by Alice Duncan
“You've never had 'em fried,” said Pa, virtually licking his chops. “Fried clams are ambrosia.”
“Ambrosia? Isn't that a little excessive?” I was giggling, though. Couldn't help it. Pa loved his food--too much, according to Dr. Benjamin. He pulled out a cigar, and another admonition of the doctor's made my giggle dry up. “Put that smelly thing away right this minute, Pa! You know what the doctor said.”
With the air of a person enacting one of Shakespeare's more tragic scenes, Pa heaved an enormous sigh and complied. “Darned women are always trying to spoil a fellow's fun.”
“Nuts to that,” I said, perhaps a trifle sharply. “I want the men in my life to last a while, thanks.”
Billy turned to glance back at me. He had a funny smile on his face. “I'm glad to hear it.”
I didn't know what he meant by that, but it made a shiver run up my spine.
# # #
After we got back from the butcher's and the grocer's, Pa put the salt pork in the ice box, the beans in the cupboard to await Friday night to be put in water to soak overnight (the only way to do it, according to Pa, whose pronouncement was affirmed by Aunt Vi), and I went across the street to get some of Mrs. Killebrew's chrysanthemums. She gave me a huge bunch, orange, yellow, white, purple and tan, and perfect for late fall.
“Thanks so much, Mrs. Killebrew.”
“You're more than welcome, Daisy. Your aunt Vi brought me over a loaf of her French bread yesterday, and I've never eaten anything so wonderful in my life.”
I nodded and smiled warmly. “Aunt Vi's the best cook in California, if not the United States.”
“She sure is. She gave me her raisin pie recipe, too.” Mrs. Killebrew's brows furrowed. “I hated to ask Vi because she's such a good cook and I'd feel stupid, but . . . well . . . do you know what a capital T means?”
“It means tablespoon,” I told her kindly. I didn't let on to Mrs. Killebrew, but I wanted to turn a handspring in joy at actually knowing the answer to a culinary question. It might be a small question, but I, Daisy Gumm Majesty, who couldn't even brew a decent pot of coffee, had answered it!
See? There's another example of the benefits of being middle-class. You can take pleasure in the small victories life presents you.
After I'd arranged three lovely bouquets of chrysanthemums and put one in the living room, one in the dining room, and one in our bedroom, I made lunch. I could fix sandwiches and open cans of soup without doing much damage to the kitchen or the people dining. Besides, we had Aunt Vi's leftover lamb to put between her fresh, home-made bread, and even I couldn't ruin those two commodities.
When we'd finished lunch, Pa went to his and Ma's bedroom to rest. I washed up the lunch dishes. A copy of National Geographic had been delivered in the morning's mail (in those days, first-class stamps cost two cents, and mail was delivered twice a day), and Billy settled in to read about Siberia, a place that sounded horrid to me.
I went to our bedroom to change into something more appropriate for afternoon visiting. I was only going to be visiting Grenville's Books, but Billy didn't have to know that. Maybe if he thought I was going about my spiritualist business, I wouldn't have to lie about my destination or the reason for my leaving home.
As I settled a sober brown hat over my dark red hair and tugged the jacket of my brown-and-white, cotton-and-wool-blend, ankle-length, shepherd-checked suit into place, I contemplated what a despicable woman I must be to consider a sin of omission preferable to a sin of commission.
Oh, well. I grabbed my small brown handbag, transferred the contents of that morning's bag into it, and braced myself to tell Billy I was leaving him, trying to console myself with the knowledge that we'd had a pleasant morning. That didn't work, so I gave it up.
Billy glanced up from his magazine. His face didn't change expression when he asked, “Going out?”
I went over and kissed him on the cheek. “Not for long.” I prayed it was the truth. “I'll be back soon.”
“Reading the cards and boards?”
He would have to ask. I sucked in air and lied yet again. “Yup. Both of those things.” What the heck. With luck, this situation would soon be resolved.
I wished I believed in luck.
“You look beautiful, Daisy.”
