by Tully, Jim
There was a picture of a farmer wearing a straw hat, a wide smile, and holding a scythe, on the threshing machine. Beneath his picture, on a scroll, was printed, “The Farmer’s Friend.”
The threshing machine company offered a prize of twenty-five dollars one summer to the boy or girl under fifteen who wrote the best essay on “The Farmer’s Friend.”
As Mary Ellen was fourteen, she entered the contest and wrote for hours each day, and was awarded the prize.
She was helped in the composition by a young student named Jeremiah Randum.
His father was a large landowner who lived in the County Seat. Jeremiah became attached to Mary Ellen. A studious boy, a few years older than Mary Ellen, he would often tell her how he wanted to become a great lawyer.
She had learned stenography at school and went to work for the summer at the County Seat.
She remained a year, and then secured a position in Chicago.
Jeremiah made her promise to correspond with him. “I’ll wait till you’re ready to come back,” he said, “I’m not the kind that gives up.”
She thought of him but seldom in her new world.
In that city she fell in love with a young married man and became his mistress. He deserted her in two years. During this time she corresponded with Jeremiah, who was now a lawyer.
She had a nervous breakdown after the desertion of her lover.
Bitter and cynical, she returned home for a visit.
Her tactful mother talked to her about Jeremiah. She would not listen.
The farm had lost its early glamour.
Jeremiah came to see her as of old.
Saying nothing to her parents about her unfortunate love affair, she returned to Chicago.
A year and a half passed. The melancholy girl met a friend of her ex-lover. With him she went from one dissipation to another, until brought to the attention of Mother Rosenbloom.
That remarkable judge of women knew that Mary Ellen would please her wealthy clientèle. She was not mistaken.
Mother Rosenbloom., in Mary Ellen’s words, “took the kinks out of her.”
In a burst of confidence one evening she told of Jeremiah’s loyalty, while Leora and Mother Rosenbloom listened.
“He’s been elected district attorney,” she said, “the youngest in the state—and here I am—a wreck.”
Mother Rosenbloom grunted, “You’re not a wreck,—you’re just a God-damn fool. I’d go back and marry him if I had to crawl there.”
“But look at my past, Mother,” exclaimed Mary Ellen.
“Past be damned—you’re a better woman for what you’ve gone through. He’s better off with you—and he should be proud to get you. No whore ever lived who wasn’t better than a lousy lawyer.”
Mother Rosenbloom rose with difficulty.
“Write him in the morning that you’re coming,” she said.
“All right, Mother,” Mary Ellen said, holding the large woman’s hand, “you’re a peach.”
“Never mind that,” said Mother, “don’t go on being a God-damn fool.”
Chapter 19
Mother Rosenbloom occupied two immense rooms in a quiet part of the house. A skylight had been cut into the roof. She liked to watch the stars from her specially mounted golden oak bed. All about her bedroom walls were autographed pictures of women who had entertained men in her house.
Many bottles of expensive perfume were in a row on the dresser.
No one dared to enter her room without first ringing a chime outside her door.
She slept but a few hours each night, or rather, before dawn. She did not retire until the girls had their all-night guests and the house was in peace. The revelry would often last until after daylight. Mother would always be awake by six o’clock. Her maid would bring her a cup of black coffee mixed with rum. Mother Rosenbloom would sip it slowly. Then the morning papers would be brought to her. She would begin at the first page and read each column carefully. Her acquaintance over the state was quite wide. She knew the histories and ambitions of politicians and thieves, and all other gentry at the top or the bottom of the social scale.
Her tact in handling people was equal to her disdain for them. She had, through her donations to charities, become a secret power in the city. She had preached for years that her house was a necessary evil, and the citizens, always reluctant to quarrel with a generous giver, accepted her dictum.
On the theory that all the store owners cheated her, she sent either the housekeeper or one of the girls to do her shopping. She trusted few people implicitly, and often said that if one believed the worst of humans he would seldom be disappointed. To all who asked favors she was extremely courteous.
To the girls in her house she was often a trifle aloof. Only at rare intervals did she unbend enough to be completely gentle.
Red-headed women were popular with her. “I’d fill my house with them if I could,” she would often say. Her most popular ditty was,
A lean horse for a long race,
A black hog for a boar
A cock-eyed man for a son-of-a-bitch
And a red-headed woman for a whore
She had no feeling for virtue in women. “What the hell’s a virgin for?” she would ask. She would sneer at those who thanked her for gifts. If they did not thank her, she would say that people were all alike.
Only during the Christmas holidays did Mother Rosenbloom ever become tipsy. During that week she would fill her vast body like a tank.
Though her tongue at such times was more sharp, her head remained level.
