Thirteen Doorways, Wolves Behind Them All: List 1

Pushing at the bedroom door to see the body slumped on the bed, smoke and copper in the air. Crossing the threshold from one world to another.

Most of all, she remembered the door itself. The rusted hinges. The gouges and nicks. The pencil smell of the wood, and then all the other smells that had seeped into it—leather, garlic, salt, blood.

Yet she had her quiet days, her pensive ones, those days when she dug through her memories, trying to find the truth at the bottom of them.

And though the air wafting through the cracked window held the sweet promise of spring, though all her wars were over, though she should have felt safe, finally safe, after all this time, Frankie woke up hours later in a prickling sweat, tangled and feverish, certain her mother had been whispering in her ear.

But her room was still and silent, the moon cutting a wide silver swath out of the dark.

The moonlight caught in the cup of abalone on the nightstand, winking pink and blue, drawing her attention. Frankie traced the pearlescent edge of the shell with her finger. This delicate shell had come so far, had come through so much, and still wasn’t broken.

They would discover the churning furnace of this world soon enough.

Maybe she’d wandered in from the streets outside. Maybe she’d wandered up from the catacombs beneath the orphanage, a place even I was scared to go.

This one keened at nobody in particular, left cheek and eye socket shattered, jaw unhinged and hanging at a disconcerting angle, making it seem as if she were about to swallow something very large and awkward.

The order of nuns that ran the orphanage was called the Sisters of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, but some sisters served Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, and others simply caused perpetual sorrow for everyone else.

But they should have been grateful to have the bathrooms because there were still people with outdoor privies. Frankie liked the indoor plumbing, but she didn’t like having to clean it.

Along with his flair for meatballs, Frankie’s father had a flair for drama.

Father Paul said, “How blessed is anyone who rejects the advice of the wicked and does not take a stand in the path that sinners tread, nor a seat in company with cynics.” Frankie didn’t know what a cynic was, but it didn’t sound so bad in Father’s Irish accent.

She wanted to turn the question around—“Do you have anything to confess, Father?” But she was too obedient for that, and also too jaded.

His lilting, musical accent made the Latin words sound less frightening, but it wasn’t supposed to.

Once you’ve seen someone in their striped pajamas curled up like a child, eyes shifting under thin lids, it’s hard to think of him as a person you should trust with your deepest secrets, your greatest sins, a person who could offer you absolution.

After the angel had tired of me and I of her, when her beatific smile started to look more like a smirk, I left the courtyard.

And yet, unlike so many others, I didn’t skulk around graveyards. All right, I didn’t only skulk around graveyards.

The lake was so beautiful, especially when shrouded in a glistening veil of sleet—the water, even the air, full of mysteries.

That’s it, I’m putting these obscene books in the fire.

The girls each got a cup of Postum and a slice of bread with lard. As hungry as she was, Frankie still had a hard time eating that bread, that lard. The bread was chewy, the lard thick and sticky.

When she was angry, her lips pulled tight like a row of sutures.

Now, in a crowded visiting room filled with forced cheer, the sallow woman who was not Frankie’s mother was holding out a hand that didn’t flutter at all.

But Frankie drew the quiet deep down inside herself, honing her bones against it, her eyes flinty with a resigned sort of wisdom.

I wandered Chicago, antsy and ghostful.

After that, Chicago remade itself into a city of brick and stone. It was hard to find a frame house among all that masonry, but there were some.

What kind of people lived in such a house? What kind of people welcomed that kind of danger? I thought they’d be kindred spirits...so to speak.

Now, as always, I could have walked straight into the house, through the door or the wall, but I didn’t. I might have been a revenant, but I wasn’t a creep.

“I don’t know what you’re griping about, Huckle,” Frankie said. “You love to sew.”

“You haven’t even started your job yet. Besides, how would you like to work in the laundry with me? Remember that girl a couple of years ago who got her arm caught in the mangle?”

“Because of dietary restrictions and recommendations, each section prepares and serves different foods,” Sister Vincenze said, her soft chins squishing out of her wimple like rising bread dough as she talked.

“So okay, Fran-ces-ca. Hey, you listening? So this is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna make some rice, okay? You take one of these big pots,” Choppy said, grabbing an enormous black pot by the handle and swinging it up underneath one of the spigots to fill it with water.

“Take a gander,” she said, lifting the lid off a large pot.

He ran out the door, the hooligans who had pushed him laughing and whooping.

“I’m visiting Loretta in the infirmary. She has chicken pox. I won’t catch them because I already had them. I wanted to cheer her up.”

“What’s the book you finished this morning?”
“Anne of Green Gables.”
Frankie had no idea what a gable was, but she wasn’t going to ask.

The two of them stood and pushed up on the sash, and the huge window squeaked open.

“The city of Honolulu has also been attacked and considerable damage done. This battle has been going on for nearly three hours. A bomb dropped within fifty feet of the KTU radio tower. This is no joke,” he said.

“How about you girls do your darning?”
“I don’t have any darning,” said Stella.
“Stella, a person always has darning.”

With that last wish, she had broken a spell. Suddenly the crow changed into a beautiful young man clad in black velvet.