by Alice Duncan
Some of the students finished shaping their croquettes before I did, but that didn’t discourage me. After all, they only had to shape their glop into volcanoes; I had to talk whilst doing same.
“And now, ladies, let’s take our tins to the oven. Then we can all wash our hands.”
They laughed, as well they might. I don’t know how Vi does it. Personally, I don’t enjoy having chicken-and-bread goo on my hands. It feels sticky, dirty and awful.
The rest of the class went well. As our croquettes baked—mercifully, they didn’t take long—the class and I discussed uses for dry bread once more, and I made the mistake of asking if anyone had a special recipe from the booklet she’d like us to attempt in an upcoming class.
One of the ladies raised her hand. I think it was Merlinda, but I’m not sure. Smiling, even though I’d already recognized my error, I said, “Yes?”
“The recipe on the front cover looks good. How about teaching us how to make that one?”
Ah. The pea castle. The one recipe in the entire booklet that scared me more than any other. Even croquettes didn’t seem as daunting as that stupid little bread castle brimming over with green peas. “Perhaps we will in another week or so.” I smiled winningly again and hoped the class would forget I ever said that. Then, in order to divert the class’s attention from my last, idiotic question, I asked, “Can anyone think of other uses for stale bread that we haven’t covered here?”
Thank God they knew more about cooking than I did! We discussed French toast, Welsh rarebit, and toasted sandwiches using older bread, and one of the ladies even mentioned croutons. Croutons? I didn’t even know what a crouton was until one of my students—I think she was Belgian, or maybe French—enlightened me. Oh, boy. And I was the teacher. It was almost enough to make one melancholy.
Fortunately, our croquettes were done about that time, so I didn’t have to endure any more blows to my confidence. We all traipsed back to the kitchen, removed our croquettes from the oven, carried them back to our desks, and took small bites. They were actually quite tasty. Astonishing.
The class dispersed, taking paper bags full of their baked croquettes with them, and I finally let out a sigh of relief. Not only had I got through another class, but nobody in the person of Sam Rotondo or my husband interrupted us that day.
Flopping down on my desk chair, I gazed at my croquettes with befuddlement. I’d actually created those little volcano-shaped things with my own two hands. And they were edible. It nearly boggled my mind. Flossie found me there, musing about the mysteries of life, after she’d seen the students off to their various domiciles. Which reminded me of something I’d been meaning to ask her.
After enduring several minutes of Flossie’s gushing gratitude—she couldn’t be made to understand that I was a total fake—I said, “Say, Flossie, do you know that woman, Gertrude?”
“Gertrude Minneke? Of course. She moved out here after coming to grief in New Jersey. I guess her family fell on hard times. Her folks died in the influenza, she kind of hit the skids, and she and her brother decided to move West hoping they could turn their lives around. The Salvation Army in some city in New Jersey helped them out. Why?”
“I only wondered why she seems so scared all the time. She actually ran out on the class last week.”
Flossie’s pretty eyes opened wide. “Scared? Do you think she’s frightened?”
“She sure looks like it. Today she was hiding behind that large woman—what’s her name? Maria?—and she tried to hide from me when we went to the kitchen.”
“Hmm. I didn’t notice. Perhaps she felt embarrassed because she bowed out of the class so suddenly last week.”
“I’m surprised she came back again, if she’s so frightened.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s really scared. Only embarrassed. You see, she told me later, the next day, that she’d begun feeling ill, so she left.”
“Ill? I hope it wasn’t anything we cooked.”
Flossie thought I was joking, but I wasn’t. It would be just my luck to sicken an entire class of eager ladies who were trying their very best to create new lives for themselves. After she got over her fit of amusement, Flossie said, “Oh, Daisy, you’re such a character.”
I was, was I? Well, we’d see.
She then said, “No, it wasn’t the delicious macaroni dish. She said she just thought she’d better leave, but she didn’t want to disrupt the class, so she didn’t tell anyone what was going on with her.”
