Heinie

Heinie

The Smashwords Edition

Copyright ©2013 D’Ann Dreiling

Smashwords License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Please don't resell it or give it away.

If you want to share this book, please purchase an additional copy at smashwords.com as a gift.

Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Credits

Editing and cover design by Harvey Stanbrough harveystanbrough.com

Cover photo courtesy of Bigstock

Formatting by Debora Lewis arenapublishing.org

Dedicated to Mom and Dad

Appreciation to My Writers Group

Patricia Schudy

Barbara Bartocci

Noraellen Richard

Karla Autrey

I couldn’t have done it without you.

The Dionne Sisters

Karolyn and Karen

Thanks for your encouragement.

Doreen Perkins

You kept me on track.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Henrietta, 1954

Chapter 2: Melva (Henrietta’s Mother), 1934

Chapter 3: Henrietta

Chapter 4: Kansas City

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7: Nick Tomasi, 1935

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Chapter 1: Henrietta, 1954

Stupid job for stupid girl with stupid life, Henrietta said. That’s how the ad should have read. I’m a perfect fit. ‘Take back girl.’ Wouldn’t Momma be proud? Ha! Talking to herself made Henrietta’s life seem less lonely. She spent her eight hour day in a grocery store returning misplaced items, cleaning and buffing the floor and restocking shelves. She never imagined that making a life for herself in Kansas City would be so difficult. Her mom was right, she was too young. She wished she had finished high school. Maybe she could have gotten a better job.

Henrietta’s ‘46 Chevy continued to chug along Troost Avenue on a cold, rain soaked October evening as she drove home, contemplating her life. Though the heater barely functioned, at least the car would still run. Barren trees standing in silhouette against the dark sky seemed resolute, their once glorious leaves lying in masses of wet clumps against the curbing.

Your job comes with a title, her boss had said when she began. He laughed. You’re our official little take back girl

Anything but little, she mused.

Her heart sank at the thought of going home to her dingy, cold apartment with a sack full of old food no longer sellable.

Fringe benefits, the manager said whenever he had groceries to give her. I must really look pathetic because I seem to be the only one getting fringe benefits. Maybe my size makes him think I require more food than the others.

She turned down a side street and swerved to avoid a trash can that had made its way into the street. What the hell am I doing in this crummy part of town? Only losers live here. As she came down Jackson Street approaching her apartment building, yet another trash can lay tipped over with garbage, tin cans and a ragged gunny sack scattered in the street. As she passed the heap, she noticed something moving inside the sack.

Crap... some freaks probably threw out a litter of pups or kittens. A kid in her old neighborhood, Huey Logan, had put a stray cat in a gunny sack and thrown it out on the highway to watch the cars run over it. She continued driving down the street but pangs of guilt washed over her. She had wanted to save that cat, but she’d feared the boy’s wrath. Now she realized she already had been the joke of the neighborhood, so nothing he could have done would have hurt her.

She tried to convince herself that perhaps a rat or two had crawled into the trash for some dinner. Rats or not, she slowed down the car to go around the block. I sure don’t need any kittens or puppies, damn it, she thought. But if they were there, she would carry them home and care for them as best she could.

She had never said curse words before she moved to Kansas City, not in Cole Camp. Only sleazy girls talked like that, but here those words gradually crept into her vocabulary, at least when she talked to herself. Coming around again to Jackson Street, she pulled up to the curb, put on the emergency brake and left the motor running. As she shivered in the damp, cold air, her blond hair blowing wildly in the wind, her mother’s voice came to mind: Where’s your gloves and hat? You should never go out without your gloves and hat when the temperature’s below freezing. Her mother’s concept of freezing was about 55 degrees, but the puddles of water in the street were beginning to crust over with ice.

The sack was dimly illuminated by the street lamp. She picked up a large stick, careful not to slip on the dead, icy leaves that lined the gutter. Poking the sack several times with the stick, she broke up ice beginning to form, hoping if it were a rat or mouse it would scamper out. Nothing happened. She caught the corner of the sack with her stick and tried lifting the soaked fabric, standing as far back as the stick would allow and thinking she had lost her mind. How will I take care of some half-dead animal?

