Speaking of men’s rooms, I learned very quickly not to go into a lady’s room when dressed as Lawrence. The first time I ventured out in public as my, shall I say, alter ego, I hadn’t planned on what to do if nature called. And Mother Nature did speak to me loud and clear. I was in a train station in Dallas. I promptly rose from my seat on the long bench and walked directly into the lady’s room. I was met by screams and screeches which brought security and, before I realized, they were screaming at me. I then learned which men’s rooms in various cities had stalls and the fewest urinals. I tried to dine in small cafes where they had only one-at-a-time facilities. Those were the most comfortable for me. As you can see, being a woman and dressing as a man can cause problems that most folks don’t consider.
I would like to tell you why. I think, I had such a large following of fans that stayed with me throughout my entire career. When I began writing, women and most men didn’t use foul language in mixed company and certainly not in print. There were few men, in those days, who used cursing in their stories to get a point across. Over the years, things changed. Publishers, editors, and movie producers thought the public wanted more realistic use of language. My publisher was no different. They asked me to rewrite some of my stories to include sex, more graphic details of the crimes in my stories, and cursing. I refused. I had decided that if that’s what it took to get published these days, then I just wouldn’t get published. I had, by then, enough resources to get by on writing a few articles a year. I stuck to my guns. When that long-awaited book did not come out when expected, my fans screamed at the publishers and at me. Finally, I got my way, and it was a best seller. I found that my particular fans didn’t need all the gory details to enjoy reading a mystery. They still had enough imagination to fill in the blanks. The subject of changing my focus to include the above-mentioned articles was never brought up again. I know I was looked upon as old-fashioned but then maybe my audience was too. Some of my works have become standard favorites. They are in to their fifth and sixth editions. I doubt many of those authors who changed in order to keep selling books can say that. Writing is a tough business. Few can make a decent living at it. I understand why they changed, but I had hoped they wouldn’t.
Most of my life is documented in the journals within this room. You will read them, I’m sure of that. Curiosity is what makes a good writer. I have read your book, and I must say, you are very good. Although, I had nothing to do with encouraging or teaching you to write so well, I am very proud of you. Maybe, just genetics and wishful thinking played a small part; then again, maybe not. I’m sorry I was not able to be a part of the joy and excitement of your first published book. It is an awesome occasion, and I wish you well on your tour.
What you will read in my journals will afford you the chance to get to know me better than even I know myself. You will find that most of what you see around you in this house is just window dressing. Maybe even, that all of the pretty things are a way of concealing who I really am. I came from very poor conditions, deprived of most common human needs. Even today, I have a hard time accepting that I was not a loved child. How can someone not love a child? Not all of the clothes, jewelry, and antique furniture in the world could fill that void. Lawrence did love me, but he was taken from me too soon. We were married twelve years when he died. During those years, we wanted to fill this house with laughing and loving children. He would say, “Essie, we’re going to make sure that there is no doubt about you being loved. Our home is going to burst at the seams with it.” I had one miscarriage after another. Larry was my miracle baby, and he never got to meet his dad. I was thirty-one years old when he was born. Little Larry died at age nineteen. I tried to adopt you, but it was not meant to be. I decided that the Gods would not allow me ever to be loved up close for very long so I would love you from a distance. That is why I didn’t fight Karla and Jim very hard to be a part of your life. I was afraid you would be taken away, too. A little bit of good is a whole lot better than a whole lot of bad. To compensate for the loss of you and my children, I had all of the paintings done. Look at the little children’s faces. All of them are the images of you and Larry. All of the Mothers have my face. I know it was crazy of me to do that, but I did it just the same. I thought I would find solace in them. I’m not sure if they were a comfort or a constant reminder of my loss and sadness, but I could never take them down. You may do so if you wish. If you choose to sell them, don’t do it locally. The artist was an inmate at Oklahoma State Penitentiary back in the 1950s but is now very well known in the art world so the paintings should be auctioned through Sotheby’s. If you must sell the babies, at least, get a good price for them.
I have asked Peg Miller to care for old Jolly, my dog. She can’t keep him for long. She has too many irons in the fire and too many adopted pets of her own. She would never tell anybody no. If you will allow Jolly to return, he will be very happy. He isn’t accustomed to being away from home for long. If you can’t care for him, then please ask Chance Lightning to take him. They are quite good friends. Speaking of Chance, I hope that you will get to know him. He is a very dear friend, and I would trust him with my life. He has goodness in his soul and sweetness in his heart. It shows up in all things he does.
As for my clothing: Every closet in the house is full. Keep what you want and give the rest to Peg Miller or Goodwill. Do not give Francis Steward anything! Although I have no hate in my heart for anyone, I have a huge amount of dislike for that woman. She has the meanest, blackest heart of anyone, aside from my own parents, I’ve ever known. She will ask you for the white coat. Tell her that I took it to my grave with all my other earthly possessions. Ha!
