by Alice Duncan
“Right,” I said. “I’m sure you’re right, Harold.” Then part of what he’d said made my head snap straight up. “Did you say two or three months?”
“Well, yes. First we’ll have to take the train to New York City, changing trains in Chicago. Then we’ll take an ocean liner to South Hampton. That’s in England. From there we take the boat train to Marseilles. Then we take the Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul—”
“What?” I interrupted. “Where’s Istanbul?”
“It’s what people are calling Constantinople these days.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Learn something new every day, I guess.
“You can call it Constantinople if you want to,” said Harold generously.
“That’s all right,” said I, thinking my life was confusing enough already without people going and changing the names of cities on me.
“Anyhow, we’ll go from Paris to Istanbul—or Constantinople, if you prefer—”
“I don’t prefer either one.” What I really wanted was not to go at all, but I knew I’d better not say that.
“Anyhow, then we’ll take another train from Constantinople to Cairo. Then I’ll book us on a Cook’s Tour down the Nile. Or up the Nile. I can’t remember which way the boats go.”
“Good Lord,” I said, feeling rather faint. “I’ve never traveled anywhere before in my life except for when we went back to Massachusetts to visit my parents’ families.” You wouldn’t catch anyone in Auburn, Massachusetts, changing its name, I’d bet. Istanbul, my foot.
“This will be a broadening experience for you.”
I suppressed about a thousand and three jokes about broadening experiences and only said, “I guess so. What kinds of clothes should I bring?”
“Ah, now you’re talking my language!”
Have I mentioned Harold was a costumier for a motion-picture company? Well, he was. The rest of that long and exhausting telephone conversation was taken up with talk of clothing. Harold didn’t believe in packing light, but I didn’t see the point of taking more clothes than I’d need.
“Fiddlesticks. You won’t be the one carrying the luggage. We’ll have servants to do that for you.”
“Good Lord,” I said, faint but game. But honestly. Me? With servants waiting on me? Never in my whole life had anyone ever waited on me. Well, not since I was out of diapers, anyway.
“You’ll need at least four evening gowns, my dear,” he said reprovingly when I told him I didn’t want to be overburdened with clothing on that gigantically long trip, servants or no servants. “Think of the evenings you’ll spend in Paris on the way there and in London on the way back. I know you have evening duds, because I’ve seen you in plenty of them. So bring four or five gowns for evening wear.”
In an attempt to assuage his gusto regarding my wardrobe, I tried to steer the conversation to a salient point. “Egypt is sure to be burning hot, Harold. I presume I should bring lightweight frocks and hats and a couple of parasols or something to shield my face from the sun.” If I aimed to resume my career as a spiritualist one day—and I did—it would never do to appear rosy-cheeked and robust.
“Yes, that’s so. Actually, it’ll be warm during the entire journey, I suppose. But don’t worry about that. Bring lightweight clothing for everywhere, and if you need something else, we’ll get it abroad.”
Yeah? You and who else? thought I. Naturally, I didn’t say that to Harold. Still, the fact remained that he was rich and I wasn’t.
“And don’t worry about the expense,” he hastily added, as if he were reading my mind. “Mother is going to give you a huge wad of money tomorrow or the next day.”
“She’s going to what?”
“She’s giving you a big bonus for dealing with Stacy. Oh, that’s right. I forgot to tell you that your Captain Buckingham went down to the Pasadena City Jail, talked to Stacy, and Stacy has repented of her evil ways and is going back to the Salvation Army as soon as she’s finished her term in the pokey.”
“Good Lord.” I was feeling fainter by the second.
“You might phrase it that way,” said Harold with a wry bite to his voice. “But it’s true. She’s been re-saved, if such a thing is possible, and even Mother doesn’t care if she goes to church at the Salvation Army. She’s decided not to hold out for an Episcopalian this time. I think she’s decided Stacy’s too far gone for the staid Episcopal crowd anyway. She’s only glad Stacy claims she’s going to tread on the straight and narrow path from now on.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I said before I could think better of my words. That happens a lot with me.
