by Nancy Roman
“Well, of course you are intelligent!” I said.
“Oh no, not like you. I know how to ridicule things I don’t like. That’s not intelligence. It’s vanity.”
“Did Martin tell you that?”
“Martin says I have sound reasons for my ridicule, but that I need to understand them before I criticize. That’s what he does - he laughs at Life but he knows why.”
“I think that is the very definition of a cynic.”
“He’s not a cynic. He is quite an optimist. I would say … maybe a skeptic.”
“Well that should suit you well,” I said.
“Lucinda,” said Catherine, looking at me with sincerity. “Don’t work for Father if you don’t want to.” She paused. “I mean, when you are old enough to decide,” she added.
“I rather like the charts and figuring out the future. But I know I don’t like watching every move people make. I always thought I would like being bossy, but now I’m seeing that it’s much pleasanter to let folks do as they please. Father likes to tell people they are wrong.”
Catherine laughed. “True enough. But the world needs the bossy types too, and Daddy provides jobs for a lot of men, and so he supports a lot of families. And if he wasn’t bossy and a bit of a tyrant, he may not be successful, and then those people couldn’t provide for their families.”
“Can you be nice and be successful?”
“Yes! But Father is not so bad, you know.”
I was surprised Catherine was defending him so.
“I didn’t think you liked Father very much,” I said.
“Oh, I love him. I know he’s not perfect, and he is a bit of a tyrant and he’s tiresome and boring sometimes. But he took on a life that he didn’t want and he’s made the best of it.”
“Isn’t that what I should do then? Stay with Father and teach Malcolm so he doesn’t botch it all up?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. Father accepted his responsibility and it has made him solemn and tiresome. I want you to be happy and light. Like I am. I am going to do what I love. Laugh with Martin every day in our little home and have lots of happy babies.”
“What if I don’t want babies?”
“Do you know what you do want?”
“I think I want to be a muckraker.”
“A what?”
“I want to protest in the streets and write for a newspaper and get justice for people!”
“Oh,” she laughed, “So you DO like to tell people when they’re wrong!”
CHAPTER 7
What Catherine did not tell me was how to know when I was old enough to stand up to my father.
But oh, the wedding was as splendid as that of Alice Roosevelt. I would argue that Catherine was certainly lovelier. Father had decided that we would not hire carriages or motorcars. He prayed for excellent September weather - I could say that he ordered God to provide a beautiful day, and God complied.
And we walked to St. Sebastian’s church in procession. Father engaged a violinist to provide the beautiful solemn music as we strode the four blocks in our finery. The accompaniment ensured that all the neighbors (those not invited) had the opportunity to come outside or lean from their windows and applaud our prestigious group. I rather believe there would have been a marching band but for the fact that Father found tubas to be reprehensible.
Catherine had wanted me to be her maid of honor, but Mother thought I was too young to witness a marriage certificate. My cousin Bertha was given that role, and in compensation, a dress was designed for me in pale silvery blue satin with a lace sash to match my sister’s veil. Still, I cried at the thought of not standing by my sister’s side at the altar, and Mother added the loan of her second best strand of pearls.
A beautiful gown was not something I normally prized, but I will confess to taking some comfort in the surprising notion that I might not be as homely as my father had previously indicated. Indeed, he seemed rather taken with my appearance that morning, and suggested I walk at the head of the procession strewing flowers from a basket. Well, that was a silly notion, as we did not have more than a single bouquet of flowers for me to carry, and I wasn’t about to prance down the streets like some childish idiot. But it was a nice idea nonetheless.
So Father and Catherine headed the procession, with me following alongside cousin Bertha (in pink), and my mother next in line with Amelia and Malcolm by the hand on each side.
Martin was waiting at the church with his cousin Roger and a small contingent of family. We Benedicts, on the other hand, had invited every drop of blood on both Father’s and Mother’s family tree, and in addition every acquaintance, customer, vendor, plus any politician who may someday do our business some service. And numerous clergy.
The service was literally heaven - with a boys’ choir and high Mass and the monsignor in white and gold vestments looking like the Pope himself. I have a suspicion that my father might have written the Holy Father himself, who perhaps sent the robes as a nuptial gift.
Catherine was radiant. Martin was calm and could not stop smiling, even during the most solemn of the scriptures. The remainder of the congregation wept, such was the beauty and emotion evoked. Even Malcolm sobbed just a tad, although that may have been induced by the pungency of the tonic applied to his cowlick.
All but me. I did not cry at all. Not when all the guests had said their goodbyes. Not when Catherine and Martin had said their goodbyes. Not until I carefully hung my beautiful dress in the mahogany wardrobe and brushed my hair and put on my summer nightgown and turned out my light. Then lying in the dark bedroom on a moonless night - then I wept.
I did not know how I would live without Catherine. I did not know how soon I would have to.
