Angels of Mercy

by Duncan, Alice

  “Sit down, Peggy.” My mother came to my aid again. Perhaps I would thank her for that one day. Not any day soon, but one day.

  Peggy sat, and I saw tears well in her eyes. The girl was a watering pot. “It is true that Mr. Autumn has served a jail term, although I must say I don’t know what for.”

  “Petty theft,” Peggy said promptly. “And he deeply regrets it.”

  It sounded to me as if she believed what she was saying, and I was hard pressed not to sigh in resignation. What’s that old saw? There are none so blind as those who will not see? I think that’s it. It’s probably from the Bible. Or maybe Shakespeare. Or Oscar Wilde. All of our best epigrams come from those three sources, in my experience.

  “Hmm. I wonder if he’s not bamboozling you, Peggy.” She wanted to leap to her feet and speak in Autumn’s defense again, but I held up my hand. “Please hear me out.”

  She slumped and said, “Very well.” But she wasn’t happy about it; I could tell.

  “I’m not in any position to pass judgment on you or Mr. Autumn, Peggy, but I do believe you might want to reconsider your employment and your choice of friends. Most of us go through our entire lives without meeting people who have done time in jail, you know. There are many more non-criminals in the world than there are criminals. I’m sure you could find a nice fellow who isn’t as shady as Mr. Autumn if you could only get out of that dance hall and secure another position somewhere.”

  “But I tried!”

  “Yes, I know, but perhaps I can help you. There must be something you can do that doesn’t require you to dance with strangers for a living.”

  “Maid work,” she said in a voice that clearly showed what she thought of maid work. “Or maybe I could wash dishes for a living.”

  “Either one of which modes of employment would be more satisfactory than dancing with strangers for a nickel a dance,” I said icily. “What’s wrong with being a waitress? Or working at a department store? Or being a receptionist. Or a telephone operator? Why do you choose to work in a disreputable establishment that caters to disreputable men?”

  “I didn’t choose it!” she all but screeched at me. “It was the only job I could find!” She passed a hand over her eyes to catch her tears, which were now falling fast. “Anyhow, Johnny is a good man. It’s not his fault he got in trouble when he was a kid.”

  “He’s not a kid any longer,” I pointed out dryly. “He’s ever so much older than you are. You ought to be seeing a young man closer to your age, Peggy. Don’t you have any family willing to help you?”

  “Oh! You don’t understand! I could go back home and work on the farm, but I don’t want that life! Johnny is exciting! Besides that, I love him!”

  Well, there you go. Even I, who was young and inexperienced at life, knew that you couldn’t argue with a young woman who thought she was in love. Oh, for the good old days when parents selected suitable husbands for their children.

  Wait! What was I thinking? I didn’t mean that! For heaven’s sake, I moved to Los Angeles to get away from that sort of supervision.

  Why, then, did I get the unpleasant sensation that Peggy was somehow doomed? It all beat me. Feeling discouraged, I said, “I wish you’d think about what we’ve discussed here, Peggy. God knows I don’t want to interfere in your life, but I hate to see a girl as young as you making what I see as a terrible mistake that can only lead to tragedy.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  I gave up. “You’re right. Perhaps your young man will all of a sudden decide to live a good and virtuous life, marry you, and you’ll have many bright and lovely children together.”

  Her nose wrinkled. Evidently she didn’t care for that scenario for herself any more than I cared for it for myself. Unfortunately, I got a strong impression that I possessed a more stalwart character and probably one or two more cranial convolutions, than Miss Peggy Wickstrom. I decided not to despair of her. Yet. I gave her one last option.

  “Please keep in mind that if you ever do want to change your circumstances for the better, I’ll be more than happy to help in any way I can, Peggy. I don’t want you to think I’m a self-righteous prig, only I can’t help but worry that you’re seeing a man who is definitely on the wrong side of the law.”

  “He was,” she said stubbornly. “He isn’t any longer.”

  “According to the police, he is involved in an illegal gambling syndicate and probably bootlegging and prostitution, as well,” I reminded her.

  “Then why don’t the police arrest him? Answer me that! I tell you, he’s not involved in any such thing.”