I gave up the apartment in Dallas last year, but most of my money, as I’m sure Chance told you, is still in the bank there. I never kept much in the bank here for obvious reasons. My checks from Social Security and occasionally a small check or two from magazine publications were deposited here, and I used those to pay my taxes, insurance, utility bills, and to buy groceries. I thought it would drive the locals crazy to see my clothes from Neiman Marcus and my antique and book collections and know what a small income I had here. I fully expected someone to have enough curiosity to investigate that little mystery but, alas, they did not. It was such a pity. I served up mysteries to the locals on a regular basis and no one took the time to notice. I scattered hints all around them like crumbs around a birdbath, and not one questioned me. Either they just didn’t care or they are completely void of anything resembling a quizzical nature. You know my work so, I’m sure you know that it just drove me crazy for them to be this way. Bless their stupid little hearts!
I guess you have noticed that the shelves in the journal room are numbered. The earliest notes and diaries are on shelf #1. These are the ones I wrote in elementary school and the ones that break my heart to re-read. It was the saddest time for me up until I lost my first child. The originals are in the manila envelopes. I typed them so they could be read easier, and they are in the blue folders. Not only was I dyslexic as a child but I wrote in code so no one could read what was in my heart. I would have been in very big trouble if Mama had known how I felt and what I thought. I hid my little coded thoughts in the kitchen cupboards where I knew Mama would never look. They were on scraps of brown sack paper, pages of Big Chief tablet, or on newspaper and sometimes, placed in her cookbook.
Shelf #2 and #3 are from junior and senior high school, and it goes on from there throughout my life. Not all years have a shelf of their own, and some years are more complete than others. It just depended on what else was going on in my life at the time. You will notice that I wrote more when I was sad than when happy. That says something about me, but I’m not sure what. Maybe writing was an escape. Or, just maybe writing helped me understand and face the storm I was going through. I could never figure it out. I tried finding the answer in the shelves of self-help books. It was not there, but I did learn to forgive, understand, and tolerate those who left such pain in my heart. So
, I suppose they were not a complete waste of money. I hope, one day, that you will write my story. I do want the people of McAlester to know who I really was. I want them to know that I delivered up the best mystery they ever heard of by living it. Just one more for the road, so to speak. The poor souls; not only did they not know, they didn’t even wonder!
I will sign off now and let you get on with your life. I love you and hope you find a little piece of heaven here as I did. Find love, find a comfortable life, and follow your heart. Love, Grandma Essie
Julie sat quietly and tried to absorb all of the information she had just gotten from Essie’s letter. What a beautiful soul she had been. She couldn’t help but feel cheated just a little, not to have known such a neat lady. If she didn’t have her book tour right around the corner, she would dive completely and deeply into the journals and not surface until they were all read and Essie’s story written. But she knew not to rush things. Right now, she needed to just be happy with the letter and leave the rest on the shelves. There would be plenty of time when she got back from her tour to give the Essie chronicles her undivided attention. Essie deserved that much.
Julie put the letter in her pocket and called out to her mother, “Hey, come on up here and snoop the rooms with me!”
Karla came up the stairs taking two at a time. When she reached the top she smiled and said, “Okay, where do we start? The lower floor is just peachy; I couldn’t have put together a nicer more comfortable and beautiful home, and I always thought I was such a good interior decorator. That Essie was really full of surprises. I know; your next book should be about her. I think everybody who ever heard of Lawrence Grogan would just love this story. You could do it sort of like one of those Paul Harvey Rest of the Story thangs.”
Julie laughed and said, “Ya think. Of course, I’ll tell her story; In fact, her letter asked me to do just that.”
“Well, Essie didn’t miss a thang. Even in death she will get out one more good mystery. Ya just can’t help but love her. Bless her little heart.”
They went from room to room on the second and third floors, and all were very well organized and put together. Julie especially liked the third floor. It was just one huge room and furnished with lovely wicker furniture and plants. There were no draperies on the windows, but there were shutters installed inside so the light could be shut out if needed. The room could have been used as a playroom large enough to ride a bike in on a long rainy day. Karla was amazed at the wealth Essie had acquired and how she managed to keep it hidden for all those years. She had lived in comfort and beauty, enjoyed her travels, and wrote one best seller after another. And all with a smile on her face, a kind word to say to everyone she spoke to, and a silent sadness buried deep in her heart. A sadness that Karla now felt was put there, in part, by her. It was a new emotion, this guilt that put a large burden on Karla’s own heart. One she thought she would carry to her grave. “Oh, it’s gettin’ late, and I believe you have a date with Chance tonight. We need to get back to the house so you can get ready.”
“You’re right, I just barely have enough time to jump in the shower and dress before he picks me up.”
