by Holly Weiss
Words started to come, but Gracie wasn’t sure from where. And they came easily. When he said he had to go, she was disappointed. Mrs. Cunningham was still engrossed in her radio program when they walked to the front door.
He pulled a plaid cap over his chestnut hair.
“You know,” he hesitated, “After I started bellhopping, I was going to ask you if you wanted to take a ride down to the Sonestown Bridge, but you seemed so busy I didn’t. Maybe we could do it when I come home for Christmas break?”
She felt her head nod yes and watched from the porch while his plaid cap disappeared down Mary Avenue.
****
Mrs. Sturdy kept tabs on them. She telephoned, asking if they needed anything and chatting about how Eric was doing at college. She stopped over one day with a casserole and package, shooing Gracie upstairs. After she was given permission to come down, she realized the older women were in cahoots.
When she went into the kitchen, Mrs. Sturdy immediately stopped kneading and wiped bread dough off her fingers. She ushered Gracie into the dining room. Mrs. Cunningham’s sewing machine was set up. A new pattern for a One Day Sack lay on top of some peach material.
“Open it up,” the older woman commanded. The pattern was a simple step-in dress with a scoop neck and cap sleeves. The neck was finished with a white and peach diamond patterned band that was mirrored on the hem. “Mrs. Sturdy ordered it from Montgomery Ward for me. They even supply the trimmings.”
“But why? Pardon me for saying it, Mrs. Cunningham, but we don’t have money left over to treat me to a dress.”
“Hush. Madeleine isn’t the only one to whom my husband left a trust fund. Grace, it shouldn’t surprise you that I know exactly what is due on the mortgage and how much we spend on heat and groceries per month by memory. Just get going. It’s the newest thing and I want you to have it. You’re supposed to be able to make it in one day.”
Gracie spread the peach fabric out on the dining room table and started pinning on the pattern. Mrs. Cunningham warned her to cut it long enough to cover her knees and then talked her through how to operate the sewing machine.
Rev. Sturdy joined them for dinner, and afterward, Gracie modeled her dress.
“You need a matching white velvet headband that fastens at the back.” Mrs. Sturdy said, combing her fingers through Gracie’s curls. “I saw one with a pearl drop rhinestone that rests on the forehead for dress up. It would be exquisite with your hair.”
****
The Woods had fired Mrs. Slagle, the housemother, two weeks before the end of the season for tippling on the job. Dorothy substituted, but stated firmly that she would not be available to continue in that capacity next summer. Hank had signed a contract a year in advance because William knew the upkeep on the tennis courts would require special attention.
“Needs for staff mushroom every year. New housemother, waitress, and housemaids. I am going to have to tinker with the room assignments at the Evergreen.” Margaret poured coffee and sliced marbled pound cake during their private Saturday afternoon Crestmont evaluation. Stalling, she ate half of her cake before continuing. “William, I had to hear it from our baby, Eleanor, that Bessie has also been consuming alcohol, albeit after working hours. She is respectful to me and a good worker, but evidently her attitude toward the staff has deteriorated.”
William shook his head. “Talking about Bessie is long overdue. We shouldn’t stand for her behavior.”
“I would like to give her another chance.”
William dropped his fork. “Surely you’re not serious, Margaret.”
“I will write her a letter before next summer’s season and spell it out. Define our standards. William, we know the girl has family problems. Let’s keep her on staff, but put her on probation. One infraction and we will fire her.”
She deftly moved the conversation to a Guest Services Room over which she had deliberated. “The unused room that used to be my father’s old office, the one Miss Ponselle used as a green room. Professionals and service providers could rent it one day a week and provide special amenities for the guests. We can plant a few shade trees each year with the rental income. You got your tennis courts, William. I want this. You always say we must update a bit each season.”
Cutting himself a second piece of cake, William bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from grinning. “Margaret, my love, you shall have your Guest Services Room and your trees and whatever else makes you happy. Do you realize this time last year…”
“Do not talk about last year, William. I am thankful to be past that malaise. Now, what else shall we go over?”
