My Life Before Me Read online

  IN EARLY JUNE 1964, the Benevolent Home for Necessitous Girls burns to the ground, and its vulnerable residents are thrust out into the world. The orphans, who know no other home, find their lives changed in an instant. Arrangements are made for the youngest residents, but the seven oldest girls are sent on their way with little more than a clue or two to their pasts and the hope of learning about the families they have never known. On their own for the first time in their lives, they are about to experience the world in ways they never imagined…

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  MY LIFE

  BEFORE ME

  Norah

  McClintock

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  To Gerry, who doesn't mind the tears.

  NOTE TO READER

  This book, set in 1964, uses words that are no longer accepted. These words are Negro and colored, the latter specifically as it relates to people of African origin. At the time in which this book is set, these words were widely used in society and in the media. Their use in this book is for historical accuracy only and in no way implies acceptance of them today.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: MY STORY BEGINS

  Chapter Two: MY LIFE GOES UP IN FLAMES

  Chapter Three: I AM HANDED A MYSTERIOUS ENVELOPE

  Chapter Four: MY DREAMS ARE DASHED

  Chapter Five: I PUT MY NEW PLAN INTO ACTION

  Chapter Six: I FIND THE MYSTERIOUS GRAVE

  Chapter Seven: I VISIT A MORGUE

  Chapter Eight: I DISCOVER THAT NOTHING IS AS EASY AS IT LOOKS

  Chapter Nine: I START ASKING QUESTIONS

  Chapter Ten: I HEAR THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY

  Chapter Eleven: I FOLLOW A NEW LEAD

  Chapter Twelve: ANOTHER FIRE

  Chapter Thirteen: I HIT A DEAD END…AND FIND A NEW LINE OF INQUIRY

  Chapter Fourteen: I AM FOLLOWED BY AN ANGRY MOB

  Chapter Fifteen: I VISIT THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

  Chapter Sixteen: I AM GIVEN ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH

  Chapter Seventeen: I GO TO THE BIG HOUSE

  Chapter Eighteen: I GO INTO THE WOODS

  Chapter Nineteen: I FIND SOMETHING UNEXPECTED—AND HORRIFIC

  Chapter Twenty: A PHOTO, A NOTE AND A KILLER

  Chapter Twenty-One: I CATCH A MURDERER

  Chapter Twenty-Two: I GET MY STORY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  MY STORY BEGINS

  TWO THINGS YOU need to know about me: I always dreamed about being a newspaper reporter, and I’m an orphan.

  I was mostly raised in an orphanage, although I know from hearing one of the staff gossip about it that I had been adopted as a baby and then given up again when the childless couple who had wanted me so badly discovered that they were about to have a child of their own. The person who said that, who shall remain nameless here, said she thought that had to be the very worst, to be unwanted twice over.

  The orphanage where I grew up was called the Benevolent Home for Necessitous Girls. I lived there until I couldn’t stand it anymore, which happened to coincide with the age at which most girls get itchy anyway, when they think they’re going to explode if they have to look at the same faces all day for another day and another day after that, when it seems as if nothing ever changes and nothing ever will, when every day is exactly the same as the one before. When you would (almost) literally give your right arm for something different to happen. There were days when I thought I would go crazy if I had to spend another sixty seconds surrounded by orphan girls and spinster women.

  I know, I know. I should have been grateful. I had a roof over my head. I was fed three meals a day. I was given an education. In fact, you might say, being at a girls’ orphanage doesn’t sound all that different from being at a boarding school or one of those fancy so-called finishing schools in Europe. But those schools are for girls who have families—well-to-do families—whereas necessitous girls have no families. Plus, they’re poor.