  That’s when I gave up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Yet it seemed that my little lecture had some effect on Peggy after all. I’d considered her all but a lost child, but the Sunday following our meeting in the office—Lulu asked me about it, but I didn’t believe I should tell her another tenant’s business—she seemed brighter and more chipper than I’d ever seen her.

  The Bucks had spent the morning at church as they always did on Sundays, and now I presumed they were visiting their son in jail. What a disheartening way to spend your day off. But Peggy helped brighten the day when she offered to make lemonade for Lulu, Caroline and me as we waited for Ernie to come over and give me another driving lesson.

  “My aunt Margaret used to make this lemonade. It’s her recipe,” she said, acting for once like the adolescent she was. “She’s the one I was named after, you know. My real name is Margaret, but everyone’s always called me Peggy.”

  “Thank you,” I said, pleased that she seemed on her way to reform. “That would be very nice of you.”

  “Yeah,” said Lulu, who had been engrossed in the latest issue of Screenplay. “I could use some lemonade. It’s hot again today.”

  I sighed. It certainly was warm again that day. And the calendar was creeping perilously close to October. Shoot. In New England, we’d all be getting out our woollies.

  “I’d like some lemonade,” Caroline said. Shyly, I need not say. Well, I just did, but I’m sure I didn’t need to.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Peggy all but skipped to the kitchen. I called after her, “Need any help?”

  “No, thanks,” she called back cheerily. “I’m fine.”

  I stroked Buttercup, who had curled up on my lap, and resumed reading The Mystery of Angelina Frood, by R. Austin Freeman. It was one of his Dr. Thorndyke mysteries, and I loved all of them. I wanted to be like R. Austin Freeman when I got published. Well . . . not exactly like him, but . . . you know, successful. I don’t mean the kind of success that brings in wads and wads of money (I already had that), but the kind of success that means people loved reading my books. Everyone loved Dr. Thorndyke. If I could create my own character, one whom people would want to read about over and over again, that would be my idea of success. Like Agatha Christie had done with Hercule Poirot. Or, on the other hand, perhaps I’d like to be another Mary Roberts Rinehart. Mrs. Rinehart didn’t write about the same person all the time, yet her books were wonderful, too.

  But enough of that. Lulu, Caroline, Buttercup and I waited for Ernie, and Peggy went to the kitchen to make her aunt Margaret’s lemonade. Gee, from the way she spoke about the folks back home in Michigan, I was surprised she’d bothered to bring any recipes with her to Los Angeles. But mine was not to reason why, as they say. I was only glad she seemed to be coming out of her shell.

  Shortly after she went into the kitchen, she came out again, carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and four ice-filled glasses. She set the tray on a coffee table—she didn’t even rattle the glasses, which convinced me she could be a waitress if she really wanted to be one—and poured out lemonade for all of us.

  “Here you go,” she said, smiling as she handed around the glasses.

  “Thank you,” we said one at a time as we accepted our lemonade.

  I sipped mine tentatively, wondering how Aunt Margaret’s lemonade could be so different from anyone e
lse’s. Except for an odd bite to it, it tasted just like lemonade to me. “Very nice,” I said in order to be polite. In truth, I’d had tastier lemonade, but I didn’t want to discourage the girl now that she seemed to want to socialize with the rest of us.

  “Mmm,” said Lulu, licking her lips. I got the impression she liked her lemonade better than I did mine.

  “Tasty,” said Caroline. I don’t know if she was merely being polite or if she really liked it.

  “Thank you,” said Peggy, and I think she blushed a little. I thought that was sweet.

  We resumed our former occupations, Lulu reading Screenplay, Caroline knitting, and me reading Dr. Thorndyke, when Lulu giggled. I looked up and noticed her lemonade glass was empty and Peggy was refilling it. I thought that was nice of her.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It says here that Theda Bara is still carrying a torch for Rudolph Valentino,” said Lulu, and she giggled again.

  “And you think that’s funny?” I asked, surprised, never having pegged Lulu as a callous young woman.

  “Well, no. But that . . . what do you call it? Phrase? ‘Carrying a torch.’ I think that’s funny.”

  “Ah,” I said since no more appropriate word leapt to my mind.

