by Pamela Morsi
Ultimately, as always these cool fall days, the talk turned to football. It was a subject dear to the heart of Mikolai Stefanski. Not simply for the excitement it afforded or the challenge of the team, but for the door that it offered. Stefanski was aware of that door and was grateful for it.
"Did you see that score on the Harvard-Cornell game?" Tom Acres asked the men around him rhetorically. "Who'd of thought the Crimson could ever be beaten ten-aught?"
"Harvard's not the power no more," Avery Parks stated emphatically. "It's Notre Dame that knows how to play the game these days."
"Forward pass is all they know," Tom snorted. "Throwing the football is for cowards and Catholics. I don't want a thing to do with it"
Pete Wilson's eyes widened and with a somewhat frantic expression he kicked Tom under the seat and made a slight nod toward Stefanski.
Tom's ears and neck brightened with the flush of embarrassment. "Not that I'm saying Catholics is cowards," he corrected. "They just has their own ways that's different from Americans."
Although hearing exactly what had been said, Stefanski's face revealed nothing as he turned it to the breeze, watching Main Street pass by.
"Well, I'd say, we've got the best mix of both kinds of football," Tate Bounty piped in with welcome tact. "Avery's boy can sure toss that pigskin toward the post and with Teddy Stefanski at the crux of our wedge we're going to run right over every team in the state."
Stefanski's face continued to be void of expression, but pride surged through him.
"See, Teddy ain't coward enough to play Catholic football," Tom said proudly. "It's almost as if he was one of us. Ouch!"
Pete kicked him once more beneath the seat.
Stefanski continued to gaze out at the passing street, his face giving no indication that he was amused and even somewhat pleased. In some way Tom was right. Teodor, his only son, was no coward. America was no place for cowards. And the boy was almost one of them. He was more than almost. He was an American.
"Mikolai, we are strangers here!" Lida had raved at him in Polish one long-ago night in the cold, drafty Chicago apartment they had shared. "We will always be strangers."
"But that child you carry," he said to her. "Our dziecko will not be a stranger here, my wife. He will be an American."
Still she cried as if her heart would break. It had made him feel helpless and angry.
"Can you be so selfish?" he asked with tight-lipped fury. 'To return to Poland is to gift our child with the slavery of the Austrian yoke. Here, in America, he can be whatever he can be. This is a land of freedom. We can offer it as a gift to our generations."
Lida hadn't understood freedom or the Austrian yoke. She had only grasped the cold of the dirty, cramped apartment and the drudgery of Chicago immigrant life. She hadn't been able to even exchange a greeting with the loud boisterous Italians who shared their building or the dour Germans who sold them bread and meat. She had missed her mother and her sisters, friends and celebrations, and dancing the polka in a freshly shorn field. In the America that Lida had seen, there had been no friends, no fields, no dancing; only hard work and bad food as Mikolai worked his apprenticeship at the brickyards in Chicago and saved his money.
"Have patience, Lida," he told her so many times. 'Trust your husband and have patience. I can make a good life for us in this new country."
Stefanski hadn't lied to her. He had made a very good life. He was the wealthiest man in town and the city's chief benefactor. But Lida hadn't been able to wait. That spring, only days after Teodor was born, she'd taken sick and died. He'd paid cash money from his stash of hoarded pennies to bring the physician. But she'd died anyway.
He pushed the sad thought from him. It did no good to blame himself and guilt was wasted effort. Still, he felt guilty. He had been right to come to America. Perhaps he had been wrong to bring a wife like Lida to a country where she had no friends. But he couldn't regret his son, Lida's son and his pride, his American legacy.
As the Interurban chugged down the line, Stefanski turned slightly to pick up the thread of the conversation. Football was still the topic.
"Cochem's was first to visualize passing as a worthy offense," Parks was saying. "So it's Missouri-made and a good thing, too, if you ask me. A lot less hurt and injury to the players than the way it's been played in past years."