“Thanks, Billy. I made this suit with a bolt end I got at Hertel's Dry Goods. I'm glad you like it.” I gave a little twirl to show off the total ensemble. “It's got a new ankle-length skirt.”
His grin was a trifle lopsided. “I kind of liked the shorter skirts on you. You have pretty ankles.”
What in the name of gracious was the matter with the man? He never complimented me several times in less than six or seven months. “Thanks.” I kissed him again. “Need anything while I'm out?”
“No, thanks.”
So I left him there, reading about Siberia. According to the cover of the magazine, there was also an article about Haiti in December's issue. I'd rather have read about a tropical island than a frozen Bolshevist country with bread lines two blocks long. Standing in a bread line was inconceivable to me then, and I devoutly hoped I'd never have to find out what it was like.
Chapter Sixteen
I parked the old Ford at the curb in front of Grenville's Books. Then I walked in the door as if I had every right to be there, which I did, although I didn't feel like it.
Because it's what I usually did, I browsed through the new books George had put on display. I noticed Booth Tarkington's latest contribution to American literature and decided I didn't need to read it. If I wanted to be depressed, all I had to do was wake up in the morning. The Magnificent Ambersons had just about done me in. If Mr. Tarkington ever got himself analyzed and cheered up, I might tackle another one of his books.
There weren't any new books by Mary Roberts Rinehart, darn it. A lady named Agatha Christie had written a terrific mystery story a couple of years earlier, featuring a dapper Belgian detective named Hercule Poirot, but George didn't have any of her new books on his shelves, if she had any. She was British, and I guess it takes a while for books to travel from there to here.
People were still buying This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I presumed, since George had three copies of it. There's another book that had left me cold, since it was filled with bored young people who didn't have enough real work to do and who passed their time by being blasé, drinking too much, thinking life wasn't worth living, and getting into trouble. Nuts to them. I didn't care for people like that.
Fitzgerald had a new book out, as well, a compilation of short stories called Flappers and Philosophers, neither one of which excited me a whole lot. I didn't have time to fuss with philosophy, and had too many responsibilities to be a flapper. It seemed to me that Mr. Fitzgerald and I were destined to differ, which I'm sure was okay by him. And, since he was rich and I wasn't, maybe he had the right idea. I've never claimed to be brilliant.
Shoot, how'd I get on that subject? Oh, yes, the bookstore. There were a couple of Arthur Crabb's detective stories, which featured a guy named Samuel Lyle. I liked them pretty well, but I'd read the ones George had.
Then I noticed a book called The Strange Case of Mortimer Finley, by someone named Louis Tracy, which sounded interesting. I'd just picked it up to scan when I heard a murmur from George's back room. I froze for a second and my blood ran cold. Then I slammed the book down on the shelf and raced to the counter.
Marianne was in George's back room! And she was talking! Flinging up the counter top, heedless of the terrible noise it made, I raced into the back room.
Sure enough, there was Marianne. And George. And he was showing her what looked like an accounts book. “What's going on here?” I regret to say I shouted the question.
Marianne jumped a yard, uttered a shrill “Eee!” and dropped the accounting book. George grunted and would have fallen off his stool if he hadn't thrown out an arm and braced himself on the table next to him.
Marianne's blue eyes were as round as ja
w-breakers. She slapped a hand over her heart which was, presumably, thundering. As well it might.
Assuming what must have looked like full fighting stance, I bellowed, “What the heck are you doing out of that cottage?” I pointed to the back door. I was so furious with them both, I wanted to batter them with several of George's larger volumes. Perhaps atlases of the United States. Or even the world.
George recovered first (Marianne had started crying, which is no more than I'd expected of such a poor specimen of womanhood), rose from his stool, and put a hand on my rigid arm. “Calm down, Daisy. I can explain.”
I whirled on him. “You'd darned well better explain, George Grenville! I brought Marianne here to protect her! She's not supposed to be out of the cottage. In case you've forgotten, she's trying to hide!”
“I haven't forgotten anything.” George was getting miffy--and for no good reason, if you ask me.