  Obviously and blindingly poor. So poor that the people of the good town where the Home was located—the town of Hope (I am not kidding)—looked on us with pity. And condescension. Along with self-righteousness and mistrust. Some of the women called us gypsies when we went into town, especially if one of the little ones acted up. When one of us (who should have known better) swiped some lipstick from the five-and-dime store, we all became little thieves. When one of us (who also should have known better) was caught smoking cigarettes with a local boy behind the old boathouse, we all became tramps. When one of us (expressing what a lot of us felt) refused to sing at the annual church women’s Christmas tea, where we were marched in to sing carols as a thank-you for the sturdy beige jumpers the women had sewed for us, every one of them cut from the same pattern, we all became ingrates.

  I don’t want to give the impression that the entire town of Hope looked down on us, even though it sometimes felt that way. There were decent people, like Mr. Travers, editor and publisher of Hope’s one and only newspaper, the Hope Weekly Crier. When I finally screwed up my courage just before my sixteenth birthday to apply for a part-time job—he had advertised for a “Goings On” columnist—he gave me a chance. He had me write up a sample column and edit a news story, and then, to my astonishment, he hired me. I felt as if I’d won the Irish Sweepstakes. I was on my way. I had taken the first step toward my dream.

  True, it wasn’t the most exciting job in journalism. My beat was wedding anniversaries, bridal and baby showers, graduation parties, garden parties, out-of-town visitors and any other social event that the host or hostess wanted everyone in town to know about. I gathered information by telephone, and I didn’t have to probe hard to get the facts I needed. All I had to do was talk to the host or, more often, hostess, who would eagerly tell me who had attended the event (we ran as many names as possible), what refreshments had been served, what entertainment had been offered and, in cases where it was deemed important, what the women had been wearing. I didn’t use my real name. Instead, at my request, the column ran with the byline Lizzie Cochran. In case you don’t know it, Elizabeth Cochrane is the real name of my all-time heroine and role model—Nellie Bly. (She dropped the e from her surname because she thought it looked better that way.)

  I know it doesn’t sound glamorous. It wasn’t investigative reporting, and the events I covered were certainly not earth-shattering. But in a small town like Hope and on a weekly paper like the Crier, it was important to cover local happenings. If people wanted to know what was going on in the world, they could get one of the Toronto dailies. But if they wanted to know what was going on down the street, the Crier was the paper to reach for.

  About the same time I got the job at the Crier, I started dating Johnny Danforth. He was a senior at the local high school. He was dreamily handsome, ruggedly athletic and financially well-off. I met him when we literally ran into each other as I was going into the grocery store and he was coming out. It was like something out of one of those romance novels that so many girls bought off the rack by the drugstore checkout. Our eyes met and we knew we were made for each other. At least, that’s how I felt. It was also how Johnny said he felt. He didn’t seem to care at all when I told him where I lived. Suddenly I was happy. My life had gone from misery to perfection in the blink of an eye. It stayed that way for a couple of months—until one of Johnny’s neighbors saw us together and told Johnny’s mother.

  Mrs. Danforth grilled Johnny, and he, ever the dutiful son, told her everything he knew about me, including my job at the Crier. That incensed Mrs. Danforth almost as much as the fact that her son was seeing me, a girl of dubious parentage, on the sly. Then, to make matters worse for me, one of her friends was robbed shortly af
ter the friend had told Lizzie Cochran about the lavish party she was planning for her sister. All the best gifts were stolen. Both Mrs. Danforth and her friend were certain that the robbery was Lizzie’s fault. They claimed that I’d tipped off some shady characters, who had then broken into the house and robbed it. They made a big deal out of the fact that I used a pen name. They said I was obviously trying to hide something.

  The next thing I knew, Mr. Travers fired me. He said he didn’t want to. He said he knew it must seem unfair. (Seem?) But advertising revenues had taken a sudden dip, and if that continued, the paper would be in jeopardy. He didn’t mention any names. He didn’t have to. On top of that, Johnny dumped me. Not right away. Not the minute his mother started in on him. He had to stand his ground long enough to prove that no one told Johnny Danforth what to do. But he did dump me. He sort of tried to be nice about it. “Maybe we should take a break,” he said. “I have to concentrate on school.” But I knew what was going on. You bet I did. Which is where my story starts, in the summer of 1964.