"Well, if we can just wallop the devil out of Rogers next weekend," Tate Bounty said, "I don't care if they do it old-fashioned or newfangled—just so they do it."
There were laughs of good-humored agreement all around.
The trolley slowed for a stop at Pickens Street and the trolley master announced it in his usual boisterous voice. Three stalwart matrons returning from the Algonquin Society meeting boarded. The men, feeling a sudden need to mind their manners, fell silent. The ladies, however, felt no such compunction.
"Well, I definitely think that Pastor Wilkerson must speak with her," Naomi Pruitt stated firmly. "It's perfectly clear to me that the woman has lost whatever good sense she might have at one time possessed."
"Oh, I don't know," Claudy Mitts said shyly, wringing her hands, her big eyes wide and confused. "Oh dear, oh dear."
"It certainly must be lowering for the Barkleys," her companion, Oleander Wentworth, said.
Oleander was smaller than her hat and the forceful shaking of her head posed frightful danger to Miss Mitts at her side as well as the miscellaneous birds and fruit residing upon its rim.
"Poor Prudence, my heart goes out to her," Naomi was saying in a manner that belied her words. "Gertrude is just more than a woman should have to bear. Acting the fool, writing those unseemly stories, and now getting that fast haircut."
"Oh, I don't know," Claudy declared again. "Oh dear."
"They say she walked right into the barbershop, bold as brass, and asked poor Hank Dooley to bob it for her," Oleander said.
"I'll bet Hank's wife will never hear the end of it," Naomi replied.
Oleander giggled like a young girl. Something she hadn't been for at least forty years.
Claudy looked uncomfortable. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "Oh dear, oh dear."
None of the men on the Interurban, including Mikolai Stefanski, could have avoided hearing the ladies' discussion. Stefanski, however, might well have been the only man on the trolley that was interested in it.
As the Interurban made its way farther and farther east on Main Street, more and more riders were let off until at the end of the line, directly in front of the Barkley house, it was only himself and Oleander Wentworth.
Mikolai hurriedly took the steps ahead of the older woman, turning to doff his hat politely before offering his hand in assistance. The matron looked down her long, narrow, almost avianic nose at him for a half minute before allowing him to help her.
"A good evening to you, Mrs. Wentworth," he said when she was safely on solid ground.
"Mr. Stefanski." Her answer was politely civil and nothing more. Exactly what Mikolai had expected.
Chapter Six
Dinner at the Barkley house was barely finished at eight o'clock. Prudence insisted on having it served fashionably late and upon it being called dinner.
For that reason, George Barkley, who rarely saw fit to comment on anything his wife managed to accomplish, did speak up about the meal. "It was a wonderful supper, Pru," he said joylessly. "Even if we did nearly faint from hunger waiting on it."
Prudence, who only a few short years ago would have burst into tears at such criticism, merely gave her husband a predictably miffed expression and stepped away to turn up the lights. All up and down the main streets of Venice electric lights blazed. But in the Barkley house the bright yellow glow of gas lamps still provided illumination.
"Little Lester," Prudence said to her son as she seated herself in the dark mohair overstuffed armchair that was officially Mother's. "It's time for you to brush your teeth and get ready for bed."
Her tone was childish, almost descending into baby talk.
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The young boy, sprawled out leisurely upon the hundred-year-old carpeting brought from Virginia, ignored his mother completely. Pulling a rather dingy-looking bean bag from his trouser pocket, he undid the tie string and poured out the well-used collection of tweeties, agates, cat-eyes, and taws.
With complete unconcern he began to count out his marbles on the parlor rug.
"Don't put those dirty things on the carpeting, Little Lester," she said to him.
George began riffling through the paper, speaking to the family group assembled as if they were there merely to hear his thoughts.
"It would be a pretty foolish thing if the Knights were to elect any other man as Sublime Kalifa this year," he stated.
His family made no comment, except for his wife who once again spoke to Lester. "Darling, I said the marbles are not for the rug."
