A Room of My Own Read online

  A Room of My Own

  by Ann Tatlock

  * * * *

  Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

  Copyright Page

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  Ann Tatlock

  Ann is the author of eight novels. Her books have received numerous awards, including the Christy Award, the Midwest Book Award and the Silver Angel Award from Excellence in Media. She enjoys teaching and serving as writing mentor at numerous conferences and workshops throughout the year. Ann lives with her family on the side of a mountain in beautiful Western North Carolina. You can read more about her work at www.anntatlock.com.

  Praise for A Room of My Own

  One of my favorite books is To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Ann Tatlock's writing is on a par with that book. If you enjoy a memorable story that is beautifully written, then you are sure to become a fan of Ann Tatlock. She never disappoints! - Sharon Madison

  I read this book when it first came out and i read it once a year now..i enjoy the way that Ann takes you deep into the emotions of the main character.. .you feel like you are going through this experience with her. I look forward to reading more books by Ann Tatlock soon. - Mom of Two

  A touching story for anyone who wants a good book without bad language and which leaves a person feeling good. - M. Glanzer

  Ann Tatlock brings us a sweet story of innocence, laced with subtle humor and warm spirit. It was truly refreshing to me to read a historical novel that gives one hope for the future. This is one "jewel" of a book that will leave you feeling better about yourself and the world around you. The characters jump off the page and you can easily relate to each. Excellent story line laced with fresh insights into this period of our history. - Robert W. Myers

  I really enjoyed this book alot. It made me laugh, cry, and feel for all of the characters in the story. Ann did a great job in writing it!

  I absolutely loved this book. The characters were wonderful and were brought to life in this beautifully written book. I love history and this was a great way to learn about the ordinary people of the Depression and their struggle to survive. Excellent book Mrs. Tatlock. I can't wait to read your next one. - Philene

  I was totally fascinated by the characters in this good book. I learned so much about the Depression years, and I actually enjoyed learning about this period in our history. This author has a gift. Her next book is already in my shopping cart awaiting purchase. Definitely five stars. - Heidi L. Marshall "A Librarian"

  I usually don't read novels, but my Mom gave me a copy of this book and I found it interesting, inspirational, passionate and educational! The Characters practically jumped off the page, and I felt like I was experiencing the era firsthand.... A must read (even if you normally don't read novels)! - Richard

  Dedication

  For my father

  Edward L. Shurts

  and in memory of my mother

  Jane T. Shurts

  I love you both.

  Chapter One

  Aunt Sally once told me that the rays of the sun are really ladders of light, traveled both by the souls of the dead who climb them to heaven and by the angels who descend them on missions of mercy to earth. Mother said Aunt Sally was talking nonsense, but then Mother was always exceedingly proper and not very imaginative. I myself was fascinated to think that heaven and earth might be connected in this way, and while I was in no hurry to see a dead soul on its way to eternity, I always rather hoped I might spy an angel headed earthward. Whenever the rays of the sun streamed in through the windows of our house, I paused to look for angels.

  And that's exactly what I was doing on the May afternoon that, unknown to me, would prove to be the beginning of a pivotal time in my life. School had let out early for the summer that year due to lack of funds, which was why I was at home on a Monday. I was lying on the floor in Papa's study near the spot where the afternoon sun slanted in through the west windows. It wasn't very ladylike to be sprawled all over the floor in my cotton dress, my head resting on one angular elbow, my bare legs--pale and gangly--stretched out across the Persian rug. I was aware of the impropriety of it--"Young ladies don't loll about the floor as though they were rag dolls," Mother would have said had she seen me--but I couldn't resist. Not only did I want to see an angel, but I loved this room because it was Papa's. It was warm with my father's presence. He was there among the myriad books that crammed two bookcases and overflowed onto the floor. His collection consisted primarily of medical books, but he also had books on art and poetry, music and history. Papa was there in the dusty piles of medical journals that he claimed to read cover to cover, although no one ever saw him do it. He was there in the sagging couch where on a rare occasion he napped and in the wing chair where he sat at night to listen to recordings on the old Victrola. A mismatched footstool bore the marks of heel prints from the shoes of his resting feet. His presence hovered about the desk where he sat very early in the morning for what he called "the first order of the day." Later that summer when I started spending the nights on the couch in this room, I would sometimes awaken to see Papa hunched over his Bible, the small desk lamp burning back what was left of the night. The worn condition of the book, the ragged cover, the heavily marked pages gave testimony to his daily ritual.

  Papa's study was in a perpetual state of disarray, a condition Mother wouldn't have allowed in any other part of the house. But since this room was Papa's, she allowed it. The general disorderliness was part of what I liked about the room; it gave it a lived-in feel, and it was my father who did the living in it. I felt secure there, knowing that as long as Papa was with us, there was nothing in the world to be afraid of. Papa took care of everything. He had even brought people back from the brink of the grave when other doctors had given up hope.