William pulled a letter out of his shirt pocket and spread it on the table. “This is from the Forest Hills expert who is coming to install the tennis courts. The courts have to go in now so that the weight of the snow and early play next summer will compact the clay on the courts. That way we’ll have a smoother playing surface for next year’s August tournaments. I can’t wait for a photograph so I can design our new brochure.”
Margaret cleared their coffee cups from the table. “I saw Otto and Hank digging down there in back of the garage. Your little scheme will provide a challenge for our more athletic guests as well as entertainment for the others, William.”
“My plan,” he said planting a kiss on her forehead as he ran the water and squeezed soap into the sink, “is to attract famous players from all over and turn the Crestmont into the tennis capital of Pennsylvania.”
****
A week later four dump trucks loaded with red shale made their way up Crestmont Hill. Emmett Thompson, the engineer from the Forest Hills Tennis Club, drove the lead truck with a huge rake attached behind. Otto directed them down the hill past the water tower behind the parking garage. He and Hank had earned double wages for the back-breaking hours they spent clearing the land, digging and filling the courts with layers of rock and gravel, and burying gasoline tanks in preparation for the delivery.
The trucks backed up, spread out along the clearing. Each driver cranked up the back of the truck bed, dumping shale onto the courts. Three drove back up and parked in front of the big house. The rake was reattached to the fourth truck and Thompson directed the driver back and forth, in order to spread the shale evenly over the courts.
“All they need now is to be fired several times.”
“So that’s what packs it into clay,” William noted, giving Otto a nod.
Releasing the handle on the hose, Otto carefully sprayed a thin layer of gasoline, which covered the crushed brick like a slick blanket. Mr. Thompson tossed a lit match. The three men stood like sentries, arms crossed over their chests, watching the flames spread on the two courts like carpets being unrolled. One nodded confidently. Another watched the process curiously. The third held his breath until the fire was out. The process was repeated twice.
“Wait a couple of days and then paint your lines. Make sure any bleachers you build are collapsible so you can get them out of the way. You’re going to have to fire the courts after each rain. Keep them brushed, and if you have a dry spell, water them yourselves, then fire them.”
“After each rain?” William handed him a check.
“If you don’t, they’re going to buckle and your lines will get wiggly.”
“That might be fun,” Otto smirked, cracking his knuckles.
“Close the garage on Friday, Otto. I want you to paint those lines and start on the bleachers. I need a photograph within the week.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
****
“What did the Sturdys call it, an orphan’s dinner?”
“Yes, they invite young single people who don’t have families over for dinner before Christmas Eve service.”
Mrs. Cunningham stopped her knitting and frowned. “I feel sad that you won’t go. There’s no need for you to stay home with me. I could have listened to St. Olaf’s and been perfectly happy. The Sturdy’s have been so kind to us. I know, let’s invite them all for the day af
ter Christmas. No one wants to cook then.”
Gracie’s eyebrow shot up. “The whole family?”
“Well, if you prefer, we can just invite their son. Eric is a fine young man and I enjoy his company.”
Gracie grabbed the telephone receiver. “I’ll telephone Mrs. Sturdy right now.”
****
Shadow chased the broom, frustrating the woman who tried to sweep snow off the porch of the Self Help Lodge. Mrs. Woods admitted she had never seen the woman before. “But that’s unusual because I know everyone in town. She must be a visiting relative.” She turned the car left onto Mary Avenue. Christmas was on Saturday, so she and Gracie had moved their shopping day to Thursday.
“Now do you know why it is called the Self Help Lodge? Anyone who visits pitches in to help.” Mrs. Woods teased Gracie for living in Eagles Mere for over a year without noticing all the houses had names instead of numbers. “You lived in the Woodshed for a winter, and here we are at the Maytown,” she laughed, stopping the car in front of Mrs. Cunningham’s house. The chalkboard in front of the Eagles Mere Inn next door boasted “Special—Oyster Stew,” and the smell of fresh bread made their mouths water.
