Free Secrets on 26th Street by Elizabeth McDavid Jones

attention. “Why?”
    â€œYour boarder’s been lying to you,” he said. “No Beatrice Rutherford has ever worked at the Nabisco factory.”

C HAPTER 8
    L ESTER’S V ISIT

    Susan sprang out of bed at the first hint of dawn, hoping that Mum would be home. But the door to Mum’s closet stood open, the bed not slept in. In the kitchen, gray light filtered through the curtains. Mum was not there. Mum had not come home.
    Disappointment rippled through Susan, disappointment tinged with anxiety. Why didn’t Mum try to get in touch with them? She was bound to know they’d be worried about her. It didn’t seem like Mum at all.
    Bea was again her cheery self. She made hot cocoa and promised the girls an outing in the park after breakfast. Susan could have sworn, though, she saw Bea wince as she reached into the cabinet for cups.
    Helen gulped down her cocoa and asked for seconds; Lucy buzzed about the outing all through breakfast. But Susan only sipped at her cocoa and nibbled at her toasted cornbread. She didn’t have much of an appetite. She was worried about Mum, and Russell’s words from last night lay like stones in her belly.
    Why had Bea lied to them about her job?
    The only thing Susan could figure was that Bea was embarrassed about the job she did have. Maybe she was working as a maid somewhere, perhaps for that rich woman with the pug dog. Someone like Bea, Susan guessed, might feel ashamed of doing domestic work. It hurt Susan, though, to think that Bea felt she couldn’t be honest with her. After all, Susan told her nearly everything. She’d have thought their friendship was special enough for Bea to do the same—to have trusted Susan with the truth, if no one else.
    â€œYou’ve barely touched your breakfast, love.” Bea’s voice broke into Susan’s thoughts. “Aren’t you feeling well?” She felt Susan’s forehead.
    â€œIt’s my stomach,” Susan said, and she told herself it wasn’t really a lie. Her stomach did hurt, though not in the way Bea was thinking. “I don’t think I’ll go to the park.”
    Bea insisted on dosing Susan with castor oil and putting her to bed. She set a glass of water beside Susan’s bed and tucked the covers around her. “Try to sleep, love. You were up late last night.”
    Susan wondered if Bea was feeling guilty for making the girls worry last night. She had an urge to tell Bea that she knew about her job, but something in Bea’s eyes—was it sadness or pain?—kept Susan from doing so. What harm would it do, she thought, to let Bea have her secret?
    Susan watched Bea walk quietly from the room, then listened to her and the girls in the kitchen getting ready to go out. Soon the kitchen door slammed. Susan knew she was alone.
    From her bed, Susan stared out at the slice of sky she could see through her open window. Even though her view was marred by the fire escape, she could tell it was a beautiful morning. The smell of the ocean drifted in on a west-bound breeze. The same breeze whipped the smoke from the Nabisco factory into a soft, blue sky.
    Susan usually felt as bright as the weather on a day like this, but today she felt tired and listless. She hadn’t slept well last night. Visions of the violence at the rally had plagued her dreams, and she found herself wondering if it was more than a coincidence that Bea had come home injured. Could Bea have been at the rally? she asked herself. But she quickly dismissed the thought. She couldn’t imagine why Bea would try to hide going to the rally. Bea had no Tammany boss like Mr. Riley breathing down her neck, threatening her to stay away from suffrage.
    Susan must have dozed off, because she awoke with a start to the sound of a knock on the front door.
    Mum!
    It had to be Mum, for who would come calling on a Sunday morning? Susan leaped out of bed, flew to the kitchen, and flung open the door.