“Ah. I see.” Flossie’s explanation made sense, I guess.
“These croquettes are wonderful, Daisy,” Flossie went on. “You’re so good to do this for us. I’m hoping I’ll learn enough about teaching from you that I’ll be able to teach another class if we decide to do this again.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a much better job than I’m doing, Flossie. I honestly don’t know how to cook. If it weren’t for my Aunt Vi, I’d never have been able to do it.”
“Nonsense. You’re a wonderful cook, Daisy.”
Oh, brother. But I’d never yet been able to convince Flossie of any of my many failings. For some reason, the woman insisted on thinking the best of me in spite of myself. I decided to drop that subject in favor of something else that interested me. “Say, Flossie, exactly what does this sponsorship by the Salvation Army entail? I mean, what do the people who partake of it have to do?”
“Oh my, it’s a wonderful program, Daisy. Johnny is so pleased with it. It was all his idea.”
It pleased me to see how happy Flossie was with Johnny. And vice versa, too. They made a lovely couple. I liked to think that Billy and I would have been so happy had the blasted Kaiser not butted in and ruined everything.
“What happens is this,” Flossie said. “We get applications from various parts of the country. You know, from other churches. We take as many individuals as we can, but our church can really only support ten at a time.”
“Ten? But there are only nine students.”
“Yes, but we’re also sponsoring Gertrude’s brother, Eugene.”
“Ah. Yes, I remember you told me she’s here with her brother. I see. I wonder why she seems so nervous all the time.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s just worried that she won’t be able to learn what we’re teaching.”
I could appreciate that, since my feelings were approximately the same. “If she’s so nervous about it, I wonder why she came back today then.”
“Oh, she has to. You either have to participate in all the benefits of the program, or you have to drop out of it. Since both she and her brother are involved, she probably doesn’t dare not come back, even if she’s as nervous as you say. I don’t see it myself, but you’re standing in front of the class so you’d have a better view. You see, the Salvation Army finds housing for all the participants. Most of the women stay here, actually. We have a building where we can house people. The apartments are small, but they’re serviceable. The Salvation Army also finds them jobs and offers them classes in the skills necessary to build a life. Eugene, for instance, works as a busboy at two local restaurants. He’s also learning how to be an automobile mechanic, which pays much better than restaurant work.”
Just like my Billy. I’d have sighed again, but I didn’t want Flossie to think I was unhappy or brooding or anything.
“I saw Miss Minneke in the library earlier today.”
“Yes. We found her a position as a library page.”
“Ah.”
“The truth is that most of the women we sponsor, especially the war refugees like Hilda Schwartz and Maria Colbert, are almost embarrassingly grateful to us for our assistance.”
“I can imagine. Where are Hilda and Maria from? And do you think you could make little paper name tents to put on their desks, so next week I’ll know who’s who?”
“Wonderful idea!” Flossie beamed at me. It was nice to know at least one person in the world thought I was swell. “Hilda’s from Switzerland originally. She came to the
USA from Belgium, where her family was killed during the war. She was totally destitute, and she’s grabbed onto this program of the Salvation Army’s like a lifeline.”
I grimaced. “How horrid. What a terrible war.” Darned Germans.
“Yes. It sure was. Well, you know that better than anyone.” Flossie gave me such a sympathetic smile that it almost made me cry. “Anyhow, Maria was originally from Italy, but she was living in France when the war started, because her husband was French. She came over here after the war ended because France was such a mess and her husband was dead. Killed in the war.”
“Oh, my. So many people lost so much.” At least Billy hadn’t been killed, although I know he sometimes—perhaps often—wished he had been.
“So true. I guess in many ways, we here in America are lucky. At least the war wasn’t fought on our soil. We lost too many men, but we didn’t suffer through bombing raids, and the famines and starvation that followed the conflict.”
“You’re absolutely right, Flossie. Sometimes I get to feeling blue about Billy and what happened to him, but you’re right that we have much to be thankful for. At least our homes are intact and we have food and clothing.”
