A Room of My Own Page 8

  Aunt Sally was working in the garden that morning, watering and pulling weeds. The patch of land on which the Dubbins' rented house sat had been too small for a garden, so Aunt Sally was eager, she said, to get down on her hands and knees and work with the earth. I was happy to see her out there communing with nature. If she weren't doing it, then I'd have to do it, and weeding the garden was one of my least favorite chores.

  Papa and Dr. Hal were with patients in the office. Simon was at the piano practicing. Rufus and Luke had run out after breakfast to explore the neighborhood and to elude chores. The girls were in the parlor having a tea party with Gardenia and Petunia. And even though it was midmorning, Uncle Jim hadn't yet appeared for breakfast.

  As we worked, Mother asked, "Well, how was your first night with your sisters? Not so bad, was it?"

  Certainly it hadn't been the best night I'd ever had. The girls were asleep by the time I got upstairs and had left me only a foot of room on the ghost side of the bed. Before getting in, I had to rearrange the two of them, but even then I gained only a few more inches for myself. Then there was the heat, made worse by the fact that there were three sweaty bodies in the same bed. The one electric fan in the room did little to keep us cool. Every time I fell into a restless sleep, Molly woke me up again by throwing an arm around me. It was almost enough to make me want to curse Uncle Jim again, but when I remembered how he looked as he sat there on my bed, I just couldn't be angry with him.

  I told Mother that I had slept fine.

  "I'm glad, dear," she replied absently as she sprinkled a little more flour across the counter. "I know it's going to take some time for all of us to adjust, but--well, there you are, Jim! Good morning. Have a seat and I'll fix you some scrambled eggs and toast."

  "No thanks, Lillian," Uncle Jim said, though he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. "Just a cup of coffee will do."

  "Nonsense," Mother said. "You have to have something more substantial than that." She poured him a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and set it before him. "Now, it won't take me a minute to cook something. You do like your eggs scrambled, don't you?"

  Without waiting for a reply, Mother went about the task of gathering what she needed to make yet one more breakfast that morning. Uncle Jim sipped his coffee without looking up at us, but I couldn't help looking at him. In the few weeks since our families had last been together, he seemed to have taken a great leap in the aging process. His thin face appeared thinner still and more elongated. Heavy lines creased his forehead and curved around his brow, almost meeting the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes. He hadn't bothered to shave, and his purplish beard looked like a bruise across his cheeks. His dark hair, combed straight back from his face, had some gray I'd never noticed before. And his dark eyes, once so lively they almost twinkled, now appeared sunken and somber.

  He pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket, tapped the filter end against the tabletop, and stuck it between his pale lips. He then reached into the same pocket with one index finger and fished out a pack of matches. Striking the match head dully against the friction strip, he ignited a small flame, which he lifted to the tip of his cigarette. He squinted while he inhaled to get the tobacco burning. I watched the taut sad line of his mouth as he exhaled, sending a small funnel of smoke twirling up toward the ceiling. Then he pinched the tobacco seed off the tip of his tongue and rolled it off his fingers onto the floor.

  His brand of cigarettes was Spud Menthol. I had seen them advertised in Life magazine with slogans like "Be Mouth-Happy" and "Join the Mouth-Happy Club." But on that first morning of the Dubbins' long stay with us, Uncle Jim looked anything but a candidate for the Mouth-Happy Club. All the sadness of the previous afternoon settled over me again as I watched him silently smoking and sipping his coffee.

  After a few more puffs of tobacco, he started to cough--a barking hack that reminded me of the time Simon had whooping cough. Mother shook her head as she pushed down the handle of the toaster.

  "You'll have to let William listen to that cough again," she suggested. "Maybe there's something he can give you."

  "I doubt it," Uncle Jim said listlessly. "He's already told me the old lungs have taken in too much grain dust."

  "Maybe so, but it might help, too, if you didn't smoke quite so much."

  My uncle shrugged. "Everyone smokes, Lillian. Never hurt no one."

