Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser Read online

  Mother stomped out. I followed. Everyone else had the presence of mind to disappear. Once they raised their voices a small fit of destruction usually followed. You didn’t want to be in the line of fire.

  By the time we reached home, instead of being cooled off—and it was a cold walk—Mother was volcanic. She yanked Sis’s presents out of the closet and said we were going down to the square to return them.

  I was happy to be home with Mickey. Why go back out into the wind?

  “Mom, why does Aunt Mimi have a cotton tree?”

  “Because she’s too damn cheap to buy a tree each year.”

  “I thought Aunt Mimi had money.”

  “She has more than we do, kid. Tighter than the bark on a tree.”

  In truth, Aunt Mimi’s resources were modest, but she was a good manager of money, whereas Mother was not. This, too, was often noted by big sister to little sister with predictable results. As luck would have it, Dad, softhearted, would give money to anyone telling him a sob story. He didn’t help matters.

  “And how come Aunt Mimi uses only one color ball on the tree?”

  Sometimes she varied the colors. This was a red year.

  “She thinks she’s fashionable. I know more about color than she does. She used to go to Philadelphia and New York when she was a buyer for Bon-Ton department store, so she thinks she knows everything.”

  The wind rattled the shutters. Mother decided she’d go downtown the next day. I asked Mother whether Big Mimi and Virginia would know it if I bought them Christmas presents. Could they look down from heaven and see?

  Mother didn’t answer. She picked up the phone and called Aunt Mimi. The next thing I knew she was bawling on the phone, and I guess Aunt Mimi was too.

  Eugene was in Japan now. Even though Japan had lost World War II and now played permanent host to their American guests, Mother was nervous for him. If they’d bombed Pearl Harbor, who knew what they might do in the future? She cried about Gene’s being away.

  By the time the tears dried, the girls had made up.

  Good thing, because the big Christmas dinner was the next night. The sisters alternated years. It was Aunt Mimi’s year. She’d pushed together every table in the house, plus card tables, so that they were in one line extending from the end of the kitchen through the formal dining room and into the living room.

  As I could now eat with the adults, I was very excited to show off. Mother worried (and Aunt Mimi worried even more) that I would never become a proper lady. I intended to be the best dinner companion who’d ever existed, and I had read etiquette books at the library. I was armed for any conversational possibility including flower arranging, about which I knew little, but Mother said it was important.

  The evening of the dinner, crystal clear and icy cold, presaged a good party. People stamped their feet before walking through Aunt Mimi’s wide front door. Dad made orange blossoms, his specialty. Uncle Mearl and Russell, Julia Ellen’s steady, stood behind the bar mixing drinks. We kids scrambled, chased one another and played with Butch, who was in a frenzy of excitement. We played with the toy train.

  The seating arrangements puffed me up because I was not seated between Mom and Dad. I sat between Russell and Ken senior. Directly across from me was Grandma Spellman, who was so old they shouldn’t have been serving her turkey—they should have been giving her extreme unction.

  Grandma Spellman was Gertrude Buckingham’s mother. Bucky, Mom’s younger brother, had married a cultured woman, to the shock of the family. He was rough and ready. Gertrude appreciated the arts, the finer things in life. They were proof that opposites attract, because it was a good marriage.

  Grandma Spellman suffered from Parkinson’s disease. Her head wiggled and her voice did too. As this was my first meeting with the lady, I had no idea she was afflicted. I thought she was playing with me, so I, remembering my etiquette books, tried to be the most pleasing dinner companion in the world. I began wiggling my head and my voice, too.

  Russell couldn’t help himself. He giggled. Ken senior, red in the face, looked the other way or he would have laughed, too. My mother finally caught sight of me, jumped out of her chair and literally lifted me up from mine. She smacked my bottom down the hall all the way back to the kitchen.

  Not only had I disgraced myself by offending Grandma Spellman, I had disgraced her and Dad. I could march myself up to Aunt Mimi’s bedroom and miss the party. No food, either.

