by Sydney Avey
Willem’s eyes grew even bigger and he popped a gooey pineapple chunk into this mouth. Cake crumbs danced on his lips as he returned his attention to Nellie.
“So, I will come right to the point.” He jabbed the air with his fork. “I find myself in need of a traveling companion.”
His words hung in the air while Nellie tried to digest their meaning. “A traveling companion. What do you mean?” Like a series of short films, several scenarios cycled through her imagination. An assistant to handle details? An attending nurse? He looked well enough. Surely he was not suggesting they travel together as friends, or … Oh my.
“I’ve been alone too long,” she heard him say when she pulled her head out of the newsreel. He made his case, laid out logical arguments, and supported them with evidence. They’d known each other for years, were alike in so many ways, could be a comfort to each other in their …”
“Old age.” Nellie finished his sentence.
“Of course, for you and me that is a long way off. Admittedly, a longer way off for you than for me.” He pushed his chair away from the table, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and leaned back, cradling his head in this hands. “Though I expect we would have many good years together.”
Nellie did not know whether to laugh or to reach across the table and slap the old codger. Her face must have shown her confusion because his expression softened. He sat up straight and reached across the table for her hand.
“Forgive me. I can see I have not made myself clear. Nellie, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Years of experience in Willem’s courtroom told her he did not like to have his time wasted, but this was Nellie’s first marriage proposal. John had never properly asked her; he had just taken for granted that she would honor her parents’ wishes. Surely this time she was due some cross-examination.
“So, we aren’t discussing a business arrangement.”
He chuckled. “No, Nellie, I have too much respect for you, and for myself, to suggest any arrangement short of a proper marriage.” As if reading her thoughts, he continued, “Proper in every sense of the word.”
“And when was it that you came to feel about me in that way? Until this moment, I have had no indication.”
“I’ve had my eye on you for years.”
Nellie tilted her head but held her tongue.
The judge cleared his throat. “Of course I mean the last few years following my wife’s death.” He made his case. “You are an attractive woman with a good head on your shoulders. I am a wealthy man, not unattractive, women who would love to be in your shoes tell me.”
Oh how Nellie wished he had stopped talking before he got to the heart of his intention. Like the young man of privilege who had chosen Helen, the judge wished to bestow himself on a less fortunate soul who would be grateful for the attention. Eustace had done her a favor when he failed to fulfill her dream. Now she would do the same for the judge.
“Willem, you are indeed a most attractive man, and I am honored by your proposal. Regretfully, I cannot accept.” She closed her eyes briefly. What possible excuse could she make? Opal’s face floated before her. She opened her eyes. “I have family obligations that would prevent me from devoting myself to you in the way you”—she fished for words—“deserve.”
Dipping his chin in acknowledgment of her generous act of self-sacrifice, Willem reached for the check the proprietor had set down by his elbow. He took a few moments to inspect the bill for errors and then raised his eyes to hers. “I was not aware you had a personal situation.”
Becoming uncharacteristically chatty, Nellie prattled on about a daughter in need of her help and a granddaughter in need of her guidance. When the judge dropped her at the door of the inn, he reached for her hands and held them between his. “Thank you for your delightful company this evening, Mrs. Scott. I am disappointed. Yes. But I want you to know how much I have valued your friendship over the years. I hope we will remain friends.”
She assured him they would.
After retiring to her room and preparing herself for bed, Nellie poured her thoughts out in a letter to Jessie.
Dear Jessie,
Tonight I turned down a marriage proposal from a judge, a widower who wished to spend his remaining years in my company. In his retirement, we would have traveled the world together. He is a wealthy gentleman, highly respected in his profession. Even though I vowed never to remarry, I must admit that for a moment, I considered accepting his proposal. Then it hit me. Love was not part of the bargain.
