by Sydney Avey
“Gold, gambling, and a growing olive industry are all I know. Come home, and we’ll figure it out.” Nellie sent her a train ticket.
They rented a small house in Spokane near Jessie, and Nellie helped Opal find clerical work. She bit her tongue and bridled her ambition, telling herself that it was just for a season.
It took Nellie only a few inquiries among her colleagues to discover that Jack was a gambler. But Opal could not acknowledge that Jack might not be ready to settle down, that family life with a drifter might not be in the cards. Gentle Opal would not confront her husband. She would wait.
Nellie had little hope that Opal’s letter campaign would lure Jack back to her side, but if anything could do the trick, perhaps it might have been the photograph a friend took of Opal and Leone. In the portrait, Opal shined in a stylish black dress that showed off her tiny waist. She sat on a small stool alongside her waif, who was dressed in a frilly white frock and seated on a tricycle. In the photo, Opal gazed at her child with a look of pure love. Leone looked straight at the camera, a small smile on her lips.
Three years ago, it had been that photo that Nellie spotted lying on top of a pile of mail when she returned home from work. Hadn’t Opal sent it to Jack? She heard noise in the hallway. Could Jack be …? A door shut. Nellie flipped the photo over and read the words penciled on the back. If only you saw her, you would never want to leave us. Down the hall, behind the closed door, someone sobbed. Nellie walked down the hall and tapped on the door.
“Opal?”
The bed creaked, and the door opened. Tear-stained Opal, holding Leone in her arms, stepped aside, and Nellie walked into the room.
“What has happened?”
Opal held out an envelope clutched in her free hand. Stamped in red across the Oroville address were official words, Return to Sender, Addressee Deceased.
Leone wriggled in her mother’s arms, and Opal set her down. When Nellie wrapped her arms around her daughter, the little girl began to wail. Opal pulled Leone into the folds of her skirt and rubbed her back.
“He never saw her. She will never know her father. What will I tell her?”
Nellie procured the death certificate. It wasn’t a weak character that killed Jack Barry; it was a weak constitution. At age twenty-five, he succumbed not to a gentleman’s disagreement or a barroom fight, but to pneumonia. A harsh winter, the virulent flu, and a compromised immune system put him in his grave.
The ensuing three years, Nellie had tried to be patient with her grieving daughter, but she had grown frustrated with Opal, who was sad and tired all the time. Hadn’t Nellie felt the same way after Mabel died? Yes, but in her experience, it was best not to sit too long with the loss. She must find a way to help Opal move forward.
Now six-year-old Leone hugged Nellie’s waist and raised her arms to her grandmother. Nellie placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders and pushed her arms gently to her sides.
“You are too big for me to pick up, Leone. You would break my back.”
Leone grinned and skipped off. Nellie called after her. “Get your coat. We need to get home so I can pack my bag.”
“Off again?” Jessie gave the counter a final swipe.
“Los Angeles.”
“How long this time?”
“Three or four weeks, I imagine. I am taking a little time off to look in on Johnny and meet his wife and son.”
“Oh good. I’ll be interested to hear if marriage has tamed that rascal son of yours.”
Before she left, Nellie slipped some money into an envelope and handed it to Opal with the suggestion that she employ a neighbor to watch Leone one evening and go out with her co-workers.
“Go see Douglas Fairbanks in Habit of Happiness,” she suggested. “That should cheer you up.” Her words sounded hollow, but maybe small doses of happiness could inoculate Opal against the chronic sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. She prayed it would be so.
11 - Displays of Grief
11
Displays of Grief
Los Angeles, 1916
Being on her own usually lifted Nellie’s spirits, but after a long day transcribing a lengthy cross-examination that yielded nothing significant, she was tired and sore. She limped through the downtown Los Angeles shopping district toward her hotel. Her toes throbbed in her tight shoes and her neck chafed under the starched white collar attached to her navy cotton-serge day dress.
At the end of a day like this one, the prospect of dining alone made her a little teary. On occasion, she would accept an invitation from a judge or attorney to dine at his club, but only if the evening held promise to produce enjoyable conversation. No such invitation had been extended.