"Last year they chose old Wentworth over me, but it won't happen again," George assured them. "No one has done more for the Mystic Circle than I have. I deserve to be Sublime Kalifa and everybody knows it."
No one argued. Lester continued to stir his marbles on the rug and his mother spoke to him once more.
"Now, now, Little Lester, put those marbles back in the bag. They make such a mess for Mommy to clean up."
The youngster seemed not to hear.
"Why in charitable donations alone I'm already the most benevolent man in town," George continued. "Except for that grubby, redbrick Polack, and thank God not even a fool would vote some foreigner to head the Mystic Circle."
"Darling? Darling? Are you listening to Mommy?" Prudence asked.
Lester wasn't.
"Claire, do you want to play a game of Parcheesi with me?" Gertrude questioned her niece as the young woman walked into the room.
Claire seemed nervous and flustered. Her face had been flushed all through dinner. Her mother had asked her more than once if she was feverish, even suggesting a dose of bitters.
"I can't tonight, Aunt Gertrude," she answered with a fluttery little giggle that was quite unlike her. "Although you know that I'd love to. I truly enjoy every minute that I spend with you. I hope that you know that. I think you are terrific."
"Claire!" Prudence scolded. "I do wish you wouldn't use that word. 'Terrific' comes from the word 'terrifying,' surely you do not think of your aunt as frightening in any way."
"Mama, everyone in school says 'terrific.' It means great, wonderful. Aunt Gertrude knows what it means."
"Still, it is slang," her mother complained. "And I don't like it."
"You don't mind it, do you, Aunt Gertrude?"
Gertrude laughed lightly. "Well, no. I guess I did know that you weren't in terror of me. I always assumed that if you weren't enjoying yourself in my presence, you were then quite the little actress."
"I never act with you, Aunt Gertrude." Claire's answer was solemn in the extreme. "I am truly, sincerely, honestly happy for every moment that we have together."
Her declaration was quite puzzling to Gertrude and she might have suggested a dose of bitters herself.
"Lester," Pru said, breaking the flow of the conversation. "Precious, please put up those marbles and go upstairs now."
George Barkley's paper rattled. "Lester Barkley, mind your mother! For heaven's sake, Prudence. You always complain that I never talk to you and then when I'm speaking about something important you pay more attention to the boy than you do to me."
He went back to reading without waiting for a response. It was a good thing. Pru's eyes welled up, but she set her chin in anger, holding back all other emotions.
Lester shot a quick look in his father's direction and then another at his mother. Reassured, he immediately returned to doing exactly what he wanted to.
The knocker on the front door sounded at that moment and Claire jumped nervously as if a gun had been fired.
"Who in the world could that be?' George Barkley barked, annoyance clear in his voice.
"It's Teddy," Claire answered quickly. "We have a history test tomorrow and we are going to study together."
“Teddy?" the three adults questioned in unison.
Barkley raised an eyebrow. "We haven't seen him around in a while." He sniffed disapprovingly. "I suppose his marks are falling drastically without your help."
"Oh no, Papa," Claire answered proudly. 'Teddy is still at the top of the class."
"Little Lester, would you please put those marbles in the bag and take yourself on up to bed." Pru's voice was as whining as a child's.
Claire hurried to the foyer and opened the door for Teddy.
"Hello," he said. "Am I late or early?"
Claire giggled. It was one of their private jokes that as far as George Barkley was concerned, Teddy Stefanski could never do anything right.
"Late, very late," Claire whispered. "It's Little Lester's bedtime and the fight is on."
Teddy grinned. "What round is it and who's highest in the score?"
"About the fifth, I'd say. And so far Lester has landed all the punches."
'Terrific," Teddy commented.
A moment later the young man was standing in the parlor looking very red-faced and very large, but smiling nonetheless, with Claire at his side.
"Good evening, Mr. Barkley, Mrs. Barkley."
Lester looked up at him challengingly.
"Hi, brat."
Prudence huffed in shock at the word.
"I meant no insult, Mrs. Barkley," Teddy added hastily. "Remember brat is the Polish word for 'brother.'"