But Harold didn’t mind. He only laughed and said, “Yeah. Me, too.”
Chapter Nine
By August first, Harold had made sure I had all the proper travel documents, and Dr. Benjamin had made sure I had all the proper travel inoculations, one of which made me really sick for a day or two. They were the only two days out of the entire month of July during which my family didn’t rag me about not eating enough. Heck, I wasn’t dying or anything. I was clearly eating plenty enough to stay alive. I figured that was sufficient. I even began taking Spike for walks during the daytime. So there.
The notion of this trip with Harold—this two or three month-long trip—daunted me a good deal, though. I knew I’d miss my family, and I already missed Spike. He was there on the front porch, along with my entire family, Sam Rotondo, the Wilsons from next door to the north and the Longneckers from across the street to the south when Harold arrived in a chauffeured limousine to take me to the station in Pasadena, where we would catch a train that would take us to the station in downtown Los Angeles. From there we’d take a Southern Pacific train to Chicago and thence get on the New York Central, which would carry us to New York City. From there we’d embark on the White Star Line’s R.M.S. Olympic, which would take us to South Hampton.
The Olympic, by the way, was one of three identical ships built by the White Star Line. They were the Titanic, which had hit an iceberg and sunk in 1912; and the Britannic, which had been torpedoed in 1916. To my mind, these facts augured poorly for our journey, but I didn’t bother telling Harold or anyone else my thoughts on the matter. If the boat sank, I could be with Billy sooner, was the way I saw it. Providing, of course, the Methodist ministers I’d been listening to all my life were right, and I was going to heaven. Given my track record of fooling people for a living, I wasn’t altogether sure I qualified. But that was too depressing to contemplate, and I already felt bum enough.
“Have a good time, sweetheart,” said Pa, giving me a squeeze.
Aunt Vi thrust a little package at me and said, “Take care, Daisy. I’m sure this is exactly what you need.”
Pudge Wilson, who looked like he might burst into tears, said, “I’ll miss you, Miss Daisy.” I think I’ve already mentioned that Pudge, the neighbors’ boy, had been sweet on me for a long time.
“I’ll miss you, too, Pudge,” said I, trying not to cry.
“Oh, Daisy!” said my mother as she flung her arms around me.
I staggered slightly when she released me, and Sam took my arm. “Try to enjoy yourself and all the new experiences you’ll be having.” His voice was gruff. I opened my mouth to thank him when he suddenly turned to Harold. “Watch out for her. She gets into trouble at the drop of a hat.”
“Sam!” I cried, any thought of thanking him for his good wishes vanishing in a pouf of ire. “I don’t either!”
Before a fight could break out on our front porch, Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Longnecker both took one hand each and squeezed.
“Have a wonderful trip, Daisy. I’ll look in on your folks while you’re away,” said Mrs. Wilson.
“Me, too!” said Pudge.
“I’ll miss seeing you walking that adorable dog of yours,” said Mrs. Longnecker.
That did it for me. Spike, who was looking as hangdog as a dachshund could—which was awfully hangdog—reached out a paw and nudged me. My tears spilled over, a
nd I squatted on the porch to give him a hug. “Take care of everyone for me, Spike.”
He licked my chin.
“We’d better be going,” said Harold. I knew he hated scenes.
Sam and the chauffeur had already packed my suitcases—there were three of them, stuffed to the gills—into the limo, and Harold took my arm and hauled me upright again. Although I was normally a crackerjack seamstress, I hadn’t bothered to alter any of my dresses to suit my new size, mainly because I lacked any kind of motivation for anything in those days. If everyone was correct, I’d soon regain any weight I’d lost. Anyhow, there was less of me to haul than there used to be.
“I’ll be sure she stays out of trouble, Detective Rotondo,” said Harold, not even out of breath. “And I’ll take good care of her, Mister and Missus Gumm. I’ll miss your cooking, Missus Gumm.”
“Get along with you, Mister Harold.”
So I wasn’t the only one she told to get along with himself or herself, eh? I guess it was some kind of—what do you call them? Colloquialisms?