The week before, Nellie had ridden the streetcar out to East Los Angeles to visit Johnny and meet his wife and their son—her grandson, she had to remind herself. A beautiful boy, but she would not be there to watch him grow up the way she likely would for her granddaughter. That’s how it was with sons.
This thought did nothing to coax Nellie from her dark mood. She was a block from her hotel when a floral fragrance with a lemony-peachy float pulled her from her malaise. The energizing scent lingered in the wake of a slender woman passing by on the street.
How lovely to be young and able to treat yourself to a little time in a parfumerie. The woman who now walked ahead of Nellie was all peaches and cream, from her blush-colored tea dress with its alabaster-satin-beribboned waistline to her delicately heeled shoes. Where was the sprite headed? To the Palm Court, to meet a gentleman? Back home, where a nanny waited to hand over a curly-headed tot? Nellie laughed at herself. How easy to imagine a dream life. Like a new perfume that warms on the skin, thrills the senses, and dissipates, so it was with dreams. After you wear them for awhile, you hardly notice.
Back in her hotel room, Nellie sat down at a small writing table and reached for words to describe her new daughter-in-law in a letter to Jessie.
Dearest Jessie,
How shall I describe the new Mrs. Scott? Her name suits her. She is a formal sort, very ladylike. That Johnny would choose jewel-like Pearl for such a rough setting surprises me. I am even more surprised that the latest Mrs. Scott accepted him, but they seem very much in love.
I sometimes wonder what my life would have been if I had considered my choices more carefully. At one time, married life seemed like freedom. I did not realize then that I would be chained to home and hearth, while my husband roamed freely.
I can only hope that Pearl will turn out to be a better homemaker than I was and that Johnny will be more appreciative of her unique talents than his father was of mine. Of course, I’ve yet to discover what those talents are, but every woman has them. I can say this, she is soft-spoken, and there is a natural sweetness about her that puts one at ease. That’s a talent, don’t you think?
It was a joy to meet my new grandson, another, John! They call him Jackie. He is adorable.
Ever,
Nellie
R
Nellie continued to arrange her schedule to remain in Spokane as much as possible. A year passed, and the United States finally declared war on Germany. An upshot for Nellie, Opal, and Leone was that female households were now the norm. Women planted victory gardens and went to work filling the jobs men left behind. A sense of sisterhood pervaded neighborhoods and workplaces.
Nellie happened to be back in Los Angeles when she received some sad news. One day while she worked with other officers of the court filling in for members of the legal community who had marched into battle, her supervisor pulled her away from her desk to take a telephone call. The caller identified herself as Leota. The young woman had to talk awhile before Nellie put together that the bearer of bad news was her former husband’s new wife.
Leota and Pearl had taken three-year-old Jackie shopping for his birthday. Leota relayed what had happened in a somber, halting monotone. Nellie had to strain to catch it all. The gist of it was that as a special treat, Pearl bought the boy a balloon. She wound the string ligh
tly around his wrist and cautioned him to keep a tight hold of it. What happened next played out in Nellie’s mind like a silent film. So mesmerized was the child by the bright red balloon bobbing in the air, he let go of the string. A breeze tugged the balloon, the string unraveled from its loose tether, and the balloon floated off. With a yowl, young Jackie pulled away from his mother and dashed into the street to retrieve his prize. He was hit by a motor car and killed instantly.
Several days after the funeral Nellie found herself sitting in the circle of her ex-husband’s new family. Although she was hesitant to intrude on their grief, she accepted an invitation to her son’s new Spanish bungalow. The visit required more courage than she had anticipated.
Pearl never left her bedroom. The men quickly excused themselves to the backyard, and Johnny followed. Through the window, Nellie watched them adjust their hats, wipe their brows, smoke cigarettes down to the nub, and stub the butts out in the palms of their hands. Furtively, they looked over their shoulders toward the window before swigging the communal flask that passed hand to hand.
