American Progress

by Veda Boyd Jones

  “When your parents came back to Minneapolis from the farm, I dragged your mother off to women’s suffrage meetings. I had her involved in every cause and club in the city.”

  When she finished filling the ice-cream freezer, Aunt Frances came over to sit down beside Carrie. “After women got the vote, the rest of us slacked off a little, but not your mama. Now she’s just as active in the League of Women Voters as she was in the Suffrage Association. She just doesn’t seem to know where or when to stop. And now she’s doing the same thing with you.”

  Carrie knew Aunt Frances was right, but she didn’t see what she could do about it.

  “Here.” Aunt Frances held out her arms to take the sleeping baby. “I’ll put him in on the bed. You go tell Larry and Garvey it’s time to crush the ice and turn the freezer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As Aunt Frances was leaving the kitchen, she turned and said, “I’ll telephone you next week, and we’ll see if you can spend an afternoon here with the babies.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Frances.”

  Now that would be something to look forward to.

  CHAPTER 5

  The New Girl

  The Ruhles’ telephone rang at three in the morning on August 3. Father had a telephone by his bed because the news office was liable to call at any hour. Carrie could hear his voice down the hall from her bedroom. Then she heard him talking with Mother.

  Carrie lay there listening. When she realized Father was getting dressed, she jumped out of bed and pulled on her housecoat. It must be something truly important for him to be going to the office at this time of night. She stepped into the hallway just as he was coming out of the bedroom.

  “What is it, Father?” she asked.

  “President Harding. He died last night, and Coolidge has been sworn in. We’re going to have to print an extra edition immediately.”

  “What will that mean—to have a new president?”

  Father stopped and put his hand on her shoulder. “Carrie, I’m very sorry that Warren Harding died. But I don’t believe this particular change of power is going to affect the nation one way or the other.”

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek and went on downstairs, stopping at the hall tree to grab his hat.

  Crawling back into bed, Carrie couldn’t help feeling a little bit important. While the rest of the city slept, she was aware of news that they wouldn’t learn until daybreak. It was special to have a newspaperman for a father. Of course, she would never brag about it to anyone, but she lay there and savored the specialness of it.

  Later, when she and Mother got up, they listened to the radio. Regular programs were interrupted with the announcement that President Harding had died in San Francisco. The president had been ill for a number of days, but everyone thought he was recovering.

  Vice President Calvin Coolidge was vacationing at his boyhood home in Vermont, the announcer explained. “When the vice president was awakened and told the news, his father, John Coolidge, a notary, administered the oath of office by the light of a kerosene lamp.”

  Listening to the man on the radio, Carrie could picture the scene perfectly. What a surprise that must have been for Mr. Coolidge—to be awakened in the middle of the night and told he was now the president of the United States.

  Later that day, as Carrie and Garvey walked to the Simmonses’ place to play, Garvey said he’d heard the same announcement. “Uncle Glendon woke us all up at about six,” he said. “Then Father gathered us around the radio so we could hear what had happened.”

  As they walked past the Carrutherses’ house, Carrie just happened to look over at the garage apartment. As she did, she thought she saw a face at the window. A girl’s face. And she was wearing some kind of scarf. When she looked back again, the face was gone. Could she have been imagining things?

  Vi and Nate hadn’t heard the news about the president, nor were they much interested. They had other things on their minds.

  “You’ll never guess what,” Vi said as they sat together on the wide porch steps.

  “I give up,” Garvey said.

  “Aunt Oriel has instructed Opal to give us weekly allowances.”

  “An allowance,” Carrie said. “How wonderful.” Even though Vi and Nate’s aged aunt seldom came out of seclusion, surely she couldn’t be all bad. Opal had sometimes given them money out of the grocery fund, but that was every so often—not every week.

  “How much?” Garvey wanted to know.

  “Twenty cents,” Nate told them, holding out his hand to show the four nickels.

  Many times Carrie and Garvey had treated the Bickerson children to candy or a movie. But those days were over. Now their friends would have their own money to spend.