  When I asked Papa what he thought about Aunt Sally's sunray theory, he replied simply, "Well, we know that people go to heaven and we know that angels come to earth, so they might as well travel by sunray as anything else, I suppose." He took off his wire-framed glasses and began to polish them thoughtfully before adding, "You might have some difficulty convincing the theologians of that one, however."

  I never thought very much about theologians, though I thought quite often about God. On that May afternoon while I was lying on the floor hoping for some sort of heavenly visitation, I recall I was rather angry with Him. Mildly irritated was how I thought of it at the time, as it seemed a sin to be outright angry with God. But I was still reeling from the news shouted from the headlines five days earlier that the Lindbergh baby had been found dead in the woods near their home. Ever since his kidnapping on the first of March, I had prayed earnestly for his safe return, only to learn that all the while I was praying, he must have been dead already. I couldn't understand how such a thing could happen, how God could have watched the whole thing taking place without doing anything about it. That a child had been murdered was bad enough, but that it was the only son of Charles Lindbergh was unthinkable. Lindy was one of my heroes. His picture, cut out of a magazine, was one of two pictures stuck in the frame of my dresser mirror. I took what happened to him personally, and when little Charlie was found dead, I felt I had lost a member of my own family.

  I sighed deeply several times as I lay there on the floor, a sign of my disapproval for God's failing to intervene. But my last sigh was punctured by Mother's voice calling to me from the other room.

  "Gin-ny!"

  The emphasis on the second syllable signified Mother's disapproval of me, and I scrambled up from the floor of Papa's study and stumbled into the parlor where my mother stood, hands on hips, w
aiting for me. Her cotton dress was covered by the apron that she wore almost constantly no matter what kind of housework she was doing. That afternoon she'd been washing the laundry down in the basement, directly beneath the parlor--and the piano.

  "Ginny, what are you doing in there? You know you're supposed to be practicing, and I haven't heard a single note out of the piano in the last fifteen minutes."

  I looked up at the imposing figure of my mother. She was a tall plain woman, with a shape that was decidedly middle-aged. Her midriff bore the remains of four pregnancies; her arms and legs were thick and matronly, and the chin that cupped her round face was just beginning to sag. Her hair--still a rich chestnut color with only a hint of gray--was worn invariably parted in the middle and pulled straight back into a bun. Her narrow lips were pale, her cheeks colorless; she refused to highlight any of her features with cosmetics. She wasn't homely. Her features were well proportioned, and there was nothing unpleasant about her. She might even have been feminine and rather pretty had her morals allowed it. But she did her utmost to appear austere and without gender, and to her credit, she succeeded quite well.

  As she hovered over me now, her face was a combined portrait of annoyance and hurt, as though I had insulted her personally by leaving my post. I could hardly tell her I'd been watching the sunbeams for angels, so I mumbled some excuse about giving my fingers a rest.

  "Giving your fingers a rest?" she echoed. "After ten minutes of playing? Honestly, Ginny, how do you expect to master the piano if you refuse to practice?"

  I slid sheepishly back onto the piano bench, bent my fingers over the keys, and struck a harsh-sounding chord. "All right, Mama," I sighed. "I promise to practice another half hour if you promise to call me Virginia."

  We had struck the bargain before. Neither of us was very good at holding up our end.

  "Well, Ginny, Virginia--whatever your name is--you'll never get anywhere in life if you don't discipline yourself. I don't want to have to come up here again. I'm already behind on the laundry as it is. Now, I expect to hear another thirty minutes of music coming out of that piano."

  Good luck, I thought as she turned and left the parlor. She might hear a certain amount of noise coming from the instrument, but it was questionable as to whether it could rightly be called music. Mother believed that all proper young ladies should play the piano. Both she and her sister, Aunt Sally, had begun lessons before their feet could even reach the pedals, and though neither was of concert material, they played well enough to be asked often to accompany various soloists and choral groups at church. Mother didn't want to face the fact that I would never be so honored, that, in fact, when it came to music I had no talent whatsoever. I must have taken after my father, who, though he loved music, couldn't "carry a tune in a bucket," as the saying goes.

  I was well aware of my deficiency, and so was my piano teacher, Miss Cole. Generally, after I had played my lesson for her, Miss Cole gave me a blank stare, followed by the comment, "My dear, did you have the opportunity to practice this week?" She had long ago given up offering me any false encouragement. My brother, Simon, at nine years of age was a far better musician than I.

  Miss Cole had been coming to our home for an hour a week for more than two years, ever since the start of the Depression. Her elderly father was under Papa's care, and the only way Miss Cole could pay the bill was by giving free piano lessons to Simon and me. If her father didn't die soon, she would no doubt be obliged to give lessons to my two younger sisters as well.

  Not a few of Papa's patients paid in services or produce in those days. Everyone had a garden, as did we. Mother and I and our hired girl, Emma May, spent a good portion of the summer and early fall canning the produce from our own garden and half that from our neighbors'. And because we lived in a Midwest city in the heartland of Minnesota, we were surrounded by farms. Some of the farm families came to Papa for their medical needs--though they were tough old birds, men and women alike. Mostly they waited to come in from the farm or call Papa to come out there until they were almost too close to the edge of death to be called back or until a woman was so close to giving birth that Papa arrived just in time to give the newcomer his initiatory slap. From these people we got chickens--sometimes dead, sometimes alive--plenty of eggs, prime cuts of beef, and thick slabs of bacon. They also paid in apples, potatoes, plums, pears, and string beans, most of which we canned so the produce wouldn't spoil before we could eat it.