When Nellie pulled her attention away from the men, a pattern of smudges on the window above the slipcovered sofa came into focus. Pearl was an excellent housekeeper. How did those smudges get there? Fingerprints. Oh God, tiny fingerprints formed parentheses around a nose print. Directly below, she thought she could make out the outline of little lips. Her imagination filled in the hunched shoulders, the blond curls on the back of a child’s head as he stood on the sofa and pressed his face to the window. For an instant, Nellie thought the specter of the boy was in the room. A last farewell. She pinched the inside of her arm, and the wraith vanished.
Nellie desperately wanted to get up, get a towel, and wipe the evidence away to spare Pearl renewed anguish. Instead of sitting here murmuring about nothing, shouldn’t these women be making plans for how to help the grieving mother dispose of reminders of her loss?
After Mabel had died, Nellie had been quick to get rid of her things. All that remained of her eldest daughter were the childish possessions of a young girl barely out of her teens, one who left no legacy of womanhood. And now, this war. How many other young lives would be cut short? How many women would lose themselves in sorrow while their men drowned their grief in drink? A woman who lost a husband was a widow. A child who lost parents was an orphan. What was a mother who lost a child?
It was selfish she knew, but she was grateful that her only son had passed his thirtieth birthday by the time the Selective Service Act became law. Perhaps Johnny and Pearl would have more children.
In the tiny stucco house, the bedroom door remained closed. In the living room, the women continued to prattle. Was it her place to organize them in a campaign to coax Pearl from her tomb back into the land of the living? No. She had no place here. Nellie made her excuses and let herself out the front door to catch the trolley back to her hotel.
Perhaps she should have gone around to the backyard to say goodbye to Johnny. She hesitated at the end of the walkway.
“Nellie?”
John’s voice sounded in her ears. She turned to see him round the corner of the house and lope toward her.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I …,”
“Okay, well, could we talk for a minute?”
He planted himself in front of her and hung his head, tapping the palms of his hands against his thighs.
“What’s on your mind, John?”
He raised his head, and she saw something she had seen only once before. His eyes glistened with tears.
“He was a sweet boy. I can’t believe he’s gone.” John pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and blew his nose. “First our Mabel, and now our Jackie.” He shook his head slowly. “The sins of the father, I guess.”
“What are you saying?”
“I should have been able to keep us all together.”
“You think this was God’s judgment?” Nellie put her hands on her hips. “Accidents. These were accidents. No one is to blame.” She reached out, grasped John’s shoulder, and held him at arm’s length. “You think I haven’t said the same thing to myself?” When her voice broke, John pulled her into his chest, and they both sobbed.
Nellie was the first to back away. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she glanced toward the curtained front windows. “Goodness, I hope no one saw that.”
John shrugged. “Pay no mind to that, Nellie. If we can’t mourn our children together, what was it all for?”
John stood tall and resumed his habit of beating his hands in rhythm against his legs. “How are Opal and her little girl?”
“They are getting by. Opal appreciates the money you send.”
John slid his hands into his pockets. “I do what I can.”
Silence like an old friend took up a familiar place between them. If she had any overtures left to make, now was the time. “I don’t know if I’ve told you: I like Leota very much. For one so young, she appears quite capable.”
John laughed. “I seem to be drawn to capable women, don’t I?”
“What I mean to say is that she is capable in ways I am not. She handles family matters well.”
“I suppose she does.”
Before the conversation could go any further, the front door opened. Visitors engaged in extended leave-taking spilled onto the porch. Nellie used the distraction to scoot away.
On the trolley, she reviewed her encounter with John. To know that he thought of her as capable in any sense gave her comfort. She would write Johnny and Pearl a long letter of sympathy and encouragement. Well chosen, heartfelt words were of much more value than inadequate postures of grief. She would find the right words. Expressing herself on paper—of that, she was more than capable.
R
When Nellie returned to Spokane, she described the goings-on to Jessie, omitting the part about her encounter with John. When she got to the part about her desire to help by packing up all remembrances, her sister looked troubled.
“Don’t you ever feel like you might have been hasty in getting rid of every reminder of Mabel?”