  “Well, what’re we waiting for?” Garvey said, jumping up. “Let’s go to the drugstore and get a treat.”

  As they walked the few blocks to the drugstore, they talked about what they would get. The glass cases in the drugstore were jam-packed with dozens of kinds of candies. It was almost impossible to make a decision. But Carrie knew she didn’t want candy on this hot day. She wanted an ice-cold Popsicle.

  Once inside the store, Carrie told Mrs. Jenkins, the lady behind the counter, what she wanted. A cloud of cold air was released when Mrs. Jenkins opened the freezer door and handed Carrie the hard, cold, purple Popsicle.

  When they came out of the drugstore a few minutes later, Vi had a double-dip chocolate ice-cream cone. The boys had boxes of Cracker Jack, so they could get the toys inside, and chewing gum, so they could get the baseball cards inside.

  Carrie nursed her dripping double-stick grape Popsicle. It tasted cold and sweet and yummy. It was so cold it made her teeth ache. They sat down on the curb in front of the drugstore and watched the traffic going by.

  As Carrie bit the cold chunks of Popsicle off the sticks, she thought of a poem.

  Popsicles, Popsicles—my best pick,

  Flavored ice stuck on a stick.

  It cools me off in the summer heat;

  The yummy flavor is nice and sweet.

  Oh, the joy of a Popsicle’s hard to beat.

  Vi laughed. “I swear, Carrie, you always have a poem going through your head.”

  “That one would be great for a radio advertisement for Popsicles,” Nate said. “If someone put it to music, they could sing it on the air.”

  “Hey,” said Garvey. “What a good idea! I can see it now: Caroline Ruhle, famous radio commercial writer. Let’s send it in, Carrie. What do you say?”

  Carrie shook her head. “It’s not that good,” she protested.

  Garvey stood up. “Where’s that wrapper? Where did you put the wrapper? It’ll have the address of the company on it.”

  “I threw it in the trash inside the drugstore,” Carrie said. “Garvey, please. I’m not even sure I could say it again.” She often forgot her poems if she didn’t write them down as soon as they came to her.

  “We’ll help you remember,” Vi said.

  Garvey had already gone inside the drugstore. He came back out carrying the wadded-up wrapper. “The address is right here. Come on. Let’s go write it out and send it in.”

  Carrie ate the last cool bite of Popsicle and threw the sticks in a trash barrel then hurried to catch up with the other three.

  In a matter of minutes, they were under a shade tree in the Simmonses’ backyard. Garvey had a sheet of paper and a pencil in hand. “Now say it again, Carrie,” he said. “How did it go?”

  Carrie thought a minute. “Popsicles, Popsicles—can’t be beat.”

  “No, no,” Vi said. “That’s not how it started. It was something about your pick. Rhymed with stick.”

  “Oh yes. Now I remember.” Carrie looked off in the distance to concentrate. Suddenly, at the edge of the Carrutherses’ flower garden she saw a little girl. A girl dressed in some kind of foreign peasant garb with a colorful scarf on her head. In a kind of half whisper, Carrie said, “Look there—by the garden. Who is that?”
r />   The other three looked toward the garden.

  “Oh, her,” Nate said with a wave of his hand. “Some waif that the chauffeur has taken in. Probably a relative of some sort.” Finishing off the last of his Cracker Jack, he added, “Sonny was right when he said Mr. Carruthers shouldn’t hire a Jew. Before you know it, there’ll be a whole clan of them over there.”

  “She’s trying to catch a kitten,” Carrie said.

  “That kitten’s been roaming around here for days,” Vi said. “No one can catch it.”

  “I bet I could.” Carrie watched a minute as the girl slowly tried to inch her way toward the pretty black-and-white kitten. But it let her get only so close and no closer.

  “But you’re writing a poem about Popsicles, remember?” Nate said firmly.

  Carrie wasn’t listening. She was walking out of the Simmonses’ backyard and over to the Carrutherses’ garden. As she approached the girl, she could see she wasn’t as young as she’d first thought. The girl was thin, and her face was narrow and pale. From under the scarf, strands of mousy brown hair escaped and floated about her face.

