Cakewalk

by Rita Mae Brown

  No matter how we found each other. Enough to say he makes me think, makes me laugh. He has little by way of money in this world but is happy with what he does possess and doesn’t want my money. It may seem strange for me to put that in writing, but one cannot have what a Chalfonte has and not be wary.

  What will amuse you, I think, is that Carlotta is dazzled by him and wants him to create stained-glass windows for her chapel. I’ve written to you of the fire, how we all worked to save the chapel and I must say, Carlotta bore it wonderfully well. Perhaps the Blessed Virgin Mother does watch over her. In so many ways, she reminds me of Mother. She’s forty-seven now and looks so much like Mother, who died when she was fifty-three. It’s hard to believe how long both Mother and Father have been gone and it’s still painful to think of Spotts being gone.

  I know I wrote you about Louise’s young man, also an army veteran. Getting to know Paul as well as Ben, my gentleman, I comprehend Spotts in new ways. I do not think, dearest, we will ever truly understand what that war has done to those who fought it, as well as to all of us. It was one of those great pivotal moments in history, as the French Revolution was. I often think we all see through the shadow of the guillotine. Such horror ushered in modern times.

  I’ve been rereading my Lucretius and Seneca. Needed to clean my mind, brace myself up.

  On a more gossiping note, Juts threatens to leave school. Cora isn’t fighting her but hoping to keep her going until graduation two years hence. The really helpful person has been Ev Most, Juts’s friend who brings lessons, does them with her, etc. I’ve seen these two girls grow up and much of the time under my own roof but I really didn’t pay attention. I rather accepted everyone’s station in life.

  But, you know, both Louise and Juts are intelligent. Vastly different personalities but quite intelligent. I told you about Wheezie going to Philadelphia, which she loved. The girl has such a flair for fashion.

  At any rate, thanks to your new situation and mine, I am rethinking many things. All to the good.

  One thing I have realized since you left is how much Fannie Jump and Fairy love me. I never gave it a thought but they do love me and have watched out for me. And I know how much I love them. I fear I have taken a great deal for granted in life and I have been given many advantages.

  Long day, much of it spent in the heat. Before I forget, the Hanover Electric Company is expanding. I will buy more shares, as I think electrification will continue. I hope the streetlamps on the square are never electrified and, of course, many homes use gas. It’s a softer light and gas is more reliable but Stirling declares the ability to generate electric power will magnify as well as simplify over these next years. I don’t see that it’s any more convenient than gas but he differs with me on that. Nonetheless, I have bought more shares.

  You know how I like to very quietly follow the market. I would imagine there are many opportunities out there and we know Curtis will find them.

  May this find you well. I love you. I will always love you. This will all work out.

  Love, Celeste

  Peony buds swelled to the size of golf balls. Another week and they would open, the colors creamy white, pink, deep pink, pulsating magenta.

  Celeste and Fannie walked through Celeste’s gardens.

  “I do so love peonies.” She shaded her eyes from the morning sun. “Ben will get here on the noon train. I thought we might take a ride. You’re welcome to join us. He’s such a natural athlete, but natural or not, equitation takes time.”

  “That it does. Thank you, but it’s another Sunday dinner, perhaps not as formal as a coronation dinner but, ah, you know. And now, with this new Mother’s Day business, we have to attend to that.”

  “The aunts and great-aunts and your most ancient mother-in-law.” Celeste smiled. “Well, did you receive some token of everyone’s esteem?”

  “No. I expect that will come at dinner. I don’t much like these made-up holidays. For God’s sake, Christmas and Easter are bad enough. And then we have June fifteenth, which I do enjoy. Fourth of July isn’t so bad either, if you can stand all the screaming fireworks, all of them in my backyard, I swear.”

  “Look at it this way. The made-up holidays are good for business.”

  “Whose business?” Fannie stopped to touch a small tea rose just opening.

  Celeste inhaled the sweetness of a May morning. “Not ours.”

  “Did you send something to Ramelle?”

