Angels of Mercy

by Duncan, Alice

  “Thank you,” I said humbly and sincerely.

  My heart nearly gave out before Ernie told me to pull up in front of a seedy-looking place on Figueroa. Then it sort of sank. If I didn’t want to take cider out of Ernie’s flask, I most certainly didn’t want to go into that ugly, run-down building. I didn’t say so, being by that time a bundle of nerves and painfully close to crying, which would never do.

  “If you park here, we can dash across the street,” said Ernie, surprising me. “There’s a really nice little soda fountain in the drug store on the corner.”

  After carefully parking the Roadster—the wheel finder things warned me not to get close enough to the curb so as to scrape the running board—I tried to remove my hands from the steering wheel, only to discover they’d frozen into position. Which was patently ridiculous, since the weather that day was in the nineties.

  I heard a chuckle from the passenger seat and managed to get my neck unstuck enough to turn my head and look at Ernie. He grinned back at me.

  “You’re scared to death, aren’t you? But you did swell, Mercy. You can stop being nervous now. I’ll drive us back to your place after we eat our ice cream.”

  Then he reached over and removed my fingers, one by one, from the steering wheel. It was very embarrassing.

  But there you go. At least I’d done it. And Ernie was right about the soda fountain at the drug store. The store itself was pristine and tidy, and the soda fountain was a joy to behold. We sat on our stools, and I ordered a chocolate ice-cream soda. Ernie ordered a root beer float for himself. I was beyond ready when the soda jerk placed our confections before us.

  My mouth was so dry, I could hardly stop sipping, but I knew it would be impolite to drink my entire ice-cream soda in one big slurp, so I paced myself. I’d downed about a third of it when I decided I’d better think of a conversational opener that would keep my mouth away from the straw.

  “Did I tell you I’m giving Chloe and Harvey a puppy for Christmas?” I said, believing dogs to be a safe topic.

  “Yeah? That’s nice. I had a dog when I was a kid.”

  “Yes. I think every child needs a dog. It’s kind of a . . . what do you call it? An iconic symbol of childhood. You know, a child and his—or her—dog.”

  “Iconic, eh?”

  When I turned to see his face, Ernie had a grin a mile wide on it, and I sensed he didn’t perceive the same romantic notion of children and their dogs as did I. It figured.

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “Iconic. Heck, artists even paint pictures of boys in ragged trousers playing with their dogs. I’ve seen them.”

  “What if the kid’s a girl?”

  “What if she is? I always wanted a dog when I was a little girl. My mother wouldn’t hear of having a dog in the house.” I’d always resented her for it, too. Among too many other things to count.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Ernie had met my mother, too.

  “Exactly. But I think a dog would be a special present for a special little child.”

  “When’s the baby due?”

  “Probably in early February. So Chloe can get the dog trained before she has to get used to motherhood.”

  Ernie chuckled. “If I remember correctly, neither child-rearing nor dog-training are things you ‘get used to.’ They’re both things you have to work like the devil at.”

  With a sigh, I admitted he was right. “But they do have a whole house full of servants, don’t forget.”

  “How could I forget?”

  I sipped again. That was the best ice-cream soda I’d ever tasted in my life, and I think practically dying of thirst played a minimal part in my enjoyment of it.

  “What kind of dog are you going to get them?” Ernie asked after another moment or two.

  “A toy poodle. Like Buttercup. She’s the best.”

  A huge, empty silence made me glance at Ernie again. He was staring at me as if he’d never seen me before.

  “What?” I asked, irked. “Toy poodles are excellent dogs. Buttercup is the best little dog anybody could ever hope to have. I think poodles are marvelous. I read about them at the library, in fact, and dog trainers say they’re the smartest dogs in earth.”

  “But . . .” Ernie stared some more.

  Annoyed, I said, “But what?”

  “But what if the kid’s a boy?”

  “What difference does that make?” I took another huge sip of my soda.

  “Mercy, I don’t know how to break this to you gently, so I’ll just come out and say it. Any red-blooded American boy would rather be shot dead than be seen walking a toy poodle on the street.”

