"She and Nickel do each other's fingers and toes. Get down on their hands and knees and put cotton balls between their toes so the nail polish won't smudge. This is the truth, I swear." Louise sparkled.
"Didn't that all start with Nickel and the women's libby movement?" Orrie wiped the corners of her eyes.
"I believe so. Nickel, on one of her annual visits, criticized her mother for wearing nail polish. She said it was pressive or something like that. Well! Julia Ellen twitched like a broody hen and told her in no uncertain terms that a political movement that worries about fingernails ain't worth two shits."
Orrie giggled. "Now they both wear polish all the time. Liberation! Such a pair."
"Two peas in a pod. Course, neither one will admit it, but you know what I always say: 'Like mother, like daughter.'"
Orrie discreetly failed to mention what had happened to both Louise's daughters.
"Know what else I think?" Louise was hitting her stride.
"What?"
"I don't think Nickel's a writer."
"What!"
"She don't wear turtlenecks. Every writer you see pictured in a magazine wears turtlenecks and smokes cigarettes at the typewriter. Nickel don't even smoke. Now what do you make of that?"
Orrie weighed that heavy evidence. "You've got a point there, Louise."
"I know I have—and more, she graduated from college an architect. You can't be an architect and a writer."
"But she can't get work."
"All that women's stuff. That and rattling her big mouth about lesbians."
"Didn't help, but you know this country's been having a tough time with new buildings."
"So?"
"No one's built a new house in Runnymede in near to ten years. The last business around here was that mall out Hanover way."
"Still keep up with business? I lost interest in house painting once Pearlie departed."
"I don't know. I read a magazine and it makes me feel close to Noe, dead though he is."
"Remember when you took up mah-jongg 'cause you thought he'd go for it?"
"That poor man. How he put up with me, I'll never know. I even get fed up with myself. Whatever was on the newsreels or magazines, I had to do it. My ceramic sugar bowls didn't turn out so bad."
"Funny how we get along better with our husbands once they're dead." Louise slipped.
Orrie, jolted, said, "You don't mean that."
"I do miss Pearlie—make no doubt about it—but I don't miss picking up after him and cooking his mother's favorite dishes."
"Pearlie was so neat."
"Neat! It took me a year to housebreak him, same as a dog."
"You were the stronger. With Noe, he was the strong one. When he died and I found out I couldn't balance a checkbook, I nearly followed him into the grave."
"Doing the business books kept me on my toes."
"And I thank you again for teaching me how to do those things." Orrie was grateful.
"Remember the time I taught Nickel how to make money? Juts and Chessy never did know how to manage money and I didn't want Nickel to grow up a numskull. Remember the lemonade stand? I told her she had to learn a trade."
"I can still see her, all of seven, down on the south side of the square with her little stand."
"Damn kid spiked the lemonade with a quart of gin." Louise laughed.
"I also remember when you got bit by the fried marble craze and made rosary beads. Nickel took them all and became the gangster of marbles round these parts. And all that time you thought she was getting religious."
"Humph."
"Why don't you wait before you seek out these anti-everything people?"
"No. I am driving up to York tomorrow. I think they got a chapter and I am telling them I'm being asked to sell my property to a commie, husband-stealing woman who's a homosexual." Louise accented the "mo." "You're lucky Celeste Chalfonte ain't alive." With that, the old cronies lapsed into gossip and behaved like two girls at a slumber party minus the slumber.
July 19, 1929
Eggs could fry on the sidewalk. Louise, determined to spite the weather, stood over her ironing board at one in the afternoon. Even the bugs had sense not to fly. If Louise missed her appointed rounds the world might tilt on its axis. Mary toddled about the house, creating havoc, and Maizie, not quite a year and a half, screeched in her playpen from prickly heat on her bottom. Early that morning Louise had faithfully done the books. It wasn't quite so hot then. Now, as she ironed, sweat rolled between her breasts, her hair stuck to the sides of her face, and the shirts, once pressed, immediately turned limp anyway. On a day like today she doubted that she loved her husband, her children, or anyone else, for that matter. Did other people feel this way or did the Evil One grab her by the ankle? Earth was hotter than hell, so maybe the devil was out and about. Such thoughts disturbed her. Marriage with Pearlie was uneventful. His only hobby was collecting figurines of naked ladies. Borrowing her red nail polish, he painted their nipples red. These eye-catching ladies filled the house. Even the art-nouveau standing ashtray did not escape Pearlie's skillful brush. Sometimes, when Louise would let him sleep with her, he asked her to rouge her nipples. She complied, sure this was her cross to bear. Louise was dying to know if other women's husbands behaved this way, but she could never bring herself to discuss the topic. Juts and Chessy were married just a little over two years. Chessy collected no figurines and as far as Louise could tell they did go to bed together, but how and when she didn't know. If only Julia Ellen would talk, but Juts was too busy cracking jokes and when Chessy was around the two of them fixed the car or built a new chicken coop. She couldn't imagine them making love. For that she conjured up steamy Nazimova and lamented Valentino. Also, they didn't have much money even with the hooch deliveries, so they lived up with Cora. She guessed privacy was dear. Once, when Julia was out delivering needle beer, Louise ransacked her dresser to find pots of rouge. She found just one little container on her dresser top. She even dared ask Julia if she wore rouge anywhere else and Julia said, "If I run out of lipstick I smear some on my lips with my little finger." Louise thought if Pearlie brought one more figurine into this apartment, she'd scream. Someone was piling flat tires on all the war monuments before patriotic holidays and this bothered Louise, too. She didn't know why.
