We needed a chance to gossip and giggle about those boys, after all. So I was mighty surprised to arrive downstairs one bright autumn day in ’55 and find no Hattie.She was never even two minutes tardy, and that day of all days, I figured she would be punctual. Miss Mapps had arranged for Miss Elizabeth Greenfield, who sang at Buckingham Palace before Queen Victoria only a year earlier, to visit our class. Hattie was already lording it over her sister Charlotte that she was to meet the famed Black Swan. Yet here she was, or rather here she wasn’t, about to make us both late.Hattie was always up long before school, taking breakfast with her father before he crossed the property to tend North Star, the chestnut mare with a bright blaze that he kept to pull his glass-paneled hearse. But as I hurried up Sixth Street to their lot, I saw the stable doors were locked, the shutters still closed on the undertaker’s shop. I made my way to the house, worry catching my breath. When Hattie answered my knock, I saw her hair wasn’t pulled back, and her bonnet sat crooked on her head.“What’s the matter?”
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