Free River's Edge by Marie Bostwick

assessment how his work was progressing, his health, the weather conditions, and closing with an admonition regarding my behavior, and the words, “Your Father, Herman C. Braun.”
    The formality of his postscript always made me wonder if he was trying to remind himself or me of our paternal relationship. His letters left me disappointed and adrift. After reading them I would sit silently, staring out the parlor window, hearing the laughter of the children as they played “kick the can” in the evening shadows and wishing the sun would set so I would be through with one more day.
    I was sitting just like that one evening in mid-August when Mama stuck her head around the parlor door frame looking for me. “There you are, Elise. What are you doing hiding in here? If you want to read, you should go outside on the porch where it’s cool.”
    â€œOh ... I don’t mind,” I stammered unconvincingly, folding up Papa’s letter quickly and stuffing it into the pocket of my skirt. “I am more comfortable in here.”
    Mama sat down next to me on the sofa and laid her hand on my shoulder. “Elise, I know it must be terribly hard for you, being so far away from your family and having to adjust to a whole new culture. I want you to know that I’m glad you’re here, and if you ever want to talk, I’ll always be ready to listen. And if the other children are giving you a hard time, you should come to me and tell me. All right?”
    â€œThank you, but I’m fine. Really. Everyone has been very kind to me.” Mama was well intentioned, but the last thing I was going to do was tattle on the other children. That would only make things worse.
    Mama drew her brows together for a moment, not believing me, but then she smiled, looking suddenly younger. I could see that once she had been as pretty as Cookie, even prettier. “Oh, I almost forgot what I came in to tell you!” she said excitedly. “Run get your hat. We’re all going to the movies!”
    The theater was like a cathedral. The walls were decorated with murals of angelic creatures floating in a sky that was bluer and more brilliant than any sky could be. Nymphs danced with arms upraised toward a celestial ceiling that soared forty feet overhead, pricked with stars that glinted gold and silver on a field of midnight. The front of the theater was a large proscenium arch carved with serpentine waves and flanked on either side by more angels, carved from wood and painted with what looked like layers of melted gold, their necks straining forward as if to catch the wind on their faces, as though they were leading the prow of a great ship.
    The lobby was filled with laughter and conversation as people worked out the arrangements of who was to sit where or decided what candy to buy, but a hush came over the crowd when they entered the splendor of the auditorium. They passed quietly through the aisles that parted the sea of red velvet upholstery and meekly chose their seats.
    We wore our Sunday clothes and manners. Even Chip and Chuck were perfectly well behaved and settled quietly in their seats, waiting for something wonderful to happen. The scent of hot butter and popcorn seemed incongruous in the semi-sacred surroundings, but the smell was irresistible. People quietly munched stolen bites from the paper boxes of popcorn and held whispered conversations with their neighbors as they waited for the picture to begin.
    There must have been a thousand people in the theater and all the seats were filled, but even the whispering ceased and the audience became dead silent when the lights dimmed. Then the spots in front warmed the red velvet and gold braid of the proscenium curtain, which levitated smoothly from the stage in heavy scallops to display still another curtain, this one of white silk, which parted to reveal the opening scene of the film. The screen was filled by a breathtaking cloud-swept sky stretching