"Mommy, I wanna play in the birdbath," Mary whined.
"No, it's full of bird droppings."
"I wanna."
"No. It'll cool off in time."
Mary wandered over to the playpen. Corralling her jealousy was beyond her tiny will power. On a day like today what little the child possessed vanished. Maizie was hitting new decibel levels for the human voice in her discomfort.
"Mommy, make Maizie shut up."
"She has a rash on her bottom."
"She can lay on her stomach."
"She's too little to understand. Leave her alone."
"I'll turn her over." Mary climbed over the playpen's sides and shoved Maizie on her stomach.
Maizie, small though she was, knew when her rights were violated.- She socked Mary straight in the mouth.
Without a moment's hesitation, Mary took a roundhouse swing and flattened her baby sister up against the playpen.
"Girls!" Louise left her ironing and tried to separate them. It was no easy task because Maizie, screeching from more than prickly heat, wanted her revenge. Mary cried as much from her split lip as from fear of what Louise would do. In the struggle Maizie bit her mother's arm and drew blood. Now Louise had had it. She cracked Maizie one and belted Mary for good measure. They sat amid the baby rattles and wailed. Louise smelled smoke. The iron had burned through Pearlie's dress shirt. Running for the ironing board, she tripped over a cleverly placed toy and landed on her face. Frustrated beyond endurance, she turned on her side and kicked the goddamned ironing board over. The iron sizzled across the floor. Half hysterical, Louise stayed on the floor and sobbed. The children, viewing their mother's plight, quieted down. Then either ou
t of fear that Louise was hurt or selfish preoccupation with their own fate, Mary and Maizie continued their duet.
Cora sat on Celeste's beautiful back porch overlooking the formal garden while Fannie Jump, Ramelle and Celeste discussed Fairy Thatcher's latest letter. Spotty crawled under a black locust tree and read Little Women. She was a tall nine-year-old and every time Ramelle or Celeste looked at her they had to bite their tongues to keep from saying, "Tempus fugit."
"Fairy's nouveau poor. I have half a mind to sail over to Germany and set her straight." Fannie couldn't muster much conviction in the heat.
"She truly seems happy," Ramelle told her.
"Who can be happy living in a hovel in Berlin pawning your jewels? She's cracky." Fannie sucked the fresh mint leaf in her drink.
"One man's meat is another man's poison." Celeste rakishly opened another button on her blouse, revealing lovely sweating cleavage.
"I wish you wouldn't defend her. It makes me nervous."
"Fannie, it's not good to argue on a hot day," Cora suggested.
"I am not arguing. I am discussing Fairy Thatcher acting like a flaming asshole with some Kraut."
"She has the courage of her convictions. Don't belittle her." Ramelle gently corrected a wilting Fannie.
"I'm not belittling her. I'm worried. After all, Fairy and Celeste are my two best friends in the world." Fannie paused, then hoping not to offend present company, quickly added, "That doesn't mean you aren't dear to me, Ramelle; or you, Cora; but we all met in the crib. And I worry. Hell, she'll pawn her last bauble and wind up so poor she'll go to the zoo and pray the monkeys throw peanuts at her."
"What you don't have in your hand you can't hold." Cora wiped her forehead.
The sense of this expression escaped Fannie Jump, but she quieted for a minute.
"Right now Germany doesn't have much in her hand." Ramelle filled the conversation gap.
"What do you mean?" Fannie chewed another mint leaf.
"This winter when Celeste, Curtis and I took Spotty to Europe for the first time, we were all worried about Germany. Inflation is terrifying, the Reichstag hardly commands respect, groups of ruffians hide behind conflicting political ideologies."
Celeste added, "Even Curtis was appalled, and if any of us has a reason for vendetta it would be Curtis."
"Fairy's sitting on a powder keg," Fannie half growled.
"Yes, there she is. A little island of socialism in a sea of collapsing capitalism." Celeste undid yet another button.
"I still say she's happy, and if this heat doesn't subside we'll all be mad dogs." Ramelle fanned herself.
"Celeste, honey, why don't you put in a swimming pool? You know, like you see in the movie magazines?" Fannie changed the subject.
"Dearest, whenever it's a question of money being spent, why are you always so eager to spend mine and save yours?"
"You know perfectly well Creighton keeps me on an allowance."
"It's hardly a pittance," Celeste sarcastically noted.
