relieved that the strange man was behind bars, but I felt sorry for my cousin, that this man who she so admired, who didn't even seem to reciprocate, was now so disgraced.
Its not true, she wrote to me.
I stopped paying attention to neighborhood gossip for a while after that, until in June 08, when I received a telegram from my mother saying that my uncle, Marys father, had finally passed away. It was difficult to feel sorrowful, as nobody had ever really known him other than as an invalid that Mary was forced to tend to her whole life. I wondered if she felt relief or complete despondency.
I came home for the funeral. Ginny was starting to get big with her first baby and it was good to see her. Mary seemed rather unemotional at the funeral. Afterwards, I embraced her and said, What are you going to do now?
Im free, she whispered.
I smiled. So what are you going to do with your newfound freedom? Go to school? Move? Get married?
Im selling the house, she said, But Im moving to a smaller apartment in the city.
I dont blame you, I said. Youve been in that house all your life. Its a shame that your father didn't leave you more to get a little house for yourself.
No, she said. I did get the money. Herman told me to do it. He told me that that house is cursed, and that I should move.
Isnt he in jail?
We write letters, she said. Its time, Helen. Its a terrible thing that He's in prison but now that my fathers dead, He's told me that his spirit isnt in the way anymore. He can see my future!
I couldn't do anything.
I went back to St. Louis and did not return to Chicago for almost a year, as Edward and I found out that I was expecting my first. I hadn't heard from Mary since I wrote to tell her. She wrote me, requesting a donation for a fund she was organizing to release Billik from prison. I wrote a rather forceful decline.
She did respond though when I sent her the announcement of our son early in 1909. She congratulated us, sent a rattle, and slipped it into her letter that Billik was granted life in prison, not the death penalty. I sent her a thank you note but didn't comment on the latter. I was sick of hearing about him. After that, our letters were terse, when they existed at all.
In June of the new decade, I got the bad news that my mother was quite ill, so we took the children (now two of them) and went back down to Chicago to see her one last time. I managed to speak with her right before she slipped away. We stayed for the funeral.
It was good to be with Ginny, and I saw Mary for the first time in a couple of years. She looked even older and her clothes seemed threadbare, which was surprising. I'd heard that the sum her father had left behind for her was unexpectedly generous, and she was never a spendthrift. We embraced but did not speak beyond the formalities. She excused herself after the services.
Youre not coming back to our house? I asked.
No, she said quietly, but with an excited look in her eyes. Her
Billik? You remember him? He's been released from prison.
Good news, I said.
I promised him I'd go meet him. Im so sorry to leave, she said, not seeming sorry at all.
I spent the rest of the day in a fury. Getting back home to St. Louis, I wrote to Ginny, I've had it with Mary. She couldn't even be there as family after Mother died. I spent the next several days going about my business, but I could not stop thinking about how angry I was with my cousin, how shed grown too selfish and foolish for even her own family.
Im sure she's sorry, Ginny wrote back. I'll tell her you say hello and maybe shell say something nice in return. Im off to go visit her now, actually. Itll be the first time I see this apartment of hers. She says that she's not feeling well.
I looked up from my letter and stared at the wall for a few moments and then picked up the pen. I changed my mind, put it down, and rushed to the telephone, although I had a feeling I knew what I'd hear when I reached Ginny.
Her stomachs been bothering her, Ginny said. Possibly a cold or something she ate.
MAXIMILLIAN
BY ALEXAI GALAVIZ-BUDZISZEWSKI
18th & Allport
I have three memories of my cousin Maximillian. Two of them involve his fists.
My cousin was a short man. But like everyone else on the Mexican side of my family, he was built like a brick two-flat, heavy and hard, a cannonball, the way my grandmother on my mothers side was a cannonball, the way my uncle Blas was a cannonball. They were all skull, impossible to hug, but warm blooded, steaming, like just standing next to them could get you through a winters day. My mother was like this. I miss her terribly.
But Max, my cousin, Maximillian, was young, sixteen or so when my memories of him first begin. His sister Irene celebrated her cotillion in the basement of St. Procopius Church on 18th Street and Allport. I dont know much about the planning. I was eight years old. But I know my sister Juana stood up in it. She was a Dama, and my cousin on my fathers side, Little David, was her Chambalan. They went off doing their own thing, dancing, waltzing, the way theyd been practicing for weeks, my sister constantly fitting and refitting her dress, me calling her Miss Piggy because she was chubby and more queda than the rest of us darkies.
That night I sat with my mother and ate cake and people watched. My father, done with his shift at the basement door, hunched at a side table sharing a bottle of Presidente with his friend Moe. My cousin Chefa danced with my uncle Bernardo and my aunt Lola danced with her only son, my cousin, Maximillian. It was all beautiful, all quite nice. Then Stoney showed up.