I do not consider myself a romantic. Indeed, I have always prided myself on being a realist. Perhaps love would have grown, but that has not been my experience. I have achieved far more in life than I ever imagined, but I find myself regretting I know so little about love. If it is not a yearning that can be satisfied by proper attention, or a contract two parties enter into for mutual benefit, then what is it?
Looking back, I think I have only seen true love once. Strangely, it was between an old soldier in ill health and an ancient Indian outcast. I saw between them a trust and respect I have never seen before or since. They took joy in meeting each other’s needs. They seemed to complete each other. How odd that these two scraggly people should come to mind as the only illustration I have of love.
I used Opal and Leone as my excuse for turning down the judge. As it happens, Leone is becoming quite a handful, and Opal really could use my help. Maybe it’s time for me to stop traveling and stay closer to home.
Fondly,
Nellie
19 - Poor Clara Ritzwell
19
Poor Clara Ritzwell
Portland, 1928
As Nellie grew older, fewer assignments came her way. Despite what she had always said about making room for younger women to move up through the ranks, it was a bitter pill. If she had not had her family to fall back on—if Opal had chosen to stay in New York— these present times would be even harder.
From time to time she heard from Judge Acker, who traveled in Europe most of the year with his new wife, an Italian socialite he met on a crossing a few months after Nellie turned him down. When he wrote to her, he often inquired about mutual acquaintances. One name came up frequently. Poor Clara Ritzwell.
Nellie told Clara’s story whenever she wanted to make a point. Today, Leone was her captive audience, and the point she wanted to make was about poor decisions.
“Stocks are the new gold rush,” she lectured Leone, who cared not a whit about the stock market. “And bankers and businessmen celebrate. What many fail to calculate is that as secure as they may feel, one poor decision can impoverish a life.”
Leone stood before the mirror in the bedroom she shared with Jane, admiring her new hairdo, a short bob.
“Are you listening? You don’t want to be the woman looking backward at a string of bad choices that involve men or money.”
“But you said,” Leone mocked the words her grandmother often repeated, “‘it was the cruel heartlessness of her own sex that caused all the trouble.’ Remind me again, Grandmother. Who was Clara?”
Nellie sat on the edge of the twin bed. “An acquaintance. That’s of no consequence. What’s important is that if she had stopped to think, she might never have left her husband in such haste.”
Leone inspected her nails and glanced at her bare wrist. “I need a new watch. Do you know what time it is?”
“Hear me out, Leone. Your friends will just have to wait.”
Leone slumped. She plopped heavily on the bed beside her grandmother. Nellie took her hand and launched into the oft-told tale.
“The quarrel was childish. Clara and George disagreed on whose parents’ photographs to place first in the family album. Can you imagine?”
Leone shook her head. “That’s just silly.” She crossed her legs and wiggled her foot.
Nellie slapped Leone’s knee lightly. “Be still and listen.
“Clara’s mother might have instructed young
Clara on what manipulations to employ to bridge the difficulty—”
“‘But that lady was in her grave,’” Leone finished Nellie’s sentence. “I’ve heard this story before.”
“Not all of it, you haven’t. So offended was Clara by George’s stubborn insistence that his family tree was all the shelter she required, the silly fool saw nothing for it but to pack her bags and take herself and baby Loraine off to Los Angeles to stay with her grandmother.”
“She had a baby?”
“They had a baby. And Clara fully expected that George would follow her and beg for forgiveness. She would take him back, and they would live in a state of marital bliss built on a foundation of mutual respect.”
“She should have put those cards on the table in the first place.” Leone snickered and smoothed her short skirt over her knees.
“Perhaps. Anyway, Clara’s grandmother was a querulous soul; stiff joints, small mind, living on a widow’s pittance. She welcomed Clara into her home.”
“I’ll bet she did. She needed a nurse.” Leone stood and began to pick up her clothes piled on the floor. “How old was this tootsie, anyway?”