"Well, it's hardly enough for a swimming pool, either."
"Why don't you try saving it over a few months and cut down on trinkets for your handsome lads."
"Shut up, Celeste. That and gossip's all the fun I have in life. Anyway, you can do what you want with your money. It's your money."
"Yes, dear. That's one of the advantages of not getting married."
"Now you tell me." Fannie's good humor was somewhat restored. "Creighton's making money hand over fist on the market. I wonder what he's worth."
"You don't know?" Ramelle was surprised.
"Of course not. I get my allowance; the bills are paid out of his office. I don't know if we're worth a dime or millions."
"Do you have any money in land?" Celeste knew a great deal more about business than she let on. She had fought like hell to get her share of the Chalfonte money when her father died in 1897. Stirling, the oldest, wanted to manage Celeste's and Carlotta's shares. Stirling was no match for the two hounds of hell who descended upon him. Both sisters, however, agreed to keep a portion of their money in the business, and in fairness to Stirling, he guided the firm wisely.
"Our house."
"No, Fannie. I mean real estate. Acreage."
"I got my little piece on Bumblebee Hill. Land brings you close to the Lord." Cora smiled.
"I wouldn't know—on either count." Fannie frowned.
"Buy land, girl. If there's a war you can always fill in the potholes." Cora laughed.
"She's right," Celeste said.
"That's Creighton's worry, not mine."
"The stock market is a high-class form of gambling, sweetheart. It's great fun, but never gamble more than you can afford to lose. I play a bit, but most of my friends are in land and in the shoe business. Thank God for Yankees and the cold North. They need shoes."
"I'll think about it. Then what do I do? March in and demand to know where our money is?" Fannie swallowed a drink warmed long ago by the intense heat.
"Marriage is a partnership," Ramelle remarked.
"Ha!" Fannie disbelieved this heartily.
A squawk around the corner distracted them. Louise and her two recalcitrant offspring appeared next to the hydrangeas.
"Louise, honey." Cora got up to greet her.
"Sit down, Mother. It's too hot to move. You know the thermometer on your front porch reads ninety-eight degrees?" Louise informed them.
"Well, I'll be sure to stay off it." Cora chuckled as she opened the kitchen door to fix Louise and the children something to drink. "Any orders out there?"
"Let me help you." Ramelle joined her.
"Sit down, Louise, before you fall over." Celeste offered her a chair. Mary took Maizie out to Sports. They liked being with a "big girl."
If Louise had had any intention of pouring out her heart to her mother, she rapidly forgot it. Sitting with Celeste and Fannie Jump inflamed her excitable social ambitions and by the time Ramelle and Cora came out with the drinks Louise was showing off her culture by saying, "You can't even walk in downtown Runnymede anymore for the filth. People walk their dogs on other people's property and in the park so the animal can illuminate."
"I'd like to see that." Fannie picked the new mint leaf out of her recharged drink.
October 29, 1929
Julia and Chessy sat on Cora's front porch. Both had been let off work early. People stopped each other in Runnymede Square to talk about the news on the radio. Aside from the disquieting reports from Wall Street, it was one of those days when the weather is fine but there's something in the air that makes people edgy. Julia didn't need any help. She was a day from her period. The bloat drove her bats.
Idabelle, wrapped in a shawl, one sock up and one sock down, rocked on her porch, fingering her accordion. The music drifted up to the top of the hill.
"Idabelle sure makes the sounds," Chessy said.
"If you can fold a road map you can play the accordion," Juts snapped.
They took off from there. No matter what Chessy said, Julia wised back. She had been spoiling for a fight. Now that she finally got one she felt hurt at Chessy's burst of temper, slight though it was, and ran upstairs to their bedroom, where she slammed the door and locked it for effect.
"Don't you dare come in here, Chessy Smith. Don't you dare."
He didn't answer. She threw herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I hate him, she thought. I never want to see him again. Who cares about Idabelle and her dumb accordion anyway? I don't. I never cared about Idabelle and her accordion. I don't hear him. Maybe he stalked off. Well, good then. I don't have to tell him to leave me alone. Men are such brutes. I bet he kicks down the door. I'll put the chair up behind it just for safety's sake.
She hopped out of bed and jammed the old ladder-back under the doorknob. Still no noise in the hall or on the stairway.
I hate him. I really and honestly hate him. He's as bad as Louise, only minus the catechism.
Five or ten minutes passed. Julia couldn'
t be certain of the time. Still no stirring outside her door.
He doesn't love me. He's not trying to get in. I could be dead in here. He doesn't care. Well, it's good I found out. Suppose I needed him. A friend in need is a friend indeed. I hate 'im.
A slight creak renewed her hope and apprehension. She jumped off the bed and got down on her hands and knees to see if she could see Chessy's feet. Nothing.
Musta been a floorboard aching. Change of weather always does that. He doesn't love me.
Another five minutes passed. Now Juts sat up on the bed and worried.
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