by Alice Duncan
“Oh, my, your party was fun, Daisy, but I’m still exhausted,” said Ma, entering the kitchen in her bathrobe and slippers. Nobody minded. By then, both Sam and Mr. Prophet had become honorary members of the family. Prophet would remain honorary. Sam would become a certified member of same. Someday.
“Me, too. If I didn’t have to sing a duet with Lucy this morning, I might even skip church.”
“You would not!” my mother said with some force. “Just because you hosted a party and it wore you out does not mean you may fail in your duties to your family and your church.”
“Yeah,” said Mr. Prophet.
When I whipped my head to glare at him, he appeared as angelic as an old reprobate like he ever could. Since Sam didn’t say it for me, I said, “Huh!”
Sam laughed. So did Pa. For that matter, so did Vi.
So what the heck, I laughed, too. “It’s all right, Ma. You know I never miss church unless I’m sick.”
After frowning at me for another second or two, Ma shrugged and said, “I do know it, Daisy. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you. I think I’m touchy because I’m still worn out from yesterday.”
“We all are,” said Pa. “But that was a darned fun party, and I enjoyed meeting Missus Mainwaring and Mister Bowman. I think I’ve seen his office there on Colorado but never thought much about it or him.”
This time, Sam said, “Huh,” so I didn’t have to.
“Sam doesn’t appreciate private detectives,” I told my father.
“Really? Why’s that, Sam? They get in the way of the police or something?”
“Sometimes,” said Sam. “I don’t hate ‘em all. Bowman seemed like a nice fellow and, as far as I know, he’s never interfered with a police investigation.” Giving me a meaningful stare, he added, “Unlike some other people I could mention.”
That made everyone laugh again. Except me. I did not interfere in his cases, curse it!
“At least, thanks to Harold and Sam, we didn’t have to clean up the mess after the party was over,” I said, forgiving Sam for his unwarranted slur. In fact, after plopping the last orange in the bowl, I went to him, stood on my tiptoes and gave him a smooch. Right on his lips in the middle of the kitchen doorway in front of my family, Lou Prophet, Spike and God. He kissed me back, and when we finally broke for air, everyone gazed at us adoringly. Except Lou Prophet, who looked as if he might throw up. Nertz to him.
Vi’s breakfast was, as ever, delicious. She even heated the maple syrup, our stock of which had been renewed at Christmastime by our relations back in Massachusetts. It was nice of them to send us syrup, because pure maple syrup wasn’t easy to find in Pasadena except at Jorgensen’s Market, which catered to rich people, and we weren’t. Rich, I mean. Vi and the butcher at Jorgensen’s, Mr. Larkin, were pretty good pals by this time, and he gave her good deals on lots of stuff, but Vi had told the family the syrup Jorgensen’s stocked was far beyond our budget. Or it had been before Sam came into our lives.
Every now and then I still marveled at the thought of my Sam being a rich man. As Harold had said when I’d told him about Sam’s shovels-full of dough: “Who’d’a thunk it?”
After we’d finished breakfast, I washed and dried the dishes, and then we all got ready for church. Except for Mr. Prophet, who said he’d commence coming to church in a week or so, but he aimed to rest today. I’d believe it when I saw it. Lou Prophet in church, I mean.
Easter Sunday fell on April twelfth, so we’d already begun singing the dismal hymns appropriate for the Lenten season. I preferred bouncier hymns, but I understood why Lenten hymns weren’t jolly. They led up to Good Friday when, according to the Christian Bible, Jesus had been crucified. Things brightened up considerably on Easter Sunday and thereafter.
Anyhow, on that particular Sunday, the fifth of April, Lucy and I were scheduled to sing the anthem, which was, “O Love Divine, What Hast Thou Done,” which might not be precisely fun, but it was a heck of a lot more appealing to me than “There is a Fountain Filled with Blood,” the first hymn with which Mr. Hostetter had threatened us. I asked him if he would mind picking a less disgusting hymn and, after frowning horribly at me for a couple of seconds, he selected “O Love Divine,” whose only redeeming quality in my opinion was that Charles Wesley wrote the words. Somebody else wrote the music. It was still a pretty boring hymn, Charles Wesley notwithstanding.
