Trusting Gibralter

So, here's the story I've begun. Is it worth continuing?
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East Miami, Florida
1927

On the morning of her fourth birthday, Helen Everett opened her eyes and began whispering to herself in a sing-song voice, "Now I am four. I'm not three any more. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four." She got out of bed and tiptoed out of the room she shared with her older brother Arthur. "Now I am four," she was saying under her breath, as she headed for the kitchen, where the pleasant sound of eggs scrambling told her that her mother was already awake. "I'm not three anymore..."

In fact, Helen spent most of her days whispering to herself. Despite bright eyes that missed nothing, Helen was shy amongst strangers, clinging to her mother's skirts and murmuring quietly as they walked through the grocer's or the dry goods store. When people first met the Everetts, they usually stared a little too hard at Helen, trying to reconcile her pixie prettiness with the oddity of her constantly-moving, yet silent, lips. What they did not know was that Helen was as likely to be repeating whatever words they spoke to her mother as to be murmuring a little refrain of her own. For Helen not only saw everything; she took it all in too.

Eyes bright with anticipation, Helen skipped into the kitchen.

“Happy Birthday, my darling!” her mother sang out, looking up from her bowl and whisk.

Helen climbed up into a green chair that her mother had painted only the week before. Now I add the cinnamon, Helen whispered to herself, narrating the well-known process of preparing French Toast batter, as her mother reached for the shaker. Stir stir stir stir stir. Now the vanilla. No sound escaped Helen’s lips, despite their movement.

Her mother smiled at her just as Doris and Henrietta wandered into the room. Helen loved the soft, pretty Doris like a second mother – which is to say, she did what Doris told her, felt very sorry when she did something Doris found necessary to scold, and liked to curl up on Doris’s lap when she was in a good mood for telling stories. Doris gave her a hug and whispered a birthday wish in Helen’s ear.

There was nothing quiet about Henrietta. “Happy Birthday, Peanut!” she boomed, ruffling Helen’s hair.

“Hen-ryyyy!” squealed Helen with delight, trying to smooth her tousled mess.

“Sorry, Sport,” said Henrietta, grinning. “Couldn’t help myself. Say, listen! I’ve got a birthday surprise for you. After breakfast, just you and me, we’re going outside, and…” she paused.

“And what? And what?!” demanded Helen with excitement. “What is it? What’s my surprise?” She bounced a little in her chair, punctuating her questions. “What is it? What? What? What? What? What?!”

“Oops. Sorry. Can’t tell you that, Sport. Then it wouldn’t be a surprise any more.”

“Hen-rryyyyy!” groaned Helen. Their mother, Viola, pinched her lips together a little too tightly but didn’t say anything. Helen was the only one in the family who called her older sister “Henry.” It had been endearing when she was younger, her lisping out “Do-with” and “Hen-wee” to designate her big sisters. Now, certainly, she could speak well enough to manage the full “Henrietta,” but she seemed to sense the truth—that the laughing, sporty, vivid Henrietta preferred the short version. Helen’s devotion to her Henry was remarkable, particularly given the eleven years’ difference in their ages. And so Viola, while she did not approve of the boyish nickname, had not had the heart to insist that Helen give it up. Next year, she thought to herself, next year will be soon enough for Helen to lose her childish ways.

Viola was proud of Henrietta’s athleticism and grateful, too, for how much of an interest the older girl took in her little sister. Doris was, to be sure, more helpful around the house – pitching in with the endless washing, cooking, and gardening, not to mention the home repairs they had contracted to do in lieu of rent. On the days when Viola’s headaches overwhelmed her, or her spirits were too low to take much of an interest in anything, it was Doris who made sure that the little ones got their lunches and lessons, even though she herself was still a year away from graduating high school. But it was Henrietta who loved Helen as if she was her own.

“Would someone please go wake Arthur?” Viola asked. “Tell him he’s going to miss the birthday breakfast if he doesn’t hurry.”

“I will,” Helen, slipping down off her chair. Birthday breakfast. Breakfast time. Birthday time. Break-faaaast. Birthday birthday breakfast time, she murmured as she went after her brother.

It wasn’t long before six-year-old Arthur had joined his sisters and mother, and everyone was happily eating French toast. They were just finishing the meal when their father walked through the kitchen door, a smile on his face.

“Daddy!” shrieked Helen. He gathered her up in his arms and swung her around. “Happy Birthday, my Blarney,” he said, giving his wife a significant look above his daughter’s head. Viola closed her mouth and didn’t ask what he was doing home from the store just two hours after opening it.

“Who would like to spend a birthday at the beach?” he asked gaily. As the little ones started clamoring, “me me me me me!” his wife shook her head slightly, trying to indicate to him that they didn’t have food in the house suitable for a picnic. Lloyd ignored her warning. “I’ve got a bag sitting in the car right now, full of the most wonderful birthday picnic you ever tasted,” he said to Helen. “We’ll be off just as soon as you all can gather your things.”

Helen dashed towards her bedroom, and then stopped suddenly. “Oh, Henry,” she wailed, her eyes tearing up. “Does this mean I’ll miss your birthday surprise?” A sensitive child, Helen was almost as worried about hurting Henry’s feelings by forgetting about the surprise she’d planned as she was about missing it herself. Almost.

“Don’t worry,” Henry laughed. “The beach is an even better place for me to give you your surprise. I’ll just bring it with us.”

In the midst of her children’s happy commotion of getting ready for their impromptu holiday, Viola puzzled over her husband’s presence at home in the middle of the day. Surely he hadn’t given up another job? They could ill afford to be without an income again after so few paychecks. She was good at stretching their pennies, but she could not stretch what did not exist. And it would be several more months of steady practice on the church’s organ before she was really proficient enough to supplement their income.

A picnic! Such an extravagance. Not to mention the day’s wages lost, the cost of the gas to get them all out to the beach and back for the day. She totted up the figures in her head—mental arithmetic was her strong suit—as she packed swimming suits and towels, smiling a little in spite of herself when she thought how happy the children and she would all be for a change of scene. Leave it to Lloyd to plan something special for his Blarney’s birthday. He always had doted on that child.

If only she could understand the cryptic look Lloyd had given her as he walked out to load up their things in the car. Don’t worry, the look seemed to say, everything will be just fine.

She hoped, this time, that she could believe him.