****
Reverend Study was very apologetic when he telephoned on Christmas to say that he and his wife couldn’t come to dinner. A family in the church needed pastoral care and Mrs. Sturdy wanted to go with him because she had been close to the woman who died. Gracie decided to cook the whole meal anyway, figuring she could do a lot with the leftover ham.
“I know it seems vain,” Mrs. Cunningham said the next day while Gracie combed her white hair, “but I want other people to see me well-groomed, even though I can’t see myself.” Gracie was hesitant to use the electric curling iron because she didn’t want to burn Mrs. Cunningham’s scalp, so she coaxed her into the new curling combs that were left in the hair for four hours.
Gracie relented after being asked twice and rattled off the names of the people that sent her Christmas cards.
“PT? And he wrote a note too?”
Excusing herself to put the ham in the oven, Gracie went downstairs to avoid further probing then returned to get dressed. Her maroon slash was the best choice for dinner. She applied subtle makeup and wondered why she was more nervous about the cooking than about Eric coming for dinner.
****
Gracie left them chatting about the Moravians to check on dinner. Evidently Eric was already knowledgeable about her church background, or he had done some research. She wrestled the roasting pan out of the oven with huge quilted oven mitts. The ham was huge and she extended her arms out as far as she could to lift it out of the pan so she wouldn’t get drippings on her dress. Finally she managed it onto the cutting board. She tried to get the knife right next to the bone to make a horizontal cut as Isaiah had taught her, but it slipped. The ham thwacked on its side, splattering all over her apron. Carving as best as she could, she piled the ham on the platter, surrounded by the roasted potatoes and pineapple rings.
“Everything okay in here?” Eric poked his head in the kitchen. “I’ll get this.” He picked up the platter and held his other hand out palm up, awaiting a serving bowl. “Anything else?” Gracie gave him the creamed peas and she brought up the rear with rolls and boiled onions.
“The vase Madeleine sent from Germany is right on the center of the table, Mrs. Cunningham,” Gracie indicated after they said a blessing over the meal.
“Porcelain with gold plated ribbons. I ran my fingers all up and down the design. It’s beautiful,” the woman explained to Eric.
Gracie passed the food to Eric, then cut some ham on Mrs. Cunningham’s plate and arranged portions of the rest neatly. “Ham at six o’clock,” she told Mrs. Cunningham, who felt for her fork and dug in, complimenting Gracie on her cooking.
Mrs. Cunningham soon forgot her food when she got lost in her stories. “When my husband was alive we lived in that huge yellow cottage with the two story wrap-around porch over where Lewis’s glass factory used to be. This town was in its glory days then, when they built the great hotels and wooden sidewalks.”
In a more confidential tone, she explained that after her husband’s death, Madeleine wanted more money for travel and so forth. “She wanted something smaller and modern, not like the old Victorian cottages. We are sitting on what used to be the parking lot for the Eagles Mere Inn. They needed to finance some improvements back then and Madeleine offered to buy this lot. It was quite the thing then to order those modern homes Sears Roebuck would deliver, so we picked out this Maytown model. Madeleine enjoys the status of living next to the inn, you know.” She coughed into her napkin. “I was able to take care of myself back then.”
She grew quiet and started to eat. Eric told her about Gracie’s singing in the staff talent show last August. “She was dressed to the nines in fishnet stockings, heels and a dress the color of butter, and high heels.” He poked his fork in Gracie’s direction.
“The one I told you Olivia made with the handkerchief hem,” Gracie explained, discretely replacing a piece of dropped pineapple onto Mrs. Cunningham’s plate.
“You should have seen her fancy stepping through her song,” Eric continued. “A beautiful songstress having a ball. And that pianist, PT, wow, can he play! They did a turn-around, you know, where they repeat the last part of the song twice, and he followed her beautifully.”
