On Growing Up Tough

by Taylor Caldwell

  3 The Day I Was Absolutely Perfect

  The Easter Sunday when I was seven years old was extraordinarily luminous, warm, mild, sweet—a rare thing in upper New York State. That, combined with the fact that the contents of my Easter basket were unusually delicious, put me in an exalted mood. I sat on the porch steps in the early twilight, while my father and mother, ages twenty-nine and twenty-six, respectively, still dozed after the mountainous dinner Mama had served three hours before. My little brother, two years old, to whom I had given a nasty nickname, was also drowsing. The street basked in blue and green shadows. It was so very still. And holy.

  I munched a particularly luscious chocolate chicken, contemplated the meaning of the day, and burst into lovely tears. Then I came to a momentous decision. Emulating the saints, the servants of God, I would also be a saint. Later, much later, when I died, I would stand in the golden streets and cry “Hosannah!” with all the rest of the saints, and I would still be so young that Our Lord would pause near me, tenderly. I wept, ate a few jelly beans, then walked down the street with purpose.

  Old Father Walsh was studying the early tulips and daffodils in his garden when I came upon him. I leaned against his greening hedge. I said, “I am going to be a saint, beginning tomorrow.”

  The good priest surveyed me with some well-justified mistrust, for though I had lived in this neighborhood only a year I was already celebrated. “Are you, Janet?” he asked uneasily. He paused. “Don’t try too hard, dear,” he added with wisdom.

  I regarded him coldly. This was certainly no way to greet one who was on the path to sainthood. Father Walsh said, “I mean, it isn’t too easy. Just do your best—” But I was already leaving this insensitive old man who didn’t recognize a saint when he saw one in full new blossom. I returned home to find my aged mother yawning in the kitchen while she prepared tea. Papa sat nearby reading the Sunday newspaper. “I,” I said to them, “am going to be a saint. Beginning tomorrow.”

  “Begin now,” said Mama, the cynic, handing me a tea-towel.

  The Day I Was Absolutely Perfect arrived in due course—the next day. I said my prayers with particular devotion, rose from my knees like a spring, and dressed with neatness. When I appeared in the kitchen Mama fell into an exaggerated display of astonishment, quite out of proportion I thought. “What! Are you actually washed and dressed and combed? Is it possible I don’t have to drive you to it today?”

  “Is the girl sick?” asked Papa, looking up from his Scottish oatmeal and boiled milk and treacle.

  “I told you,” I explained patiently. “I am going to be a saint, beginning today.”

  “She is sick,” said Papa, with a worried look as he thought of doctors’ bills.

  Mama inspected me narrowly and with her familiar skepticism. “No,” she decided at last, “she’s in one of her moods. Just ignore her.”

  But it was impossible to ignore me. That’s what is wrong with saints, I’ve discovered. You can never ignore them, whether you want to or not, especially when social workers, puritan busybees, psychiatrically-oriented school teachers, child psychologists, community directors, censors, and other dreary people come in their guise.

  I proceeded, with an iron will and an iron chin, on my self-ordained path to holiness. I may have been wanting in many other virtues, but I certainly had never been accused of approaching things in a languid manner or with half-heartedness. The Polar Star has nothing, even now, on steadfastness when it comes to my resolute decisions. I began to make life miserable for everyone in my limited world, in the manner of other unfortunates who have rashly made up their minds to be do-gooders, come hell or high water. There’s a lot to be said in sympathy for those who used to come in contact with the reformers of the past, and who displayed some human irritation in consequence, which resulted in unpleasant inventions like stakes and ropes and thumb-screws.

  I loathed oatmeal. Mama could never cook it without burning it. She waited for one of my customary acid comments, her hand already poised. But I ate it meekly. This made Mama suspicious. She bent over and sniffed at my plate. The oatmeal was burned all right. “Can’t you taste it?” she asked me, her black eyes sharp. “Yes, Mama,” I said, softly. “I don’t have a cold. I can taste it.”

  My little brother toddled into the kitchen, and, whining, up to the table. It was my automatic custom to slap him when he came near. I gave him a sweet and holy smile which so startled him that he howled. “What did you do to him?” cried Mama, whirling from the stove. Papa remarked with some disquiet, “The girl didn’t do anything. She didn’t even scowl at the bairn. Perhaps he’s sick, too.”

