The Cure for Dreaming(17)
“All . . .” A frustrated cry burst from my lips. “All is . . .” Itchy tears filled my eyes, but the more I fought to hold back my emotions, the more a fit of crying longed to break free. A stray tear slipped down my cheek. A sob exploded from my mouth.
“No, do not cry, Miss Mead. Please . . .” He rubbed both my arms with a rapid swish-swish-swish against my white blouse sleeves. “Shh. Please do not cry. Try to talk in a calmer voice. Try to relax. Those three words will only come out of you if you’re angry. Take a deep breath.”
“No, I don’t want to do anything you ask of me. You got your money; now leave me alone, you—” A vicious insult burned up my throat, but the words hardened into a lump of simmering coal that lodged in the back of my mouth. I coughed out that stupid phrase again: “All is well.” I shook Henri’s hands off me. “Never come near me again.”
A swift kick in his shin with the pointed toe of my shoe sent him doubling over to clutch his leg. I tore down the street again, away from the anti-suffrage headquarters and Father’s cruel teeth and Henri Reverie’s disorienting blue eyes.
You will see the world the way it truly is. The roles of men and women will be clearer than they have ever been before. You will know whom to avoid.
HARRISON’S BOOKS SAT THREE BLOCKS NORTH OF THE courthouse, nestled between a dry-goods store and a small hotel, in a row of storefronts Frannie and I affectionately called Eat, Read, Sleep, and Be Merry. I panted in front of the bookshop’s leftmost display window. When I had caught my breath, I dared a peek inside.
Just beyond the glass the new and successful novels of the season were propped upon low wooden stands—The Touchstone, by an author named Edith Wharton. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the delightful children’s book I had read over the summer. To Have and to Hold. Richard Carvel. A Man’s Woman. And, of course, Dracula. My nose bumped against the cool glass, and my shaky breath left a foggy circle on the pane.
A movement beyond the books caught my eye: Frannie’s father, with his curly gray hair and little potbelly, passed through the store with a cloth-bound volume in hand. He wore his usual three-piece suit—tan and lined in pale gray stripes—and he fitted his round spectacles over his bulbous nose that was the shape of my rubber bicycle horn.
I dipped down behind the window’s display and watched him flip open the book on the front counter, next to the brass cash register. Unlike Father’s, his cheeks were pink and healthy. His teeth weren’t overly long and barbaric. Everything about him seemed as regular as could be.
I sprang to my feet and pushed my way inside the shop door.
“Oh, thank heavens, Mr. Harrison!” I clasped Frannie’s father in a huge hug and buried my face in his itchy striped coat. “You look so normal.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Mr. Harrison held me at arm’s length and took a long look at my face. “What’s all this about, Olivia? Has someone hurt you?”
I nodded but then shook my head in an adamant no. “Is Frannie home?”
“She’s doing homework upstairs.”
“May I go see her?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Harrison dropped his hands from my arms, and I bounded up the staircase that led to the Harrisons’ crowded yet homey apartment above the shop.
The front room bustled with the usual whoops and laughter of Frannie’s five younger siblings—Martha, Carl, Annie, Willie, and Pearl. They were like a hill of ants, spilling over furniture and books, piling on top of one another, and bumping into the blue-papered walls. Off in the kitchen, around the right bend, someone rapped a spoon against the rim of a pot. I followed a divine scented trail of boiled beef and carrots and found Mrs. Harrison preparing a stew over her big black cookstove, amid a cloud of steam that drifted past her round face. The copper pot spat wet polka dots across the clean white front of her pinafore apron, and she could have used a few more pins to hold down her brown topknot, which was flecked with a scattering of gray hairs. Otherwise, she was perfect.
“Mrs. Harrison!” I threw my arms around her sturdy shoulders. “It’s wonderful to see you looking healthy and happy.”
“My goodness.” Mrs. Harrison patted my elbow with a hand that dampened my blouse. “What’s all this about, Livie?”
Frannie peeked up from her McGuffey’s Reader at the round kitchen table. “Yes, what is all this about, Livie?”
I let go of Mrs. Harrison, despite her warmth. “I need to talk to you privately, Frannie. As soon as possible.”
“All right.” Frannie neatened her pile of homework papers and stood. “We’ll be up in my bedroom, Mama.”
“That’s fine, dear.” Mrs. Harrison stirred her pot and pressed her lips into a thin smile, but I could tell from her watchful Mama-bird eyes that she sensed something wasn’t quite right.
Frannie and I climbed the second flight of stairs, past piles of books perched on the rickety wooden steps—books that always appeared to have wandered in from the shop of their own accord and made themselves at home wherever they found space. The air up there was rich with the perfumes of paper and ink, along with a fine peppering of dust.
Frannie led me into the room she shared with all three of her sisters, a cramped space with two beds, a chest of drawers, and a tall pine wardrobe. She planted herself on the bed that belonged to her and Martha.