Lily walks past Mercedes, whose mouth is twitching and hissing like a puncture, and into the front room. She is ready to ask James a question. She has already forgiven him for what she does not yet know. The reading lamp is on. She steps through a breach in his wall of books to find him slumped as usual in the wingback chair with his mouth half open. Dante’s Paradiso has fallen from his hands. Lily picks it up and places it carefully in his lap. She bends and kisses his forehead, but she doesn’t ask him the question, because he is dead.
She returns to the hall, where Mercedes’ whispers have risen to a buzz and whirr. Lily mounts the stairs and walks into Frances’s bedroom, full of the scent, the innocent passion of wildflowers.
“Frances, I’ve buried Trixie and said a prayer for her. I’ve found Ambrose.”
Frances says, “Lily, reach up and hand me Wuthering Heights.”
Lily hands Frances the book.
“Remember when we buried the family tree?” asks Frances with a small grin.
“It decayed,” answers Lily. “It was only made of paper.”
“Did you find my nightgown?”
“A little piece of it.”
Frances opens Wuthering Heights. The pages have been excavated in the centre and replaced with a wad of cash. Frances hands Lily the money.
“Is this the Lourdes money?”
“No. I earned it honestly.”
“Daddy is dead.”
“I have a present for you, Lily. I was going to wait for your birthday but I want you to have it tonight.”
“What is it?”
“It’s in the hope chest.”
“Frances —”
“What’s that sound?” Frances tilts her head to listen. “Do you hear that? It sounds like a swarm of —”
“It’s Mercedes. I’m afraid of her.”
“She thinks you’re a saint.”
“Not any more.”
“I know.”
“I don’t believe in the Devil, Frances.”
“Mercedes does.”
“So?”
“I can’t look after you anymore.”
“It’s okay, Frances, I can look after myself, I’m not scared of Mercedes.”
“It’s not just Mercedes. You have to go, Lily. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you where.”
“No.”
Frances cups Lily’s face in her hands and looks her in the eyes. “Oh yes.”
How can a person look into her own face and consent to be banished from it? For Lily, Frances is as first and familiar as the sky, as the palm of her own hand. The freckle on the nose, the green jewels in the eyes, the smart mouth, what does it mean to be banished from the face that first looked you into existence?
“I don’t want to leave you.”
Lily’s forehead buckles but Frances insists, “You have to go, little gingerbread boy, ‘run away and whatever you do, don’t look back.’”
“This isn’t a story, Frances.” Anger ignites Lily’s grief.
“Yes it is, Lily. Hayola kellu bas Helm.”
“It is not!”
“Taa’i la hown, Habibti —”
“No!”
“Te’berini.”
“Stop it!”
Frances reaches for Lily, but Lily flies into a rage, beating off the embrace until she forgets that Frances is not a book, or a porcelain figurine. Frances doesn’t move except to protect her face and breasts while Lily exhausts herself.
When Lily crumples finally, the undertow gets ahold of her face and contorts it into a grieving clown. The same tide distends her voice, “I don’t want to leave you, Fra-anc-ees.” The corners of Lily’s mouth run with clear saliva, she is incapable of closing her mouth or of taking the next breath. Frances touches Lily’s fist, unlocking her throat. The air pours scraping in, and corrosive sobs begin.
“Come here, Lily.”
Frances opens her nightgown and guides Lily’s mouth to drink.
Shortly before dawn, Lily kneels before the open hope chest for the second time that night. She reaches deep down and withdraws a soft bundle wrapped in white tissue-paper. She lifts out a beautiful flowing dress of pale green silk. Then picks up the notebook that has fallen from its folds. Holy Angels Convent School.
Ten minutes later, the shed door opens and Lily walks in. It is not necessary to search, for there it is. Daddy’s project. Finished. They are still mounted on the lasts. Two bright red boots. The small one, perched on its built-up sole, smiles out at her as does its big brother. Lily removes the new boots from their iron feet. She pulls them on, harnessing with care the left boot for its first taste of the bit. She wraps her ankles in the money Frances gave her, pulls tight the candy-cane laces and stands up. Calf leather. They enfold her feet like a second skin, no need to break them in. They go nicely with her beautiful new green silk dress — a little big for her, to be sure, and missing a sash as you can see from the empty belt loops, but lovely all the same. With her notebook under her arm, Lily leaves the shed.
The air is cool and moist with a hint of salt. The night is turning grey. It’s the best time to see this town — the collieries, the tracks, the coal carts and company houses look best in the pewter dawn, likewise the ocean and the rocky shore. Farewell. Lily feels refreshed. As though she could walk for ever. Farewell to Nova Scotia. She closes the door behind her, and heads for the Shore Road. She looks back once. And keeps walking.
Book 8. HEJIRA
8 pm, February 29, 1918, New York City
Dear Diary,
No, I will not use that form of address. That is a relic of childhood. This book will serve as a record of my progress as a singer. I will record only relevant facts which will prove useful as my training progresses. No gush. Let other girls record their crushes and their dresses, their tresses and trousseaux. I am here to work. I will note scientifically everything I learn as in a lab book. I will be objective and unflinchingly self-critical. I will not be distracted by the bustle of this city. And in this, my record book, I will not allow emotion to colour my perceptions.
1:12 am — I am burning. I have to live, I have to sing, I want to transform myself into a thousand different characters and carry their life with me onto the stage where it’s so bright and so dark at the same time, just knowing there are three thousand people out there longing to be swept away by the passion that’s about to flood out from scarlet curtains, to this I consecrate my body and my soul, I can give no more than all of myself, I feel my heart is a throbbing engine and my voice is the valve, like a wailing train, it has to sing or blow up, there’s too much fuel, too much fire, and what am I to do with this voice if I can’t let it out, it’s not just singing. I am here as a speck, but I don’t feel scared or about to be blown away, I feel like all New York is a warm embrace just waiting to enfold me. I am in love. But not with a person. I am passionately in love with my life.
Friday March 1, 1918 — My voice teacher is someone I will simply call Herr Blutwurst. He is rude and, if my first lesson is any indication, utterly devoid of qualifications. I can only conclude he is a fraud. I will give him to week’s end. He is a dry stick of a person. I feel dust in my throat just thinking about him. I was perfectly polite. He looked me over as though he were buying a horse. He has a horrible accent. He ordered me to “zing zomesink.” I did, and he got an expression on his face as though he’d just et a bad oyster. Why did it ever even occur to this man to enter any field remotely connected to music since he obviously hates music? He said, after I had sung my Quanto affetto, “Vee haf a lot off verk to do.” I should have said, “Ich weiss das, Käsekopf, das ist warum Ich hier bin.” He wants me to cry but I won’t, my daddy just finished killing a lot of his countrymen.