“No? Then what's she doing here, practically out in the open? Didn't you say her father visits your establishment from time to time? What are you trying to do, George? I thought you were trying to help her, not hinder her escape.”
I don't get really angry very often. When Billy and I fight, I'm usually more frustrated and unhappy than angry. Boy, was I ever mad at George that day. And Marianne, although I'm sure she was less to blame for this idiotic lapse than George, since he had a brain and she didn't.
“Calm down, please,” George said again, getting heated. “There's no need to yell.”
I turned to Marianne. “Listen to me, Marianne Wagner. Do you want my help or don't you? Because if you do, I'm going to insist that you obey a few simple rules. If you don't, fine. I'll just leave you to George's tender mercies, and you can dally in the bookstore all day, every day, until your father comes in and finds you and hauls you back home.”
She covered her eyes. “No! No, I don't want that!”
“Daisy!” George roared. “There's no need--”
Again I spun around. I was furious. “The hell there isn't!”
Now, I never curse. Not only am I a good Christian girl, but swearing is unladylike and vulgar. It's a testament to my state of mind that I cursed that day.
George swallowed hard. Marianne squeaked again. I didn't care. “Lock up your shop, George,” I said in a less vociferous but more threatening tone of voice. “We need to talk.”
Without another word, George turned on his heel and stomped to the front door of his bookstore. He flipped the “Open” sign to the “Closed” side with a vigor that clearly expressed his exasperation with yours truly, and stomped back to us.
Marianne was sobbing softly, her hands covering her face. I made no move to comfort her, believing she didn't deserve it. George went to her, put a gentle hand on her shoulder and glared at me. “Really, Daisy, there's no need for this.”
“Yes,” I said, pushing the words through my grinding teeth, “there's every need for it. Now get her to the cottage.”
It occurred to me that George was so angry with me, he might just hustle her over there without looking, so I added, “I'll check to make sure the coast is clear.” Turning to give George a glare even hotter than his own, I barked, “Is the cottage door unlocked?”
“Yes.” He was terribly huffy now. Too bad. I was mad enough for any six people.
“Well, it shouldn't be,” I snarled.
There was no one in the alleyway, so I waved George and Marianne forward. He held her tenderly and scowled at me as he walked her past me and aimed her across the alley. She, naturally, was still crying.
I slammed the back door as I exited the bookstore. The childish gesture felt good. What was the matter with those two? Didn't they care about Marianne's welfare? I almost wished George sold china or pottery, since I'd have loved to smash something.
As soon as I set foot in the cottage, I locked the door. Then I aimed a deadly stare at the pair of feeble-witted conspirators. “All right, what's the meaning of this? Haven't we already talked about how important it is to keep Marianne out of the public's eye? Do you think her problem is trivial, George? Is that why you're exposing her to the risk of discovery?”
“Now wait a--”
“No, darn it, I won't wait a minute! Has she told you what her father's done to her? Do you know why she ran away?”
Marianne warbled a feeble, “No-o-o-o!”
So, I turned on her. “Why not, Marianne? If there's no other way to make you two behave, you'd better tell George exactly what your life's been like at home. I'm about to give up on you. You don't seem to have an ounce of sense between you when it comes to self-preservation.”
“Now see here, Daisy, there's no need to be--”
“Yes, there is!” Since there wasn't anything breakable in it, I slammed my handbag on the small table next to the sofa. “I'm sick and tired of being the only one who gives a care about Marianne's welfare, George Grenville! Do you think I'd risk being arrested on a whim?”
The word caught Marianne's attention. She lifted her head from her cupped hands and stared at me, her eyes looking like two blue marbles in a clear mountain pool. “A-arrested! What do you mean, Daisy?”
“I mean I've been threatened with arrest and imprisonment if I help you elude your parents!” It wasn't much of a fib.
Her face as pale as rice, Marianne swallowed. “Imprisonment?”
George, who might have been expected to give thought to my words, frowned. “How did that happen? It's all well and good for you to scold me for being careless, but how does anyone else know you're involved in this mess, unless you told somebody?”