  "Papa says all that smoke turns your insides black," I offered. "Says you might as well poke your lungs onto a stick and toast them over a fire like a couple of marshmallows."

  Uncle Jim snickered and peered at me in amusement. His response to Papa's theory was to take another long pull on his cigarette and to let the smoke out slowly. Then he tapped his ashes onto the saucer.

  "Where's Sally?" he asked, changing the subject.

  "She's out working in the garden." Mother stepped to the window and looked out. "Looks like she's watering the tomatoes."

  "Hmm. Sally always wanted a garden."

  "Well, now she has one," Mother responded pleasantly.

  "And she can work in it as much as she wants," I added.

  Nothing more was said until Mother set the plate of eggs and toast in front of Uncle Jim. "Would you like some jam with that?" Mother asked. "We've got enough preserves to last from now till 1940, I bet." She gave a brief laugh and wiped her hands on her apron. She'd been trying hard to keep everyone's spirits up since the Dubbins arrived, and I had to admire her for that. To support her, I tossed out a little chuckle myself so she wouldn't have to laugh alone.

  But Uncle Jim just sat there staring at the plate of food as though he couldn't comprehend what it was, as though he'd never seen scrambled eggs and toast before. Slowly he lifted his head. His eyes traveled from the plate to the face of his sister-in-law.

  "Lillian," he said quietly, "I owe you an apology."

  Mother frowned and cocked her head. "Why, whatever for, Jim? I can't imagine what you mean."

  Uncle Jim crushed the cigarette out in the saucer. Simon's piano playing was all that was heard for a moment while Uncle Jim shook his head slowly, his eyes averted. Then suddenly he looked up at Mother again and exclaimed, "Your parents always were against me marrying Sally, and they were right. She deserved better."

  "Nonsense!" Mother snapped. "You're a good husband to Sally and a good father to the boys. Better than a lot of men might be. I, for one, have always been glad you're part of our family."

  I raised an eyebrow. According to Aunt Sally's version of the story, even her own sister had tried to talk her out of marrying an uneducated laborer. I believed Aunt Sally, as Mother always placed great emphasis on education and breeding. Of course, Mother herself had dropped down a notch or two economically when she married Papa. William Eide would never see the wealth that Clarence Foster had accumulated. But at least Papa was educated and held a respectable position.

  As time passed, though, Mother must have forgotten her initial objections to Jim Dubbin because she was obviously genuinely fond of him. She continued. "Besides, I think my parents long ago repented of anything they might have said at the time you and Sally married. They like you, Jim. I'm sure they do."

  Uncle Jim, his food untouched, went on shaking his head. "Even so, even if they did come to accept me, what will they think now? I've lost my job and I've lost the house. I can't even support my family--"

  "If I'm not mistaken," Mother interrupted, "you're not the only man with troubles lately. It's the times, Jim. It's just the times."

  "But I'd still be working if I hadn't been so loud-mouthed about organizing a union down there."

  "Well, I don't know about that, Jim--"

  "It's the ones who wanted a union that were laid off. Those who kept their mouths shut are still on the job."

  Mother went back to kneading the ball of dough. She asked, "Is that what they said when they let you go?"

  Uncle Jim rapped once with his knuckles on the table, a brief tap of annoyance. "Naw, of cour
se not." He spat the words out as though they tasted bitter in his mouth. "They couldn't say it had anything to do with union work, but we all know that was the call. Well, they may have fired me, but they haven't seen the last of me yet. I'm gonna go on working with the organizers till the mill decides to recognize the union. Maybe eventually those of us who lost our jobs for union activity can get hired on again. Then I can get Sally and the boys back into a house and get out of your way, Lil."

  "You're not in my way, Jim," Mother responded. She turned to face Jim, her eyes wide with concern. "You know I want you here. Sally is my only sister. We're family, Jim. All of us. You'd do the same for William and me if the tables were turned. You know you would."

  "But the tables aren't turned, Lillian. Will won't never be without work, being a doctor like he is."