  I was so startled, I made a slurping sound with my straw and would have been embarrassed if I weren’t so astounded. “What do you mean?” I asked, indignant on behalf of poodles the world over.

  “Exactly what I said. Think about it, Mercy. You’re a little boy in knee britches, and you’re taking your dog for a walk or to the park to play. Your dog is a fluffy little poodle with tiny poufy things on its head and tail. With ribbons tied around them, probably. Do you think for a minute the other kids on the block or in the park wouldn’t have a field day making fun of you and your dog?”

  I opened my mouth to utter a hot retort, in spite of my then-frozen tongue, when the spectacle Ernie had raised suddenly exhibited itself to my mind’s eye.

  Oh, dear.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” Ernie pressed. “You’re seeing it, aren’t you? A little boy, a boy who aims to impress his pals with his dog, presents his friends with a little ball of fluff. Do you know what his friends are going to think of him?”

  “If they’re his friends, they won’t think anything but that he’s got a nice dog,” I said defensively, even though I already knew he was right.

  “Nuts. They’ll either think he’s a faggot or a mommy’s boy. You’ve got to get a boy a boy’s dog, not a fluff ball.”

  “But what if the child is a girl?” I said, feeling almost desperate.

  “Then a poodle will be okay, although I wouldn’t want a daughter of my own to have one. Hell, even girls deserve better than that.”

  “Better than what, Ernest Templeton? How dare you impugn my wonderful—”

  “Dammit, Mercy, I’m not impugning Buttercup or anything else. I just think you need to consider this dog thing a little more thoroughly. When’s the baby due again?”

  I thought about sulking, knew it would be a stupid thing to do, and said sullenly, “February.”

  “Well, then, maybe you ought to wait until after the kid’s born to decide what kind of dog to get the Nashes.”

  “But I already told them I’d get them a dog for Christmas!”

  He patted my shoulder, a gesture I didn’t appreciate. “Don’t get all panicky now, Mercy. All you need to do is decide on a dog that won’t embarrass a little kid. There are lots of dogs out there. Maybe pick out a spaniel or something.”

  “Why a spaniel?”

  “I don’t know! All’s I know is that a poodle isn’t the right kind of dog to give your sister and her husband for Christmas. Get the kid a fox terrier. They’re nice dogs. At least I’ve been told they are.”

  My shoulders slumped. “Maybe you’re right.” Boy, it hurt to say that.

  “You know I’m right,” he said.

  “No need to sound so smug.”

  “I’m not smug. I do, however, have a piece of information you might want to think about.”

  “Relating to dogs?”

  “No. This is about something else entirely.”

  I took one last sip of my soda, wished I had another one waiting for me, and turned to peer at Ernie. “What is it?”

  “I went to Clapton’s Cafeteria after our driving lesson last night. Nobody named Peggy Wickstrom works there.”

  Instantly, I saw red. “You checked up on my tenant? Darn you, Ernie Templeton! How dare you check up on my tenant! And without even telling me about it beforehand! You’re the most—”

&nbs
p; It was probably a good thing that Ernie lifted a hand to stop my tirade, since people in the store were beginning to look at us. Besides, I couldn’t think of any appropriate adjectives that wouldn’t have become clogged in my formerly pure Bostonian throat. I might be learning about life, but learning and living are two different things, and I wasn’t accustomed to spewing bad words.

  “I didn’t tell you about it, because you were already mad at me, but her story sounded fishy to me, and she definitely knows some shady characters.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Johnny Autumn.”

  “I thought you’d never heard of him.”

  “I hadn’t. But when I dropped you off, I went to Phil’s, and he said Autumn is a pretty well-known hoodlum in the L.A. area. Either your friend Peggy has lousy taste in men, or she’s as bad as he is, and I thought you ought to know it.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, although I did. Peggy had already begun to give me the jitters.

  But this was incredible. Peggy was younger than I, for heaven’s sake! And I was only twenty-one. How much trouble could an eighteen-year-old girl get in to? Heck, she was scarcely out of diapers.

  “Well, you don’t have to believe it, but you might want to ask her about Clapton’s, since they don’t seem to have heard of her.”