  Chapter Two

  MY LIFE GOES UP IN FLAMES

  TWELVE HOURS BEFORE the big fire, I was on my way home from the Crier office with Mr. Travers’s letter in my pocket.

  “I’m sorry, Cady,” he said when he handed it to me. “I’d keep you if I could, but…”

  I was glad he didn’t finish his sentence. I didn’t want to hear it again. It was like Mrs. Hazelton telling me once that she didn’t want to punish me for slapping that townie girl, who, by the way, can best be described as rhyming with rich. Did I care whether Mrs. Hazelton wanted to punish me? Of course not. All I cared about was that I was confined to school for a whole month. I also knew that it definitely hurt me more than it hurt her. When Mr. Travers gave me the letter, I thanked him for it and for the opportunity and encouragement he had given me. I hoped he would interpret my gratitude as classy, even though the truth was that it was a calculated move. I wanted him to say good things about me if—no, when—someone called him to ask about my work at the Crier. Never spit into a well you may need to drink from. I heard a man outside the pool hall say that to his friend one day. I wrote it in my notebook. It made good sense.

  I left the newspaper office and had gone barely half a block when Mrs. Danforth emerged from the drugstore. As soon as I saw her, I did an immediate about-face. My plan was to duck through the nearest door. I did not want to face her, not now, not ever again. But the nearest door was the one to the barbershop, where one man was being shaved and two others were chatting while they waited their turn. I couldn’t go in there. By the time I decided to walk right past her with my head held high (why shouldn’t it be?), Mrs. Danforth had seen me. She didn’t speak. I didn’t expect her to. Mrs. Danforth saw herself as a superior human being by virtue of her social position. She did not deign to greet or otherwise engage in conversation with anyone whom she deemed beneath her unless she was issuing instructions.

  Well, I have eyes the same as she does, except that mine are sharper. I stared right back at her: Read what you will into that, you miserable cow. I knew perfectly well that it was Mrs. Danforth who had gone to Mr. Travers, not presuming to tell him his business—she would never do such a thing—but she felt it was her duty to let him know that she and the other ladies of the town, ladies whose husbands were successful businessmen and loyal advertisers in the Weekly Crier, were uncomfortable in the extreme with my position at the paper and were ready to complain to their husbands if the situation was allowed to continue.

  The situation. I hated the way that woman talked, always using what Mr. Travers called five-dollar words when a good old everyday five-cent word would do the trick. What Mrs. Danforth meant, plainly put, was that if Mr. Travers didn’t get rid of me, Mrs. Travers and her do-nothing lady friends would make good and sure that their husbands canceled their advertising in the Crier. In a one-newspaper town, this was blackmail pure and simple, and Mr. Travers caved in even though boycotting the Crier would have hurt the businessmen as much as it hurt the Crier.

  I would have walked right past Mrs. Danforth—I really would have—if Johnny hadn’t stumbled out of the store behind her, carrying a large paper bag. He started to say something to his mother but ground to a halt when he saw me. He used to smile at the sight of me. Smile and wrap his arms around me and kiss me on the cheek or the mouth, and then he’d want to go somewhere where we could be alone. This time the little weasel turned red in the face. He looked at his mother with a mixture of shock and apology. Honest, Mummy, I had no idea we would run into her, I swear! Please don’t cancel my allowance. I couldn’t believe I ever loved him, much less dreamed of a future with him. What on earth had I been thinking? Yes, he was cute and smart and loaded with charm, and he had what Mrs. Hazelton would call a lofty ambition—he wanted to be a doctor. But when push came to shove, he was a mama’s boy. He knew who buttered his bread. So after taking an initial stand to defend me against his mother’s slander, he finally yielded. This happened to coincide with the end of the school year, when he was set to graduate, which was when the car that he’d been promised as a graduation gift suddenly became, in his mother’s eyes, a bad idea because, my dear, I know what those girls are like, they will do anything to land a catch like you, a smart boy, a rich boy, a boy with a future, and, my dear, one of their common tricks—and I do mean common—is to get a boy like you to take them for a drive somewhere, you know what I mean, Johnny, and the next thing you know, she’s enceinte. I’d actually heard her use that word, as if French saved her from having to picture exactly how her son might end up with a pregnant girlfriend.