  Brother was Mama’s darling, and she swung him up, wet pants and all, into her arms and soberly examined his contemptibly rosy face. Brother screamed in fright, burbling and pointing over Mama’s shoulder at me. I gave him another of my new, sweet smiles and he buried his head in Mama’s neck and shuddered. Papa fled to his studio and slammed the door after him. It took some time for Mama to calm little Brother. During this period I returned to my room and made my bed without being hounded to the task, dusted the furniture, said a few prayers gently, and hummed a hymn. The exaltation returned to me, and I went back to the kitchen without trying to sneak out with my skates as usual. “Mama dear,” I said, “I’ve taken care of my room and now I’ll do the dishes, all by myself, and scour the sink.”

  Mama reflected darkly. She fed Brother his breakfast. Then she said, “You’re up to something.”

  With silent and tender resignation I did my tasks. Mama took Brother outside, rolling his go-cart with a hurried briskness. I watched them go, then for extra measure I scrubbed the kitchen floor, made my parents’ bed, dusted some more, then went to church to refresh the inner saint. I looked at the beautiful statues, and smiled deeply, I prayed with much devotion. I could feel beams of light emanating from me. In this ominous state I emerged into the spring sunshine. And paused. There was nothing to do, now that I had become a saint. There wasn’t even the accursed school to go to, where I could practice diligently. There was just nothing to do. So Satan licked his chops.

  Usually, I would now be flying on my skates to the enchanting towpath to watch the barges go by and listen with delight to the swearing of the women on the houseboats and the cursing of the men, and play with the squatters’ children. All this was forbidden by my parents, and always I had disobeyed. But in my new capacity as saint I could not do this. I put on my skates, and thought of good deeds. I was a sturdy girl and turned a frequent keen penny by washing neighbors’ windows, mowing their grass, going to the shops for them, churning ice cream, and doing sundry other tasks which their own offspring got out of one way or another. I didn’t like to do these things but my allowance was five cents a week, and there was a candy and soda store on the corner which was very alluring.

  I had a sudden inspiration. Putting on my radiant smile again I skated to the house of one of my clients, who was glad to see me. (Her own fat brats were having a fine time climbing the telephone poles in front and were in no mood to do drab jobs.) My client wanted me to wash a huge pile of dishes; she had given a party the night before. I contemplated the enormous heaps of greasy plates, glasses, cups, and pans. Ordinarily I’d have bowed out hastily. But I was a saint now. It took me two hours to clean up the mess while my client sat in a chair, scratched her head, groaned and remarked on her headache. “All that damn beer,” she complained. “Four whole cases of it.” I washed the dishtowels and hung them up, and cleaned up the sink. My client watched this with gratitude. “You’re a swell kid,” she said. “I’m going to give you fifteen cents instead of ten.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, very, very gently, “I wouldn’t take a penny. I was glad to do it for you.”

  Now there was usually a wrangle over proper payments: I always came out the winner. My client’s mouth fell open and she stared at me, pop-eyed. “What did you say?” I repeated my saintly remark. She jumped to her feet. “You sick or something?” she demanded, terrifi
ed. “You coming down with something, and me with three kids?”

  “No,” I said, “it’s just that I’ve changed.”

  She stared again, then put her hands to her head and staggered off to the bedroom. I heard the springs wail. “Oh, God,” she moaned, “I’m starting to hear things now!”

  I stole delicately out of the house. Tommy, one of the fat slobs, yelled to me from halfway up the telephone post. “Yah! You can’t climb this high! I climbed higher than you did, Friday!”

  Climbing telephone poles was absolutely forbidden, and naturally I always climbed them with remarkable agility. But not today. The pole was seductive, but I shook my head. “I don’t do those things any more, Tommy” I said, in my rich and unctuous tones. “And you shouldn’t do them, either. Your mother doesn’t like it.”

  “You’re just scared,” said Tommy triumphantly. But with a high head I went to my next client, the boy’s catcalls following me. On previous days I’d have returned, pulled him down off the pole and beaten him up. But not now. Ah, not now.

