Free Sing for Me by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

me of my blotted soul. I walk right past him down the aisle toward Mother and Andreas, who holds Sophy in his arms. Perhaps Nils will follow us down to the basement, and he’ll look at me like I’m all bright, celestialelements combined. Perhaps when that shock of hair falls in his eyes, I’ll be the one who reaches up and pushes it back into place.
    “Rose Sorensen!”
    I stop in my tracks at the sound of Dr. Nygaard’s voice.
    “Come here, please.”
    I turn back to the front of the sanctuary, where the Nygaards await me. Dr. Nygaard, a swarthy, bearish man, is tapping the head of his cane against the palm of his thick hand. The tapping beats out a warning: Do as I say or else you may not have a roof over your head . Mrs. Nygaard, a willowy woman, preserves her energy by leaning languidly into her husband. Her buffed nails flash as she drums her fingers against his arm.
    “Alas,” Dr. Nygaard says when I stand before them. “We’ve learned that the man in 2B, 546 Marquette left his apartment in a state of filth.” With the handle of his cane, Dr. Nygaard scratches meditatively at his chin. “We have a new family moving into 2B first thing tomorrow morning. I’m loath to ask you to do this on a Sunday, Rose, but we must have the place cleaned today.”
    “This family would be living on the streets if we hadn’t provided a place for them,” Mrs. Nygaard says coolly. “So we might consider it an act of service. You’ve been to our Marquette building before, haven’t you, dear?”
    I nod. Their Marquette building is just off Maxwell Street, near Jane Addams’s Hull House. It’s not the safest neighborhood by day. After the sun goes down, I don’t want to be there alone.
    “Here are the keys.” Dr. Nygaard holds out a set. “You’ll find cleaning supplies in the janitor’s closet. There is no electrical hookup yet, so you’ll need to hurry in order to do what needs tobe done while it’s still light out. I’m afraid you may not even have time to put on your work clothes.”
    I smooth my last best skirt.
    “We could drop you off on our way home, I suppose . . .” Mrs. Nygaard’s voice fades unenthusiastically away.
    “I’ll take the El,” I say.

SIX

    T here’s a crowd outside Hull House—families lined up for medical attention, food, and heaven knows what else. Could be us someday if things keep going as they are, Dad once hinted, grimly polishing his bayonet. People are speaking Italian, Russian, Yiddish, and others have accents that I recognize as Irish. There are black people waiting outside Hull House, too, and people speaking quietly in Spanish, newly arrived from Mexico, I’m guessing.
    I wend my way through the crowd and down peddler-packed Maxwell Street to Marquette. There’s number 546. The bottom floor is a butcher shop, the front window of which is filled with plucked chickens and a single, spectacularly large goose. (What Mother once upon a Christmas could do with a goose!) Beside the window is the narrow, locked door that opens to the steep stairs that lead to the apartments jammed into the building’s second story. I fumble with the keys, fit the right key into the lock. The foyer is barely big enough to turn around in. There is the door to the janitor’s closet. I open it.
    Cockroaches scatter beneath my feet.

    In three trips I carry up: two buckets, one filled with clean water, the other with water and vinegar. The jug of vinegar, in case some mess demands undiluted application. A basket of rags, several of which I recognize as scraps of the rose-patterned bedsheets from my childhood. (Back then everything of mine seemed covered with roses.) A broom, dustpan, and mop. A bin for trash. Three scrub brushes with the metal bristles all but worn away. A wooden stepladder.
    When these things are clustered on the floor outside apartment 2B, which is at the shadowy far end of the hallway, I muster my courage and unlock the door.
    It’s a studio apartment. One room. At least