By that time I was a grown woman and I happened to be home visiting Mom. I had always adored Ken. What woman didn’t? In his twenties he had looked like that other blond titan, Gary Cooper. And Ken aged well too, like Cooper.
He told me that the pain he’d felt when Ginny died was worse than any pain he’d felt when he was wounded fighting the Japanese.
Pain is a purifier. I know that now. I even knew it then, and yet when I remember those two little boys lying in bed, eyes hollow, the embroidered ribbon over their beds, I still wish we could learn how unique people are before we lose them.
12
Bait Your Own Hook
Mother, wore a watch with a face so small I don’t know how she could tell time. This was her way of proving her eyes were good. At forty-six she had little cause to worry; she looked like a woman in her early thirties and she acted like one who was fifteen.
The fragrance of honeysuckle pervaded the air. A low fog hugged the rolling hills. Ginny had slipped away from us six months before and we all missed her.
A child’s sense of loss is different from an adult’s. In some ways it is far greater and in others more superficial. Each time I thought of Ginny I imagined she was playing a harp, wearing a flowing white gown and conversing with the BVM and Jesus.
Uncle Kenny kept his nose to the grindstone. Apart from work, the boys were his focus and Aunt Mimi’s too. She was bound and determined that one of them should become a priest, to make up for the fact that her daughters had not taken vows. Even at that age Kenny and Wade’s unsuitability for a life of denial and service was obvious.
We hoped Aunt Mimi would take vows herself. Her despotism reached new heights. Certainly she felt the death of her daughter sincerely but she never missed a chance to remind us of her cruel loss. Then again, the Blessed Virgin Mother gave up one of her sons and Mary Magdalene suffered, too. I wondered why suffering was glorified. Crucifixes gave me the creeps. Not only did they adorn every wall of Mimi’s house, she had a tiny one on the dashboard of her Nash.
Torn and bleeding Jesus, his eyes rolled to heaven, greeted me constantly. I loved Jesus but I liked to think of him throwing the money changers out of the temple. Aunt Mimi gravitated toward the crown of thorns.
On this early summer morning, Mother checked and rechecked her watch. We were standing at the top of Queen Street Hill, fishing poles and tackle boxes in our hands.
Right on the dot, 6:30 A.M., Aunt Mimi roared out of the fog, stopping at the beer joint that also stood at the top of Queen Street Hill. Since cars possessed speedometers, Aunt Mimi felt one should use them: bury the needle.
We hopped in. I had the backseat to myself since the boys were with their father and Julia Ellen was off doing something exciting. Fifteen years older than I, Julia Ellen dazzled me. She played the piano, she was going to nursing school, she dressed like a model and she had so many boyfriends that Aunt Mimi fretted over it. If she had not been so attractive, my aunt would have fretted even more.
She used to tell her popular daughter, “It’s just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor one,” and then she’d fling up the example of Virginia’s marrying handsome but poor Ken, working her fingers to the bone to make ends meet.
Julia would sass back, “Oh, Mom.”
That doesn’t sound like sassing, but any independent opinion counted as rebellion in my aunt’s eyes.
Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of fishing at Long Level with Mother and the saint-in-residence. Butch came, too; that was Sis’s big Boston Bull. He was big as a Boxer and cunning. Mickey loathed the sight of him, never missing an opportunity to swat and run.
Dogs contributed to Aunt Mimi’s image. Buster, elegant in his permanent tuxedo, beautifully muscled, did suit her. Hounds would never do and gun dogs had too much fur. She wouldn’t waste time combing them out.
Butch and I stared out the back window at the corn shoots breaking through the chocolate soil. The apple trees had bloomed late that year, and white petals covered the ground.
By the time we reached Long Level at the Susquehanna, the fog was burning off the river. Way on the other side, for it’s a wide, impressive river, were train tracks.
A moored raft bobbed in the water maybe ten yards offshore.
