I worked on her book every day for more than a week, early morning to late afternoon—miserable days at the typewriter, because it was late May and the weather had turned very warm. On the thirtieth of May, the thermometer hit 125 degrees in the shade. The day after that, the thermometer broke.
The next week, I gave the rewritten pages to my mother, who had come for tea. She took them home to read and promptly got sick. (Whether there was any connection between the two events, I can’t say.) The next day, Papa telephoned me to ask me to come over and help take care of her. Dr. Fuson, who came that afternoon, lectured her about eating too many strawberries.
While I was there, she handed me the material I had given her, with only a few corrections. “I thought I had written a better book,” she said regretfully. “But I can see why you needed to make the changes. The story is much improved, Rose. It holds together better, and all your little details make the pictures so much clearer.” With a little sigh, she added, “Thank you.”
Thank you.
“You’re welcome,” I murmured and went into the kitchen to make some supper for Papa.
Altogether, I worked on the rewrite of “High Prairie” for thirty-one days, with a break in early June for John’s birthday party. I finished the rewrite the last week of June and gave it to her, along with a cover letter to George Bye that she could sign and send with the manuscript. George forwarded it to Harper, which accepted it—without revisions—a few months later. It was to be called Little House on the Prairie, a title suggested by Ida Louise Raymond, who by this time was head of the children’s department. The contract for the fourth book came later in the year, in November, and Mama Bess began to plan the book that would be called On the Banks of Plum Creek.
My mother’s project had one advantage: it served as a kind of limbering-up exercise that propelled me back into my own work. When I finished her Indian Territory book, I wrote another Dakota pioneer story, “Object Matrimony.” It had an O. Henry ending—an unexpected twist—that wrapped up the main plot in a few short paragraphs toward the end. Adelaide Neall snapped it up for the Post. The story brought enough to clean up the bills and keep us going for another few months.
Looking back, I don’t know how I managed to work. We suffered through a record string of hundred-degree days. There was no rain, and the drought was the worst ever for our part of Missouri. When the wind blew out of the west, it carried grit from the plains of Oklahoma and Kansas; everything was covered with a film of dust, even the dishes on the table. I was nearly at the end of my rope when some friends—the writer Talbot Mundy and his wife Dawn—invited me, and John, too, to visit. They lived in Florida, on Casey Key, near Osprey, on the Gulf of Mexico. They encouraged John to bring a friend, and he asked Jackie Mason, whose mother agreed. I didn’t have the money for the trip, but Longmans owed me a thousand dollars in royalties for Hurricane. George Bye sent a check, enough to fund the trip and handle expenses through the rest of the year.
I stopped work and packed our clothes, and we were on our way. Talbot and I had been corresponding for some time about several historical novellas he had published in the magazine Adventure, featuring a fictional Roman adventurer named Tros of Samothrace, who fought with the Britons against Julius Caesar. Talbot’s work was good, and I had been encouraging him, by letter, to collect the novellas into book form. Now they were to be published by Century, which had published Diverging Roads and my Hoover book, some fifteen years before. I was glad for the chance to help by writing a letter to the Century editor.
I was also glad for the sheer, mind-altering relief of three weeks away from the farm. The Mundys’ small cottage was tucked into a jungle of palms and pines, with Blackburn Bay at the back door and the Gulf at the front door. John and Jackie were on their best behavior and went off every day, exploring the narrow barrier island. On long tropical evenings, Talbot and Dawn (she was years younger than Talbot, who was nearly fifty-five) taught me to swim in the warm, silver-flecked waves that frothed against the white sand beach. They introduced me to a motley assemblage of local people, all of them enviably tanned and fit and refreshingly cynical and nonconformist—a delightful break from the Mansfielders. We went out on a sailboat and walked down the beach to a local nudist colony for an afternoon game of volleyball. We talked nonstop about politics (the Mundys and their friends were as anti–New Deal as I) and the increasingly troubling European situation.