Vi continued, “You’ll be dining in wonderful restaurants run by expert chefs.” Her own words must have sparked an idea, for she hurriedly said, “If you eat something particularly delicious, Daisy, try to find out how it’s made. Will you do that for me?”
Oh, brother. Vi knew all about cooking and me, and how very much we didn’t get along. Nevertheless, I said, “I’ll do my best, Vi.”
“Come along, Daisy,” said Harold, his voice and hand on my arm both firm.
“I’ll miss you all!” I said from the bottom of my heart, still fighting tears. Upon my last glance at Spike, I nearly broke down again.
Harold, who knew me well, said, “Yes, you’ll miss your family and that dog. But you’re going to be seeing and doing wonderful things, Daisy Majesty, so just don’t you start crying again.”
I sniffled my tears back and said in a shaky voice, “I’ll try, Harold.”
“Nuts to that. You either try or you do. I think you’re the one who told me that once.”
“I don’t remember that.” And I didn’t, but the advice was good, and it got me to thinking, which was probably what Harold had intended.
“Did Mother give you your bonus?”
The mention of my “bonus” brought any thought of tears to a screeching halt. “My Lord, yes! Harold, do you have any idea how much money she gave me?”
“Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough,” said Harold, who’d been tormented by his sister all his life, while she’d only made my life miserable for several years.
“Well, it’s a lot more money than I’ve ever seen before, and that’s even after various bonuses paid to me by contented clients. Heck, even when that Russian duke or whatever he was gave me that bejeweled bracelet, I don’t think it was worth as much as the amount of money your mother gave me.”
He smiled. “Good. You deserve every penny.”
I eyed him thoughtfully. “You really think so?”
“I really do.”
Hmm. Maybe he was right. Perhaps the five thousand—five thousand—dollars Mrs. Pinkerton had insisted I take wasn’t too much money for all the years I’d been at her beck and call.
Naw. It was way too much money, even if you figured Stacy into the equation. But I knew better than to argue with Harold, who’d had access to gobs of money his whole life. Anyhow, my family could use some of that five grand while I was away and not earning money for them.
At any rate, it didn’t take long for the chauffeur to get us to the train station, which was on Fair Oaks Avenue and Del Mar Boulevard. When we got there, the chauffeur opened our doors (mine first), and I got out and looked around, not knowing what to do with myself.
Fortunately, Harold knew what to do with the both of us. He once again took my arm and began guiding me to the station. “Come along, Daisy. Folks will be out to get our luggage.”
“Without you telling them where to put it?” I asked, feeling stupid, but curious anyway.
“They know. I booked all our plans in advance. Believe me, they’re being well tipped to follow my instructions.”
“Oh. That’s right. Servants get tips, don’t they?” Kind of like I got tips from my clients every now and then. Which made me on a par with a servant, I supposed. Well, heck, I already knew that. Some of my best friends were servants of one sort or another, waiting on people who were no better nor worse than they were, but had more money than we.
There went those bitter thoughts again. Shoot, if it weren’t for the rich people in the world, how were the rest of us expected to survive? I should be grateful to them, not thinking snotty thoughts about them.
Nuts. At that moment, as we entered the Pasadena Train Station, I figured I’d never regain my good humor again.
But Harold had been absolutely correct about our plans working smoothly. I watched from the window as various people, from the chauffeur to uniformed train-station attendants, unloaded the limousine. Boy, until I saw how much luggage Harold had brought with him, I’d thought I’d packed heavily. But they unloaded five huge trunks full of Harold’s stuff.
“Good Lord, Harold. How many sets of clothes did you bring?”
“Hundreds, darling,” he said. I heard the grin in his voice.
“I didn’t think men had to dress up in different clothes all the time like women do.”