  Grandma Spellman had a good sense of humor. She thought it was funny and she knew I wasn’t mocking her. She troubled herself to get up from the table and plead my case to Mom.

  Finally I was permitted back in the dining room. Russell couldn’t speak to me, though, because he’d burst out laughing and then Aunt Mimi would be cross at him.

  After dinner we sang, I read my poem and Dad and Mom sang “O Holy Night” together. His voice, deep as an operatic bass, and her voice, a mezzo, sounded glorious together. Everyone sang some more and we remembered by name and song those that were dead. Then the children were dismissed to play.

  I wanted to make up for my mistake, so I washed dishes in the kitchen with Julia Ellen. She was a cheerful worker and we sang together too. Back then people sang a lot; you sang in the fields, you sang in the evening, you sang at church. It made the work go faster. People don’t sing like that today.

  The men tossed on coats and stood out on the porch smoking their cigars, pipes and cigarettes. The house, overflowing, would have turned into a smokebomb if the men hadn’t gone outside. Mother merrily trotted around, Chesterfield to her lips. She wasn’t exposing herself to the cold.

  I skipped out, taking a break from the dishes. I saw that Uncle Kenny’s eyes were wet. Dad and Uncle Mearl stood next to him. Dad’s arm thrown around Ken’s shoulders.

  I snuck quietly back into the kitchen. Whatever love was, it was more than I could understand.

  19

  A Slip of the Tongue

  Dad allowed me to hunt, although he wouldn’t kill anything himself. He went along to watch the dogs or hounds work. I had a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Chap, which I trained. They are easy dogs to work, and I thought I knew something.

  Dad drove me to streams and I’d send Chap in after a rubber ball. I dearly wanted a rifle so I could shoot ducks, but we couldn’t afford one. Dad, a devout pacifist, believed that guns did the devil’s work and if you had to resort to violence to solve a problem, it meant you’d failed. But if he’d had the money, he would have bought me a rifle. Dad felt beliefs had to come from inside. He couldn’t push his beliefs on me.

  He had served in the Civil Air Patrol during World War II. He was thirteen when World War I ended, so he was too young to participate except for gathering scrap metal, which the boys did while the girls rolled bandages.

  Sometimes we’d tag along with the pheasant hunters. Setters of every sort would be out. The Irish Setters, shiny chestnut, dashed quick as lightning but could be flighty in the field. The English Setters, still fast, proved more reliable and the Black-and-Tan Gordons, heavier setters, while comparatively slow, were steady as a rock.

  However, the gun dog I loved was the Clumber Spaniel, which most people take to be an ugly huge Cocker Spaniel. Steady in all conditions, patient as a saint and with unflagging drive, these animals earn every morsel of food you give them. On top of that, they are playful, loyal and loving. I hope to own a Clumber one day and work in the field with it.

  One morning Dad and I got up early to watch field trials. PopPop tagged along, although he much preferred hounds to gun dogs.

  When I got home I told Mom and Aunt Mimi everything. Then I rambled on about who shot John (a southern expression that means you give more information than society requires).

  When I’d finished my bucolic rapture Mother informed me that I was to be enrolled in cotillion. Really it was pre-cotillion, just as Brownies precedes Girl Scouts.

  The thought of endless ice-water teas (nothing but ice-water was served) and filling out danc
ing cards gave me the heaves.

  Mom couldn’t remember if the lessons were to take place at one of the local schools, Hannah Penn or Millard Fillmore, or at Miss Holtzapple’s house.

  At the mention of Fillmore, Aunt Mimi blurted out, “You can’t send her there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because her brother is there.”

  Mother snapped, “Shut up, Sis.”

  Aunt Mimi obeyed her sister for the only time in their lives together. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “What brother?” I asked.

  “Your aunt Mimi’s elevator doesn’t go to the top, kid. Forget it.”

  Fat chance.

  20

  A Froth of Discontent

  Mother silenced my entreaties by telling me she didn’t know anything. However, she didn’t silence herself. Years of endless chastisement by her sister goaded Mother into turning the tables now.