  “Hello,” Carrie said.

  The girl whirled around, her eyes large with fear. She stepped back into the privet hedge as though to hide.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Carrie said gently. “I came to help you with the kitten. Do you speak English?”

  At the mention of the kitten, the girl seemed to relax. “I speak some English. It is your kitten?” she asked, pointing to where the little fellow was lying peacefully stretched out in a patch of sunlight.

  Carrie shook her head. “The kitten is not mine.” Taking another step, she said, “My name is Caroline. My friends all call me Carrie.”

  “Carrie. Easy to say. Carrie.” Placing her thin hand on her chest, the girl said, “Dvora Levinsky.”

  “Dvora. Is Yerik Levinsky your relative?”

  “Relative?” The girl looked puzzled.

  “Family. Is he family?”

  She nodded and gave a faint smile. “My uncle.”

  “And the rest of your family?” As soon as she spoke the words, Carrie knew it had been the wrong question.

  Dvora pressed her lips tightly together until all the color went out of them. “Sickness on the ship,” she said so softly Carrie could barely make out the words. Shaking her head as though to clear out the thoughts, Dvora added, “Mama and Papa, both sick. Both die.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” Carrie said. “How brave you are to come all the way to Minneapolis by yourself.”

  “I was not brave but very frightened. Only not as frightened as when the Russian peasants burned our village.”

  Carrie didn’t know what to say. Instead, she pointed to the kitten. “Do you want to pet the kitten?”

  “Very much I want to, but its feet run too fast.”

  “Come,” Carrie said, motioning toward the walk where the sun streamed down. “Let’s sit. We’ll let the kitten come to us.”

  Quietly, gently, so as not to startle the kitten, they sat down together on the walk. “Come, kitty,” Carrie said. She tapped the walk with her fingers, making the kitten curious. Presently it stood and stretched, its pink tongue curling up as it made a big yawn. They sat very still as the kitten came and began rubbing against Dvora’s funny-looking boots. A smile spread across the girl’s face as the kitten crawled right up in her lap.

  “It’s a girl kitten,” Carrie told her.

  “Whose kitten could this be?” Dvora asked. Timidly she reached out to touch the furry head. The kitten pushed against her hand, asking for more petting.

  “I can find out,” Carrie said. “Perhaps she belongs to no one. Perhaps she could be yours.”

  Dvora looked at Carrie, eyes wide. “How could she be mine?”

  “If she belongs to no one, then someone must care for her or she’ll die.”

  The girl nodded, her face serious again. “Yes. Someone must care for her.”

  “You stay right here. I’ll get my friends to help me ask around the neighborhood. We’ll soon have an answer.”

  Carrie stood up slowly so as not to disturb the kitten. Once she got past the garden, she ran back over to the Simmonses’ yard, but it was empty. She went in through the kitchen. Opal was there, stirring up something that smelled spicy and good.

  “Where is everyone?” Carrie asked.

  “Gone to the sandlot.”

  “Vi, too?”

  “Vi, too.”

  So much for having friends to help. Carrie supposed she’d have to do the asking around the neighborhood all by herself.

  CHAPTER 6

  Modern Miss Tilden

  Carrie wasn’t the least bit surprised that no one claimed the kitten. There were stray cats around the city all the time. This would be good news for Dvora. She had to hurry, because it was nearly time for her piano lessons. She couldn’t be late this time.

  How she wished Vi hadn’t gone off with the boys. It was odd for her to do so, because Vi didn’t care for baseball any more than Carrie did.

  When Carrie returned to the Carrutherses’ garden, there was Dvora, still sitting on the walk with the kitten curled up asleep in her lap. Surely her boots, her heavy embroidered dress, and colorful scarf must be awfully warm in the August heat. Dvora, however, seemed oblivious.

  “I have good news,” Carrie said as she approached. “The kitten is all yours.”

  She’d no sooner said the words than a man’s voice sounded from behind her, startling her. “It was so kind of you to go to the trouble.”