On Christmas Eve Mother Rosenbloom held “open house.” All the customers who called were to be entertained at her expense. While the champagne and wine flowed, she surrounded herself with her girls and entertained the men who called. As usual she showed her disrespect for ruined women by singing, to the accompaniment of the old musician at the piano, THE SONG OF SHIME,
She was poor but she was honest,
Victim of the squire’s whim,
First ‘e ‘ad ‘er, then ‘e left ‘er,
Going to ‘ave a child by ‘im.
Then the girl went up to London
For to ‘ide her blessed shime,
There she met another squire,
And she lost ‘er nime agine.
See ‘im in the ‘Ouse of Commons,
Makin’ laws to put down crime,
While the womun that ‘e ruined,
Wanders on through mud and shime.
See ‘er in ‘er ‘orse and carriage
Ridin’ daily through the park,
Though she’s mide a wealthy marriage,
Yet she ‘as a breakin’ ‘eart.
In their poor but ‘umble dwelling,
Where ‘er sorrowin’ parents live,
Drinkin’ shampigne that she sends them,
But they never can forgive.
It’s the sime the ‘ole world over,
It’s the poor wot tikes the blime,
It’s the rich wot tikes its pleasures,
Ain’t it all a bleedin’ shime?
The enormous madam was often touched by simple things.
One day while Leora and Alice were shopping, they sent Mother Rosenbloom a five cent post card. It had the picture of a church, with a small cemetery beside it. A winding road ran beyond, while tiny black specks, represented birds, flew aloft in the pale blue sky.
A toast was printed on the card,
Health and long life to you,
The husband of your choice to you—
Land without rent to you—
And death in Erin. . . .
They wrote beneath, “We mean this,” and signed the card, “Alice and Leora.”
Next morning when the mail came she put her glasses on with a stern expression, and glanced casually at the card. She read the lines, then looked at them more closely, put the card down, wiped the fog from her glasses, then picked up the card again and read the words over several times.
She
had the card put in an expensive frame and placed it on her dresser. She did not mention ever having received it to either of the girls.
Mother had another verse in a costly frame. She would often gaze at it on the wall for a minute and walk away—
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.
Mother Rosenbloom had many superstitions. She would never discuss where they came from. Many of them hinted of a rural background. Once, on a visit to the professor’s house, she saw one of his pet hens attempting to crow. She left immediately and could not be pacified. She believed that she would die before morning if she remained.
She shook her head in bewilderment and said,
A whistling girl and a crowing hen,
Always come to some bad end.
If she saw two white horses in succession she would make the sign of the cross upon herself. If she met a red-headed man who was cross-eyed, she would take a slug of brandy as quickly as possible afterward. She believed that if one saw a piebald horse and made a wish directly afterward, it would come true. If sparrows hovered around her back door, some person was corning hungry within a day. She swore that her cook could not drive the sparrows away on the day that Doris Mahone came hungry to her door.
If a girl turned her thumbs inward when she folded her hands it meant that her husband would rule her. If outward, she would rule. If a woman’s toes turned in, certain parts of her anatomy were large.
If a bird flew in the house, if a rooster crowed in the doorway, if there was a ringing in her ears, or a window accidentally fell—a friend would die that day.
She would allow no one to lie upon the floor in her house . . . that meant an early death for the person so careless.
She would cover all mirrors on the death of a friend, believing that if one saw his own reflection in a mirror three times within a day after the death, that he would be the next to go. If it rained on the first Sunday of the month, it would rain every Sunday during the thirty-day period.
If a girl dropped a knife at her table, it meant that a male visitor was coming. As more men came than ever knives were dropped, this superstition was more easily verified. If one dropped a fork, a woman was coming to the house.
If one counted the vehicles in a funeral procession he would be the next to die.
If one wore a dress made on Good Friday she would never live to wear it out.
If a hair from a girl’s head curled in her hand, her lover was true to her. If anyone swept under a chair while a girl was sitting on it, she would not be married for two years.
Rain on a wedding day meant calamity for the married couple in the end. Rain at a funeral signified that the dead would rest in peace. If the sun set clear on the second Tuesday in the month it would rain on the last Friday.
Mother Rosenbloom disliked a thin priest, and believed that he would betray the secrets of the confessional to the bishop.
The house doctor, with droll humor, had given her a Gideon Bible as a Christmas present. It had been stolen from a hotel.
It remained always by her bed, under the reading lamp with the vivid red shade.
She had underlined the words of Job with a red lead pencil,
My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle,
and are spent without hope.
Chapter 20
The house doctor was much larger around than Mother Rosenbloom and many inches shorter. He was so fat that if one pushed a finger into his body the dent would long remain.
He carried his huge paunch before him as though he were balancing a rain barrel. The flesh had crowded his eyes until they resembled a pig’s. Even when smooth-shaven, the black bristles still showed in his face. Behind his ears and above his neck were thin remnants of hair. Otherwise he was completely bald. His neck rolled over his collar.