  “I did not. That’s Curtis’s job. I did, however, write her a letter which I will post tomorrow, telling her that I love her, of course, but also telling her about Ben.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. As I told you at the Belvedere, I thought it best to prepare her.”

  “What about Ben?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Celeste confidently predicted. “Did you find the setting, the one your mother gave you that you thought might suit Louise?”

  “I did. I’ll bring it by tomorrow. It will suit that diamond of your mother’s. Personally, I like the cigar band, but I do understand Louise’s upset about such gossip. Not that she’s said a word. I mean, she likes the cigar band, what’s left of it.”

  “The Rhodeses redefine petty, do they not?”

  “Indeed. You know what would delight me? A cigar band made of enamel. Now wouldn’t that just be unique? I suppose one might have encrusted diamonds on it, but so colorful. I’m tiring of major stones.”

  “No, you aren’t.” Celeste laughed at her.

  “Yes, I am. The bigger the stones, the older the woman. One doesn’t wear major stones as a girl or even a young woman. Major pearls, perhaps, but what is the expression, a diamond big as the Ritz—one has a few years there.”

  “I suppose by then, a lady has worked to acquire them.”

  Fannie Jump laughed. “God knows that’s the truth.”

  “Neither of us thinks much of this Mother’s Day thing, but do you think it disturbs Fairy?”

  “No. What disturbs Fairy is all this drivel she’s reading. Whatever has possessed her to delve into economics? The truth is, some people know how to make money and most don’t. There’s no science to it.”

  “I really don’t know. I like it. I mean, I like following the money, reading about banks and stocks, but reading some sort of theory, you know, Adam Smith, leads nowhere.”

  “Perhaps if one is an academic it leads somewhere. Do you remember when we were at Smith and Professor Fearneyhough made us trace the metaphors for mirrors in Richard the Second? How he kept pestering us with Shakespeare, using mirrors to show us how the king was deteriorating, falling away from reality into fantasy?”

  “I do remember. I don’t think Richard needed mirrors. His lovers were doing him in.”

  “Greed.”

  “It will ever be with us.” Celeste paused before her English boxwoods, tight and trimmed.

  “We aren’t greedy.”

  “Fannie, there are many types of greed. Money. Power. Dissipation. Strange thrills. I can’t say as I think about it but I do think about the war, greed, horror, death…But I think it started with greed for power.”

  They walked, the grass cushiony underfoot.

  Finally, Fannie said, “I do too. The Wilcox boy without his arm. The ones who came home blind, and not just from this last war. What about old Reggie Anson, blinded at Sharpsburg as a fourteen-year-old? Still with us. He found something useful to do weaving cane chairs. But I think about it.”

  “It looks as though we will lose the vote but I wonder, if we do get it, if women can vote, will we end war? Carlotta and I talked about it.”

  “Celeste, this last war really must be the war to end all wars. How can anyone, any nation even think of war after Verdun? Perhaps men have learned at last.”

  “I don’t know. I keep coming back to Ramelle’s wedding, standing on the steps, everyone so flushed and happy and thinking ‘Et in Arcadia ego.’ ”

  “Darling, you’d just lost your lover. I woul
d have thought worse than that.”

  “Oh, Fannie.” Celeste slipped her arm through Fannie’s as they continued to walk.

  —

  Blocks away, Mother’s Day deeply affected the three Rhodes women. Lottie and Dimps Jr. had bought their mother a bright turquoise necklace and bracelet. They’d saved for months to afford it.

  Slipping it on, she said, “Thank you.”

  However, her mood was dark.

  “We could walk around the square,” Lottie offered.

  “No.” Big Dimps gripped the arms of the chair. “There has to be a way to bring Bill to bear.”

  Dimps Jr. started to cry.

  “Shove it, Dimps,” Lottie commanded. “Don’t be a ninny.”

  Sniffling, the younger sister wailed, “He says, how does he know the baby is his?”

  “We will have to go to his parents.”

  “Oh, Mother, don’t. He’ll never speak to me again.”