"Oh yes," she said, sighing gratefully. "It's been so long since we've seen you, I'd forgotten that."
Lester's eyes had narrowed angrily. He had not forgotten. It was the only Polish word that Teddy ever used and he only used it for Lester.
"Well, doesn't old Aunt Gertrude get a hello and a kiss?" she asked.
Teddy hesitated a moment and his voice cracked nervously. "Miss Gertrude." Dutifully he leaned down and placed a peck on the woman's cheek.
She grasped his hands in her own. "We've missed seeing you around here," Gertrude told him, smiling.
"Yes, we have indeed, Teddy," Prudence chimed in. "Haven't we, George?"
Barkley rattled his paper once more to look over the edge of it at the young man in the doorway. "Hello, Stefanski," he said before going back to his reading.
"So, Teddy?" Gertrude asked. "What are our chances against Rogers?"
Teddy was looking at her stupidly. He had spent much of the afternoon trying to imagine her and his father together. It had to be some kind of mistake, he was sure. Claire had misread something in the diary. It just never could have happened.
"Rogers?"
"The football game."
"Oh, the game, oh . . . it's going to be a good game," he said as if the speech were rehearsed. "We'll be playing our hardest and I'm sure Rogers will be, too. May the best team win."
Gertrude laughed delightedly at his little speech. She had always openly adored the young man, almost as much as her own niece and nephew. But tonight Teddy Stefanski, ill at ease, saw more in that affection than he'd ever considered before.
"Well, I'll be there on the sidelines cheering you on." Gertrude shook her fist in the air in a gesture reminiscent of the high school yell-leader. "Go Venice!" she cried with a youthful chuckle.
"Gertrude, really." Prudence tutted in disapproval. Her attention was only momentary, however, as Lester pulled back the rug that was slowing his practice shots. "Now, Little Lester," his mother attempted scolding once more. "Don't disturb the rug, darling. It's time for you to put your toys away and go to bed."
The boy did not appear to be so inclined.
"So," Gertrude said. "You and Claire are going to be studying homework together again."
"What? Oh yes, ma'am," Teddy stammered uneasily. "Studying. I'm just here to be studying."
The young man turned uncomfortably to glance at Claire. Gertrude gave her niece a speculative glance. The young woman only lowered her eyes.
"Why don't you two go on into the library, then," Gertrude said. "The sooner you get started on your homework, the sooner you'll be finished."
"Yes, yes," Claire said. "We'll be in the library. We can study there without disturbing anyone."
She glanced meaningfully at Teddy, who made gracious apologies as they nearly fled to the privacy of the library in the far west corner of the back of the house.
They heard the newspaper rattle once more. "Leave the door open!" her father called out.
"George, please, we do not shout," Prudence scolded with annoyance.
"I do," her husband answered gruffly.
"Lester, dear," Pru continued. "Didn't I tell you to pick up your things and go up to bed?"
Safe inside the relative sanctuary of the musty old library, Claire and Teddy shared a long look and sighed gratefully.
"I could hardly look her in the eye," the young man confessed.
Claire nodded. "It's been like that for me all evening."
"Where is it?" Teddy asked, glancing around.
The heavily draped room had been the preserve of Claire's grandfather, Grover Barkley. He had been dead since Claire was a baby, but the room still smelled slightly of his aromatic cigars. Claire hurried over to the bookshelf and climbed the narrow fruitwood ladder kept there. Secreted behind two volumes of a rarely used Latin dictionary was the infamous journal, its cloth cover dusty and faded with time.
Claire held it out before her as if it were an explosive ready to detonate.
"Here it is," she said.
Teddy hesitated momentarily to take it. It was bad enough for Claire to read her aunt's private words. For him, only an interested stranger, it seemed a crime.
"I don't know if . . ."
'Teddy, you are the only one in the world I can trust with this," she told him. Shaking her head dramatically, Claire put her hands together prayerfully as if beseeching him. "And I just can't bear the weight of this knowledge alone."