One week, John, Jackie, and I took a bus across Florida to Miami and then a boat to Havana, where we toured Morro Castle, a sprawling Spanish fortress built in the late 1500s. We indulged in spicy Cuban food (which I regretted afterward) and spent hours in the market, buying little presents to take home. The Cuban parliament had just extended suffrage to women, but General Batista was the acknowledged power behind the presidency and the streets were full of police, a threatening reminder of the military power I had seen in the European states. The boys were both frightened and excited at the sight of the armed and uniformed men, giving me an opportunity to talk about what happens when the state imposes its power over individual citizens—an on-the-spot civics lesson.
In fact, the whole trip was magical for John, and he came to my hotel room that night to tell me how much he appreciated it.
“The island, the swimming, the big boat, and now Cuba—there’s no way I could’ve done this on my own,” he said. “I think of where I was just a year ago and I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs. Lane. You’ve changed my life.” And then he got up from his chair, came over to me, and put his cheek against mine. “Maybe I don’t always act like it, but I know that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I would like to call you Mother.”
My heart was so full I could barely speak. “I would love that,” I managed finally, thinking that John was the best thing that could have happened to me, and thanking the providence that arranges such things for sending this boy to Rocky Ridge that rainy September day.
At the door, he turned and added, wistfully, “I just wish I could be all you want me to be. I’m afraid I never will.”
“Of course you will,” I said. It was only later that I thought how that must have sounded.
We had taken the train to Florida but planned to go back to Missouri by bus. John and Jackie were eager to see more of the country, so they left from the Miami bus station at the end of our Havana trip, going back the long way, up the coast to Charleston, then across to Memphis and home. I stayed on with the Talbots another few days, then took the bus home alone. The whole glorious, carefree trip had reminded me of how good it was to escape from the isolated, sunk-in-the-muck life I lived at the farm, if only for a little while. If it hadn’t been for John, I told Dawn Mundy the night before I left, I might not go back at all.
“John’s a swell kid,” she said, swinging lazily in one of the twin hammocks that Talbot had slung between two palm trees. “Smart, good looking, too. I see why you want to do something nice for him.” She paused, and the silence was filled with birdsong. “But is he worth giving up your freedom, Rose? After all, it’s not as if he’s your son.”
I was startled. Giving up my freedom? I hadn’t thought of it that way at all. But from one point of view, it was true. The magazine market was loosening up, and Hurricane was doing much better. I could count on selling my work. I could leave the farm. I could move back to New York. I could—
But I couldn’t. Not yet. I understood why it might seem to Dawn as if I were yielding my freedom to provide a home for John. But I wasn’t, not really. I was choosing, freely, to commit my time, my work, my attention, my life-energy to the boy. In choosing, I was exercising my freedom. I was not obligated or compelled by any force outside myself to accept responsibility for John. And in some ways, at that moment, realizing that I had freely chosen him made him even more precious to me.
“He is my son,” I said, thinking of what the boy had said in the hotel room in Havana. “In all the w
ays that matter.”
There was a long pause. “I had a child,” Dawn said, so softly that I could scarcely hear her. “A baby girl, last year. She was born when we were in England. She died.”
My heart opened to her. “I’m so sorry, Dawn. I lost a child, too. A little boy, at birth. He would have been twenty-four this year.”
Another pause. “Do you . . . do you ever get over it?”
I could hear the hurt. “No, never. But you learn to live with the loss. And even to welcome the flicker of pain, when it comes. You feel it—you know what it is. The pain makes you real, somehow.”
She nodded doubtfully. “I suppose that’s why the boy. John, I mean.”
I thought of a dark-haired youngster with bright eyes and a dirty red fez. “Two boys,” I said. “Two sons. My oldest is Albanian. He graduated from Cambridge two years ago and is back home in Tirana. I worry about him, with Mussolini just over his horizon.”
