Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 37 Read online

  The group home issued the children motley wardrobes that were a combination of institutional drab, and odds and ends rich families donated. So everything was either navy blue and shapeless, or worn, torn and several years out of fashion. When a sought-after item came through the donation center—decent blue jeans or a colorful, un-pilled sweatshirt—there was a scrum for it. A herd of little girls pulling each other’s identical, industrial-strength haircuts and pinching each other’s arms purple. Annie Z snatched anything ruffly or suggestive of a pinafore.

  Annie S was in charge of accessories—nabbing barrettes or plastic jewelry from neighborhood stores. She stole a clean, pink doll for Annie H, because that’s what they understood an old-timey, wholesome girl would play with.

  It took more than a year, but the girls’ scheme paid off. A wealthy couple was smitten with Annie H. They liked how she said “sir” and “ma’am” and “yes please” and “no thank you.” The were charmed by her love of ballet—a hobby calculated by the girls to appeal to fancy families. Annie S had stolen slippers and a tutu to support her friend’s newfound interest.

  Their initial plan was simple and sweet: Annie H would be ever such a good girl, but pine for her friends something fierce. Her parents would see their child’s pain and rescue the others . But Annie H’s family was content with one child, though they humored her and let her visit her friends. When it became clear the other Annies were stuck, the trio plotted anew. First, Annie H stole treats for her friends: books or toys, special snacks or warm socks. The orphans enjoyed their bounty; Annie H liked helping. Then, they got more ambitious. Annie H found her parents’ credit cards and banking information. The girls bought themselves nice things, and socked away savings accounts. With enough dough, they figured they could catch a bus to Mexico and move in with Annie H’s abuela, who was the type to take in a couple of homely Annies to get her own Ana back.

  The girls got sloppy, and Annie H’s parents discovered the plot. Annie H, in part, got her wish—she was sent to Mexico to live with her abuela. Eventually, the group home found a long-lost aunt to take Annie Z. And Annie S? She stayed in the system, deprived of the first gang she put together.

  If you go by bloodlines, Auntie A wasn’t more related to me than anyone else. She was Granny’s son’s girlfriend—partner, she insisted, hinting at the other facets of their relationship—for a long time before he disappeared. Or something like that. And when you considered it, Granny wasn’t even my grandma. Her fourth husband was my Mom’s stepfather. I guess it’s complicated how you decide someone is family and you love them.

  Once, I asked Auntie A why she loved me. Why I was her niece. We were coloring in a Sesame Street coloring book at the kitchen table. She picked out a stub of green crayon and began filling in Oscar.

  “Well, Earle and I tried to keep close to your Mom when she struggled. We had a soft spot for her. When she had you, she called us to the hospital. Asked if we wanted to hold you. Earle had so many brothers and sisters. He was used to babies. But I’ve got only one big brother I know of, and I’d never seen such a small person before. Never held one. You were so purple and misshapen and wrinkly. Beautiful. And then you just kept growing and doing new things, and by that time I loved you and I was stuck with you.”

  Granny was a law abiding lady, a church going lady. And everyone knows about Annie Savage. I don’t know why, all those years after Earle disappeared, they cared for each other at all, except Auntie A was an orphan and Granny missed Earle and wasn’t about to cut a wayward lamb free after years of feeding it Sunday dinners.

  Like I said, it’s complicated how you decide someone is family and you love them.

  Staying in the system wasn’t all bad: Five years after the state broke up her gang, Annie S met Earle at a school for delinquents. Annie S said the school was like prison, except in prison you can choose what you read.

  It was a classic love story: They met in the principal’s office, awaiting punishment. Him for being out of uniform in a spectacular manner; her for creating a noxious gas in the science lab. Annie palmed the keys from the secretary’s desk and grinned at the slight boy in heavy makeup, a 1960s style shift, costume pearls and a buzz cut.

  “It’s a good look,” she said. “What are you in for?”

  He laughed,”I guess I’m too pretty.”

  “I’ll say,” even as a teenager, Annie had affected speech patterns of gangsters throughout the ages. “Whaddya say we bust out of this joint?”

  The keys, and by association Annie, opened the drawer containing student records. Earle tipped high-proof grain alcohol from his silver flask onto the files and flicked his matching lighter. They ran out of the building holding hands and laughing.

  You can imagine Granny loved and hated hearing that story. Auntie A’s recollections of Earle—especially that day—were vivid and loving. But a woman like Granny didn’t relish having raised a queer with a criminal streak. That day, Annie and Earle finally kissed as they sat beneath a bridge and watched the sun set. Earle’s lips were waxy from his cheap lipstick. He tasted like booze and the bubble gum Annie swiped from a bodega. She expected she did too.

  It was good times when Auntie A watched us, from the earliest I remember. Auntie A was big on rough housing. Granny didn’t approve. When Maxine and I outgrew our cribs, Granny found us a double bed. Auntie A would have wrestling matches with us on the mattress, which seemed as big as a gymnasium mat and as worn. It especially impressed us when she pinned us both at once, though in retrospect we were so small it probably would have been harder not to pin us down. Eventually, Granny would come in and tell us we needed to settle down before one of us busted our fool head open. Later, Granny admitted it was good news when we horsed around, because at no other time did we sleep so soundly.