  Then Caroline giggled, too. I glanced up from my book to peer at her.

  “Drink your lemonade, Mercy,” urged Peggy. “It’s really good. My aunt Margaret swore by it during the hot summer months.”

  And how many hot summer months did one get in Michigan? I wondered. Wasn’t Michigan one of those states that froze over for nine months out of a usual year? Well, I didn’t want the girl to think I didn’t appreciate her efforts, so I took another swallow of lemonade.

  “It really is funny, the things people say,” said Caroline after a moment. “Carrying a torch, indeed.”

  “Yeah,” said Lulu. “It’s like when people say applesauce when they mean something’s nonsense.”

  “Or when they say they’re beating their gums when they’re gossiping,” said Caroline, grinning.

  I decided some of our slang expressions truly were pretty funny, so I decided to join in. “Or the big cheese. My father’s the big cheese at his bank.” The notion of my father as a cheese actually tickled me a good deal. Especially when I visualized a big square of Swiss cheese, holes and all, wearing one of Father’s prosperous “banker” suits.

  “And Ernie’s the big cheese at his office,” said Lulu, laughing harder.

  “And what about calling a pretty woman a tomato,” said Caroline, beginning to laugh in her turn.

  Now that was funny. I began to laugh too.

  Peggy said, “One of the gentlemen who came to the dance club had been drinking. He said he was spifflicated.”

  “He doesn’t sound like a gentleman to me,” observed Caroline.

  We all roared at that one. Even Buttercup gave a little happy yap.

  “And why do they call coffee Joe? Or java?” asked Lulu. “And what does Jake mean? Like ‘Everything’s Jake.’ I never did understand that expression.”

  “Me, neither,” I said, believing she’d made a valid point. What did Jake mean, for heaven’s sake?

  “Some of the men who come to the club call me a hoofer,” said Peggy, referring to her job again. “But it reminds me of heifer, which is a female cow, and I don’t like it.”

  Lulu whooped. I regret to say I did, too.

  We were, as luck would have it, in hysterics by the time Ernie rang the bell to pick me up for my driving lesson. Buttercup and I, still laughing—I was, I mean. Buttercup wasn’t—went to the front door to let him in. Wiping tears from my eyes, I said, “Come on in, Ernie. Have some lemonade. Peggy made it for us.”

  Ernie frowned at me, an expression I didn’t appreciate. “What?” I asked. “There’s nothing wrong with drinking lemonade on a warm afternoon.”

  “Right,” said Ernie. He stalked past me and on into the living room, where he surveyed the ladies gathered there, fists on hips and with a withering eye.

  “ ’Lo, Ernie,” said Lulu. And she giggled.

  “How do you do?” said Caroline, pronouncing each of her words carefully.

  “I’m Jake,” said Ernie.

  We all but exploded in laughter.

  Then it was that Ernie grabbed me by the elbow, tucked Buttercup under his arm, and aimed me out the door and into his Studebaker.

  “Wait!” I cried. “I need to get my key and my handbag.”

  “You don’t need your key today. Or your handbag.” He sounded grim.

  “But I thought you were going to give me a driving lesson!”

  “I was, but things have changed.”

  “What things have changed?”

  He didn’t answer until he’d started his Studebaker and we were heading down the street. I noticed his lips had pressed into a thin line, and I couldn’t imagine what the matter was. Therefore, I asked him. “What’s troubling you, Ernie? Why are you in such a foul mood?”

  He pulled to a stop at an intersection and gave me such a ferocious frown that I actually shrank back in my seat, glad I had Buttercup to hold on to. “Who made that so-called lemonade of yours?” he asked.

  I shook my head, confused. “Why are you changing the subject?”

  “I’m not changing the damned subject. Who made that lemonade?”

  “Stop swearing at me!”

  “Damn it, Mercy Allcutt, tell me who made the damned lemonade!”

  He’d roared the question, totally intimidating both Buttercup and me. She cowered in my lap, and I said in a small voice, “Peggy.”

  Slamming his fist on the steering wheel, he said, “I knew it.”

  Greatly daring—I didn’t trust this mood of his one little bit—I said, “What’s the matter with Peggy making lemonade?”