  "Well, we won't starve," Mother often said, "but how I'm supposed to add up apples and potatoes in the ledger is beyond me." Mother kept Papa's books because Papa didn't care enough about money to do it himself. If Mother weren't on top of things, sending out the bills and following up when they went unpaid, she said we'd all be in the poorhouse for sure.

  Anyway, about Miss Cole. She was a spinster. There's no use trying to pass off my piano teacher as single or unattached. Miss Cole was definitely a spinster, and all the negative connotations of the word clung to her like lint. I envisioned her life as one of lonely monotony, a daily waiting upon an invalid father while the dream of the handsome prince became more and more implausible. She must have been all of thirty, but to a thirteen-year-old such as I, she seemed terribly old and far past the age of marriageability. She wasn't homely, only rather plain, with regular features and colorless hair. But even her appearance I considered a detriment. At least when a woman is ugly she leaves a definite impression upon others. When she is only plain, no one much notices her at all.

  In my adolescent opinion, Miss Cole's case was hopeless. I felt very sorry for her and thought it would be just as well if she curled up and died right along with her ailing father, because without a husband and children, she couldn't possibly have anything to live for.

  Miss Cole was in my thoughts that afternoon while I fumbled my way through the maze of notes on the music sheet before me. As I played I felt a bit weepy and almost talked myself into shedding a tear or two. Had I succeeded, the tears would not have been for my lonely piano teacher but for myself. I was imagining my own adult life without the companionship of a husband, and it seemed a tragedy too great to bear. Of course, I revelled in the sweet sorrow of my own solitude, specifically because I didn't really believe it could happen to me. I was destined to marry and that was that.

  Before I could actually produce any tears, though, my journey into sentimentalism was cut short when my sister Claudia hollered, "Mama, someone wants Papa!"

  An interruption! I hadn't heard the knock, but I stopped playing and perked up my ears. Rather than going directly to the office door at the side of the house, people sometimes came to the kitchen door when they needed Papa. I thought it must be one of the few blacks in our city, because they invariably came around to the back. Papa tried to convince them to come straight to his office like everybody else, but he wasn't successful. Not only would they not present themselves at the office door, but they wouldn't set foot in the office at all. When one of their own was ill or hurt, they sent a messenger to fetch Papa and bring him back to the patient. They were afraid of what the response might be if white folks saw them in the waiting room of Dr. Eide's office.

  Not that they hadn't affected Papa's practice already. Papa was the only white doctor in town who would tend to blacks, or "Negro folks" as we called them then. When word got out that Papa was taking care of Negroes, some of his white clientele refused to come to him anymore. Papa just shrugged his shoulders and said if that was the way those white folks felt about it, he'd just as soon not bother patching them up and putting them back together again. Mother, too, stood by the blacks, saying they made a greater effort to pay Papa for his services than did their fair-skinned counterparts. Papa always said our door--front or back--was open to anyone who needed help.

  But the man who appeared at our back door that afternoon was not what I had at first expected. He wasn't a black man, nor did he appear to be one of the hobos that came around more and more frequently looking for work, a handout, or a pl
ate of food. Whoever he was, I'd never seen him before.

  I arrived in the kitchen just as Mother came from the basement, her washing once again interrupted. Emma May was also in the kitchen, up to her elbows in bread dough. My youngest sister, three-year-old Molly, sat in a high chair at the table drinking a glass of milk. My other sister, Claudia, took Mother's wet hand as she stared up wide-eyed at the figure beyond the screen door.

  "Yes?" Mother asked cautiously. "What can we do for you?"

  "Please, ma'am," the stranger pleaded, "there's a man who's been badly hurt. If the doctor could come--"

  "I'll get him!" I volunteered, and before Mother could say anything, I had run the length of the wide front hall and burst through the door into the waiting room of Papa's office. Fortunately, the room was empty save for old Mrs. Greenaway, who came nearly every afternoon just to have Papa assure her she was still alive.

  "Papa!" I hollered. "There's someone at the back door. Says a man's been hurt bad."

  In a moment Papa appeared from behind the door that led to the examining rooms. I had probably caught him in the middle of an exam or a consultation, but Papa didn't look annoyed, only concerned.

  "Do you know who it is?" he asked mildly.

  I shook my head. "Never seen him before. But he looks scared, Papa. Maybe you'd better hurry."

  Papa glanced at Mrs. Greenaway as we left the waiting room together and hurried to the kitchen. Since Mother had not invited him in, the poor man still stood beyond the screen, clutching his fedora. Papa opened the door, and before he could utter a word, the man spoke again.

  "Please, Dr. Eide, there's a man who's been in an accident. I don't think there's much hope but--can you come?"

  "Where is he?" Papa asked.