His movements were quick. He puffed constantly.
It was often hinted that he was Mother Rosenbloom’s cousin. They were of the same proportions physically, and each walked with the same quick movement despite enormous weight.
He was not a licensed physician. A specialist in venereal disease, his practice was enormous. He knew nothing of ethics. He would overcharge all patients and now and then treat a poor person for nothing.
His pig-like eyes stared from advertisements in the leading daily newspapers. He had an interpreter for all foreigners. All payments were in advance of treatment.
A strict disciplinarian, if one of his employees happened to be a minute late, he was told that he was destroying the morale of his force. He would run a blind advertisement in the newspapers and send cards to all people who answered to call at a specified time. Such interviews gave him a feeling of importance.
He would expound for hours on the blessings of motherhood. It pleased him to be addressed as “Doctor.” Accordingly, Mother Rosenbloom and her girls treated him with the utmost deference.
His chief diversion was fondling the girls at Mother Rosenbloom’s house.
As his office was closed on Sunday, he would spend the greater portion of that day with them.
He would boast loudly to them of the great doctors he knew. The medical profession had tried for years to drive him from practice, without success.
He had made a life study of venereal diseases. An errand boy for a doctor at fifteen, he remained with him for nine years. During this time he read and observed everything possible on the subject.
Heavy as he was, his acquired knowledge bore him down. Pompous and pretentious, he was brittle as glass and as easily seen through. No impression remained long with him, and his childish moods were as fleeting as shadows on the ground.
He was never so proud as when accompanied to a public place by a beautiful girl. He became fond of Leora, and took her to dinner whenever possible. He would have his secretary telephone restaurants and hotels. The menu would be read; she would take it down in shorthand and copy it later. He would then tell Leora what each place was serving and ask her to make a choice.
One day he told Mother Rosenbloom of an expensive diamond ring being stolen from the finger of a wealthy woman as she lay in her coffin. The old woman said, “The thief was right, a skeleton has no business with a diamond—but I want to be buried with mine.”
The doctor was astonished.
“The vanity of ladies,” he said.
No farmer loved the sound of rain in drought more than the doctor the sound of words. The many-colored cloud to the poet, the port of home to the world-wandering sailor, meant no more to them than rolling words to the doctor. He would use all his words on Mother. Though heavy as the earth in movement, his tongue was quick. It relieved Mother’s alert mind, and brought her solace when her heart was low.
One quiet day, Mother sat in her stiff-backed chair and discussed the sad riddle of all things with the doctor.
She had not forgotten the canary that was flushed to oblivion. Its cage remained near her for weeks, and she would gaze at it long and often.
“How could that split-tail bitch have killed my canary, Doctor—I ask you?” She shook with anger at the thought—”Why God damn her black soul to hell.”
“Do not enrage yourself, Mother. All the preponderant stars are in favor of your meeting the glorious bird again.”
“Where, for Christ’s sake,” exclaimed Mother, “in a sewer?”
The doctor’s eyes were full of commiseration.
“Mother,” he soothed, “you have too much faith for such a thought. For all you know that bird is not in a sewer, but is flying from star to star, a happy threnody of golden song. Where were you before you came here —some plac
e, surely—as you had no beginning and no end. Neither had that bird.”
“Oh hell, if I was any place it was some whorehouse in Iowa—but that bird had no immortal soul.”
“How do you know, Mother—would you deny to a bird that which you have in full measure? It’s as reasonable to suppose that the bird is immortal as anything else. No fluff of golden feathers was ever made to die. And because it went swooping down in its own Niagara is no sign that it has perished.”
“But I can’t forgive that damned whore,” sobbed Mother. “No one but a whore would do such a trick.”
“Wrong again, Mother,” said the doctor. “She would have done no differently had she been a Methodist bishop’s daughter. She might even have eaten the bird. Had she not been a whore she would have been no differently composed. Slightly more inhibited and repressed, perhaps, but in the main, no different. It is wrong, Mother, to call people names—your intelligence is too vast for that. Let the girl remain a whore—even a canary killer. The multifarious restraints of millions of women have not helped society. They have merely made it more hypocritical and docile. For instance, Mother, where are the whores of my boyhood? All are doing very well indeed. The vast majority of them are now happily married club women, and they belong to all the churches and cults. And many of those who are still my friends have lost the color of their girlhood and the direct honesty they had when content to be simple and satisfied whores.”
Mother was chuckling.
“And a few of them are lawyers, Mother, and one, much duller than the rest, is a judge.” A note of resignation came into his voice, and he added, “no, Mother, it’s a mistake to think that only a whore could have sent your canary to a watery grave.”
“All right, Doctor, I’ll take it back. My little angel may be hopping around up in heaven, but I saw it go down the sewer—and that God-damn bitch of a whore did it.”