9
CHAPTER ONE
MacCarthy Residence
San Francisco, California
October 6, 1936
It only took a stitch, maybe two, before I drew blood.
Mam circled my chair like a hawk ferreting out its prey.
Stalking. Waiting. She’d spent countless hours in the parlor with
me, explaining how to properly hold a needle to darn socks or
reattach buttons. The knots in my shoulders tightened. The pad
of my finger bloomed red. I welcomed the sting. It was the perfect
distraction from Mam’s stare.
“Keep trying, Wilhelmina.”
She ran a hand over her ink-black hair stretched tight against
her scalp. The low hiss escaping her mouth resembled our old
teapot coming to boil on the stove.
“Place the needle against the button just below the collar.”
The tinge of sadness that always filled her voice forced me to sink
lower in my chair.
As I was about to place the needle against the fabric again,
low voices filled the apartment. Da and Father 2’Sullivan entered,
discussing last Sunday’s sermon about Wall Street and the current
economic state of the country. It was a favorite topic of Father
2’Sullivan, who continually railed on about the Depression and
the greediness of mankind.
When the men found Mam and me in the parlor their conver-
sation stopped. Father 2’Sullivan scrubbed a hand through his