  I remember lying in bed, breathless, after Auntie A declared herself the unbeaten winner in double-baby wrestling.

  “Auntie A?” Maxine asked. “Why didn’t you and Earle get married?”

  Maxine was obsessed with marriage at the time. Our cousins’ parents were getting married. Our dad was back in jail and our parents were not getting married. Mom maybe had another boyfriend, although it was hard to tell. Granny fretted about a new baby coming, but to me that didn’t make sense. If Mom needed kids, she could always take me and Maxine.

  “We didn’t want to,” she said.

  “Why not? Didn’t he love you?”

  “Earle and I still love each other lots. Sometimes, when you love someone, you learn to accept what they give you. Earle gave me a chance to be here, and I gave him a chance to be where he wanted to.”

  Auntie A sounded sad; she almost never let herself sound sad.

  “You coulda had a big white dress and flowers.”

  “Guess we never were the marrying types.”

  “Me and Eva coulda lived with you in a house like a real family,” Maxine was also obsessed with houses and nuclear families living inside them. She drew the trope endlessly in crayon.

  “Hush, we already are a real family,” Auntie A said. She got up and went to the bathroom.

  Maxine fell asleep straight away that night, but despite the horseplay, I couldn’t relax. The summer air was hot, and beads of sweat tickled down my neck. Auntie A turned on a fan before she tucked us in, and when it rotated my way, I shivered. After awhile, I gave up on sleep and began listening. Teenagers played basketball down the block—the dribbles and footfalls echoed against the row houses. Our screen door smacked shut and I heard Granny and Auntie A on the stoop. A can cracked open, almost certainly a beer for Auntie A.

  “I can’t fathom her having another baby when she’s got the two girls she ain’t allowed to care for,” Granny said.

  “DJ, I don’t imagine she can carry a baby to term,” Auntie A said. They were quiet. Granny must have thought awhile before she answered.

  “I don’t reckon it’s a good th
ing to wish a child wouldn’t be born. A new life’s a blessing.”

  “That so?” Auntie A’s voice was crisp. “Will it be a blessing for Arnie to be part of your family? If the girls ever go home, you want him raising them? Sleeping in the same house as him?”

  People round the neighborhood knew Arnie. He did bad things I wasn’t really clear about. But I was old enough to know if he and his folks were at a store, you didn’t go in; if they were on a stoop, you crossed to the other side of the road. I couldn’t imagine anything he had to do with my family, much less living with him.

  “You know I want nothing to do with Arnie. How on Earth did Lynette get tangled with him?”

  It was Auntie A’s turn to think for awhile. Maxine rolled over and grabbed her stuffed iguana. I sweated and shifted farther from her, closer to the window.

  “There’s no need for him to ever meet Lynette, you know.”

  “Annie, I don’t think you should be saying things like that, not even as a joke.”

  Annie S never lost touch with Annie Z. So when she and Earle dropped out of school and started planning their first heist, Annie brought her old friend into the plot as muscle. Annie Z worked construction and played rugby in her spare time. She was a wall of muscle and grit, and it wasn’t clear if she registered much in the way of pain. After her shift was over each afternoon, she’d hustle beers by arm-wrestling burly, unsuspecting men.

  They were teenagers, so it’s not surprising their plot was simple. Earle had a job delivering various grooming products to stores. It’s a well-known fact in shady communities that razors are a criminal cash cow. Men’s razors are lightweight and easy to steal in bulk. People need them, so there’s always demand. They’re already expensive, and the fact they’re so often stolen keeps the price artificially inflated.

  Annie S and Annie Z blocked Earle into an alley. Annie Z roughed him up enough to make things believable. “Not in the face!” he pleaded again and again. She loaded several cases into the truck, where Annie S waited. The Annies drove away, while Earle called in the theft, panicked. He got enough details right to make the story believable, flubbed enough that his accomplices couldn’t be fingered. Annie S knew a guy who bought the razors: Partially in unmarked bills, partially in high-value uppers.

  The heist itself went smooth and easy. There were no injuries but Earle’s bumps and bruises and a slight concussion to his ego. The trouble came over the drugs. It’s hard to find a good, untapped market for drugs, where you can sell unmolested by established dealers. Arnie’s older cousin controlled the neighborhood back then. Earle offered him a good price on their stash, but the deal went sour. Auntie A was always hazy in the retelling—I got the impression she was embarrassed by their naivete.

  The Annies and Earle fled to Mexico, to visit Annie H—who was back to being Ana—so the story goes. It was the first time any of them ventured from our city, much less to another country. The reunion was magical for Ana and Annie Z: teenage hormones flowing, under the watchful eyes of a big Catholic family, they fell in love. Earle, fully recovered from being roughed up, spent his days playing soccer with a gang of rotating primos. Annie S clumsily helped Ana’s abuela make tamales. She tried learning Spanish to buy papayas and avocados at the market. It was her first clue there was a world outside our neighborhood. Sometimes it could be very different, but sometimes it was exactly the same.