Probably to get back at me for my teeny-weeny rebellion, Mr. Hostetter made Lucy and me sing all three verses of the hymn. Generally, he only had us sing a duet on one or two verses. That should teach me not to balk at singing hymns I didn’t like, but I doubted it would. Anyhow, one of the hymns we aimed to sing that day was “O Sacred Head Now Wounded,” which was gloomy enough to suit anyone. The music was also considerably prettier than that for “O Love Divine.”
How’d I get on that topic? Ah, yes. I remember. The day was Sunday, by golly!
The moment Sam’s Hudson pulled to the curb on the Marengo side of our church—the church itself sat on the corner of Marengo Avenue and Colorado Street—and I got out to walk to the choir room, people positively flocked to greet us. To a person, they thanked us for the wonderful party and told us how much fun they’d had, how delicious the food had been, how lovely our (Sam’s and my) house was, and how nice it was to meet the wealthy and refined (if they only knew) Mrs. Mainwaring. Without squashing a single parishioner, Sam managed to park his Hudson and herd the rest of my family inside the church’s sanctuary. Good driver, my Sam.
In the choir room, I was likewise besieged. I didn’t mind. I took delight in knowing we’d made so many people happy. Everyone raved about the lobster rolls and the shrimp cocktail, by the way. Vi had tucked away a lot of leftovers in the Frigidaire, so her task of feeding us dinner after church and supper that night would be easier than usual. This situation pleased me, too. My aunt had to work too darned hard and, even though she said she loved feeding people, she must get tired of standing on her feet all day, every day, slaving away over a hot stove.
In my opinion, Lucy and I sounded as spectacular as it was possible for us to sound when we sang “O Love Divine.” We both smiled and bowed at the end, and went back to our assigned seats. A smattering of applause and a few “Amens” startled both of us, and I whipped my head around to see people clapping. Lucy had more presence of mind and, probably, more poise than I, so she just kept smiling and sat. But really, we Methodists aren’t generally so spontaneous and enthusiastic in church. Lucy and I smiled at each other again, however, both of us proud we’d sung our parts well. Mr. Hostetter gave each of us an approving nod, too, so I guess he’d forgiven me for not wanting to sing a hymn featuring a fountain filled with blood.
Due to general fatigue, the family didn’t even walk to Fellowship Hall after the church service ended. We just toddled out to Sam’s Hudson and piled in.
My mother, the same mother who had berated me for being too tired to go to church, heaved a weary sigh and said, “Glad that’s over. I can’t remember being this exhausted in a long time.”
We all shared her sentiments.
Naturally, Lou Prophet sat on the front steps of our (my parents’) bungalow when Sam parked the Hudson in front of the house. Mr. Prophet rose to greet us, and I noticed he had to push himself a little bit in order to get to his foot and peg. I probably shouldn’t be so hard on the old geezer, although I sometimes found it difficult not to be. He seemed such an odd, uncouth duck in lovely, sophisticated Pasadena. Ah, well. I remained thankful that he’d come into our lives, and not merely because he’d saved my life a couple of times. I also wanted to learn more about his picturesque old-western vernacular.
Also…well, I liked the guy. Couldn’t seem to help it.
Speaking of which, once we’d unlocked the door and gone inside—we’d never locked our doors until the attacks on my life began on the first day of the year—and after we’d all greeted Spike with love and pats, I asked, “What does ‘skint’ mean, Mister Prophet?”
“Eh?” he looked at me as if I’d lost what little was left of my mind. “Beg pardon?”
Peeved, probably because of my own state of fatigue, I said perhaps more querulously than was necessary, “Skint! What does ‘skint’ mean? For pity’s sake, you said Angie skint you. I’d never heard that word until yesterday.”
“Lower your voice,” Sam, who had come up behind me, advised.
Startled into achieving one of my athletic foot-high jumps, I darned near whirled around and slapped my beloved’s face. “Darn you, Sam Rotondo! You scared the feathers out of me!”