Gracie’s mind wandered back to the talent show, remembering feeling unfulfilled and not understanding why. She was glad she had put on a good show for the audience. When she started listening again, Eric was commenting on PT’s talent and asking whether or not he played classical music.
“Sonestown covered bridge?” He spread his hands out palm-side up when it was time to leave. “It would be a good way to start the New Year. Can you get away next Saturday? My mother said she’d take Mrs. Cunningham over to our house for the day.”
“I don’t see how I could say no.”
****
The child had George’s eyes and appeared to be about seven months old. Gracie stood facing the window, staring at the photograph that had come with Lily’s Christmas card.
“One more to go,” Mrs. Cunningham said as she ran her fingers over the maroon strip she was knitting for her afghan, counting the stitches. “You’ve been terribly quiet, Grace.”
Gracie wondered why she so stubbornly kept it all to herself and felt it would help her to confide in her kind friend. She was tired of being ripped up inside.
“I did a terrible thing when I left home,” she said to the window.
“Do you mean Bethlehem? I thought you left because you wanted a stage career.” Her knitting needles clicked soothingly through the pause that followed.
“Well, it was my dream, but that’s not why I really left. My sister, Lily, was to be married and I felt things for her fiancé that were not appropriate.”
Mrs. Cunningham set her knitting down and patted the seat next to her. Turning at the sound, Gracie sat down on the edge of the sofa and interlaced her fingers. “No one else knows this. I’ve never told.” The old woman sat quietly and listened to Gracie’s story.
“Did you pursue George after that?”
“No, I left. I really wanted to put it behind me and start over, but it gnaws at me sometimes.” Her left thumbnail dug grooves into her right palm.
“What you did was to remove the temptation from both of you so that they could have their happiness together. Am I correct, Grace?”
“I suppose.”
“That was an act of grace. You set out on your own so they could have their family—your parents, Lily, George, this baby.”
“But Lily had my address here. Why didn’t my parents try to find me?”
“Grace, I don’t understand why your parents would throw a wonderful woman like you away, but maybe they consider you a rebel and can’t accept that. There is something in the Bible that says we should live life that really is life. Are you happy with your life here?”
/> “Yes.”
“Then let go of your guilt. Don’t go back home, and for heaven’s sake, don’t go singing on the road for people who don’t know you. Sing if you want, but stay here with the people who love you.” Mrs. Cunningham proudly stacked each knitted strip on her lap.
Gracie wiped her eyes. Searching in the knitting basket for the huge needle she said, “Would you like me to sew those strips together now?”
Camden, New Jersey
1917
“Got you something for our third anniversary, kid.” Warren Sloan pushed a small box across the bar while PT refilled syrup bottles. “I remember you walking in here all scrawny when you were seventeen.”
PT nodded, opened the box, and pulled out an expensive pocket watch. He thanked Sloan and asked how the tournament had gone.
“I got the most strikes out of three games, plus the silver cup in Atlantic City.” Sloan smacked his palm on the bar in triumph.
“Then you should be the one getting the watch.”
“Nope. Couldn’t have concentrated on knocking down all those pins unless I knew you were back here holding down the fort.”
That evening, people clapped and cheered as balls cracked on the lanes, but PT made his own rhythm, improvising on a peppy Irving Berlin tune. Pipe smoke blurred his vision when he started another variation. “Great rhythmic sense, but your technique’s lousy.” A short, pudgy man with smeary reading glasses clacked his pipe between his back teeth and sat down next to him on the piano bench.
“Try this.” He brushed PT’s hands off the piano and played a bit of Beethoven. Annoyed, PT easily played it back.
“And this…” PT reluctantly relinquished the bench and slouched over the piano as the man’s dry, scaly hands sounded out a Russian piece with heavy dense chords in the middle of the piano, repeated in the bass. The man rose, gesturing toward the keyboard.