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Authors: Christina Baker Kline
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knife and pokes it through the tape of the box Vivian has chosen: 1929–1930. Vivian, sitting on a wooden chest, waits patiently. After opening the flaps, Molly lifts out a mustard-colored coat, and Vivian scowls. “Mercy sake,” she says. “I can’t believe I saved that coat. I always hated it.”
Molly holds the coat up, inspecting it. It’s interesting, actually, sort of a military style with bold black buttons. The gray silk lining is disintegrating. Going through the pockets, she fishes out a folded piece of lined paper, almost worn away at the creases. She unfolds it to reveal a child’s careful cursive in faint pencil, practicing the same sentence over and over again: Upright and do right make all right. Upright and do right make all right. Upright and do right . . .
Vivian takes it from her and spreads the paper open on her knee. “I remember this. Miss Larsen had the most beautiful penmanship.”
“Your teacher?”
Vivian nods. “Try as I might, I could never form my letters like hers.”
Molly looks at the perfect swoops hitting the broken line in exactly the same spot. “Looks pretty good to me. You should see my scrawl.”
“They barely teach it anymore, I hear.”
“Yeah, everything’s on computer.” Molly is suddenly struck by the fact that Vivian wrote these words on this sheet of paper more than eighty years ago. Upright and do right make all right. “Things have changed a lot since you were my age, huh?”
Vivian cocks her head. “I suppose. Most of it doesn’t affect me much. I still sleep in a bed. Sit in a chair. Wash dishes in a sink.”
Or Terry washes dishes in a sink, to be accurate, Molly thinks.
“I don’t watch much television. You know I don’t have a computer. In a lot of ways my life is just as it was twenty or even forty years ago.”
“That’s kind of sad,” Molly blurts, then immediately regrets it. But Vivian doesn’t seem offended. Making a “who cares?” face, she says, “I don’t think I’ve missed much.”
“Wireless Internet, digital photographs, smartphones, Facebook, YouTube . . .” Molly taps the fingers of one hand. “The entire world has changed in the past decade.”
“Not my world.”
“But you’re missing out on so much.”
Vivian laughs. “I hardly think FaceTube—whatever that is—would improve my quality of life.”
Molly shakes her head. “It’s Face book . And YouTube.”
“Whatever!” Vivian says breezily. “I don’t care. I like my quiet life.”
“But there’s a balance. Honestly, I don’t know how you can just exist in this—bubble.”
Vivian smiles. “You don’t have trouble speaking your mind, do you?”
So she’s been told. “Why did you keep this coat, if you hated it?” Molly asks, changing the subject.
Vivian picks it up and holds it out in front of her. “That’s a very good question.”
“So should we put it in the Goodwill pile?”
Folding the coat in her lap, Vivian says, “Ah . . . maybe. Let’s see what else is in this box.”
The Milwaukee Train, 1929
I sleep badly the last night on the train. Carmine is up several times in the night, irritable and fidgety, and though I try to soothe him, he cries fitfully for a long time, disturbing the children around us. As dawn emerges in streaks of yellow, he finally falls asleep, his head on Dutchy’s curled leg and his feet in my lap. I am wide-awake, so filled with nervous energy that I can feel the blood pumping through my heart.
I’ve been wearing my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, but now I untie the old ribbon and let it fall to my shoulders, combing through it with my fingers and smoothing the tendrils around my face. I pull it back as tightly as I can.
Turning, I catch Dutchy looking at me.
“Your hair is pretty.” I squint at him in the gloom to see if he’s teasing, and he looks back at me sleepily.
“That’s not what you said a few days ago.”
“I said you’ll have a hard time.”
I want to push
Molly holds the coat up, inspecting it. It’s interesting, actually, sort of a military style with bold black buttons. The gray silk lining is disintegrating. Going through the pockets, she fishes out a folded piece of lined paper, almost worn away at the creases. She unfolds it to reveal a child’s careful cursive in faint pencil, practicing the same sentence over and over again: Upright and do right make all right. Upright and do right make all right. Upright and do right . . .
Vivian takes it from her and spreads the paper open on her knee. “I remember this. Miss Larsen had the most beautiful penmanship.”
“Your teacher?”
Vivian nods. “Try as I might, I could never form my letters like hers.”
Molly looks at the perfect swoops hitting the broken line in exactly the same spot. “Looks pretty good to me. You should see my scrawl.”
“They barely teach it anymore, I hear.”
“Yeah, everything’s on computer.” Molly is suddenly struck by the fact that Vivian wrote these words on this sheet of paper more than eighty years ago. Upright and do right make all right. “Things have changed a lot since you were my age, huh?”
Vivian cocks her head. “I suppose. Most of it doesn’t affect me much. I still sleep in a bed. Sit in a chair. Wash dishes in a sink.”
Or Terry washes dishes in a sink, to be accurate, Molly thinks.
“I don’t watch much television. You know I don’t have a computer. In a lot of ways my life is just as it was twenty or even forty years ago.”
“That’s kind of sad,” Molly blurts, then immediately regrets it. But Vivian doesn’t seem offended. Making a “who cares?” face, she says, “I don’t think I’ve missed much.”
“Wireless Internet, digital photographs, smartphones, Facebook, YouTube . . .” Molly taps the fingers of one hand. “The entire world has changed in the past decade.”
“Not my world.”
“But you’re missing out on so much.”
Vivian laughs. “I hardly think FaceTube—whatever that is—would improve my quality of life.”
Molly shakes her head. “It’s Face book . And YouTube.”
“Whatever!” Vivian says breezily. “I don’t care. I like my quiet life.”
“But there’s a balance. Honestly, I don’t know how you can just exist in this—bubble.”
Vivian smiles. “You don’t have trouble speaking your mind, do you?”
So she’s been told. “Why did you keep this coat, if you hated it?” Molly asks, changing the subject.
Vivian picks it up and holds it out in front of her. “That’s a very good question.”
“So should we put it in the Goodwill pile?”
Folding the coat in her lap, Vivian says, “Ah . . . maybe. Let’s see what else is in this box.”
The Milwaukee Train, 1929
I sleep badly the last night on the train. Carmine is up several times in the night, irritable and fidgety, and though I try to soothe him, he cries fitfully for a long time, disturbing the children around us. As dawn emerges in streaks of yellow, he finally falls asleep, his head on Dutchy’s curled leg and his feet in my lap. I am wide-awake, so filled with nervous energy that I can feel the blood pumping through my heart.
I’ve been wearing my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, but now I untie the old ribbon and let it fall to my shoulders, combing through it with my fingers and smoothing the tendrils around my face. I pull it back as tightly as I can.
Turning, I catch Dutchy looking at me.
“Your hair is pretty.” I squint at him in the gloom to see if he’s teasing, and he looks back at me sleepily.
“That’s not what you said a few days ago.”
“I said you’ll have a hard time.”
I want to push
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