ASCHE TO ASCHE, DUST TO DUST

Short story for Creative Writing Class.

Every night, right after supper, my mother would read us a story. She would prop my little sister Annabelle on her lap and I would lean against her shoulder to look at the pictures. No matter what mood Annabelle was in, my mother’s sweet voice would calm her down. My sister would stare at her while she read the story with those brown eyes glued to her face. She seemed to stare at her in wonder, as if she couldn’t fathom how a voice so sweet and a face so kind could exist at all. 

My favorite story was Anne of Green Gables and every night I would tug on her dress and beg her to read it. She often would tell me to wait and to let my sister pick. I’d painstakingly watch her chubby little hands choose another story. I’d still listen, looking at the books and watching the images come alive in front of me as my mother’s words narrated the story. 

The story always came to an end unfortunately. I would beg for another just to hear her angelic voice again, but she would nod towards my snoozing sister. I would watch my mother tuck my sister into her crib and that was about the time that my father would come home from his late shifts. He’d come in and sneak up behind my mother to surprise her with a kiss on the cheek or a hug from behind while I would rejoice and exclaim how happy I was to see him. Mama and Papa would tuck me in, kissing my forehead, and bring the sheets up to my chin. I’d whisper an “I love you”, which they would reciprocate, and my father would turn out the light.  

My mother would leave early in the morning. My grandma, having gotten up much earlier, would let herself in with her key and make my mother breakfast. Mama would kiss my snoring father, chit-chat with my grandma over eggs and coffee, and then would depart for her day of work at the shirtwaist factory. 

Grandmama would help me with my homework for the day. I was learning how to read and write. I always loved living by Grandmama; her voice was almost as pretty as mother’s. My mother would come home right before sunset and join my grandma in making dinner. She’d chat about her “bitch of a boss” and the snooty girl two stations down from her who always bragged about her new and devilishly handsome doctor boyfriend. 

I would sit at the table, watching and listening, even though I didn’t understand everything. They would fall into a rhythmic routine while they cooked, almost dancing around each other, as the aromas of the sizzling meat and boiling stew made my stomach rumble. 

Life was simple, but it was good. I had my school days and I had my friends from the block. Every day, we would play until sundown. A lot of the moms worked at the same factory that my mother did, so sometimes some of them would come over to play and do homework under Grandmama’s supervision. Papa would leave around lunch time, so he often helped me or played with me too. He was more stiff than Mama around Grandmama. I never knew why; Grandmama’s a wonderful woman whose eyes crinkle when she smiles. 

Then, things started to change. Mama wasn’t smiling as much. I overheard her talking to Papa about strikes. I wasn’t exactly sure what that means, but it always includes rather dramatic and large motions as she talked. I’d heard her talking about how other girls get the weekends off, but not her. I would have loved for Mama to have been around on the weekends. She always got angry about it all whenever the blue shirted man came by with the mail each month. She said she needed more wages, something I didn’t understand. I would always hug her when she got mad, even though I didn’t know why. I would hug her and she would hold me close, singing a song in my ear while she stroked my hair. She would whisper about how good life will be someday and how we can live by the beach and feel the sand beneath our feet. I liked our home, but I loved the beach too.

I hoped to make it there someday. 

It was a chilly Saturday morning when I awoke to have a pit in my stomach. I closed the window that we had left ajar last night; the March air wasn’t warm enough yet. Grandmama was sitting on the couch and put down her book when I entered our small living room area. She made me French toast for breakfast, but something was off. She wasn’t smiling and the small talk fell flat. I tried to do my homework, but I lacked the motivation to do my writing assignments for the weekend. 

Father had come into the kitchen when I was almost done. He ate a quick toast sandwich and I remembered how he seemed to hesitate with every motion, like he had to actually think about his routine for once. He left and I was stuck in the house. The only noise was Grandmama playing with Annabelle. I walked into the room and waited for her attention. When she noticed me, she paused her tickle fight with Annabelle.

“Grandma, are you scared?” Grandmama paused for a moment, thinking of an answer. The silence told me my answer.