Mother set up a fishing camp: three chairs, three towels, three buckets for our catch. The hamper of food stayed in the car because of the ants. She said we’d have lunch at the proper time. She and Aunt Mimi shared a thermos of coffee. I had a thermos of hot tea—I loved tea. A cooler of pop sat next to Uncle Mearl’s truck, too heavy to haul far.
Mother favored tiny red worms because they wiggled. She declared that fish like wigglers. Aunt Mimi preferred flies and she taught me how to tie them. She liked to watch them laze on the surface of the water. I contented myself with night crawlers. Wigglers were too tough for me to handle. I’d drop them and Mother would get impatient with me for wasting bait.
Mother combed her hair.
“Juts, what are you doing?”
“Combing my hair.”
“There’s no one here but us,” Aunt Mimi said.
“The fish might look at me.”
Aunt Mimi laughed. She hadn’t laughed for a long time. Then she and Mom dug little holes for the butts of their fishing poles, left them and waded in the water, thereby scaring off any possible strike. They didn’t really want to catch anything.
They talked. I swam through the cold water to the raft to throw in my line.
Aunt Mimi said that Delphine Falkenroth had the most beautiful hands, so beautiful that she modeled for glove and hand cream manufacturers in New York City. I tuned out after that and waited for my whale to bite. Not one nibble.
The sun danced on the surface of the water and I looked back at the two women, so alike they could have been twins. Mom was making Aunt Mimi laugh. Some of the terrible gloom was lifting and for a moment I could see what Aunt Mimi had been like as a girl. Standing in the water up to her knees, her skirt rolled up, head back, laughing at Mother, she kicked some water at Mom. Then Mother kicked water back. The Chesterfield sizzled when Mom flicked it in the river. Within seconds they were having a water fight. They screamed and laughed, and I was so jealous. I wanted a sister.
I had one. She was about to show up.
13
Sleepwalker
Patty, accompanied by Juliann, our mother, appeared one summer day. Two years older than I was, dark, quiet and shy, she was going to share my room. That wasn’t so bad. She displayed little interest in horses, which irritated me, but far worse, she couldn’t play baseball.
Horses, being big, scared people. I figured given enough time Patty would come around and join me in jumping on the backs of the Percherons and Belgians grazing in neighborhood pastures. Their backs were so broad, my legs so short, that I couldn’t drop a leg over their sides. I’d grab the mane and bounce up and down to make them go, which meant they’d trot three steps and then go back to grazing. I must have felt like a large fly to them.
Patty had visited us before, when I was very small. I had a dim memory of that, but I must have been around three, because I didn’t know she was my half sister. This time I knew.
As I said earlier, Mom and Dad, quite intelligently, told me early that I was adopted, although I can’t recall a specific conversation. It seemed like a kernel of information that grew and opened as I did. As rime went on I understood what it meant. I was proud of the fact that I had been chosen. Other parents were stuck with their kids.
I called my natural mother Aunt Jule, but I saw her so infrequently that I had no recollection of her other than that she was Jack and Sadie Young’s girl. As Sadie had died in the 1930s, I never knew her, but Mother, Aunt Mimi and Big Mimi talked about her as though she were still alive. When you love people that much they are alive, I believe, even though their bodies are gone. Sadie was a shadowy presence for me, a benevolent ghost. Jule was something else.
When she dropped off Patty I scrutini
zed her every feature. I didn’t much resemble her or Patty. Jule was a dead ringer for Jane Russell, not yet popular but soon to be a major star. Everything about her suggested voluptuousness. No wonder she drove men crazy.
Mom said that because Sadie had died when Jule was so young, she had had no guidance. Her father. Mom said, had been too busy running after women—Jack could no more be faithful than a turtle could fly. At least while Sadie lived, he attempted discretion. Once she died of double pneumonia, he caroused openly. Some people blamed his behavior on Sadie’s death and felt sympathy for him, said it “took him that way.” Mom said, “Bullshit.” I said nothing.