  She couldn’t contain herself. A friend would drop by for coffee and Mother would announce that the real reason Sis had wagged her tongue was because Mother had noted that her cotton-wrapped Christmas tree was getting tired. After ten minutes on the horrors of the white Christmas tree, she’d recall how they fought over a cast-iron elephant bank Mom bought for a nickel in 1908. Her supply of anecdotes was tailored to suit the appropriate ears.

  Meanwhile Aunt Mimi traipsed to mass and confession so much she wore a path between her house and St. Rose. If a convoy of flagellants from the Middle Ages had appeared in the town square, she would have joined them. Her suffering afforded her a variant of pleasure.

  As usual, what I thought and felt about this was overshadowed by their drama.

  I knew by this time, 1953, that Mother’s need to be the star superseded her need to be a mother. In a profound way, I also knew I couldn’t depend on her. I was rocked to know that I had a brother, but I wasn’t shaken to learn that Mother hadn’t told me.

  I bothered her, bugged her, battled her over this one. Once I knew she was lying to me, I wouldn’t be silenced.

  Mother’s retort was “I don’t know” or “Shut up.”

  I walked down the hill and harassed Aunt Mimi, which sent them both up in flames.

  I pestered Dad, and for once my salvation remained neutral. Mom had the whip hand over him, but I didn’t know why.

  Finally Mother, in a gesture of appeasement, cooked me fried chicken and greens with fatback, my favorite dish. As I gobbled away she composed herself. She picked out the fatback from my greens, nibbling while she “explained.” I grew more incensed about the fatback than the news.

  “When we brought you home with us, Daddy drove over to your father’s house. I don’t know who your father is because Daddy won’t tell me. But he asked him to come out of the house and they talked in the car. Daddy told him never to come around you. He didn’t want you upset. Apparently, your father was only too happy to comply.”

  “What does my father do?”

  “He’s some kind of professional athlete.”

  “How old is he?”

  “I don’t know. Younger than we are, I guess.”

  “Well, what about my brother?”

  “He’s your half brother and he’s three years older than you are. That’s why Juliann couldn’t marry your father. He was already married.”

  “So he’s a real shit.”

  “I didn’t teach you to talk like that.” She pointed her fork at me. “But I would agree he is not a prince among men.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “I told you, no.” Another hunk of fatback speared.

  “Mom, that’s mine.”

  “You can’t eat all this.”

  “I can try.” I flared up and whacked at her fork with mine.

  Instead of getting angry with me, she laughed. Mother far preferred a fighter to a crier, even if the fight was with her.

  “You’d better hop down to cotillion right now, young lady, you need the work.” She laughed. “And your brother isn’t going to be there. I don’t know what gets into Sis. Miss Know-It-All. She’s been like that ever since I can remember. It doesn’t matter if what she says is true or not. She thinks it is.”

  However, I knew that Aunt Mimi wasn’t lying on this one.

  “Mom, I don’t believe you.”

  “About Sis?”

  “You know who my father is.”

  She paused, then her voice rose in that singsong quality that meant she was fibbing big-time. “I really don’t.” Another moment passed. “Why are you worried about this? Isn’t it good enough here? Do you think it’s better somewhere else?”

  “No. I don’t want to end up like Patty.” That was God’s honest truth. I feared being batted around from home to home, and I saw how sad it was for Kenny, Wadie and Terry without a mother. Then there was the example of Gene when he’d come to live with us. Dumped children were a reality.

  This reply halfway satisfied Mother, but she would have preferred a paean of praise for rescuing me from the orphanage and being the world’s perfect mother.

  “You’re a tough little nut, kid” was all she said.