  Although I wanted to argue with him, I knew it would be a futile gesture and probably a stupid one as well. “All right. I’ll ask her about her employment. Her boyfriend is her own business.”

  “Not if he’s a criminal. Then he might well become your business, too.”

  I heaved a huge sigh. “All right. I said I’d ask her about it.”

  “Good girl.” He patted me on the back again.

  I really wished he wouldn’t do that, because that gesture, like him calling me “kiddo,” made me feel like a six-year-old. That’s probably how he thought of me, I reflected glumly.

  However, we’d both finished our ice-cream treats, and it was time to go home. Ernie drove, thank goodness. Driving down Sunset to Figueroa and then through the Sunday traffic had almost finished me off. Anyhow, I was too busy contemplating how I aimed to talk to Peggy to pay attention to driving.

  When we arrived at my nice home on Bunker Hill, Ernie pulled into the drive, parked the machine, got out on the driver’s side, came around to my side of the car and opened my door. I glanced up at him. “Decided to play the gentleman, did you?” I asked tartly.

  “Yeah. I know you’re disappointed about the Wickstrom girl. I figured acting like a gent is the least I can do, under the circumstances.”

  “I still think you’re wrong about Peggy,” I said stoutly, although I was no such thing.

  “I hope I am,” was all he said. “May I please have another glass of lemonade?”

  “Of course, you may,” I said politely, and Ernie followed me into the house, where we were greeted by an ecstatic Buttercup. All of Ernie’s reasoning about poodles and little boys rushed back into my head, and I scooped Buttercup up into my arms, hoping she’d forgive me for not giving Chloe and Harvey a toy poodle for Christmas. It then occurred to me that I could wait until their child was born to get it a dog, but there was no law saying I couldn’t give Chloe and Harvey a toy poodle of their own.

  The only problem with that was that I wasn’t sure they really wanted a dog. Nuts. I’d have to have a chat with Chloe.

  By the time Ernie and I got to the living room, I saw that Caroline had come home from visiting her parents and was relaxing with Lulu. They were playing a spirited game of Old Maid. Lulu looked up as we entered.

  “Have a good lesson?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. Have I mentioned that Lulu was quite a pretty girl? Well, she was, and that was even without all the paint she usually wore. In fact, I believe she looked better un-made-up, but I’d never tell her that.

  “It was a splendid lesson,” I said, trying to add a bit of sparkle to my voice, because I was so upset about so many things.

  “Yeah,” agreed Ernie. “Mercy didn’t hit anything, and she even drove through traffic. It’s hot as blazes out there, though. I came in for some lemonade.”

  “There’s lots more left,” said Lulu. “Caroline and I finished the pitcher Mrs. Buck left, and Caroline made some more. It’s really good, too.” She beamed at Caroline, who flushed becomingly.

  “Nonsense,” she said softly. “Lemonade is easy to make.”

  Which brought to mind Ernie’s question about whether or not I could cook. The truth of the matter was that lemonade might well be easy for Caroline Terry to make, but I, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, didn’t have a notion in the world how to mix up a batch of it. One more lowering reflection to add to my list of things to feel lousy about.

  “Thank you, Caroline,” I said. Turning, I told Ernie, “Sit down somewhere, and I’ll bring you a glass.”

  “Thanks, kiddo.”

  That word again. Before I could dwell on it, Lulu said, “Why don’t you guys join us in a couple of games of Old Maid?”

  “I haven’t played Old Maid since I was a kid in Chicago,” said Ernie. “That might actually be fun.”

  He sounded eager, and when I turned to look he had a twinkle in his eye, as if he’d really meant what he’d said.

  Gloriosky, as one of Chloe’s picture friends sometimes said. Perhaps the man (Ernie, not Chloe’s friend) really did want to socialize with three young women on a Sunday afternoon. Then I recalled my mother and how horrified she’d be to know I’d entertained a single man in my front parlor on a Sunday afternoon with a card game. In Boston, one doesn’t play cards on Sunday. According to my mother, young ladies never played cards at all, not even so innocuous a game as Old Maid.

