Heather Buyce-Vasquez
Anne, 1942, New York
The fish monger yelled out and Anne took a step back her small foot sinking into a puddle along the cobblestone. The dirty grey water seeps onto her her black patent shoe and white stocking. Nine-year old Anne Finnegan stifled a groan.
She and her Auntie Lizzie were at Fulton’s Fish Market downtown between Beekman and Fulton Street near the Brooklyn Bridge. They’d gone there several times. Her Aunt liked to walk through the Market and along Pier 17. She said the salty sea air was good for her skin. Anne figured she must be right and would often gaze at her Aunt in admiration. Her skin was creamy and soft with a sprinkle of light freckles across her nose giving her an innocent child-like appeal. However her flaming wild red hair, long legs, and fiery temperament gleaned her many a not-so innocent once over’s from the crusty briny men scattered along the pier hauling barrels of the latest catch into the open aired stands.
The sun was just peeking over the buildings in its slow ascent and the orange light cast a fire like quality to her Aunt’s features. Anne hurried along at her side her large dark eyes keeping an eye out for rats, fish heads, or even the stray horse droppings.
Anne remembers a time not so long ago when she would go to the market with her mother. Holding her small hand she’d lead her deftly through the throngs of people. Afterwards they’d eat ice cream together on the stoop near Foley Square. She has very little memory of her mother. She was only five years old when her mother vanished. But she does remember waking in the night to her mother’s soft fingers caressing her cheek and speaking in a low voice. Using words Anne did not understand. “Моя маленькая душа” (My little soul). And sometimes, “My Doushenka. (sweetheart)”
Her mother always seemed a little bit sad. So Anne always tried very very hard to make her smile. She would bring her mother a cup of tea often when her mother would sit on the stoop outside their burrow. Just sitting, her eyes following the people walking by. Walking cautiously, biting her lip each time a drip splashed over the side of the cup. Anne always got the feeling her mother was far away.
Now she remembers something she’d wanted to ask Aunt Lizzie, who had been her mother’s friend and had known her parents when they first met.
“Aunt Lizzie”, she calls. Her Aunt was picking through a barrel of apples with a curl to her lip. The fruit seller stood to one side tapping his foot impatiently.
“Aunt Lizzie”, Anne called again. Her Aunt looked up at the man selling the fruit. “Selling any apples with these worms?” She asked in a tight tone. The fruit seller bristled as her Aunt turned and moved away.
“We need to get home little one, perhaps tomorrow.” She took Anne’s hand and together they crossed Beekman and headed towards the water.
“Auntie, do you know anything about my mother’s locket? The one she always wore hidden under her sweaters?” Anne is hurrying to keep up with her Aunt’s long stride.
Lizzie looked at her sharply. “Locket? I suppose I remember it. Though I do not know how she came by it. I think she had it when she met your father.” She paused. “Why dear?”
Anne frowned. She’d have to ask her father. She hated to ask her father things about her mother. He always seemed to go silent and his eyes would tighten. Sometimes at night when she’d wake and creep down the hall to the landing she would see her father sitting on her mother’s side of the bed, his head down, his eyes closed. It made her feel anxious to see her father looking so.