Soft Steps

I dusted my hands on the tattered blue apron and retied my hair as I looked around the shoddy apartment for something to do. That was the key...to keep myself busy. I had cleaned and dried the dishes, washed and hung the laundry, and organized the food cabinet. I needed to keep my mind off the fact that I wasn’t bringing anything home for this family anymore.

I peeked into the other room at Brandon, my shining star. I had also noticed the clock that hung above his crib. The larger hand was close to the nine and the smaller one almost touching seven. I pecked Brandon’s forehead and walked down the four flights of stairs to reach the mailbox.

It was the first week of April, and Brandon’s, my older brother, letters usually came in around now. I spun the dial of the box, and peeked inside. Five envelopes.

I immediately threw out the red white and blue card from Macy’s, and shuffled through the last four envelopes. I sighed, a bill...and another bill. The third was a yellowed envelope. Martin! I began to dash up the stairs.

It was exciting to get letters from Martin. There were often more letters from him, but I didn’t mind. As long as we knew he was still alive was enough to keep Sol and me going. I placed the letter on the middle of the kitchen’s table and looked at the last one.

It was addressed to the Carl Wensworth of the apartment below me. I sighed and checked again on Brandon before heading down the stairs to deliver the letter to its rightful owner. I slipped the letter under the door and turned around.

“Hi, Lucy!” James, the building manager said, attempting to peer down my sweater.
“Hello, James.”
“Call for Solena. But she isn’t home and it’s urgent and I thought that maybe you would take it?”
 I frowned. I hated talking on the phone. James charged us 2 cents per minute.
“I’ll just get it in the lobby.” I called back as I ran down the last two flights of stairs.

“Hello?
“Solena Cotillard?”
“Next of kin, may I ask who is speaking?”
“Hello. My name is Simon Seydoux.”
I cursed the man’s foreign accent. Long distance. 10 cents per minute.
“Mr. Seydoux, I hate to rush you, but I have to pay ten cents per minute would you be so kind as to get to the point?”
“My apologies, Miss Cotillard, I have just called to inform you of the passing of you’re grandfather Leon Cotillard.” I coughed.
“As I was saying, you grandfather left behind a farm which will be repossessed if no residence is installed within two weeks. It will be watched over so it will not be thieved of. A telegram will be sent to you with the address and directions. See you soon, au revoir!”
Click.

I immediately hung up the phone, and sat down on the nearby stool. Shit. I thought. Solena just inherited a house. In France. In Nazi controlled France. I speak English and limited French...in Nazi controlled France.

I stood up and ran back up the apartment. I wrapped a closed-eye Brandon in a blanket and put on my hat. In under an hour I was at the ticket counter.
“Three for France please.” I said slipping a few bills under the glass window.
“France?!” The cashier asked incredulously.
“Do children under three ride free?”
The middle aged man nodded, and printed out two tickets, and handed me change.
“Get there safe.” He said staring at a fully awake Brandon.
“Thanks!” I called as I let the next person by.

I heard the doorknob jiggle and watched Sol slump in. She walked over to her bed and layed down. I took off her heels and put a blanket on her, and then sat at the foot of her bed to rub her calfs.

“I have bad news, and I have good news, and neither can wait till morning.”
Sol shot up and stared at me.
“Martin is fine.” She sighed and placed a hand on her heart.
“We’re moving to France.”
“Lucy! What the hell are you talking about?”
“You grandfather, Leon passed away, and he left you a fully functioning farm. I have tickets, and the trunks are all packed. I told James we were leaving tomorrow evening.”
“And you didn’t discuss this with me?! Lucy, what were you thinking.”

“Sol, put the puzzle pieces together. It’s a farm. With animals, like cows and chickens and pigs. This means that we get free milk, and eggs, and butter, and pork. It’s an inherited farm, which means no more rent. And it’s in France. No more taxi dancer, no more unemployment. We are self employed.”
Sol sat up and swung her legs onto the side of the bed.
“Nazi controlled France, Lue.”
“I speak some German that I learned from my father and grandparents. I mean, I’m not the best. It can get us by. You just stick to what French you do know.”
Sol looked over at me, and then behind her at the crib.
“Better for Brandon.” She whispered.
“Better for Brandon.” I repeated.
“We’ll have to mail the boys our new address.”

“Speaking of which, a letter from Martin arrived today.” 

Solena stood up but closed her eyes out of exhaustion.
“Sol, get some sleep. The letter will be here in the morning, and you can write your reply tomorrow when your mind isn't all fogged up.” I pulled on her hand and she sat back down. “I’ll get everything ready for tomorrow. There’s very little left to pack.”
Sol nodded and placed her head back down on the pillow. She was asleep in a moment.

Sol pushed one trunk while pulling the other behind her. We both set our trunks down on the dock and let the workers manage the trucks. One of the workers winked at Sol, and lifted the heavy trunk, with much difficulty. We both giggled.

Sol and I found our small cabin. It was an overnight trip, and we would be arriving in Nazi controlled France around mid afternoon. I set Brandon down on one of the two beds and handed him a pacifier and a bracelet.

Sol sat down on the bed and pulled Brandon into her arms. We sometimes compared him to a puppy. He was a cuddler when someone was upset. I sat down next to her and patted her back, and then pulled her into a hug.

“I feel like I don’t have any family left.” She sobbed.
I picked my sister’s chin up and smilied at her.
“Silly Solena, your family is right here.”