“Why dredge up such sorrow?”
“Perhaps sorrow is the path we have to walk to preserve the memory of someone we love.” Jessie excused herself and left the room, returning several minutes later holding Mabel’s treasure box, her scrapbook, and her bisque doll. When she laid the keepsakes in Nellie’s lap, tears left unshed washed down Nellie’s cheeks.
“How?”
“I know we agreed that I would dispose of everything that belonged to Mabel, but I feared there might come a day when you regretted that decision. I kept a few things back.”
Nellie picked up the doll. She ran a finger across its round glass eyes—brilliantly blue, clear and unseeing—eyes that fixed on the unknown. A familiar pain thrust itself deeply into her chest, a quick cut that took her breath away but did not stop her heart. When she was able to catch her breath again, she felt peace settle into her inner being and begin to do its healing work. Perhaps Pearl knew best. Maybe the only way to grieve was to be allowed to feel the pain.
12 - Madame Cyrette’s Jewels
12
Madame Cyrette’s Jewels
Los Angeles, 1918
Work took Nellie back to Los Angeles more often than she anticipated. Was it short staff and long hours that frazzled her nerves, or was she in a temper because what had once been a joy was now routine? Walking back to her hotel at the end of a particularly grueling day, she spotted a bevy of beautifully dressed ladies of leisure gathered in a circle on the walkway ahead. Laughter spilled from their midst. She supposed she would have to step into the street to get around them.
If any one of these aimless women had to earn her keep, she wouldn’t have the energy to flit about the street like a songbird announcing her discovery of juicy berries. Nellie’s tongue was beginning to stick to the roof of her mouth. She looked across the street to see if she might escape to a cafe and refresh herself with a glass
of iced berry tea. She was stepping into the crosswalk when one of the songbirds called out her name.
Bright sun shone behind the figure of a tall woman. Nellie could not make out her features. The woman broke from the flock and glided toward Nellie, her silhouette shimmering in the heat. Nellie did not register the face until she was close enough to take in the pointy-toed Italian-heeled satin shoes peeking out from under the hem of a frothy frock and the delicate gold chain studded with precious stones that rested on lovely collar bones. The miner’s wife!
Mrs. McGregory took up Nellie’s hands in her own and greeted her effusively. As she spoke, Nellie detected a slight accent she did not recall hearing before. Not Irish. No, it was French. Mrs. McGregory volunteered answers to questions Nellie would have asked, given a chance. At the same time, she kept a sharp eye on her companions. Los Angeles was now her home, she offered. Life had treated her well. She’d been lucky.
The tittering throng broke apart and began picking their way closer. Mrs. McGregory leaned in and whispered in Nellie’s ear. “Please. No one here knows me by my old name. I am known as Madame Cyrette.” She squeezed Nellie’s hand. “Madame Cyrette. Please remember.” Pressing a calling card into Nellie’s hand, she extracted the promise of a visit to her apartment. “I live in a fashionable section of the city: you’ll see.” As she turned to go, a breeze lifted the hem of her billowy skirt. She fairly floated in the direction of her friends, stopping once to turn back briefly and call out to Nellie, “J’ai beaucoup à vous raconter!”
Nellie stood alone on the sidewalk betting that, indeed, Madam would have much to tell her. Forget the cafe across the street. She marched herself over to West Seventh, took the lift to the twelfth floor, and entered the elegant new Mary Louise Tea Room.
Shoppers seated all around her were tucking into Thursday’s special, chicken dinners. A waitress costumed in a svelte black dress and a spotless white apron secured at the waist by an ample bow set a plate in front of her. The breast of chicken glistened on white china. Buttered English peas, glazed carrot coins, and a scoop of mashed potato smothered in chicken gravy circled the piece of roasted poultry. Nellie spread a linen napkin across her lap, took a few sips of her mineral water, and savored the aroma in the steam rising from her plate. When was the last time dinner had been an occasion? The holidays with Opal and Leone, she supposed. She placed a forkful of moist chicken in her mouth.