  We’d made it to Sunset, and Ernie was driving along at a pretty fast clip, his motorcar shaking like an autumn leaf in a high gale—it was an elderly car—before he answered my question, which I was too afraid to repeat.

  Finally, he turned onto one of those dirt roads leading off Sunset and drove into the lot where he’d given me one of my first driving lessons. He stamped on the brake and the clutch and slammed the gear lever into neutral. Then he turned and glared at me.

  I tried to glare back, but not awfully successfully.

  “You have no idea, do you?” he said through gritted teeth.

  Totally befuddled, I stammered, “Um . . . I guess not. An idea about what?”

  “You and your pals are looped, Mercy!”

  Looped? What did that mean?

  He must have guessed I had no idea what he’d just said, because he said, “You’re ossified.”

  “Ossified? You mean we’re turning into rocks?”

  He allowed his head to fall forward until it rested on the steering wheel. “Damn it, Mercy, you’re all buzzed! That woman put something in the lemonade.”

  My brain finally began to function, sort of. When Ernie had come to the house, we’d been laughing about modern slang expressions, and I now recalled some of the ones we’d tossed about. I was horrified. “You mean she put liquor in the lemonade and we all got spifflicated?”

  Without lifting his head, he turned a gazed at me. “Spifflicated? Good God. And you didn’t know what ossified meant?”

  “How do you know that’s what she did?”

  “I can tell when people have been boozing it up, Mercy. Believe me. I’ve seen plenty of them before this. I’ve never seen three nice young ladies in your condition before today, however. That fine, upstanding Miss Wickstrom of yours is a bad egg, Mercy.”

  Unfortunately, I remembered the big cheeses we girls had been discussing and giggled.

  Lifting his head so fast I’m surprised his neck didn’t snap, Ernie slapped the steering wheel and roared, “What the hell is so damned funny? You think it’s funny that the woman deliberately put booze in your lemonade to get you all drunk? I’ll be surprised if you don’t find your who
le house ransacked by the time you get home and Peggy and her boyfriend gone after clearing out your place.”

  I felt my eyes widen. “No! She wouldn’t do that. She was . . . she was being cheerful for once.”

  “I just bet she was.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Right. Oh, dear.”

  “You must be wrong about her, Ernie. She said it was her aunt Margaret’s recipe. Her aunt wouldn’t have put liquor into her lemonade, would she? An old lady like that?”

  “Her aunt Margaret, my aunt Fanny,” said Ernie, letting me know exactly what he thought about my reasoning.

  I felt tears well in my eyes and lowered my head so Ernie wouldn’t see them. Poor Buttercup got used as a handkerchief that day; however, you must remember that Ernie hadn’t allowed me to take my handbag with me.

  “Have you ever drunk alcohol before, Mercy?”

  I sniffled, feeling stupid. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. So you wouldn’t know. Did the stuff taste like regular lemonade?”

  “Um . . . not really. It had an odd bite to it.”

  I heard him say, “Damn,” under his breath but didn’t bother to scold him for it.

  “I’m sorry, Ernie.” I sounded pitiful. I felt pitiful.

  “Sorry ain’t going to cut it, Mercy. You’re going to have to get rid of that girl, and the sooner the better. I’ll kick her out for you if you don’t want to do it yourself.” He swore again. “I knew it was a mistake to let you interview that woman by yourself.”

  “But she’s only eighteen years old!” I cried.

  “That’s plenty old enough.”

  “But . . .”

  He held up a hand, and I shut my mouth. “Listen, Mercy, I’m not trying to be hard on you. I know you’re a nice girl and trust people. But this is the big, bad city, and you’re not living in your parents’ house, all protected, like you were in Boston.”

  “I know that.”

  “So you really kind of have to depend on people like me, who know what’s what and how life goes on in L.A.”

  “I know it.” I sniffled again. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I scooted a little closer to him on the seat, suddenly feeling very lucky to have such a nice, upstanding, handsome man as a boss, even if his suit jackets were generally a little rumpled. I’d rather be around Ernie than any of my father’s friends or, God forbid, my awful brother George’s pals.