The Stovepipe: excerpt, Bonnie Virag [novels to improve english TXT] 📗
- Author: Bonnie Virag
Book online «The Stovepipe: excerpt, Bonnie Virag [novels to improve english TXT] 📗». Author Bonnie Virag
34
Untold Grief
After sulking for days, I became resigned to the fact that my
hopes for attending high school were dashed. But I was
still angry with the Benders and found it difficult to even
look at them. Jean and Joan, not wanting to upset me, seldom
talked about school, even though Betty and I knew they were
fretting about their new clothes.
Watching from our window in mid-September, we noticed
Mr. Bender bringing in a large package from the truck. We
looked at each other, full of anticipation. Within minutes, the
door opened, and Mrs. Bender called Betty to the foot of the
stairs. “Here, these new clothes are for you and Bonnie,” she
said offhandedly. “Your sisters’ package should be arriving
soon.”
Jean and Joan, though disappointed their clothes hadn’t
arrived, joined in the excitement of opening our package,
eager to see what she had ordered. “Well, at least she got
you a decent-looking skirt,” Jean said.
“But it’s all wrinkled,” I complained, holding it against
my waist.
“Oh, quit complaining,” Joan said. “Just dampen it a bit
and press it against the warm stovepipe. That’ll help. At least
you got some new clothes.”
Betty and I started back to school just before the end of
harvest. Jean and Joan were left with a few more days of
work. After they were through handing leaves, they walked
down the road to meet us as we trudged home from school.
“Well, I still have my favorite teacher, Mrs. Lenhart,” I
told them as they met up with us. “And she told me that the
Superintendent of Schools wasn’t too happy about letting me
repeat the year when I had already successfully passed my
entrance examinations. But things must have gotten ironed
out okay.”
“Well, we can only guess what lies the Benders told them,”
Jean said.
“But I miss Marie’s breaded chicken now that she’s gone,”
Betty complained.
“Did you get your new clothes yet?” I asked, trying not
to think about the breaded chicken. I was already hungry
enough.
“No, and Mrs. Bender hasn’t mentioned a word about
high school, either,” Joan said. “I watch the high school bus
go by every day and wonder why we aren’t on it.”
“Well, I’ve almost worked up enough nerve to ask Mrs.
Bender if she doesn’t say something soon,” Jean said crossly.
“I wanna know what’s in store for us.”
A few days later, Betty and I were on our way home and
looked eagerly down the road for our sisters. “I wonder why
they aren’t coming to meet us,” I said. “That’s not like them.”
“I don’t know. They didn’t have to fill a kiln today, so
maybe Mrs. Bender finally took them to get new clothes.”
“I hope so. Guess we’ll know soon,” I muttered as we
turned into the driveway.
We couldn’t find them anywhere in the backyard, so we
went inside. Mrs. Bender was sitting at the kitchen table
sipping tea, apparently waiting for us.
“Where are Jean and Joan?” I blurted out. “They didn’t
come to meet us.”
She looked a bit uncomfortable as she set the cup down.
She then looked up and said flatly, “The Children’s Aid
removed them today.”
“Removed them?” My mouth dropped open as panic
gripped me. “Why? What did they do wrong?”
She shifted uneasily in her chair and said, “It was time for
them to go. That’s all.”
That’s all? Just like that? Like chalk erased from a blackboard?
I was totally confused, unable to grasp what she was telling
us. “What do you mean? Will they ever come back?”
“No, I’m afraid not. The Children’s Aid has found new
homes for them.”
“But we didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye!” Betty
whimpered.
Tears welled up in my eyes as we held hands and stood
numbly beside the door. “Why didn’t someone tell us they
were going?”
“I thought it would be best this way,” she replied flatly.
“Will we ever see them again?” I sputtered.
“I gave them our address and told them they could write
to you. Now go to your rooms and I’ll make some macaroni
and cheese for your supper.”
“Macaroni and cheese? Does she think that’ll make us feel
better?” Betty sobbed as we trudged upstairs. “I don’t even
feel like eating without them, and I ain’t even hungry now.”
Unable to fathom everything, we hurried into our sisters’
room, desperately hoping they might still be there. But it was
empty and freshly swept. Nothing was left but the old linoleum
in the middle of the floor. “Look,” I said, “they’ve
taken away their old bed! That’s why Mr. Bender said that
it would have to do for a while longer, and that’s why their
new clothes never arrived. They were planning this all
along.” We had it figured out now.
We scoured their room, looking for something they
might have left behind—anything to hold on to—but there
was nothing. Not even a bobby pin. We then checked under
the linoleum hoping to find a note they may have hidden for
us—but found nothing. Our spirits broken we returned to
our rooms, threw ourselves across our bed, and wept bitterly.
Nothing could have prepared us for this horrible turn of
events, and nothing could have equaled the pain we felt by
having our sisters torn away from us once more, leaving us
wondering whether we’d ever hear from or see them again.