  “He isn’t speaking to you now,” her mother corrected her.

  “But I love him.”

  “Shut up.” Lottie’s upper lip curled.

  “I do. I love him. I only want to be with him.”

  Big Dimps rose, paced the room. “You aren’t going to be with him. He’s dumped you. That’s that. I’ve got to bring his parents around.”

  “Mother,” Lottie spoke with clear logic, “they aren’t going to budge. They aren’t stupid. They know he’s gotten Dimps pregnant. But they believe he has a great football career in front of him.” She pointed to her sister. “You will only drag him down.”

  Big Dimps lit a cigarette. “We can go to Pastor Wade. He can talk to the Whittiers.”

  Lottie said, “Mother, the Whittiers are Presbyterians. They aren’t going to listen to Pastor Wade. We have to find another way.”

  “Aren’t there doctors who can, you know…?” Dimps Jr. whispered.

  Her mother stubbed out the cigarette after one puff. “Oh, they can kill the baby but they can kill you, too. You’re going to have this baby.”

  Dimps Jr. cried all the harder.

  “Mother”—Lottie ignored her sister’s hysterics—“we have two choices. We can send her away.”

  Big Dimps shouted, “With what money? Your father doesn’t have a pot to piss in and if he finds out, it will be far worse than it is. He’s an idiot.”

  Lottie let that pass, then began anew. “Or we can find someone for her to marry.”

  “Never!” Dimps Jr. wailed.

  “Shut up. You’re an even bigger idiot than your father.”

  “You married him,” Dimps Jr. snarled and Big Dimps smacked her so hard the outline of her hand remained on her daughter’s cheek.

  Big Dimps sat on the arm of Lottie’s chair. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Edgar Wilcox.”

  “He doesn’t have an arm!” Dimps Jr. squealed. “And I love Bill.”

  Lottie glanced up at her mother. “Mom, the Wilcoxes aren’t rich but they’re well off. Edgar is okay. He works at the bakery and someday he will take it over.”

  Big Dimps considered this. “A good living. I heard the war affected his mind. He’s withdrawn, rarely smiles.”

  “He seems all right. He’ll recover. He’s quiet but I see him at the Capitol. Dimps, does Betty ever talk about her brother?”

  The little sister shrugged. “Not much. She likes him.”

  “Mmm. Stand up,” Big Dimps ordered her daughter. “Lift up your dress.”

  “Mother!”

  “Do as I tell you.”

  Both mother and sister walked around Dimps Jr.

  At last Big Dimps pronounced judgment. “We have some time before she shows. Not a lot but perhaps just enough. Dimps, you find a way to get Edgar into bed.”

  “No!” Dimps Jr. screamed.

  “Listen, you little slut.” Her mother grabbed her lower jaw. “You haven’t much time. If you don’t marry, you never will. No man in this town will have you. Do you understand?”

  Dimps Jr. nodded that she did, then whispered, “I can’t be the only girl in Runnymede who’s ever been in this condition.”

  “You are not, but they were sent away to an aunt or someone in another state, had the baby, came home, and have lied about it ever since. The others married the men. You have to marry. I am not supporting you for the rest of your life. I am not listening to your father whine about money.”

  “I’ll get a job.”

  “With whom? No one is going to hire an unwed mother. What world are you living in? And why didn’t you come to me or your sister? We could have told you how not to get pregnant.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “I would have slapped you silly, but I would have told you what to do. Well”—she threw up her hands—“it’s too late now.” Big Dimps looked at Lottie. “How do we proceed?”

  “We start with Dimps buying fresh bread.” Lottie stood in front of her sister. “You make eyes at him. Talk. Then a week passes and you have an extra ticket to the Capitol. You ask him will he escort you. It’s a start.” Then Lottie looked at her mother. “Let’s hope it works.”

  “There’s one other thing. You give him whatever he wants. When he marries you, no matter what, you never, ever tell him the truth. You remember that because of him, you have a position. And when you’re married you still give him whatever he wants. Dote on him. Keep him happy. Learn from my mistake.”