  I stared at Johnny. I knew what he and his mother thought of me, but no one was ever going to be able to say that Cady Andrews was a coward or that she tucked tail and scurried away like a little mouse. I met the same eyes that used to melt me and held them just long enough to let him know that whatever he and his mother thought of me, I thought a thousand times worse of them. They had climbed up on high and judged me, and they had used as their measure not my character but my background, which I had had nothing to do with. Who did they think they were anyway?

  Johnny, the coward, blinked first. He averted his eyes and stepped off the sidewalk. Shifting the paper sack to his other arm, he unlocked the trunk of his mother’s butter-yellow Buick, the color specially ordered and extra-specially paid for by Mr. Danforth as an anniversary gift. I stepped around Mrs. Danforth and continued on my way. No one spoke a word.

  When I got back to the Home, I snuck down to the vast and warrenlike basement and retrieved my suitcase. It was a battered old black thing that I had found under a table at the back of the church-run thrift shop in town and had stashed behind the drying racks where we hung our clothes after fishing them out of the ancient washer. My plan: leave town. I had enough money saved from my wages at the Crier for bus fare to Toronto and maybe a couple of weeks at the YWCA. I also had Mr. Travers’s letter of reference.

  I smuggled my suitcase—already packed—out to the yard and hid it under the shrubs at the back of the property, where no one ever went. I planned to retrieve it before dawn and catch the first bus out of town. By the time they discovered I was missing, I’d be halfway to Toronto, and there wouldn’t be anything anyone could do about it. I was almost seventeen. I was legal to quit school. I was legal to get a job. And it was about time I started living the life I wanted instead of the one that had been forced onto me by people I had never met.

  So the fire didn’t make any difference to me. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t care. The Home had been my everything for nearly fifteen years of my life.

  I had never experienced a house fire before, and it was a spectacular one. The whole main building where we all slept and ate, the building whose wooden floors, wainscoting, banisters, window frames and trim we washed and polished over and over again until every burnished surface gleamed in the midday sun, all of it was reduced to rubble and ash—and puddles of water, after the fire department arrived, too lat
e to save anything. For hours, it was pure chaos, with girls and staff members running around, counting heads, comforting those who were scared (mostly the Little Ones) and making sure everyone stayed well away from the action. After that, silence. Most of us, I think, were wondering what would happen to us. But not me. I still had my plan, and as soon as things calmed down, I was going to collect my things and go. That was the plan.

  Chapter Three

  I AM HANDED A MYSTERIOUS ENVELOPE

  LEAVING TURNED OUT to be trickier than I had anticipated. The Little Ones were all upset. Most of them cried for at least a while, and all of them had to be soothed and reassured. The seven of us—Toni, Sara, Betty, Tess, Malou, Dot and I—being the oldest, had been cast in the roles of babysitters, older sisters, little mothers and/or amateur nurses. It fell to us to calm and console. The day after the fire we were all summoned by Mrs. Hazelton. Toni talked to her first. Then Betty. Then Dot. Then, just before me, Tess. By the time it was my turn, I had a pretty good idea what was coming.

  Mrs. Hazelton, kind and wise (most of the time), launched into the speech that the others had already listened to.

  “I know all that,” I told Mrs. Hazelton before she got very far. “I know why I’m here.”

  Mrs. Hazelton sank back in her leather chair and folded her hands carefully on her desk. She was a still person, always. Still, calm and soft-spoken, even though her words were sometimes hard to hear.

  “Always the reporter, our Cady,” she said. “I suppose you interviewed the others as soon as they stepped out of my study.”

  You bet I did. And even after I’d learned why Mrs. Hazelton was seeing us each in turn instead of as a group, I told myself that nothing was going to change my plans.