My anger had grown toward the Benders because they had
made me repeat the eighth grade, and it now turned to
hatred because they had sent our sisters away. We felt lonely
at dinner that night, the table seeming twice as big without
them.
Noticing our sulkiness as we picked at our food, Mrs.
Bender set her lips in a tight line and dug in her handbag for
some loose change. “You’d better find time to take these girls
to the movies today, Jim. Why, I swear, I’ve never seen such
sour pusses in all my life!”
We enjoyed the movies, but nothing cheered us up for the
loss of our sisters and all the things we had enjoyed together.
We would never listen down the stovepipe again. Instead,
we waited impatiently every day for some news from them.
“Do you think they’ll write us,” Betty asked, “or do you
think she was lying about giving them our address just to
make us feel better?”
“I don’t know, and I wouldn’t believe anything she says.
We’ll have to wait and see.”
As winter came and the days grew cold and gray, we
helped Mr. Bender dismantle our bed and move it into Jean
and Joan’s room. “This room with the stovepipe will be
warmer for you during the winter,” he remarked as he left
the room.
“Warmer? I’d like him to sleep up here and see how warm
it is,” I crabbed. “There’s no heat at all in this stupid pipe
when the fire goes out.”
•••
It was almost Christmas when Mrs. Bender handed us an
envelope, saying that it was from Jean, and it was evident
that she had already opened it. It contained a Christmas card
with a letter inside.
Sitting side by side on our bed with our backs against the
wall, we read it over and over, laughing at her funny remarks
as she described her new home:
We even have an inside bathroom here with a flushing toilet
to boot. Yesterday I had a bubble bath in a real tub with real taps
where hot or cold water comes out. Why, I swear to you, I’ve never
been so clean in all my life. I even got the map of the world off the
back of my neck.
“Wow,” Betty exclaimed, “she even gets to take a bath!
Wouldn’t it be nice if Mrs. Bender would let us have a bath?”
“What do you mean? I’ve never seen a bathroom.” I
furrowed my brow. “How do you know she even has one?”
“It’s just off the laundry room, hidden behind a curtain.
She left the door open one day, and I snuck in and took a
peek.”
“Why didn't you tell me?“
I thought you knew. Did you ever see her use the
outhouse?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s why.”
I was puzzled over this news and wondered why Mrs.
Bender never let us have a bath.
Jean went on to tell us that she lived with an older couple;
that Joan lived with a family a few miles away; and that on
Sundays they’d walk to meet each other halfway and visit.
They were both happy, but Joan had four young children to
help care for and was quite busy.
I help out around the house and am learning how to cook and
clean. I even get to eat with the family. Come spring, I might be
looking for work in town. Joan and I won’t be attending high
school; didn’t much like school anyway.
My heart sank as I read the last part. The very thought of
not going to high school was almost more than I could bear.
“I’ll throw myself across the railroad tracks if they don’t let
us go!”
“Maybe the Children’s Aid will take us away too,” Betty
mused.
“Who knows? But it sure would be nice to get away from
here.”
After brooding over our future for a few moments, I put
Jean’s card over our headboard as we settled down to reply
to her letter. “We have to be careful what we say because
she’s probably gonna read it.”
At breakfast Betty handed the letter to Mrs. Bender for her
to mail.
“I bet she won’t even mail it,” I grumbled as we hurried
out of the house. “She’ll probably use it to start the fire.”
We waited eagerly each day for another letter from Jean
or perhaps one from Joan, but nothing arrived, and we never
heard from them.
•••
Christmas Day came, and we were hoping for some extra
privileges now that there were just the two of us. Perhaps
we’d be allowed to eat Christmas dinner with the family, we
thought, but it didn’t happen. We were called down for our
usual bag of nuts and fruit, and May gave us each a chocolate
bar. Minutes later we returned to our room and waited impatiently
for our supper plates to be put on the bottom step.
Near the end of January, the social worker stopped by for
a visit, and for the first time ever, Mrs. Bender let us sit on the
sofa in her living room. She had already primed us as to how
we should answer any questions, so we felt very awkward
and uncomfortable as we sat on the edge of the seat and tried
to answer the questions the lady asked. When the ordeal was
over, we returned at once to our room.
The Children’s Aid Report stated:
We saw the girls and find it difficult to discuss their ideas as
they appear too painfully shy and unable to express themselves,
but sit stiffly, glancing at the foster mother and often merely
smiling in answer to a question. We are not sure what is the
cause of this subdued manner.
There is a certain furtiveness in Mrs. Bender’s manner that is
disturbing, though this may be her natural way.
Bonnie Virag has lived the life of a foster care child being bounced around from one foster home to another mainly for the work and money that foster parents could extract from the system. I feel these life experiences give me the necessary credentials to write my book: The Stovepipe.
To learn more visit www.bonnievirag.com
ImprintPublication Date: 01-25-2014
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