A car approached, headlights glaring. Henrietta dropped the stick and moved toward a nearby house as though looking for an address. When the car passed, she picked up the stick and resumed her task, this time with less trepidation. She caught the edge of the sack and slowly folded it back. Her heart nearly stopped. She gasped, blinked her eyes, and looked closer, then dropped to her knees in the slushy street.

In the dim shadows of the streetlight lay a tiny, newborn baby, still moving. Henrietta trembled, trying to grasp the situation, her heart racing. Removing her jacket with shaking hands she lifted the tiny infant onto the lining and folded the sides over it. She looked around.

Is anyone watching?

On wobbly legs she stood, holding the baby against her chest as she made her way to her car. She opened the door awkwardly and lay the child on the front seat, then climbed in and put the car in gear. Tiny whimpers came from the bundled jacket as she pulled away from the curb.

A baby! My own baby! She took a deep breath, then another. Calm down. She slowed the car, trying to regain control of her emotions. Wait ‘til I get to my apartment... then I can think.

For once she was glad her apartment did not have a lighted parking lot. There weren’t many cars. Friday night, most of the tenants were out. Henrietta parked her car in a parking space, invisible from the other tenants’ windows. She wanted to get the baby up the stairs without running into anyone. She turned off the ignition, thinking of a plan. If someone was in the hall she could make enough noise with her feet and the clumsy grocery sack to overcome any whimpers from the jacket. Henrietta lifted the tiny bundle to her breast, but not before taking a quick peek at its contents.

Hold on, precious. She slid out of the front seat, opened the back door of the car and picked up the sack of groceries. Then, clutching the sack and her bundle with both arms, she walked hurriedly across the parking lot. She slowed as a man came out of the building and cast a disinterested look her way.

Inside, she headed for the stairs as Mrs. Connaughton opened her door to the hall. Hello Henrietta, she said.

Henrietta continued up the steps. Hi Mrs. Connaughton. Got to get to the bathroom.

You hurry, Child. Mrs. Connaughton, the only person in the apartment building who ever spoke to her, was too old to climb the stairs for a visit. She invited Henrietta to drop in, but it never happened. They simply visited in the hallway as Henrietta came and went.

When she got to her apartment, Henrietta rested the groceries against the wall and allowed them to slide to the floor while she held on to the baby. Fumbling with her keys, she managed to open the door and went directly to the radiator, turning it up. She lay the bundle down on her tired old couch, her only furniture other than a lamp, a table and a bed. She switched on the seldom used overhead light to appraise her baby. Kneeling down, she unveiled the treasure. A girl, a beautiful baby girl, covered with mud, darkened blood and wet leaves. How could anyone throw away this precious child?

Henrietta went to a closet and brought several clean towels, then went to the kitchen. Scouring the sink, she rinsed it thoroughly and filled it with several inches of warm water while swishing a bar of soap. She turned on the oven with the door open to warm the room and brought the baby into the kitchen, lowered her gently into the sink and washed her with loving care. My little girl. She swaddled the baby in a clean towel and laid her back on the couch.

Milk, Henrietta thought as she remembered the groceries still in the hall. Opening the door she gathered in the sack, hoping there might be some milk. The bag contained only the usual giveaway food: salami, bread, cheese, rotten strawberries, a few usable pears, and a carton of sour cream. If I mixed the sour cream with water, wouldn’t that be like milk? She would boil the water first so the baby wouldn’t get sick. She had never taken care of a baby, but somehow she remembered you had to boil everything. Just thinking about the baby possibly getting sick made her run back to the living room. The baby’s eyes were still closed. Is she dead? Horrified, Henrietta dropped to her knees and lay her hand on the baby’s chest. The heart was beating in the tiny bluish body.

Thank you God, she said, and as that prayer came out, others followed. Thank you for giving me this baby, God. I will take care of her. I promise, I will take care of her.

Henrietta completed her preparation of the milk and with a thoroughly washed teaspoon, held the baby in her arms and tried to coax her to take it. When that failed, she lay the baby on the couch and gently tried to open her mouth with a thumb and index finger on each cheek, squeezing slightly, hoping to drop milk from the spoon into her mouth. The milk dribbled down the baby’s chin. She dabbed her chin and tried again. Again she failed.

Maybe the baby’s not warmed up enough. Picking her up, she walked the barren room singing softly in her ear. She’s tired, too tired to eat.