“Cambridge,” she said in surprise. “Did you do that?”
I smiled. “He’s very bright. He did it. I only helped.”
“Mussolini,” Dawn mused. “I can see why you’re worried.” She smiled pensively. “Two sons. Two adopted sons. Lucky boys.”
Talbot came to the door of the cottage with a glass in his hand. “Bar’s open,” he called. “Either of you ladies want something to drink?”
“Gin and tonic, please, dear,” Dawn said, and pushed herself out of the hammock.
Two sons. I didn’t know it yet, but by the end of the year, there would be three.
The weather had already changed when I got back to Missouri. It was the end of August and cooler, and that week a long, soaking rain broke the drought. I got a letter from George Bye, letting me know that George Lorimer, at the Post, had liked “Object Matrimony” so much that he had decided to raise my rates. Bye’s letter enclosed a check for an additional two hundred and seventy dollars, bringing the full payment for the story to twelve hundred dollars. I was now among the Post’s best-paid writers. I spent the extra money, along with a trade-in of the Willys-Knight, on a secondhand Nash.
School was starting, and the last four months of 1934 were busy, mostly with family. Lucille proposed that she and Eddie—who was still managing the laundry in town—let their apartment go and stay at the farm. In return for their board and room, she could do the cooking and cleaning and Eddie, who was handy with tools, could lend a hand with outdoor work on weekends. That way, they might even be able to save a little money, so that when things got better, they could buy their own place. I didn’t much like the idea of having Eddie around all the time. But he was good with tools and a paintbrush. I could see advantages on both sides, so I said yes—although, as it turned out, Eddie wasn’t a very willing worker.
John, now a sophomore, had made the Mansfield High basketball squad, so we were scheduling supper around practice and games. He had been with me for a full year now, and we were getting along reasonably well, although he still bridled when I spoke to him about his carelessness with money and clothes and the English language. I had hired Jess to build a new garage to replace the one that had burned—at sixty dollars, it was a bargain. John was sleeping out there, and his brother, Al, was coming up from Ava on weekends. The garage became “the bunkhouse,” a place where the boys could make all the noise they liked.
Late in October, we planned a Halloween costume party for John. Al was invited, and Lucille and I contrived ghost costumes for the two boys. The day after the party, Al came into the kitchen, alone, to talk to me. He was a gangly boy, not quite a year older than John but also a sophomore, with brown hair and eyes and a heavy smattering of freckles.
He came straight to the point. “Mrs. Lane, I’d like to come here and live.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Please.”
I was rolling out a crust for a cherry pie. I stared at him in some surprise. “I thought you liked living with your uncle. And you’re doing well at Ava High, aren’t you?”
He nodded diffidently. “It’s just . . . well, I like being with John. And Mansfield is a bigger town—there’s more to do here. And my uncle’s wife—” He swallowed and dropped his eyes. “Well, that’s the big thing, I guess. It’s been better since John left, but she’s never much liked me, either. She’d be glad to see me gone. And my uncle, too. I’m kind of like a burr under her saddle, and he’s the one who gets all the complaints.” He raised his brown eyes to mine and I could see the hurt in them. “I feel like . . . well, sort of pushy, asking you this, and I’ll understand if you say no. But I’d be really grateful if you could manage to make room for me here.”
For the first time, I looked closely at the boy. His hair was badly cut; his bony wrists were sticking out of his too-short sleeves; the knees of his pants were patched; his shoes were worn. It occurred to me that his uncle wasn’t making a very substantial investment in him—say what you will, clothes are important to youngsters. I ought to know: when I was a child, the other girls judged me (and I judged myself) by their satin-trimmed dresses and patent-leather shoes.
“I’ll be glad to work for my board and room,” he added earnestly. “I can do a lot to help around here, Mrs. Lane—stuff like cutting the grass, doing the milking, working in the garden, scrubbing the floors. I could go over to the Rock House and help your folks out, too.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “And what do you want to bet that I could keep John at his chores? All that kid needs most times is a little shove in the right direction. Why, with the two of us, you won’t have to pay Jess to do stuff.”