Anyway, Jule delighted Mom since she had raised her after Sadie died. The two of them chattered like blue jays. I eyed Patty. She barely spoke to me and not one speck of dirt marred her dress. I would change that. The relationship between Mother and Jule interested me not a bit. My relationship with Patty, however, captured my full attention.
As soon as the parade of manners was done, I shot out of the house. As to the parade of manners, remember, Mother was born in Maryland and we lived almost on the Mason-Dixon line. That meant I’d acquire good manners if it killed us both.
Ladies and gentlemen were judged by their children’s doings as well as by their own. Therefore I had to sit down, cross my legs and not speak until spoken to. To this day it unnerves me if a child walks right up and starts chattering. It violates everything I have been taught about how one must literally climb into society, each rung being a further refinement of deportment.
Okay. I sat there. I smiled. Jule, herself a product of relentless etiquette, inquired about my schoolwork. I said I loved school and couldn’t wait to start second grade.
This is the way it works. The adult asks questions. The child isn’t supposed to ask the adult questions unless it’s something like this: “Mrs. So-and-So, your brooch is so pretty. I bet there’s a story behind it.” We were taught to admire something about a person and to get them to talk about themselves. Once I asked a family friend, Mrs. Myrtle, if she ate a lot of oysters to get her beautiful pearls. When she’d recovered from laughing herself sick, she told me about pearls.
Mother declared it was white-trash to talk about yourself. Not that that stopped her, but the way in which she talked about herself was so original, so irreverent, that she wasn’t exactly violating the rule. Because the second rule of how to behave in correct society is that you should be amusing. If you can’t be amusing, be pleasant.
Another rule is never to discuss politics or religion, which we discussed endlessly within the family. I hated this part of the parade of manners. I wanted to know what other people thought. Still do.
You are displayed by your somewhat apprehensive parent. If you pass muster, the guest generally says something like, “Well, Juts, I can see she is turning into quite a little lady.” Ugh. Or “I have enjoyed talking to you. You’re a bright little girl.” More tolerable. As soon as you receive the desired compliment your relieved parent dismisses you. Tedious as this ordeal proved, you picked up at least the minimum of social graces. As you grew, these lessons expanded. Finally you entered cotillion. That happened at age twelve. Cotillion is to manners what West Point is to a military life. I was slotted to attend as soon as I turned twelve. (You put up your child the minute he or she drew breath.) It wasn’t expensive; in fact, money had nothing to do with cotillion. It was about your place in the community, and if you wanted to succeed, you’d better endure those years of boredom.
This ruthless determination to create ladies and gentlemen was not restricted by race. Not that our cotillion was integrated, it wasn’t, but my colored sisters (I use colored because that was the polite word then. If I’d said black Mother would have washed my mouth out with soap. I’ll try to use the word that matches the times) were enduring boot camp for manners. If you ever meet a southerner who doesn’t have good manners, it means only one thing: They are trifling people.
If a child failed the parade, the phone lines heated up. Everyone knew. The parent was shamed. No one blamed the child, though. If you had children, it was your job to prepare them to be productive, pleasant people. As Mother used to say, “If I don’t correct you, the world will.”
Well, I passed the parade of manners, as did Patty.
Once we were outside, Mom and Jule could talk about whatever interested them and we could play. Patty liked to swing, so I pushed her on the swing. Used to boys, I wasn’t good at handling a sensitive peer. Cheryl was, though. She came over. Cheryl had two older brothers, which had toughened her up, but she was still “girly.” Patty liked her, but then everyone liked Cheryl, and her younger sister, Judy, was getting big enough that she wasn’t a drag anymore.
That night Patty slept in my room. I didn’t mind but I told Mom I’d sleep on the floor; I wouldn’t sleep with anyone in my bed. So I slept on the bedroll with Mickey next to me, and Patty slept in the bed. The next thing I knew I heard a thump. It was pitch-dark. Patty was sleepwalking.
Fascinated, I followed her. When she reached the top of the stairs I was scared she’d fall down. I woke her up and she screamed bloody murder. Mom and Dad clicked on the lights.