CHAPTER 8
1918
By the summer of 1918, I was finished with school. For the time being at least. I was still endeavoring to convince my father that I should go to college. He was by principle opposed to women receiving an advanced education. Knowledge in excess of basic skills was not a fiscally sound investment, as a woman would not be able to pursue erudite endeavors once she became a mother. That Father had determined five years earlier that I would not marry was my best argument, and I was beginning to see some small signs that he may be relenting.
I had served Father well at Benedict Lumber in those years. The business had thrived, and the profits had grown. I had an aptitude for inventory management, and found it quite satisfying to order just enough product to meet demand, neither running out nor having merchandise sit unsold in the yard.
I was careful to maintain my Father’s concept of femininity, and did not take up cursing or tobacco chewing, although I will admit that I did on Thursday evenings enjoy a beer with the O’Hara boys. My parents, I can only believe, were unaware of my participation in Payday Darts and Brew at Corcoran’s Bar on High Street. Or more specifically, behind Corcoran’s Bar - for much of those five years, Peter O’Hara and I were too young to enter the bar, so Richard, the middle boy, would bring our beers out to the yard behind the bar, where we would sit on the stoop and relish our bad behavior. Once Peter came of age, he would still sit with me outside. “It’s hot and noisy,” he said, “and besides, not a proper place for a lady.”
The eldest O’Hara boy, Samuel, had gone off to the Great War, and it seemed that he was showing a capacity for leadership that may serve him well when he returned. I believed that strong, bull-like Richard would have been the better soldier, but he was discovered to have unhealthy lungs and was exempted. To my surprise, he seemed relieved to stay out of the war.
Peter was expecting to be called up soon. He was eager to join Sam and prove his worth in battle. I knew this would not happen. Despite calling upon my father to equip Peter with better spectacles (I argued that it would be safer in the yard if he could see the workmen running back
and forth so near his wagon) - he was still nearly blind. But I let Peter keep his dream of soldiering. What good would it have done for me to point out what he surely knew but would rather deny?
The boys’ father, Jolly Jack O’Hara, had defied the gods, and was still behind my father’s counter in 1918. I knew this could not go on forever, as Jolly Jack grew more rotund and red-faced with each passing month. But I no longer had to worry about which of his sons would take over his role. Because in March, Malcolm had turned twelve, and came after school to work at Benedict Lumber, much as I had at the same age.
And wonder of wonders, Malcolm was splendid.
He was big and sturdy for twelve, and he could carry lumber with the men. And curse like a sailor.
And although mathematics was not his strong suit, he seemed to have a special talent for filling orders and writing bills of sale quickly and error-free. Knowing when to cut a deal, extend credit, or demand immediate cash payment seemed instinctive. He could laugh behind the counter like Jolly Jack with men four times his age. And he had only been on the job part-time for five months. Here was Jolly Jack’s successor and the inheritor of Benedict Lumber all rolled into one strange packet.
I was a little jealous at times of the pride that Father showed in Malcolm. No customer or dealer came into the Yard without my Father braying in a new loud voice, “You must meet my son, Malcolm. A young man with the world at his command!”
So a little jealous perhaps. But on the whole, very relieved. I did not really want to spend my life in the lumberyard. I wanted to go to school.
I had not lost my desire to be a news reporter and a reformer. Indeed I had portraits of Upton Sinclair and Ida Tarbell on the wall above my bed. And to my great satisfaction - as well as my vanity - I had already made a small impact.
I had witnessed in Father’s own business an injustice. Father had several colored men working in the yard. They performed the tasks that required the strongest of men. These colored gentlemen worked long hours, took no breaks, and were never late or absent. Yet they earned only half of what the white men made.
I brought this up to Father and he was mystified that I thought this to be unjust.
“These men would not work at all but for me,” he declared. “Patterson would not hire them. He has no black men at all at his lumberyard.”
“But they do the same work! Don’t they have to eat the same food? Pay for the same roof over their head? Support their families?”
“No,” he answered. “I have seen that they do not eat the same food or have the same types of rents. They live cheaper. So they need less money.”
I thought about this for a week. I had Peter show me one Sunday afternoon where the colored people lived in Springfield.
The following week, I brought up the issue with my father again. I explained that I thought the colored men lived in lesser apartments because of the money, and not the other way around. “They do not live cheaper because they can. They live cheaper because they have no choice. I think they would have nicer homes for their wives and children if they could afford it.”
“But we cannot afford it.”
But I had done my arithmetic.
“We have only six colored men. They make twenty-five cents an hour. If you gave each man thirty cents per hour, that is only one nickel more per man. Over the course of the week, it is still much less than you would have to pay if you had to replace one of those colored gentlemen with a white man. We could raise the price of a five-pound box of nails by a penny and cover the cost, and our nails would still be fairly priced as compared to the thievery that Mr. Patterson charges.”