“Three or four years older than you. Girls married early in those days. Anyway, weeks turned into months, and Clara wearied of caring for a cranky old lady on top of tending to a baby, but she was too proud to write to George. A year went by, and George divorced her on the grounds of desertion. And that was that.”
“You mean she never saw George again? The baby never saw her father again? Clara had to live permanently with her grandmother?”
“Awful thought, isn’t it.” Nellie laughed. “That’s right. And she was isolated from the life a young woman should have. Her only moments of peace were her walks in the park with Loraine while her grandmother descended into a narcotic abyss.”
“What kind of narcotics?”
“It’s well you ask. Laudanum. Doctors prescribe all sorts of medicines that seem to do more harm than good. But that wasn’t the worst. The old lady didn’t know that her income barely sufficed to pay for her medicine and put food on the table, or that her mortgage payments were in arrears. Clara blamed her grandmother’s spartan life on her parsimonious spirit. Neither of them anticipated the financial disaster that was about to fall.”
Leone frowned. “How do you know this woman?”
“In my position with the court, I became acquainted with many people’s circumstances. I have been known to drop an occasional hint to cause someone to reconsider the wisdom of doing nothing.”
Leone opened her mouth to retort. Nellie held up a hand. “But a person of Clara’s intrepid character often requires more than a hint.” She leveled her eyes at Leone. “A bold nature wants a bolt of lightning to turn them from the path of destruction. I was nearing the end of my career. I simply could not summon that energy, and so I said nothing. I regret that.”
“What happened to her and her baby?”
“I did keep tabs on Clara and Loraine as they struggled to overcome Clara’s ill-advised decision to let her marriage die of neglect. You would think that would have been enough of a lesson. She should have learned to think through her actions in light of the possible consequences.” Nellie tapped her temple.
The clock in the living room sounded the quarter hour. Leone walked to the tiny bedroom closet, dropped a stack of folded clothes on the floor and reached for her coat. Nellie kept talking.
“It was in the park where she often walked to clear her head that Clara encountered Mr. Frank Brown, a wealthy tobacco dealer on vacation.”
Leone pulled her coat from its hanger and draped it over her arm. She moved to the doorway and turned to face her grandmother.
Nellie matched her granddaughter’s impatience by continuing her story with exaggerated slowness. “Innocent flirtations led to equally innocent assignations. They both had older relatives to whom they were beholden, she for her very survival, he for the honor of a promise he had made to his widowed mother: he would not marry as long as she lived.”
“Clara didn’t see that as a sign of trouble ahead?” Leone leaned into the doorjamb and placed a hand on the thrust of her hip.
“Sadly, no. A year passed in which Clara and Loraine were happy for the diversion that Mr. Brown offered when business brought him to town; an outdoor puppet show to amuse the child, a discreet dinner in the city on the rare occasion that Clara could slip away. Then Clara’s grandmother died.”
Leone pushed herself away from the doorjamb and stood up straight. “And she was free from her obligation, and …”
“And I was there when she learned the unhappy truth of her situation. No provision had been made for her and her child.”
Leone’s eyes widened. “You mean they were out on the street?”
“I was in court the day poor Clara Ritzwell discovered her grandmother’s house had been seized to pay her debts. In the proceedings, it came to light that her husband had left her and Loraine penniless in the divorce. Not the decent thing to do, but it was his right. When court recessed, Clara was waiting for me in the hall. She asked for my advice.”
“You told her to get a job, didn’t you?”
“I did, but she complained that she had no trade or profession. Well, she was complaining to the wrong person, wasn’t she? Everyone has some useful skill they can employ. It just wants imagination.
“Self-pity will not serve you well,” I told her. “Take nurses’ training and go to work in a hospital. That’s my advice.”
“And did she?”
“Pshaw! Who takes my advice? She wanted to know how she would pay for training. Women in my day were resourceful. I asked her if she had a friend who might help. I knew she did. I came to regret that piece of advice.”
“Let me guess. Clara turned to Mr. Brown, and he helped her, but at some terrible cost.”