“No, darling!” she had said, “Why would you think such a thing?”

I shrugged, but I knew. I could see it on her face. It hung in the air. 

Around Annabelle’s nap time, my father bust through the door. He was there with the father and mother from across the street, panic seizing their faces. 

“Richard, what’s going on,” my grandma rushed out of the bedroom to see to him, checking him over to see if he was hurt. He wasn’t that out of breath, but couldn’t manage words.

“It’s...it’s Annie. The whole block is in chaos! The factory--oh god!”

He started to weep and my grandma helped him into the chair of the kitchen, giving him a glass of water. Her hands trembled and tears were slowly running down her face. I crawled into the kitchen to be able to hear better. I didn’t know why they were crying. I didn’t know what was wrong with Mama. 

“Richard, what happened to my baby?”

The other father-- I think they were the Andersons-- stepped up to Grandma. She started to hysterically sob as he placed his hand on her shoulder. She fell into the chair next to Papa and started to weep uncontrollably as my father grabbed her hand and kept repeating “I’m so sorry” over and over again. 

In a soft and consoling voice, Mr. Anderson told Grandma what my father couldn’t bear to say.

“They locked the girls in because of the strike. Something happened--I don’t know. The entire Asch building went up in flames. I’m so sorry, Grace.”

Mrs. Anderson sat down besides my Grandma, rubbing her back while she cried as well. My father stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth. Mr. Anderson tried to comfort him, but he swatted away his hand. He just backed away from my father and let him be. 

“Papa,” I had said, “What is wrong with Mama?” 

He got on his knees, level with me, and tried to smile through all of his tears.

“I’m afraid Mama isn’t coming home, my dear,” he had said. He had grabbed my face, pressing his forehead against mine as sobbed wracked through his body. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. Was she sick? Was she in the hospital? Where was my mother? Why wasn’t she coming home?

I could smell it then. The smoke filled the sky and the ashy scent-- along with another horrible smell I now know as burning flesh-- flooded the block. We were only a street or two away from the Asch Building and I could hear the stillness and the silence. There was a blanket of grief and shock that had covered Manhattan. No one wanted to say a word.

I had asked them, “Is she ever coming back?” and all my father said was: 

“No, dear. Your mother is never coming back.”

We got the paper on Monday and Grandma threw it into the trash immediately. When she went to tuck in Annabelle for her nap, I took it out. I brushed off the rubble and dirt on it and read the headline as best as I could.

“More Than 140 Die As Flames Sweep Through Three Stories Of A Factory Building,” it read. I heard Grandma leave the room and I quickly stuffed the paper back into the bin.

“What are you doing in the trash, young lady,” my Grandma said. She looked stern with her hands on her hips, but her face softened as she noticed the paper sticking out of the trash. She looked down at me, but then got on her knees and picked me up with a grunt. 

“What happened to Mama?” I asked again. Then she told me. 

“There was a fire at the Factory, Lucy. It was on the 8th floor and your Mama worked on the 9th. Those damn bosses of hers thought it was smart to lock her inside to get her to work harder.”

I wiped the tears away that were making their way down her face and she smiled at me. It was a hollow smile. I wanted to cry. 

“I bet your Mama tried the hardest to get out. It wasn’t her fault the elevators didn’t work.” she had paused then and looked to the ground. 

“God, this is exactly what she had been fightin’ for,” she had said, but Grandma’s words started to sound like they were more intended for herself, so I put my hand on her cheek to stop her.

“Is Mama dead?” I asked. 

“Yes,” Grandmama had said softly; the crying took a lot of energy out of her. That’s when it finally hit me that Mama was not coming home, why she wasn’t coming home.  I started to cry too. My grandma gave me a woeful look and then crushed me against her in a tight hug. She rubbed my back and told me about how great my Mama was, but I didn’t want to listen. 

She told me that she was one of the girls who jumped. Father had to identify her on the streets, lined up with all the other dead. Grandma said she was happy she could recognize Mama for a last time though; some of the girls had burned to death. 

I hoped she looked like an angel as she fell from the 9th floor, I hope she did.