“Feathers?” Prophet squinted at me as if at a rare and unusual species of bird. Or butterfly. Or maybe rodent.
“Sorry, love,” said Sam, not meaning it—I could tell—“but you don’t want your whole family to know about our discussion with Missus Mainwaring, Lou, you and me yesterday, do you?”
After my palpitating heart slowed a trifle, I begrudgingly agreed with him. “You’re right. I don’t.” Facing Prophet once more, I whispered, “But, darn it, I do want to know what ‘skint’ means.” I dragged him by his coat sleeve to the far south section of our living room where the upright piano sat. He stumbled along behind me and Sam took his other arm, probably so I wouldn’t yank him from his perilous upright position. That peg-leg definitely counted as a handicap.
Once we were in the living room and standing before the piano, I plunked myself on the piano bench and said, “So what does ‘skint’ mean, Mister Lou Prophet?”
He and Sam sat on the sofa facing the piano, while I took the piano bench. Well…I don’t mean I took it. I sat on it. English is such an interesting language, isn’t it?
“Just means she fleeced me.”
“Oh, that helps a whole lot,” said I in supremely sarcastic mode. “I remember you saying she fleeced you, too. What does ‘fleeced’ mean? Does it mean she sheared you like a sheep?” Eyeing him up and down, I said, still sarcastic, “You don’t appear particularly woolly to me, Mister Prophet.”
“Thanks.” He smiled, showing me his stained teeth.
Bending over so as to be closer to the men, I whispered, “I’m going to hit you with my dachshund-headed cane if you don’t answer my question.” I don’t think I meant it, but maybe I did. Exhaustion inevitably plays havoc with people’s moods.
By the way, Sam had bought the cunning cane for me when I was recuperating from having been hit by that rotten automobile. He’d even had Arnold’s Jewelers fashion the dachshund’s head it sported. Sam could be a sweetheart when he wanted to be, which wasn’t too often but often enough. Anyhow, who wants a guy who’s a pushover? Not I, which was a good thing, since it would take a whole lot more strength than I possessed to topple my Sam.
“I mean,” said Prophet slowly and distinctly, “She stole money from me. She skint me. She fleeced me.” After pondering his response for a moment, he said, “Guess skint means skinned. Beaver hunters used t’say they skint the beavers, so that’s probably where the expression comes from.”
Ew. “Why’d they skin beavers?” I asked, feeling sorry for the beaver population of the United States.
With a shrug clearly telling me I knew nothing of the world, Prophet said, “They skint ‘em for their pelts, of course. Where’d you think all them beaver hats the toffs used to wear came from? Giraffes?”
“Oh. I guess I forgot men used to wear beaver hats all the time.” Because I still felt peevish, I added, “And frock coats. Men used to wear frock coats, too.” I didn’t stick my tongue out at him, but I wanted to.
“And you’re right about ‘fleeced,’ he said. It comes from shearing sheep. She fleeced me out of lots of my money.”
“How’d she do that?”
“Well, now, I don’t know as to how I ought to answer that question. I didn’t go to her parlor house for a tea party, if you know what I mean.”
“Her parlor house…” I repeated, my memory hazy. Then I remembered. “Oh, yes. She ran a…house of ill repute—”
Prophet snorted, and I smacked his arm. He said, “Hey!”
“Hey yourself,” I told him. “She ran a house of ill repute—a house of prostitution, if you want to be persnickety about it—”
“She ran a damned whorehouse,” said Lou Prophet.
“Stop swearing in my presence, Mister Lou Prophet!”
“Tut-tut on me,” said he.
Scowling ferociously—which either didn’t register with him or didn’t bother him, confound the man—I said, “So you took advantage of the…the…favors some of the women there offered. Is that correct?”
“They sold their favors to any feller who paid the price, Miss Daisy.”
“Yes, yes. I know. Did they then drug you and take your money? Or did you just get roaring drunk, pass out, and then they took your money? If the latter is how it happened, you deserved it.” Very well, I’m a prude. I don’t want to be. But, as both Angie and Flossie had told me, one’s upbringing can’t be flung aside at a moment’s notice or flicked away like a stray leaf. That goes for good upbringings as well as bad ones.