I didn’t know what sleepwalking was exactly. I explained to my parents as best I could because I was afraid they would think I had beaten her up. The boys and I fought, so it followed that I might take a pop at Patty.
To my surprise, Mother not only didn’t blame me, she made us both warm milk. Dad went back to bed.
The next day, Cheryl and Judy came over again. Mother called me inside for a minute while Patty was happily occupied.
“You be gentle with her.”
“I am,” I protested.
“You’ve been a perfect hostess.” Mother was standing over the sink. The front of her apron was wet, and little soap bubbles floated from the sink. “Patty’s bounced from foster home to foster home. It’s upset her. She’s a sweet child. You take care of her while she’s here.”
That Mom, Dad and Aunt Mimi could convey Patty’s trials to me says something about their ability to communicate. The other great thing about all three of them was they never talked down to you.
I did my best by Patty and then Jule picked her up a week or two later. I kissed Patty goodbye and I never saw her again.
Children are much more resilient than most adults. Forgive me for stating the obvious. An adult would worry about seeing her natural mother, about realizing that Patty was her half sister. I didn’t.
Mom was Juts. I thought of Jule as a broodmare. As for Patty, I liked her but I felt no great rush of kinship. My bonds were forged from use, not from blood, although I must have heard Mother and Aunt Mimi intone “Blood tells” a thousand times.
Blood does tell. You inherit your talents and your physical attributes as well as a propensity for certain diseases. That’s all it tells.
Love doesn’t come via the womb. It comes from work, worry and the willingness to discipline and guide a child. I looked at Jule and felt very little other than that she was nice to me. I looked at Julia and Ralph. They were Mom and Dad. To them I owed honor and obedience. The obedience part was hard.
14
Have Hotpad, Will Travel
Jule foxhunted with Green Springs in Maryland and with Rose Tree outside of Philadelphia. Because of her skill, people welcomed her.
American hunting is quite different from English foxhunting, although there are some Americans who live to imitate the old country. Our territory is different, and because of that, our farming practices are different; we never passed an enclosure law, as did England in the seventeenth century.
Foxes will wipe out your hens and geese if you don’t supply protection. Even if you do, they’ll get in the henhouse. But here, for the most part, foxes are not the troublesome predators they are for the English farmer. Also, we haven’t lived in North America long enough to wipe out those animals who prey on the fox or the fox’s prey. We still have balance, although how long that can last wi
th our foolish development policies is anyone’s guess.
Poor people could hunt here. Slaves hunted as grooms. The mix from the very beginning was democratic. If you had a fit horse or mule and could ride, and if you wore clean attire no matter how frayed, you were welcome.
This quality, this openness is what’s best about American hunting. It’s what’s best about America, period.
Today, the fox isn’t killed. The hunt should more accurately be called a chase. That doesn’t mean an old or sick fox won’t get caught, but it’s quite rare. In my youth people did hunt to kill.
I’d wanted to hunt since I could remember. Mother adamantly opposed it. The reason was not danger; Juts deplored cowardice. She said we couldn’t afford a horse. That was the truth, but I could have borrowed or rented one. I was willing to sign my life away for hard work at a boarding stable not far from our house, just to ride.
She wouldn’t budge. On the other hand, I could ride draft horses all day long, and she was also happy for me to be, as she put it, “a useful groundsman.”
This backfired in a strange way that fall.
I loved to read and I loved to draw. If the weather was bad, I didn’t mind staying inside and reading. As much as I wanted a horse, I also wanted a paint set. A glimmer of talent provoked Dad to encourage me. Dad could draw anything.
That year at the York Fair I won a paint set, a little oil set with twelve tubes of paint. I won the set because a drawing I had made of a horse, what else, was entered in a competition for grade-schoolers and I won fourth place.
I was ecstatic.
I also had a small square loom on which I could make hotpads out of old dyed nylons and scrap fabrics, which were easy to get. I’d sell them for a quarter. I was big enough to push a lawn mower, so I did that, too. I was going to make enough money to buy a horse.
Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser Page 7