“Smart girl. The gentleman proposed a plan of his own. Instead of investing in a solution that would lead her to employment and independence, he talked her into letting him move her to his hometown. They could see each other more often. He would provide all her necessities and many luxuries she had missed during the years they had wasted.”
Leone’s hand flew to her mouth. “She became what your generation called a kept woman.”
Nellie clicked her tongue. “What does your generation call it?”
“Gold digger.”
The clock announced the half hour. Nellie waved her hand in the air. “Either way, when people do not observe proprieties no good comes of it. In fact, Clara was not a wanton. She was merely a woman wanting a bigger dose of common sense than the good Lord gave her.”
Nellie stood up and walked through the bedroom door into the living room, and Leone followed. They sat side by side on the sofa, waiting for Leone’s friends.
“How did they fare in their new home?” Leone craned her neck around to look out the front window. The street was empty.
“As you might imagine,” Nellie said. “From the very first day that Clara settled in, the virus of gossip worked against her welfare and the happiness of her child. I received a tear-stained letter telling me that when Clara gave a birthday party for Loraine, not a single classmate attended.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. Children should not be mistreated for the sins of their parents.” Leone folded her arms and rocked back and forth. Her movement disturbed the black and white cat snoozing among the sofa pillows. The cat stood, arched his back, and rubbed himself up against Leone’s arm. Sparks flew.
“Ouch, Mouser!” The cat leaped from the sofa, nicking Leone’s arm with a claw as he scooted. She raised her arm to her mouth and sucked at the small puncture wound that began to spurt blood. Mouser disappeared around the corner.
“Keep pressure on that. The blood will stop in a minute.” Nellie returned to her story. “I advised Clara to enroll the girl at the Sacred Heart Academy, where few questions are asked.”
Leone put a finger over the place on her arm where a spot of bright red
blood continued to pool. “Poor tyke. Did Clara find something to do with herself?”
“She made a courageous effort I’ll give her that. She tried to affiliate with a local church, but was turned away because of her reputation as a woman with no visible means of support; she offered to help private charities with their projects; she applied to the Eastern Star for membership in hopes that her father’s tenure as a Mason would help. All her efforts to build a social life met with chilly rebuff. She was entirely without companionship, save for the nightly visits of Mr. Brown.”
Leone’s face twitched at the suggestion of impropriety. “Well, maybe that’ s all the companionship she needed. And she had her daughter.”
Nellie shook her head. “She finally decided to take my advice. Although a life emptying bedpans held no appeal, she thought she might like working at a counter in a little shop, chatting with customers who would not care a fig about her living situation. With Mr. Brown’s help, she took a business course and opened a small consignment shop. She stocked it with cast-off finery that attracted quite a business from the Front Street ladies.”
“Front Street, as in waterfront, as in …?”
“Yes. At first, those ladies were generous in their patronage, but they proved to be a fickle lot. When their numbers dropped off, her business venture failed.”
The clock chimed the hour. Leone looked up, alarmed. “Grandmother, I have to go. I should walk to the corner and meet my chums.”
“My story is near the end. Loraine graduated high school, but could not find a job in the town where her mother was stigmatized. She went east, took her grandfather’s name, obtained employment in a brokerage, and married respectably. Clara next tried to open the home Mr. Brown provided her to the orphaned children of a distant cousin who lost her life in a motor accident. The arrangement suited the children’s alcoholic father quite well, but not the courts. The children were taken from her and sent to a proper foster home. Then the inevitable happened.”
“She died?”
“That would have been a blessing. No; the one thing Clara never doubted was that Mr. Brown would marry her when his obligation to his mother ended. But the old lady was still living when the gentleman suffered a stroke and was placed in a private sanitarium, where he died. That ended Clara’s monthly allowance and her tenancy in the house he had provided her. Mother inherited the house from son, and the first thing she did was evict Clara.”