“We don’t. Most of those trunks are filled with things I thought you might use.” As I opened my mouth to protest, he held up a hand. “And don’t start bellowing at me. I know you’ve never traveled, and most of the things I’ve brought along are from the studio and would never have been used again in this lifetime if I hadn’t taken them. Better to give them a second chance to shine on you than to let them hang, neglected forever, on a back lot somewhere.” He eyed me up and down, making me feel like squirming. “I brought along various sizes, since I aim to fatten you up.”
I opened my mouth again, but nothing came out. There seemed to be nothing to say. If Harold wanted to lug five trunks’ worth of ladies’ clothing from one coast of the United States to the other, across the Atlantic Ocean and all over Europe and Egypt, what could I say? Anyhow—and I don’t like to admit this—I’d worked on a moving-picture set recently and had been agog at the gorgeous clothes the women had worn. Mind you, that particular movie was set during the Civil War, but still and all, my folks and I—and Billy—had gone to enough pictures for me to have envied the stars their wardrobes.
Not that mine was anything to sneeze at. As I’ve said before probably too many times, I followed the fashion trends and made all of my family’s clothes, mainly from bolt ends and sale-price merchandise from Maxime’s Fabrics on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena. The fact remained that I’d never spent more than a dollar and a quarter on any outfit I’d ever sewn for myself, not even the exquisite (if I do say so myself) evening ensembles I’d managed to patch together for my spiritualist business. I was nothing if not a skilled and thrifty seamstress. Which took a little of the sting out of not being able to cook anything more complicated than toast—but not much.
Speaking of dressing well, that day I wore a lovely, lightweight, dark lavender traveling suit with a beige hat, shoes and bag. I’m not all that fond of purple as a color, and especially not on me, who’s more or less a redhead. Still, the color was appropriate both for travel and for mourning, so I wore it.
A train shrieked into the station, a whistle nearly blew our heads off, and Harold and I moved from the window to the boarding platform. It wasn’t long before the station attendant called, “All aboard for Los Angeles,” we boarded the train and we were on our way.
Whether I wanted to be on my way or not.
In a little more than an hour, we were in Los Angeles. Boy, the L.A. train station is a bustling place! I thought it was quite lovely, too, although Harold told me it didn’t hold a candle to Grand Central Station in New York City.
“But you’ll see it for yourself in four days,” he said complacently.<
br />
“You’ve been to New York a lot?”
“Oh, my, yes. Del and I like to take in the theater sometimes.”
“In New York?” I gaped at him, agog that anyone would travel across an entire country to watch a play. I mean, I knew Harold and Del traveled together sometimes, but going all the way to New York to see a play seemed somehow excessive to me.
“Broadway is the heart of the American theater, darling. We’ll catch a play or two in London, too. You’ll enjoy that.”
I would, would I? Well, maybe I would.
“Sure,” I said. What else could I say?
We had a three-hour delay in Los Angeles before our train was to take off for Chicago, so Harold again took my arm and led me out into the hot August sunshine. “I’m taking you on a tour of downtown Los Angeles,” he declared, hailing a taxicab with the ease of someone brought up to the action. Well, I guess he had been.
“Top of Angels Flight,” Harold told the driver.
“Sure thing, mister.” The cab sped off with a grinding of gears that made me wince.
“What’s Angels Flight?” I asked Harold, holding on to my hat so it wouldn’t fly off. The traffic was terrible, and the cabbie swung in and out of it as if he did it every day—which I guess he did. But it made for a bumpy ride.
“It’s an adorable little railroad.”
And it was. Only one block long, it was almost vertical and had been built because people didn’t like to climb steep hills, I suppose, and that’s all the two cars of Angels Flight did: go up and down that one block from Olive to Hill all day long. I thought taking a train for one measly block might be the least little bit self-indulgent, but I didn’t dare say so to Harold.
After we rode Angels Flight, which I have to admit was fun, Harold took me to lunch at a place called Musso and Frank’s Grill. It was quite lovely, and I think I noticed a couple of people I’d seen in the pictures, although I couldn’t place them with names, having little interest in the flickers at the time. I managed to eat several bites of my chicken pie, Harold keeping an eagle-eyed stare on me the whole time. His close scrutiny became kind of annoying after a while.