  She whirled around. There stood Dvora’s uncle, the chauffeur, Yerik Levinsky.

  Waving his hand toward Dvora, he said, “I asked her to come in out of the hot sun, but she said she wasn’t to move.”

  Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh dear. I’m afraid that’s my fault. I told her to stay right there.”

  Yerik smiled his nice smile. “She’s accustomed to strict obedience.” He said something to his niece in strange-sounding words, and Dvora rose, still cradling the docile kitten in her arms.

  “Is it all right with you if she keeps the kitten?” Carrie asked. “No one has claimed it.”

  Yerik nodded. “It is very much all right. At this time, a pet shall be a fine blessing for my niece Dvora.”

  “I shall name her Vanya.” Dvora had stepped up beside them. “It means gift of God in Russian.”

  “A perfect name. Vanya,” Carrie repeated. “Tell me, will you be attending school with me in the fall?” she asked.

  Dvora glanced at her uncle with questions in her eyes.

  “She will,” her uncle answered for her. “But I have told her she must cease to wear her babushka before school begins. Giving it up will be difficult for her.”

  Dvora touched the scarf on her head. That let Carrie know that babushka was the name of the unsightly scarf. Her uncle was right—Dvora would most certainly be laughed at if she ever wore such a thing to school.

  “I must be going now,” Carrie said. “I have to be home in just a few minutes. But I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.”

  Yerik and Dvora thanked her again for helping with the kitten. She assured them it was no trouble at all. In fact, it had been rather fun.

  As Carrie turned to leave, she wished she had time to go to the sandlot and tell Vi all that had happened. But there wasn’t a minute to spare.

  When she arrived home, Mother was waiting as usual. At least Carrie didn’t have to change clothes to go to piano lessons. She ran into the living room to grab her lesson books and sheet music, and off they went.

  “I have to run to the department store during your lesson today, Caroline,” Mother said as they drove downtown. “Sorry I can’t stay and listen.”

  “That’s all right,” Carrie said.

  It was all right because she’d become used to it. Mother seldom stayed to listen to her lessons.

  Carrie’s piano teacher, Miss Suzette Tilden, lived in an efficiency apartment not far from t
he university where she was doing graduate work in music. Miss Tilden was the only single young lady that Carrie knew who rented her very own apartment. Most single women lived at home until they were married. But not Miss Tilden.

  Miss Tilden was one of the few women Carrie knew who wore her hair bobbed. That didn’t count the movie stars with bobbed hair and pictures in magazines that Carrie had seen. In many ways, Miss Tilden was different than most anyone Carrie knew. The most different thing about her was that she didn’t believe in God. Or at least that’s what she said.

  “God,” she had told Carrie many times, “is simply a figment of man’s imagination. A figment of the imagination for those who need such a crutch in life.”

  Carrie wondered how her parents would react if they ever found out about the beliefs of this piano teacher.

  Mother slowed the Chandler Six in front of Miss Tilden’s apartment building, and Carrie hopped out. “I’ll see you in an hour,” Mother said and sped off.

  “See you in an hour,” Carrie said to the exhaust fumes. Then she turned and went up the narrow stairwell that led to the second-floor apartment and tapped at the door.

  Miss Tilden called for her to come in. Carrie entered the pint-sized kitchen and made her way through beaded curtains to the living area where the piano was located. Miss Tilden stood from where she’d been sitting at her desk. She read and studied a great deal, and the small apartment was lined with makeshift bookshelves. Magazines lay in stacks on the small tables about the room.

  Miss Tilden smiled as she greeted Carrie. Her thin bow-shaped lips were dark with lip rouge. While the rouge was brazen and daring, somehow it looked good on Miss Tilden. It just fit her personality.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Tilden,” Carrie said, setting her things on the piano. She pulled out the book of Beethoven pieces she’d been working on and set it on the music stand. Although Carrie hated giving up the freedom of summertime hours, she loved the classical music she was studying. Especially Beethoven.

  “What would you like to begin with today?” Miss Tilden asked as she joined Carrie at the piano.