  My next client was forbidden to me. I was never to speak to her, look at her, walk near her. I was only to ignore her existence. She was the neighborhood Scandal. But she paid twice as much as my other clients so I always sneaked in her back door to do her odd jobs for her. She was good for delicious slices of cake, too, and root beer, and she was exceedingly kind to children and actually liked them.

  I did not know what made her so reprehensible, of course, but I had gathered from the whispers on porches that it had something to do with Men. Well, Papa was a man, and there were men in all the houses, and there was nothing about them very menacing and many things which were boring and dull. But I had noticed that every man, including Papa, always sent a furtive glance at my client’s porch; and if they saw her they would give her a lurking smile, bend their heads and scurry home to their colorless wives. I had come to the conclusion that my client was a scandal because she was beautiful and gay, sang like an angel, dressed like a dream, and laughed a great deal; and perhaps I was not too wrong at that.

  At any rate my client was married. Her husband was a quick little salesman with an apparently good income, for he dressed nattily, carried a cane, and often had a rosebud in his lapel. He also had an automobile; the only one for miles around. He traveled. He and I had one thing in common: We both adored his young wife. Sometimes, when I worked for her, he was at home. He would sit in their small gracious parlor, just watching her, smiling and smiling. Occasionally I would find her sitting in his lap embracing him with ardor, and the room perfumed with roses. It was a delightful vision, and it would give me joy to watch them—they were so young and happy and they had an innocence which was beguiling to a seven-year-old girl who, according to Papa, was “always up to one damn thing or another.”

  My client was alone at least five days and nights a week. Sometimes, late at night when I had stolen from the house to sit on the steps of the porch while my parents snored upstairs, I would see a gentleman walk quickly and silently into my client’s house. I would see a light go on in my client’s bedroom, and it would go off again. I never saw any gentleman leave. This was of no interest to me at all. I never caught a glimpse of their faces, but I did observe that they wore exceptionally fine clothes and that they often carried little boxes in their hands, or a sheaf of flowers. I would forget them instantly, and resume my happy contemplation of the night, at peace because there was no one else around and I was alone under the moon and in the shadow of thick trees. Sleepy at last, I would steal quietly back into my house, say my prayers, and go to bed.

  On the Day I Was Absolutely Perfect my client was pleased to see me. Her rosy face was sparkly with dimples, and she appeared to be very happy. She wore a fascinating blue dress, trimmed with lace. She wanted me to polish her parlor floor, which gleamed always like glass. But first, as it was a warm spring day, she insisted that I have a slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee. We never had any coffee in our house, being British, and my parents disdained this “Yankee custom.” Of course, I loved coffee. My client beamed at me while I ate an extra slice of pie. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked in her sweet voice, and she regarded me with solicitude. “You look different, somehow.”

  “Oh, I am,” I assured her in my new rich tones. “I’ve decided to be a saint.”

  This jolted her. She stopped smiling and stared at me earnestly. Then she said, “You’ll miss a lot of fun that way.” It was evident she had fun all the time, she was always in such a lyrical state.

  “I’m not interested in fun any more,” I said. I was very grave. There are Covenanters far back somewhere in my family, and they all spoke through me at once. My client was even more jolted. “A little girl like you!” she cried, aghast. “Have your parents been beating you?”

  According to my client all children were rather sacred, and, when punished by their exasperated parents, they were “beaten.” In the past I had encouraged these misguided ideas of hers; they were good for cookies, a few chocolates, and an extra dime. Or once, happy day! a white little handkerchief dipped in perfume which I kept with me for weeks until I lost it. But I could not let my client be deceived any longer. “I only get strapped when I deserve it,” I said, righteously.

  My client was immediately depressed. She peeped at me uncertainly. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “How melancholy.”