They walked back to Karla’s talking about the lovely home Julie would live in and laughed about the prospect of Frances Steward asking for that white coat. Julie had told her mother some of what was in the letter from Essie. Karla thought it would have been nice to have helped Essie in her years of trying to juggle home life and leaving in the middle of the night to go sell her books as Lawrence Grogan. She thought that she might have been able to fill a small part of the loneliness in Essie. But when Essie asked for friendship, Karla didn’t respond. Now, she couldn’t shake the guilt she felt for not even trying to befriend her. Today, with her 20/20 vision of hindsight, Karla felt that guilt settled deep in her soul.
Julie took a quick shower then put her hair in a French braid. She dressed in white linen Capri pants with a matching jacket over a green sleeveless pullover. The only makeup she wore was a light dusting of blush, a little mascara, and clear lip-gloss. She looked in the mirror and knew that she didn’t look her age and was glad. Chance rang the bell just as she stepped into her sandals. Karla let him in, and Julie could hear her telling him how handsome he looked. She practically ran down the stairs; partly to stop Karla from asking Chance when he was going to ask Julie to marry him and partly because she couldn’t wait to see him again.
“Julie, you look very pretty. Doesn’t she, Chance?”
“Thank you, Mom. And Chance, you don’t have to answer that.”
“Maybe, I don’t, but you do look very nice. I didn’t notice how green your eyes are when we met today. Your eyes are as green as Essie’s were; Lovely, just lovely.” He flashed her that smile and said, “I guess we’d better get going. Joe won’t hold private rooms much longer than five minutes after the reserved time.”
“Bye, Mom. You don’t have to wait up but, I know you will, so I’ll try to be home early.”
“You know I won’t sleep a wink until I find out if Chance is a good kisser. I know I always told you not to kiss on your first date but you ain’t gettin’ any younger. Now, the two of you git outta here and have a good time gettin’ to know each other. And kiss, kiss, kiss!” Karla laughed and closed the door.
Chance opened the door of the Jaguar for Julie and asked her if Karla embarrassed her by saying those things.
“She used to but not anymore. Now I just think she’s funny. She will always have the mischievousness of a ten-year-old little sister, and I like her that way. I hope it doesn’t bother you. If it does, just ignore her.”
“She doesn’t bother me. She used that same tactic to pester people into giving scads of money to various charity events. She’d tease and pester them until they would give her more money than, even she, expected. After that, they sent her checks in the mail before she had time to approach them. Some would stop her on the street and just hand her money; anything to keep Karla at bay. She gets such a kick out of it. Your mother is a huge asset to this community. She picks a cause then puts her all into it. She sets a goal to reach and then always goes beyond it. That’s just the way she is. Everybody loves her for it.”
“Gosh, I didn’t realize Mom was that much of a dynamo.”
They pulled into the parking lot of Marco’s just in time to get that much-coveted private dining room. Julie was impressed with how nice the place still was. It looked different than when she’d been there last. The parking lot had been expanded, a new sign was up, and it looked as if it had a new coat of paint. She loved this place. It had been her favorite as far back as she could remember.
The interior had changed too. They now sold tee shirts, mugs, and various other souvenirs. She only hoped the good Italian food and service hadn’t changed.
She need not have worried. The anti-pasta plate and bread were just as she remembered. The pasta, meatballs, and steak were excellent, and the service was up to the old standard. The only thing that made this meal better was the Choc beer and having Chance across the table from her. The room was cozy, the chairs comfortable, and the red and white checked tablecloth and white napkins were pristine. The candle centerpiece put out just the right glow to make this a very romantic place to be. She found herself wishing Chance would do as her mother had suggested and kiss her now. Then she thought, No, I’m sure I have garlic breath. Her next thought was that the beer had made her feel so attracted to Chance. She decided she’d better not have any more and to keep her heart in check.
“I’ll give you a penny for your thoughts,” said Chance as he looked into her eyes.
“I was just thinking of how nice it is to be home again and having this excellent meal with you. My dad used to bring me here every year for my birthday. In fact, every important transition in my life was celebrated right here in this lovely restaurant that looks like a big yellow house. All things sunny and bright and perfect connect my heart to this place.”
Julie’s answer was music to Cha
nce’s ears. How lucky for him that his favorite place was hers as well. “So, I brought you to the right place. I’m glad. Will this night be an important transition for you too? Let’s toast to a new, true, and lasting friendship and maybe more transition.” Chance said, as he raised his glass. They toasted and laughed together. Chance looked into her eyes and asked, “Julie, will you allow me to seal our toast to the future with a kiss?”
She smiled and said, “My mother got to you. Didn’t she, Chance? Yes, you may.” They leaned across the table, held hands, and kissed. Chance didn’t want that kiss to end but suddenly, Julie jumped up and shoved her hand in her water glass.
“Ouch! That hurt! I put my hand in the flame of the candle.”
“I’m so sorry, Julie. Let me see.”
“Okay, but wait a minute till the fire dies out of it a bit. It will be okay. Wow, Chance Lightning, your kisses do pack a punch!”
The Estate of Essie Grogan Page 4