  That settled the matter. Not only did I bring everyone fresh glasses brimming with icy lemonade, but I also decided to give Chloe and Harvey’s baby child, whatever its sex, a set of Old Maid cards as a Christmas present. Never mind that the child wouldn’t be born until the February following Christmas or that he or she wouldn’t be able to play cards for another five years or so. He or she was going to get a pack of Old Maid cards before his or her birth.

  Actually, that Sunday evening turned out to be one of the most pleasurable I’d spent in a long, long time. Ernie and I not only played Old Maid with Caroline and Lulu, but Ernie ended up the Old Maid three times. I felt almost vindicated. Then, when suppertime came, Caroline and I actually went to the kitchen and made sandwiches together. Well . . . I cut the bread and watched very carefully as Caroline built the sandwiches.

  I considered the experience my very first cooking lesson. So that made two lessons in one day. By the end of that Sunday, I’d not only learned how to drive an automobile in traffic, but I could make a ham-and-cheese sandwich like nobody’s business. Ham-and-cheese sandwiches, made with mustard, along with sliced apples, made for a very nice supper.

  And I didn’t have to confront Peggy Wickstrom, because she hadn’t come home by the time Ernie left and Caroline, Lulu and I went up to bed.

  Every now and then, things go my way.

  Chapter Ten

  Naturally, that state of affairs didn’t last long.

  “What do you mean, they told Mr. Templeton I don’t work at Clapton’s?”

  It was Monday evening. Lulu, Caroline and I were home for the evening and we, along with Peggy Wickstrom, had been served a lovely dinner by Mrs. Buck. I’d asked to speak to Peggy after supper in a little room I called the office, for no better reason than I didn’t know what else to call it.

  “Mr. Templeton went to Clapton’s Cafeteria on Saturday evening, and they said they’d never heard of you there,” I said. I tried to keep the tone of my voice non-accusatory. After all, Ernie might be wrong about Peggy. Besides that, I didn’t want to make an enemy of this girl unless she proved to be a total rotter. So what if she seemed taciturn and uncommunicative? Perhaps she wasn’t awfully bright or preferred to remain on the quiet side.

  She sure blushed up a storm at my information
. Her cheeks practically blazed with red. “You mean you sent your boss to check up on me?”

  I could tell she was torn between fury and fright, and I felt a little sorry for her. “No. I told him you said you worked at Clapton’s, and he went there Saturday night to check. He . . .” I hesitated to impart the next piece of information, then swallowed my qualms and blurted out, “He doesn’t trust my judgment.”

  Peggy bowed her head. “I see.”

  And then, to my utter horror, she burst into tears.

  “Peggy! Please, tell me what’s the matter!” I reached for her, and she flinched away from me as if she expected me to strike her. I sat back, folded my hands in my lap and waited for the storm to abate.

  When she finally lifted her head, her face was streaked with tears. I felt like a brute. Nevertheless, I didn’t speak, deciding it was better that she be the first to do so. Perhaps I hadn’t learned much during my time in Los Angeles, but Ernie had taught me the value of silence when you wanted somebody to tell you something. He’d more than once accused me of putting the words I wanted to hear into other people’s mouths, and I didn’t intend to do that on this occasion. Ergo, I waited.

  Peggy managed to wrestle a crumpled handkerchief from her frock’s pocket. She wore a sober-hued blue dress that evening. I thought to myself that she didn’t look like a lying cheat who hung out with hoodlums. On the other hand, I’ve been wrong about people many times, as I’ve mentioned before.

  She sniffled pathetically and mopped her face. Then she looked at me, her demeanor pitiable and wringing my heart. I told it to be still; that it had led me astray too many times recently.

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I was afraid if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t let me live here, and then I didn’t know what I’d do.”

  I said a cautious, “Oh?” I longed to fill in her story for her, but didn’t and was proud of myself. Rather, I sat in stony silence. Well, I had a sympathetic expression on my face, because I couldn’t help it.

  After another sniffle, Peggy began a somewhat watery narrative. “You see, when I moved here from Michigan, my folks didn’t want me to come. They were really mad and cut me off completely.”