My first impulse was to say yes. I liked Al, and I felt he would be a settling influence for John. But I hesitated. It was hard enough to find the money for John. I didn’t think I could afford to feed two teenaged boys and keep them in clothes and allowances, no matter how much work they did around the place.
I picked up the rolling pin. “I understand why you’re asking, Al, and I’d like to do it if I could.” It was best to be honest with him. “But money is a problem. I’ll have to think about it.” I went back to my piecrust. “I’ll discuss it with your uncle. He might not be as willing as you think.”
He gave me a hopeful look. “Thanks,” he said. “It would be really swell if we could work it out.”
Perhaps for his own reasons, John wasn’t enthusiastic. “I don’t understand why you want to do this,” he said darkly. “You don’t know anything about Al. You don’t know much about me, either.”
I thought of the many small secrets that sixteen-year-olds hold in their hearts and nodded. “I’m sure I don’t,” I said.
My mother was even less enthusiastic. “You’ve already got your hands full with the one boy, Rose.” She frowned. “I don’t see why in the world you would want to take on his brother. It’s not as if you have any obligation.”
Why? Because I thought Al could use a little help, that’s why. Because even a little boost might make a big difference in his life. But money was still an issue. And then George Bye sent me another royalty check from Hurricane, and that decided me. I discussed the details with the boys’ uncle Jerry, agreeing to support Al until he finished high school. Then I told the boys that I would be glad to have Al live with us, and early in November, he moved in. My third son.
In one way, Al’s coming made things easier, for John liked having his brother with him. With their books and guitars and Victrola records and the radio they were building from a kit, the two boys were good company for one another. Al was even-tempered and easier to get along with than John, did his chores willingly and promptly, and made good grades in school. Lucille and the boys liked one another—she was the understanding “big sister” to whom they could take their troubles—and she was usually available to help. The boys had big appetites, and between the two of us, Lucille and I baked dozens of pies and numerous batches of cookies and gingerbread, and washed thousands of dishes. I was elbow-deep in domesticity.
; And at the same time, there were encouraging possibilities for my work. Crane Wilbur, a noted playwright and film director, wrote to me about the dramatic rights to “Hired Girl.” The story had been a winning short-short in the 1933 O. Henry Award competition, and he thought it would make a “bang-up” play. It was agreed that the play would be staged by the West Coast Theater Guild—although it wasn’t, in the end, because the funding fell through. George Bye was attempting to negotiate a deal with 20th Century Fox for the movie rights to Hurricane, but he kept running into snags. The grasshopper plague, for instance, which seemed somehow difficult for the producers to imagine on-screen.
“Oh, come, now,” I wrote sarcastically to George. “I can’t believe that the Grand Masters of Illusion are incapable of creating a fake cloud of winged insects—or of hiring actors who can register sufficient terror and trepidation to convince an audience that they are being overrun by grasshoppers.” If that was beyond their competence, I added, they could film the damn thing as a musical.
And by the end of 1934, I was daring to be hopeful. A year before, I wouldn’t have imagined that the house would be full-to-bursting with family, my life measured by the needs and demands of two adolescent boys, my mother’s books doing surprisingly well in the juvenile market, my own work moving back toward the place where it had been before the crash.
And I was thinking of another book. A couple of years before, I had suggested to Talbot Mundy that he collect his novellas into a longer novel. Now I began to plan the same thing. I would gather eight or nine of the published short stories I had written over the past few years and add a preface that would establish a context for the linked stories. The stories I chose had a recurring cast of characters and were set in a typical small town around the turn of the century. I was calling it “Old Home Town.” I didn’t give the town itself a name: I meant it to be everyone’s hometown. It was certainly mine.
A Wilder Rose: A Novel Page 21