  The discovery filled her with wanderlust that sent her ranging farther and farther from home.

  Auntie A was not much of a cook, but she had a repertoire that was memorable because of how limited it was. She learned to cook from a life-skills class in her teens, so her dishes were practical, thrifty and tasty enough. Though she relied on ingenuity and improvisation in the rest of her life, she was a slave to the few recipes she knew. She would open the recipe box on her tablet and read instructions for the spaghetti sauce she’d made at least 100 times.

  “Oh, we don’t have any mushrooms,” she said a little bit to herself, a little bit to me.

  “It’s OK, Auntie A, you can leave them out,” I said.

  “We might not have enough sauce then, right? I think they add bulk.”

  “You could use the zucchini instead,” I said poking through the produce bin.

  “I don’t know about that. It tastes different than mushrooms. Maybe I should make pancakes and fruit salad instead.”

  That was my least favorite meal, and because of the ready availability of ingredients, her most often repeated. No one was going hungry in our house anymore, but we weren’t rich yet, and we kept old habits of thrift and convenience. So fruit meant the mealy apples and soft bananas they sold at our bodega. I desperately wanted her to make spaghetti.

  “Try it. Granny does stuff like that all the time.”

  She looked doubtful, but nodded. I sat across the counter, doing my homework while she chopped.

  “What kind of homework do you have?” she asked, as she scowled at the zucchini, maybe trying to will it into mushrooms.

  “Writing a book report.”

  “Yeah? What’s it about?”

  “This old book Granny had about a girl and her sister and their neighbor and his dog and stuff. It’s a whole series of books, but teacher said I had to choose just one to write about.”

  Auntie A grinned at me, a big sloppy smile that wasn’t the type of thing you’d usually see on her face.

  “Eva, you’re so smart; I’m just so proud of you. You know, Earle and I, we got stuff ready so if you and Max want to go to college or something, you can.”

  Despite her obvious glamor and relative sophistication, Auntie A was like the rest of my family in that she had no context for my ambitions.

  “Auntie A, kids from here don’t go to college.”

  “That’s because they don’t have the money.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Not now, but 10 years out, you’ve got plenty of money.”

  I looked at my tablet and fidgeted. It was hard for Granny to enforce any taboos in our household, what with a bandit popping in and out, but one thing I knew we weren’t supposed to talk about was things Auntie A and Earle did in the past or the future.

  “What?” she said, arms akimbo, a scrap of onion skin stuck on her cheek. “Don’t be bashful. Why do you think Earle and I run around doing all that crime? Not just for the adventure, though there’s been plenty. You think he stayed where he was now just for enough money to shack up with a notorious criminal and give me and DJ and you and Maxine a living but no sort of style here? You think we’re such piddling, two-bit thieves as that? Just wait, kid. You’re gonna see someday, we made good.”

  It was a remarkable thing, that Auntie A had the patience to forestall love and adventure and a fortune to give Maxine and me such a big gift and ultimately, make a name for herself. Annie Savage mastered the long con, if nothing else.

  What people always want to know, when they read my ID number that shows I was born in a workers’ slum to unwed teenage parents, and they find out that my aunt was Annie Savage: Did stacks of gold and bodies pay for my tuition, room and board, books and bribes? Of course. No kid from my neighborhood goes to college by legitimate means. The days when the fairytale that working hard and being smart or athletic and lucky could get you out of the neighborhood were gone. People in my neighborhood got pointless jobs that bore them to death, if they didn’t get crushed or poisoned to death first. Getting out required money, blood and craft—Auntie A’s craft.

  When classmates found out about Auntie A, I earned a sort of glamorous popularity. Not only could people point to me as this girl they knew who actually grew up poor, but I was here by the dollars of one of the most notorious criminals of several generations. And the fact I studied art history? That got style points. My dignity wants me to say I told these spoiled brats I didn’t need their pity, nor friendship, nor the fancy dinners
and cocktails they offered. But it was nice to finally feel like my otherness made me exotic, not toxic. And I haven’t gotten so uppity a free meal or drink doesn’t do me some good.

  One thing that cemented Annie and Earle’s romance in the early days was a shared obsession with historical crimes. Annie’s favorite was the Antwerp diamond heist. The technical precision appealed, and she admired Leonardo Notarbartolo for never naming his conspirators. Earle liked art thieves—he was endlessly fascinated by underground markets.

  Earle came up with the framework for their big plot round about when time travel got cheap enough the average rich person could afford it. He was reading another book about the Gardner Heist, his favorite.

  “We’re going about this wrong,” he told Annie. They’d just robbed a bank—made off with plenty of cash and prizes, but Annie shot dead two cops who tried to trap them. They were the first people either one killed. Annie, especially, was unnerved.

  “How’s that, other than we need to avoid the close calls?” she asked.

  “All these big heists—art that disappears for decades, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of diamonds disappearing—these guys aren’t doing it alone.”

  “I know, love, most of them worked as teams. That’s why we’ve got each other. And Annie Z, when we need her. And your cousin, Carl.”