  I wondered what I had said that was now making her look joyless and a little miserable. (I’ve seen since then, the exact expression on the faces of unfortunates being administered to lovingly and eagerly by dedicated workers and uplifters.) I went into her parlor, stuffed up to the ears with goodies, and began to polish her floor. I liked to do it; she was always so appreciative. She hovered in the doorway, today, restlessly, as if full of uneasiness and doubt and disquiet. (Any social worker knows that restlessness; they call it “guilt feelings” or loss of “selfworth.”) My client wandered away. I finished up the job quickly, phrasing my words for rejection of payment. Then the door opened and a gentleman came in, all smiles and hope. “Angie!” he called.

  My client came running and rustling into the parlor. She looked at me, then paled. The Gentleman saw me for the first time. “What’s that kid doing, Angie?” he asked, disagreeably.

  “Oh, George!” she exclaimed in distress. “You shouldn’t have come—during the day!”

  “But Angie, I have something wonderful to tell you, and I can’t come tonight,” he protested, and he took her hand and led her away. They went upstairs, murmuring. I had polished the floor. Now I dusted and wiped the fine little Dresden figurines in the cabinet. I did some more saintly work, not usually on my agenda. The back door opened and then closed, and my client came into the parlor. She started when she saw me, and I told her of the extra tasks I had done. Again she peeped at me, then put her arm about my neck and kissed me. “Here is fifty cents for you, darling,” she said.

  “No,” I said, calmly, “I was glad to do it for you. I’ve changed!”

  I almost faltered. Fifty cents! I ran from the house, exultant that I was running from temptation.

  Then I saw Charley. Charley was a chunky, red-headed boy, mean as sin, a bully, and a spoiled monster. He was two years older than I, and I hated him. I don’t remember why children hate without adequate reason. But Charley and I were sworn enemies and we never saw each other without a boxing match. Papa, like most British men, believed that girls should be trained athletically, as well as boys, and among other things he had taught me the manly art of self-defense. I was good at it. My fights with Charley almost always ended in a draw, though he won occasionally, as I did.

  Upon seeing me now he doubled up his fists, went into a crouch and screamed, “Put ’em up!” I lusted for a fight with him. I licked my lips, clenched my hands, and advanced. Then I remembered that I was now a saint.

  “Go away,” I said loftily, and dropped my own fists. “I don’t want to fight any longer.”

  Charley was stunned. “You craz
y or somethin’?” he demanded, incredulous.

  I scorned to answer, but did not scorn to watch him warily as I walked off. But Charley was too dazed to pursue or even utter another word. I had won another battle with self. This one didn’t taste too good, but I reminded myself that I was now holy. I kept reminding myself all the way home. It was lunch-time and Papa was already at the table. “Well,” he said, a little surlily, “how much did you scrounge this time? You ought to be ashamed.”

  “I worked, but I didn’t take a cent,” I said, giving Mama an angelic smile which made her step back hastily.

  Papa snorted. “You mean, you didn’t work,” he said. I sat down in silence, patient and long-suffering. Mama, extraordinarily quiet, put a lamb chop before me. This was always a signal for a howl from me, for I loathed the things. But I daintily took up my knife and fork and began to eat the chop. I pushed every nauseating morsel down my throat. My parents watched me. Mama’s mashed potatoes were always full of lumps and tasted like cold starch, but I ate them too without protest. I even ate the infernal damp carrots. My parents were fascinated. Once or twice they glanced at each other, mutely.

  “Well!” said Mama at last, in a faint voice, and she sank into a chair. Papa, shaking his head, went back to his studio.

  “I’ll wheel Sonny around in his cart this afternoon, Mama,” I said. “After I’ve washed up the dishes.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mama, a little roughly. “What’s come over you today? What’ve you been up to?”

  “I worked, Mama,” I said in a sugary voice. I paused. I had also disobeyed Mama. I had worked for Angie. Ah, no matter. So I heroically told Mama. Her eyes began to snap with fury. I told her about the gentleman, and what he had said to my client. Mama’s eyes stopped snapping.

  Mama hated gossip and never gossiped; she said so, herself, frequently. I believed her, naturally. She leaned towards me and asked me quick little questions. Who was the gentleman? Had I ever seen him before? What did That Woman say to him; I was to repeat everything he had said and what she had said. I did. Mama was quite flushed. She even smiled a little. Then she remembered that I had disobeyed, and she clipped me once. But absently, as if thinking of something else.