“You know, Daisy, Johnny and I pray for you and Billy every day,” Flossie said. “Johnny’s told me more than once how brave you are and how terribly your Billy suffers. I remember when he was so sick earlier in the year. Johnny said he feared for his life, and I’m sure you did, too.”
This time, I did cry. Stupid emotions. But Flossie was a true pal, although we’d come to know each other in a somewhat odd manner, and I appreciated her for her goodness. Johnny, too, even though he had got me involved in this wretched cooking class.
My curiosity about Gertrude hadn’t abated, however, and I determined to find out more about all of my students during next Saturday’s class.
Chapter Five
Mrs. Bissell, the lady who’d given us Spike as a reward for cleansing her house of a ghost, called that evening just as I finished setting the table and Aunt Vi was about to call us all to dinner. Mrs. B. wanted me to conduct a séance at her big mansion on the corner of Foothill Boulevard and Maiden Lane in Altadena two weeks from that day. I enjoy conducting séances because it’s fun to put on my Rolly voice and pretend to commune with spirits.
“Mrs. Roger Baskerville passed on recently, you see. Mrs. Baskerville was a champion dachshund breeder with whom I’ve been in communication for decades.”
Goodness gracious. Hounds of the Baskervilles, by gum! Only these hounds had little short legs and long bodies and would never even think about attacking and mauling anyone—unless it were a person bearing food. I said, “I see,” in my most spiritualistic voice.
“I’m hoping that if you can get in touch with her, she’ll be able to advise me on what I need to do in order to get my dogs to Westminster.”
Oh? Curious, I asked, “Since you were in communication for so long, didn’t you ask her that before she crossed over the vale?” Naturally, I cloaked my question gently, in a soothing purr.
“Oh, my, yes,” she said. “But I figure she knows more about life’s mysteries now, don’t you think? After all, she’s Over There now.”
Right. And I could truly commune with spirits. I only said, “I’ll be more than happy to do that for you, Mrs. Bissell.” And before the day came, I’d check a book out of the library on how to breed and show dogs. They probably had one. The library had everything, bless it.
“Wonderful, dear. You can see my latest litter while you’re here.”
“I’d love to do that, too.”
The litter she was talking about, naturally, wasn’t technically hers, but that of one of her dogs. Dachshund puppies are probably more adorable than any other thing on earth, barring kittens. But kittens grow up to be cats and are, therefore, not as commendable as dogs, at least if you’re me. I know some people love cats. I don’t dislike them. I just don’t want one, if you know what I mean. Besides, Spike absolutely adored chasing the neighbor’s cat, and I wouldn’t want to risk having one in the house, lest he actually catch it. Anyhow, I was telling the truth when I said I’d love to see the new litter.
Dinner, as usual, was delicious, even though we had to use my leftover croquettes as a side dish. Everyone ate them and commented politely upon their tastiness, but I’m pretty sure the rest of the family was as sick of chicken croquettes as I by that time.
The following day, the telephone rang just as we were getting ready to leave for church. Since the ’phone was usually for me because of my profession, I answered it.
“Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking.” Naturally, I used my most soothing voice.
After a short hesitation, a low, silky voice on the other end of the wire said, “Desdemona Majesty?”
I believe I’ve explained about that Desdemona already. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Majesty, this is Miss Emmaline Castleton.”
Wow! Mr. Henry Castleton’s daughter! I knew all about her. Well, I knew all about him. He was one of those railroad robber barons who made zillions of dollars building railroads across the country. He’d settled in Pasadena some years back and built a positively fabulous hotel on South Oak Knoll Avenue, which, naturally, he called the Hotel Castleton. I liked to go down there sometimes just to walk around. For the sake of my livelihood, I hid my excitement. I did, however, make sure my spiritualistic voice was in full throb.
“Yes, Miss Castleton? What can I do for you?”