“Nobody knows. My husband's best friend is a detective, and he doesn't trust me. He keeps asking prying questions about Marianne, and he's told me more than once that if I'm hiding her, I'll be in trouble with the police.”
“Oh, no!” I swear to heaven, if Marianne's eyes got any bigger, they'd have fallen out of their sockets, especially as they were slippery with tears. Her voice was a quavery whisper.
“Oh, yes.” Mine, on the other hand, was as hard as rocks and flint and other like matter. “Now, are you two going to behave, or shall we just give your father a ring and tell him where to find you, Marianne?”
Evidently stricken speechless by the threat of danger to my own humble self, Marianne shook her head.
“I wish you wouldn't talk to her like that,” George said querulously. “She's a gently reared young lady who--”
I stamped my foot, effectively squashing the rest of George's sentence underfoot. “I know exactly what she is, George! I'm trying to get you to understand her danger! What don't you understand about it? Do you think we're lying to you? Exaggerating to you? Do you think we're making up a story for your amusement? We're not, you know.”
He had the grace to look slightly--only slightly, drat the man--abashed. “I know that.”
“It's not George's fault, Daisy.”
This astonishing--astonishing because it was so unexpected (and because I didn't believe it)--declaration came from Marianne. I turned a skeptical eye on her. “No?”
“No. I asked him to teach me about the book-selling business. I . . . I thought maybe I could get a job here.”
Squinting as I made my way through her thought processes, which were kind of murky, I said, “Here? You can't work here until you're twenty-one. Do you know of another bookstore in another city that needs help?” Maybe the girl was more resourceful than I'd given her credit for.
She shook her head, confirming my opinion that resourcefulness wasn't one of her more prominent characteristics. “No. But I thought perhaps George . . .”
I didn't blame her for not finishing that sentence. What had she been going to say? That she thought George could give her a job in three years? That she hoped to hide out in his cottage, eluding her father and the rest of the citizens of Pasadena, not to mention the Pasadena Police Department and who knew how many private investigators the Wagners might possibly employ, until her twenty-first birthday? I had an urge t
o pound my head against the wall. Or maybe it was Marianne's head I wanted to pound. I must have appeared as doubtful as I felt, because she bowed her head, folded her hands in her lap, and clammed up.
A moment of silence ensued. I tried to gather the raveled shreds of my composure together, catch my breath, and not start picking up the odd book lying about the cottage and hurling them through windows.
At last George cleared his throat. “We don't have to wait that long,” he said.
Marianne lifted her head and blinked at him. The trails of tears on her cheeks made her appear even more pathetic than usual, and her blue eyes still looked as if they'd been dunked in a woodsy pond. Her rosebud mouth opened slightly, as if she were waiting for an awe-inspiring, problem-solving, and perhaps earth-shaking declaration from her hero, Saint George.
I'm afraid that I eyed him as if he were the devil or one of his minions. “Oh?” The one small word held approximately six hundred pounds of sarcasm, and George must have felt every one of them, because he winced.
“Yes,” said he. “I mean, no. I mean . . . Oh, curse it, I don't know what I mean.
“I figured as much.” Taking a deep breath, I silently counted to ten and then said, “All right. Until we figure out what to do, will you both please not tempt fate by flaunting Marianne in the open?”
“We weren't--” George caught my eye, which was probably extremely flinty by that time, and didn't continue. If you ask me, it was a good thing. “Never mind.”
“Thank you. Then you'll remain in the cottage, Marianne? You won't go to the bookstore? And you especially won't go into the bookstore in broad daylight when anyone might see you?”
“No,” she whispered. “I mean, yes, I'll remain in the cottage, and I won't go to the bookstore. I promise.” She looked beseechingly at George, who nodded.
“That's right,” said George. “Marianne will stay in the cottage until you tell us it's all right for her to leave it.”
I felt a little better after that, although not a whole lot. I still didn't trust those two. I was also feeling plenty depressed about having to lie so much to Billy and my family. I was beginning to think Marianne Wagner wasn't worth my peace of mind. However, I'd started this rescue operation, and I supposed I had to finish it. It would be too cruel to abandon Marianne at this point.