Father looked at me somewhat suspiciously, but I could tell he was interested.
“And just think of how those colored men would be grateful to see more money in their pay packets every week. Why they would work so extra hard for you! And they would still be making much less than the white men, so the white men would not have any reason to be angry.”
“Can we really increase the price of nails and still be lower than Patterson?” he asked.
“Yes. I went there myself last week, and their prices of nails are 18% higher than ours.”
“Just five cents. For just the six men, correct?”
“Yes - that’s all.” I added, “You will see it will be worth it.” I dropped for a moment all my business manner. “Please, Daddy.”
“All right. Go ahead then, Lucinda. You are quite the reformer.”
I did it that very week. My original intention had been to make all the men equal -white and colored both, but after doing my research, I knew that was impossible. Negroes never made what white men made. To think that they might would be as crazy as thinking that women would earn the same as men. That idea would certainly make Father laugh. But for these men, working fifty-five hours each week, that $2.75 would at least let their wives put a better meal out for their children.
I decided that setting a reasonable small goal was the best way to reform the world. Success could certainly be measured in nickels.
I was delighted. And determined to go on to college to learn where I could find extra nickels.
CHAPTER 9
Initially, Catherine had kept her promise to visit us in Springfield one Sunday a month. She and Martin would take the train up from New Haven, arriving around eleven in the morning. With having to change trains in Hartford, I knew that they would have left Connecticut very early in the morning. I wondered (to myself only) whether this meant that they were skipping Sunday Mass.
The following year, however, Catherine’s visits grew scarce. There was a delightful reason for this. Catherine was in the family way, and by June of 1915, I had acquired a nephew. Jonathan, named for my father, was a cherub of a boy with a round bald head and round cheeks and round blue eyes. He laughed as much as Catherine. But her condition made it uncomfortable to travel, and then after the baby was born, it was just increasingly difficult to carry the baby and all his accoutrements and at the same time keep him hushed and good-natured during the long ride.
And in October of 1916, Catherine and Martin added a daughter to their family. Charlotte was as tiny as Jonathan was round, and appeared to have Father’s penchant for serious concentration.
So visits gradually dwindled to just a few times per year.
A few times, the family made the trek to New Haven instead. I rather liked it. The train was interesting, and New Haven was quite wonderful. Catherine and Martin had a tiny apartment not far from Yale University. Yale took my breath away. The beautiful dark buildings and young men striding with intelligent purpose into the future.
Catherine’s home was tiny. The family lived up on the third floor of a lead-windowed brownstone. They had a large kitchen with a small sitting area and one bedroom. Some of the older buildings in the neighborhood had much more impressive architecture, but the advantage of this place was modern plumbing and even a W.C. “So much easier with the babies,” bragged Catherine. The children slept in cribs which made walking through the bedroom all but impossible. Catherine told me that it was fine - she just climbed over the bed to get to the dresser.
“And I can see myself so much better in the mirror when I stand on the bed anyway. The bottom half of me, that is,” she joked.
We didn’t all fit around her kitchen table for dinner. But Malcolm took his meal on his lap in the sitting room.
I thought it was perfect and romantic. However, I did speculate that things would only get tighter as the children outgrew the cribs.
“The Carmichaels next door have three older children,” Martin explained. “And they have a cot in the sitting room that the two boys share quite nicely. The girl gets the horsehair sofa, which is warm in the winter.”
Warm in the winter meant stifling in the summer, and that is what we learned as the seasons changed in New Ha
ven. Amelia took to fainting during the peak of the day in July. And shivering a bit too much to be authentic in December.
And so our own visits dwindled too.
Catherine wrote me weekly. The children were thriving. Martin had changed employment and was being groomed for promotion. It was just a matter of time before they would be able to move into a larger apartment. Not that there was anything wrong with their quaint little abode. And she wrote of music and art and museums and all the activities that surrounded the university.
“I wish you could go to school here,” she wrote.
“No matter about our small space; I would build you a cubby under the kitchen table if that were possible. But there are no programs for women. Not at Yale or anyplace, as far as I can determine. But life in New Haven is grand. Perhaps when you finish school you can find a position here. That is, if you are determined to remain a spinster and a reformer. I can attest to the sweetness of married life, however, if you are so inclined. Martin is a fine man. He has a good soul. And he is handsome, as you may have noticed.”
We all had letters from Catherine each week. We read them at the dinner table and they became part of our dessert tradition. Amelia and Malcolm read their letters in their entirety. Catherine wrote to Amelia about all the fine shops in New Haven and the old woman in a neighboring building who had the most marvelous collection of dolls. This although Amelia was growing far too mature to swoon over dolls. But Catherine’s descriptions may have been at the request of Mother, who could see that Amelia was increasingly prone to swoon over boys.