Her feet hurt, and her shoulders ached from hefting the burden of a rucksack stuffed with her journals, some photos, her laptop, and a childhood doll. She limped along, thinking about what she was forced to leave behind—her beloved cat, a cherished guitar, favorite books. Stopping, she leaned against a lamppost, breathing heavily, her eyes stinging with tears.
The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a buttery glow on the quiet street as the homeless began to emerge from their wraps, yawning, stretching, and gathering their belongings. She looked around at the buildings scarred with graffiti, the street crowded with people like herself with nowhere to go except doorways and dark alleys, people who had nothing but their own precious junk and painful memories. She knew she couldn’t linger—she’d have to leave soon, or he’d find her and drag her home, his rage ready to explode behind closed curtains.
Somewhere down the road a dog barked, a siren whooped, a door slammed. Vendors at the market were opening stalls, greeting each other. The city was waking, going about its business. She slumped onto a bench next to a bus stop. Just a few more minutes, she thought, as she buried her head in her hands.
Above her, from an open window, notes from a piano floated in the morning air, a slow mournful song that spilled into her heart and filled its empty chambers with golden light. Looking up, she watched as two ring-necked doves alighted on a flowering plum across the street, their gentle coos harmonizing with the piano.
“Got any spare change?”
Turning, Aurora saw an old woman wearing a bulky coat, baggy pants, rubber boots, and a stocking cap with long ear flaps. The woman’s face was a map of wrinkles, her eyes like two bright buttons, her smile missing a few teeth. She looked at Aurora expectantly, her shaky gnarled hand extended.
The woman reminded Aurora of her Gramma Dodie, now long dead, who had always dressed in men’s pants, knee-high work boots, flannel shirt, and what she called her snake hat. Working dawn to dusk on the farm when Aurora visited in the summers, Dodie was all business; but when the outdoor work was done, she always found time to bake cookies, tell funny stories, and pass along her wisdom. Always do your best, she’d say, handing Aurora a plate of oven-warm snickerdoodles and a glass of milk. Don’t take no guff from nobody. Be kind to others.
Aurora could hear Dodie’s voice as though it were yesterday, her words a reminder she hadn’t done her best or reached out to others. Instead, Aurora’s life had been a series of dead-end jobs and deadbeat men. She thought about her boyfriend—his vicious remarks, fisted hands, her pleading and cowering, her furtive escape as he sprawled, passed out, on the couch.
No more guff, Gramma. No. More.
She studied the beggar, torn between helping or ignoring her. That could be me.
As the old woman frowned, lowered her hand, and turned to go, Aurora noticed the tabby on a leash, tiptoeing behind the old woman as she shuffled down the sidewalk.
“Wait!” Aurora stood stiffly and adjusted her pack. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a handful of bills, selected a ten, paused a moment, then gave the woman a twenty. “It’s not much, but—”
“God bless you, child,” the woman said, tucking the money into her pocket. “Come along, now, Sweetpea. Mama’s gonna get us some breakfast.”
Aurora watched until they turned the corner. Then she headed toward the depot, her smile bright as the dawn.
Liszt was appropriate, considering the circumstances. Something soothing, a lullaby, perhaps. Consolation or maybe Sonnambula.
Gerard looked around at the panicked passengers—a mother crying, clinging to her two children, their faces wide-eyed and pale. Men crowding the deck cursed the pursers distributing life vests. After a man knocked down an older woman and snatched her vest, another passenger wrenched the vest out of his arms and returned it. The woman’s eyes were grateful but resigned.
Feeling his world tilt, Gerard grabbed the railing, fell to his knees, and inched his way across the deck, his violin held protectively against his heart. Wedging himself in a doorway, he slowly rose, legs and feet pressed tightly against the frame to keep his balance. As more people lurched past him, the cacophony of their screams and sobs, and the fear and desperation in their faces, were all the inspiration he needed to raise his violin and begin a series of slow mournful notes from Consolation.
Walter, a fellow musician, cautiously made his way along the wall to Gerard and, leaning against a ladder to remain upright, began to harmonize with his viola, the two men fighting the horror of their situation with rapturous melody. Both wore beatific smiles, fingers and bows lovingly caressing their instruments. Their music touched the panicked passengers, slowing them, calming them, inviting them to spend their last moments with memories of country dances, first kisses, the laughter of children, birdsong on a summer morning, the ripple of a mountain brook, a lover’s touch.
The ship listed again, throwing people to their knees. Still the men played, soon joined by the cellist Ronaldo, his instrument missing a string. For a few minutes, frantic passengers stopped, slumped against the bulkheads, shoulder to shoulder, hands entwined, their tears drying, to listen to their fervent music
Gerard watched a young mother cradle her baby, thinking of his own wife and infant son safe at home beside a crackling fire, sharing a snuggle, a lullaby. Choking back a sob, he began the opening notes of From Cradle to Grave, Walter and Renaldo joining him, the funereal tone filling the chill night air with tender farewells.
The ship abruptly tilted, catapulting passengers toward the bow and the frigid waters below. Clinging to his position in a doorway, Gerard continued to play, his fear intensifying the music’s emotion. Walter wedged himself opposite him, tears spilling down his cheeks as, together, they ended the sonata.
It was eerily quiet; only a few listeners remained, faces rapt and expectant. “Please, sir, one more for the road,” an older gentleman requested. The ship jerked and shuddered, plunging several more passengers into the icy sea. Renaldo, embracing his cello like a lover, slid past them silently.
“Totentanz?” Walter asked.
“Totentanz it shall be,” Gerard murmured as he raised his violin and drew his bow along the strings for one last performance.
It’s 1998 in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, where the close-knit Italian-American community clings to its traditions. The week of Halloween a shocking discovery shatters the festivities, when the body of an unpopular neighbor is found on her balcony, disguised as a holiday witch.
Helper, a beloved local handyman, becomes a suspect in the ensuing investigation. When his own nephew becomes one of the detectives on the case, long-held secrets and buried traumas are revealed.
The complexities of justice and family loyalty are explored from three perspectives in this captivating story, while this special neighborhood is depicted with warmth and wit.
“The beating heart of Carroll Gardens Story is its wonderful depiction of the Brooklyn neighbourhood, which Frances brings to vivid life through her authentic, quirky and complex characters… a powerful journey about the importance of acknowledging and speaking the truth before real healing can begin. May this be only the first of many more Sally Frances books to come!”
— Ann Lambert, author of the Russell and Leduc Murder Mystery Series
“Sally Frances writes with clarity and emotion, and each character has a distinctive voice. Readers who enjoy The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold will find Carroll Gardens Story similar in its exploration of trauma, healing, and the ripple effects of a mysterious death on a community, told through deeply personal perspectives.”
— Carol Thompson for Readers’ Favorite
Available from Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, and your local independent bookstore.
Helen Bar-Lev has lived in Israel since 1973. She has had over 100 exhibitions of her landscape paintings. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and is the recipient of the Homer European Medal for Poetry and Art. Helen is a member of Voices Israel and the Israel Artists Association.
Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher who publishes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, most recently in Persimmon Tree, WordPeace, The Marbled Sigh, Moonflake Press, and several anthologies.