After what may have been an hour, she sat down on the couch, trying to decide her next move. As she did so, the tiny creature tried to open her eyes. They were only slits at first, then full-blown open eyes. Tears rolled down Henrietta’s cheeks as she witnessed this miracle. She whispered, Hello, my baby! Hello, as though introducing herself. You must be hungry.

She remembered an old medication with an eye dropper, and ran to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was filled with hair products, curlers, toothpaste tubes long-since used up, and a dried-up prescription for pink eye. Henrietta took the bottle to the kitchen and washed it. Satisfied, she dipped the dropper in the milk, sucked up the mixture, and went running into the living room. The baby’s eyes were still open. She lovingly picked her up and sat down on the couch. Using the dropper, she pried open the baby’s mouth and squeezed. The baby coughed slightly but the substance disappeared. She took it! Henrietta could hardly believe it. With child in hand, she went to the kitchen to retrieve the glass of home-made milk. Then she sat again, prodding her to drink more.

As she rocked back and forth, offering the child only a few drops at a time, Henrietta began figuring out what to do to keep this precious gift. She had no money to buy supplies and had to work hard to barely maintain her apartment and car. There was no one to care for her baby while she worked. Shivers ran down her spine as she realized her only recourse. Only one person could help her: Mom.

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Chapter 2: Melva (Henrietta’s Mother), 1934

Melva Schmidt, a poor girl from the country, had married Gerald Johnston because she felt certain he was the only boy who would have her. Gerald Johnston was Catholic, and according to the nuns, that should be her number one priority. A person could lose her faith and her immortal soul if she got involved in a mixed marriage, Sister Mary Ignatius had warned her.

The small town of Cole Camp offered few candidates for marriage, and for the shy, plump, and extremely pious Melva, Gerald Johnston seemed her only hope. A fat, loud, beer drinking Catholic, he also had no romantic prospects. They went to the movies together, and occasionally they went out to dinner at the small café on Main Street. After several months of dating and her refusal to participate in any petting or French kissing, he made his proposal. Though not romantic, it was heartfelt.

They had just finished eating at the café and Harold had chugged the last of his beer. He stood abruptly and dropped to one knee, nearly toppling the small dining table. Will you marry me?‘

Flushing red, Melva looked around the room to see who was watching, then looked at Gerald, beer drooling from his mouth. Yes.

It was a simple wedding in the small Ozark community, which was blessed with having the only Catholic church and school for miles around. Melva wore a white gown made by her mother and a satin train borrowed from a cousin. The train, more than she could have hoped for, was dry cleaned and looked as good as new except for a few stains that her mother assured her no one would notice.

Carrying a few white roses tied with a bow, her hair in a bun on top of her head surrounded by gathered tulle flowing freely down her back, she felt like a beauty queen. Terrified thoughts of being the center of attention disappeared when she looked in the mirror. She was beautiful. Flushed with excitement, she welcomed her father’s arm to escort her down the aisle.

His voice quavered. Are you ready?

The bridesmaids were in place and the organist picked up the volume as she and her father started down the aisle. His unsteady gait and the scent of moth balls from his suit went unnoticed. Melva smiled broadly as she slowly—very slowly—walked down the aisle, pulling on her father’s arm to slow him down. All eyes were on her and she knew she would never again be the center of attention.

As she reached the altar she was momentarily stunned. Fr. Baumgartner was staring her in the face. It was over, but it was glorious. She looked at the groom now taking the place of her father. He never looked at her, but together they began preliminary vows before the Mass began.

Gerald and Melva Johnston settled in town in a small house previously owned by his aunt, who had passed away. His cousins had lived there and had been unable to sell the property.

Melva gasped when she first entered the place a week before the wedding. Gerald had been living there for two years, and from the smell of it, he hadn’t washed a dish or emptied the trash since he’d moved in. She was grateful he had allowed her to come over to tidy up a bit. Stuffing was sticking out of every seam of the filthy old sofa and the matching chair. Trash had been swept into a pile and left in the corner. Sheets were missing from the mattress, revealing a multitude of stains. Melva had spent all of her recent pay check on cleaning supplies. Her mother donated some used linens and bath towels, and after three days of scrubbing and disposing of trash, the place became habitable. It would be their home when they returned from their weekend honeymoon in Kansas City.

Melva’s mother had never spoken to her about the birds and the bees. It simply wasn’t talked about, but Melva knew how babies