“Might’a been the one and might’a been t’other,” said Lou Prophet, not clarifying things one little bit.
“You’re impossible! Did you know that? You’re absolutely impossible! How did you get skint? Or fleeced? Or had your money stolen? By means of either of the scenarios I outlined?”
“Probably a little of both. Some good tangleleg with some laudanum mixed in would do the trick.”
“And you didn’t notice your pockets were lighter when you woke up the next morning?”
“Wasn’t feeling too chipper the next morning.” Mr. Prophet lifted an eyebrow at me.
“Well, I think you deserved to be skint. And fleeced. And stolen from! Taking advantage of women in situations like that!”
“It’s how they earned their living,” Prophet pointed out.
“That may be so, but I’ll bet you anything they didn’t want to have to earn their livings like that. Who’d want to get so close to a dirty, smelly, drunken man and…Ew. The mere thought makes me sick!”
“Hey, I might’a been a little sloshed, but I wasn’t all that dirty and smelly.” Mr. Prophet sounded as if I’d hurt his feelings.
“Applesauce! You know exactly what I mean. Bother you and every other man like you!”
“Daisy,” said Sam. Guess I’d become a trifle loudish.
Modifying my volume, I said to Prophet. “I despise men who take advantage of women in lowered circumstances, is all I’m saying.”
“Didn’t know you despised me. I’m sorry ‘bout that.”
“I didn’t mean you in particular, but I know you know what I’m talking about.”
“Only bought what they was sellin’,” said Prophet. “Didn’t deserve to be fleeced for it.”
“Oh, you’re just insufferable! You ought to be stabbed to death in your shriveled, black heart, if there’s anything left of it, which I doubt.”
“Daisy!” said Sam, in a voice louder than it had been, even though I’d lowered my own voice to a whisper.
Didn’t matter. Mr. Prophet only grinned. “It’s all right, Sam.” To me, he said, “Miss Daisy, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. And all’s I got in my chest is a scab over my liver, so you can’t stab me in my heart. Ain’t got one left.”
On that note, I rose from the piano bench, turned, stalked through the dining room and kitchen and retired to my bedroom, where I removed my Sunday clothes, hung them neatly in the closet and got into a comfortable house dress. Spike, proving that men stick together and thereby making me mad as a riled sidewinder—I made that one up all by myself, by golly, and didn’t even need Lou Prophet—remained in the living room with Sam, Lou and my father, who passed by me as I stomped to my bedroom. I think he wanted to ask me what I was angry about, but I didn’t give him the chance.
When I’d changed into comfy attire and re-entered the kitchen, Vi stood in before the Frigidaire, gazing at its innards and occas
ionally picking up something contained therein. The men remained in the living room. Guess they thought food appeared by magic, or that Vi never required any assistance when it came to feeding them.
“Need any help, Vi?” I asked sweetly, thinking the men should be asking the same question. Well, except for Spike. He’d probably be happy to help, but he didn’t have opposable thumbs and his legs were too short. Also, although I hate to admit this, he’d probably eat everything before it got to the table.
“Just set the table, please,” said Vi. She sounded remarkably happy for a woman who had to cook for and wait on people all the time. Perhaps I was a trifle sensitive that day. Well…I know I was. Fatigue has a debilitating effect on my state of mind.
But I set the table, then called everyone in for dinner, which was leftovers from yesterday’s party. They were still darned good.
Eleven
On Monday morning I awoke about seven-ish, as usual, and joined my father in the kitchen. Ma and Aunt Vi were in their respective rooms, dressing to go to work. I had to go to work, too, but at least I could set my own hours. Spike followed me into the kitchen, hoping. Full of hope, Spike, and never became grumpy because he was tired or worn out. I admired that in a fellow.
Looking up from the newspaper he’d been reading, Pa said, “Vi’s having us finish up those deviled eggs and stuffed mushrooms from the party, and there’s some bread there to toast. There’s also a lot of fruit salad, if you want some.”