I Don't Know How the Story Ends Read Free

with sunlight bursting through the blind and Sylvie taking up most of the berth. My body felt like it had been wadded up and pushed in the corner. Later still, rumpled and blinking, we three stepped down from the coach at Los Angeles Central Station.
    No one rushed up shouting our names. We walked down the platform, away from the chuffing locomotive with its shroud of steam and coal smoke that smells the same wherever you are. At the end of the platform, the midmorning sun leaped upon us.
    It wasn’t just strong—it was muscular , like a burly masseuse at a Turkish bath, kneading our arms and faces and backs with such energy that Mother arched her back and almost purred, “Ah, California…”
    When I tried arching my back and breathing deeply, the sweet, dusty air just made me sneeze. Meanwhile, the sun was poking fingers (in a manner of speaking) into my very bones.
    â€œMattie!” came a cry from the other end of the platform, and we turned in that direction. Aunt Buzzy was flying at us, followed by an Oriental fellow in a blue uniform, who managed to not look like he was rushing, though of course he was.
    Aunt Buzzy’s real name is Beatrice, but the story is her brother started calling her “Buzzy” when she was born because he was only three at the time and couldn’t manage three syllables. Now that same brother, my uncle Moss, is a banker in Santa Barbara and can manage any number of syllables, but Buzzy’s nickname stuck. Everyone calls her that except Mother. Buzzy doesn’t buzz, but she is busy as a bee, so the name is not too amiss. Also, she’s honey-colored from her ankles to her golden hair, with a clover field of freckles (whence Sylvie gets them) scattered across her nose.
    She sped toward us with such determination that I felt a breeze. “Little Sylvie, how you’ve grown!” Our aunt squeezed my sister’s arms until she peeped like a baby chick. “Belladonna!” This was her pet name for me, after Mother put her foot down on Izzy . “I declare, you look more like your mother every time I see you!” I got my face squeezed instead of my arms, which mangled my smile but didn’t hurt.
    â€œDear Mattie.” This is short for Matilda, which Mother doesn’t like but puts up with. The sisters—who don’t look like sisters because one is fair and flyaway, while the other is dark and reserved—embraced while Aunt Buzzy whispered a few words in Mother’s ear. Probably regarding Father, for both looked solemn for a moment.
    â€œBut now ,” said my aunt, as if one solemn moment was quite enough, “we’re going to have such high times. I can’t wait to show you the house and introduce you to my new family, and, oh! to begin with, this is Masaji, our chauffeur.”
    Still catching his breath, the denizen of the exotic East bowed to us, and Sylvie and I bowed back. Mother tipped her head, but I could see she was much impressed. We knew Buzzy had married well , but didn’t know it was well enough to employ a chauffeur—and where there was a chauffeur, there was bound to be a large, shiny automobile.
    There was—and what an auto! My father owned a Model T, black and plain as his medical bag, to get around to patients in Seattle. But Aunt Buzzy’s vehicle was a long, pearl-gray Packard Town Car with morocco leather seats and a fold-down top, now open to the dazzling sunshine. Mr. Masaji tucked Sylvie and me into the rumble seat, snug as birdies in a nest. Then he handed the ladies into the backseat, clucked around to the front, and sped away as Sylvie shrieked in delight.
    â€œWell!” Mother remarked, adjusting her veil against the wind, “I must say, Bea, you’ve done well for yourself.”
    Mr. Titus Bell had hired my aunt some years back to tutor his only child and finally ended up asking for her hand in marriage. It was just like Mr. Rochester and Jane Eyre, although