  Some adopted children fervently desire to meet their blood parents. I’d met Juliann. I was curious as to what my father looked like since I barely resembled my mother. Other than that, I didn’t care. Whoever had given me life hadn’t wiped my forehead when I was sick with fever, hadn’t baked me my favorite birthday cake, hadn’t taken me to the library or the foxhunts. Juliann and my natural father had never told me stories at night or taught me basic dance steps or shown me how to prune roses. They’d never taken me to church or taught me right from wrong: “It’s the Ten Commandments, kid, not the Ten Suggestions.” For whatever reasons, no matter how sound, my natural parents had abandoned me. No child is so stupid that he or she doesn’t know when they’re not wanted. Whatever Mother’s faults, and by now I could enumerate every one, she packed my lunch for school, she checked my lessons, she listened to my childish enthusiasms.

  Dad drove me to the railroad station so I could wave at the people—why this excited me, I don’t know, but it did. He took me to various stables so I could learn about the different breeds of horses, and a friend of his who had fine harness Saddlebreds allowed us to watch her train them. Whatever I wanted to do. Daddy found a way. He couldn’t buy me things, but he gave me something much better—his undivided attention and love.

  I didn’t want to run away to my natural mother or father. I didn’t dream about a perfect family. No matter how mad I’d get at Mom, I remained loyal to her.

  Later that winter Mickey, an old boy, began to have trouble urinating. He’d sit in his dirtbox for twenty to thirty minutes. A tidy fellow, he’d cover the few drops he squeezed out. Since Mickey and I were rarely parted, I noticed right away and told Mom.

  She watched him for a day, then made a little cardboard travel box for him with soft towels inside. We walked up to the bus stop and hopped the bus to the vet’s.

  His office was green and white. We didn’t have to wait long. The vet examined Mickey and told us male neutered cats often developed urinary tract problems. He said he could drain out the urine but Mickey would fill up again. If we were willing to bring him down every day, we could keep him alive, but he was old and getting drained like that would be hard on him.

  Mother, usually so glib, was struck dumb. She stared at Mickey.

  I piped up, “Will he suffer?”

  “He’ll feel good when his bladder is empty and then he’ll feel sick again,” the young vet answered me.

  “I can’t do it,” Mom whispered.

  “How much is it a visit?”

  “Ten dollars.”

  “Mom, do we have the money?”

  “I’ve got my pin money.”

  I looked at my best friend. He purred at me.

  “Why don’t we try it once and see what happens?”

  We left Mickey and picked him up the next day. He felt great, but by the following day he was strug
gling to relieve himself again.

  I told Mother we had to put him down. I stayed home from school. Mom called Aunt Mimi and she drove over. We took Mickey to the vet and I kissed him goodbye. He purred at me some more.

  Then the vet gave him the shot. We put his body in the cardboard box and got back in the car. Mother cried so hard I thought she would pass out. Aunt Mimi, no cat lover, started crying. I cried too, holding my poor Mick.

  We buried him under the lovely crabapple tree in the backyard.

  When I remember Mother, I remember her with Mickey. I like to think of her that way and not as the woman who would fly up in a fury and fling my beginnings in my face.

  That night, going to bed without Mickey, was the loneliest night of my life.

  21

  Bumblebees

  PopPop Harmon, Big Mimi’s husband, slipped away shortly after Mickey died. I wanted his dogs. Belle and Toby, but Dad said I was too little to work with such big hounds. That rich son of a bitch, Harve, in Maryland bought the hounds.

  PopPop, like many an old drunk, may not have done much good in his life, but he did no harm. He was the best hound man I ever saw and I admired him for it. He was so poor he didn’t own a suit to be buried in, so Mom and Aunt Mimi bought their stepfather a suit, giving him a proper send-off.

  “He made Momma happy for a while,” Mother said.

  Big Mimi and PopPop hadn’t lived together for years when she died, but they’d stayed on good terms. He’d given way at her funeral, and if the tables had been turned, she would have given way at his.

  Aunt Mimi declared that her mother was a two-time loser. Charles Buckingham had been a handsome drunk and PopPop Harmon a not-so-handsome drunk. Then she started on Sadie Huff, Big Mimi’s half sister and my natural grandmother, who, she said, had avoided marrying a drunk only to marry the biggest bullshitter in Carroll and York Counties.

  Mom said it didn’t matter. We didn’t have to live with any of them.