When you’re in a business like mine, you have to be careful. I definitely didn’t want Miss Emmaline Castleton, undoubtedly one of the richest people in the universe, to know what a thrill it was to have her call me. But the truth was that people I didn’t know never called me except when they wanted me to work for them. I regret to say that dollar signs began to dance in my head.
“I understand you’re going to conduct a séance at Mrs. Bissell’s home in two weeks.”
It wasn’t exactly a question, but I answered it anyway. “Yes, I am.”
Another pause ensued. Evidently, this woman was either timid or didn’t know what she wanted. At last she said, “I hope to meet you there, then.”
Oh? Well, hmm. Deflated, I said, “That would be very nice, Miss Castleton.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see Ma standing there. I think she’d begun to hover impatiently, but when she heard the name Castleton, her mouth dropped open and she only stared at me.
“Well,” Miss Castleton said, “I don’t merely want to meet you. I’m hoping that perhaps you can help me. In your capacity as a spiritualist, I mean.”
Whew! Feeling more confident, I slathered the spiritualistic charm into my next words. “I’d be more than happy to help you if I’m able to, Miss Castleton.”
I heard a soft sigh rustle through the telephone wire. “Thank you. Madeline Kincaid has told me so much about you. So has Mrs. Bissell.”
That was nice. I said, “Ah.”
“Then we’ll meet in two weeks,” said she in her soft, low voice. She sounded sad, actually.
“Yes,” I said, getting confused again.
She replaced the receiver on her end so softly, I didn’t even hear a click. I waited on the line just to see if any of our party-line neighbors had been listening, but I didn’t hear any other clicks, either. Nuts. I wouldn’t have minded if the nosy Mrs. Barlow had heard me speaking to Miss Emmaline Castleton.
As I pushed Billy’s wheelchair up the street to the First Methodist-Episcopal Church on the corner of Marengo and Colorado, as usual, and after I’d answered Ma’s eager questions about my call from an honest-to-God Castleton, I pondered that telephone call.
Everyone in Pasadena knew who the Castletons were, and most of us knew more than that about the family. For instance, I knew that Miss Emmaline Castleton, she of the recent telephone call, had been engaged to marry a young man who’d been killed in the war. I expected that was why she wanted me to work for her. I’d actually met her intended onc
e, at a party I’d worked for Mrs. Bissell. Occasionally, you see, if the cause was good enough, I would read palms and so forth for charity events, and that event was one of those events, if you know what I mean. I think the cause had been to make money for crippled soldiers’ families, a cause I more than fully supported.
Interesting. Now I could hardly wait for Mrs. Bissell’s séance! I resolved, on my next trip to the library, to look up articles about the Castletons and Miss Castleton’s late fiancé, as well as books on dog breeding and showing. But by that time, we’d reached the church, so I had to stop thinking.
Billy always sat in the congregation with my parents and Aunt Vi while I donned my choir robe and took my place in the alto section. I was in the choir room donning said robe when the choir director, Mr. Floy Hostetter, broke into my musings, which weren’t very interesting anyway.
“Mrs. Majesty?”
I looked up. “Yes, Mr. Hostetter?”
Mr. Hostetter referred to a notebook in his hands. “Would you and Lucille Spinks like to sing a duet next week?”
Would I? Why not? I liked performing. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be a spiritualist. “Sure. What song do you have in mind?”
“Since Thanksgiving is approaching, I’d like for the two of you to sing ‘This Is My Father’s World.’ ”
“Oh, I like that one. Have you asked Miss Spinks yet?”
“I’m going to do that right this minute.” Mr. Hostetter bustled off, presumably to find Lucy. I didn’t doubt that she’d agree to the plan. Lucy and I sang duets quite often and our voices blended well together. Plus, we liked each other, a definite asset when we had to sing together. She was the soprano and always got the melody, but I didn’t mind since I never had too much trouble learning my part. Next life, I want to come back as a soprano, however. Sopranos have much less work to do than the rest of us, who have to learn parts and sing them in spite of what the melody is doing.