  “But Momma, I love Bill,” she cried anew.

  “He doesn’t love you. Put him out of your mind.”

  A flash of reality hit Dimps Jr. “You’re asking me to live a lie.”

  “Daughter, millions of women do.”

  The boom of the big drums, the rattle of the snares filled the square as the servicemen approached, preceded by the high school marching bands.

  The Union men came down Hanover Street. Once they reached the square, they would turn right, make the corner, then when they reached City Hall on the corner of the Emmitsburg Pike, they would turn left into the square, going through the center until reaching the bandshell.

  The Confederate men arrived from the opposite direction, filing down Frederick Road, where they would turn right at the square, make the corner, then turn left at Baltimore Street, thence onto the square and to the bandshell.

  Unless you were at death’s door, you were among the crowd that lined the streets. No one walked onto the square until the veterans were seated. Those few men currently in service stood on the roads and saluted the veterans of 1861–65, followed by the veterans of the Spanish-American War, who in turn were followed by the young veterans of the Great War. Every man marched in uniform. Granted, some had to alter garments or purchase new ones due to the ravages of time and too much food. But a surprising amount of men could still fit into their uniforms, a testimony to their physical labors.

  Many southern men, now in their seventies, had enlisted as children. About twenty men in their eighties marched and two in their nineties. One of the younger fellows, missing a leg courtesy of the skirmish at Hanover the day before Gettysburg, was in a wicker wheelchair.

  The young veterans bore witness to their war. Edgar Wilcox was missing an arm. Sidney Yost’s brother, Harold, an army man, was blind and being led by Sidney, a navy man. Paul Trumbull and Ben Battle marched together. Paul winked when he passed Louise. Couldn’t help it.

  The oldest men took or were helped to their seats, then came the other veterans and the crowd respectfully followed them. The high school band continued to play as down the roads came the fire departments, then the police departments. The day gleamed and so did the fire trucks, the horses. The one big engine for North Runnymede had their old fire horses led behind as they were such a big part of the parade. All the horses were braided, ribbons streaming from mane and tails; large, calm beasts who happily accepted the treats of those children who ran out to slip them a bit of apple or sugar cube. Good as the new fire truck was, the horses thrilled everyone, especially those who remembered their serv
ice. South Runnymede still used horses, all big grays.

  Once settled, each mayor gave a thankfully short speech. Lionel Tangerman was given a heavy pocket watch and a chain and applauded for years of service as North Runnymede police chief. He would be heading a commission to study vandalism, so he wasn’t completely retired. Then all were invited to observe King John, this year portrayed by Walter Rendell, sign the Magna Carta. This he did surrounded by men dressed as barons from the thirteenth century.

  Once all that passed, everyone could finally talk and listen to the bands playing together, no mean achievement as they had practiced only for the last two months.

  Juts, Ev Most, Dick Yost, Betty Wilcox, Richard Barshinger, Elizabeth Chalmers, Louise Negroponti, even Dimps Jr.’s gang—now headed by Maude Ischatta—visited each veteran, handing them a rosette which they’d made, designed by Juts. She used Celeste’s ribbons that she’d won at horse shows as her model and duplicated the rosettes, only smaller, in red, white, and blue. As the colors of both North and South were red, white, and blue, this turned out fine.

  When Juts pinned a rosette on old Reggie Anson, the blind man lifted up his fingers to feel her face. “She’s pretty, I can tell,” he jovially remarked.

  The other men loudly agreed.

  Spontaneously, Juts kissed Reggie on the cheek.

  Dimps Jr. rushed to Edgar once people could intermingle, bringing him a cold drink. Her attentions did not go unnoticed.

  Returning to the rosette basket with Betty Wilcox, Juts remarked, “She’s all over your brother.”

  “Has been.”

  Juts grimaced.

  Betty, hand again filled with rosettes, shrugged. “He’s coming out of his shell. I keep my mouth shut.”

  “Guess you have to,” Juts replied. “But I don’t trust her.”