  Mother sighed. "Eat your breakfast, Jim," she said quietly. She went back to her kneading. "Then go on out to the garden and help Sally. You'll feel better as soon as you make yourself useful around here."

  Uncle Jim ate reluctantly while Mother and I put the smooth full-moon balls of bread dough into glass bowls, which we set in lukewarm water in the sink so that the dough would rise. Then we started cutting up vegetables for soup.

  Later, when Jim went out to join Sally in the garden, I asked Mother, "Aunt Sally always told me she was happy being married to Uncle Jim. Do you think she still is?"

  "Certainly she is," Mother replied. "Just because they've run into hard times doesn't mean they don't love each other anymore."

  "Mama?" I asked. "Are you and Papa happy together?"

  "Of course!" she answered briskly, as though the question were ridiculous, the answer obvious.

  I went on chopping carrots. Mother, kindly, had claimed the onions for herself. Simon went on playing adeptly. I envied him and at the same time felt anger toward him for the talent he'd been born with. I knew Mother must--however unconsciously--compare my playing with his, and that made me appear all the more inept. I chopped and listened and looked at my aunt and uncle working quietly together in the garden.

  "Mama," I asked, "how old do I have to be before I can go out with a boy?"

  Mother brushed away an onion tear with the back of her hand and replied, "You know very well you have to be sixteen."

  Three more years to go. It seemed like an eternity. I wondered whether Danny Dysinger would wait that long for me, or whether he would go after other girls in the meantime.

  To my surprise, Mother sensed my concern and disappointment. She cast me a sideways glance and smiled a smile that was rather coy for Mother. "I know how you feel," she assured me. "I was already sweet on your father when I was your age."

  "You were?" My squeal of surprise was sincere.

  "Oh yes. I used to write `Will and Lil' all over my school books." She laughed out loud at the memory, a joyful sound at odds with the tears running down her cheeks. "I was terribly silly in my youth. Of course, your father barely knew I existed back then. He didn't start coming around to court me--that's what we called it in those days--until we were seniors in high school, and even then he didn't propose to me until eight years after that. He wanted to be established in a practice before he took on a wife and family. So you can take my word for it, I know how hard it is to wait. But sometimes that's what we're called to do."

  "How did you finally get Papa to propose to you, Mama?"

  Mother laughed again and brushed away a couple more tears. "Well, what could I do but pray? Every night I asked God to convince your father to propose to me. Finally he did."

  It must have been just as she said. Mother probably didn't reveal her feelings to anyone but God. Papa himself was no doubt clueless as to how Mama felt about him. Even though they were courting, Mother, who wouldn't be caught dead flirting, probably acted as though she couldn't care less whether Papa proposed to her or not. She had allowed herself, admittedly, to scribble "Will and Lil" on her school books, but I suppose that was as close to being romantic as my mother ever dared venture.

  And yet, there must have been a time when she had fallen in love. She must have known at least some inkling of the thrill of romance, since she had, after all, gotten married. People didn't get married, I reasoned, unless they were in love. Mother must know something about that greatest of all mysteries, the experience for which Charlotte and I had already done a great deal of pining.

  "Mama," I asked, "what's it like to be married?"

  "My, my." She clicked her tongue and shook her head. "You're just full of all sorts of questions today, aren't you?"

  "Charlotte says it's the greatest thing in the world to be married."

  "And just how might she know, I wonder?"

  "Oh, I don't know, but I'm sure she's right. I'd never want to end up an old maid like Miss Cole."

  "I imagine Miss Cole's very happy as she is."

  "Oh, I don't think so, Mama! I mean, how could she be?"

  "We can be content in whatever situation we're in, as long as we trust the Lord for what's good for us."

  This oft-repeated phrase from Mother always struck fear in my heart--fear that God was going to decide that spinsterhood was good for me. I wanted Him to work with me, not against me, when it came to marriage. After all, if Mother could pray for Papa to propose, surely I could pray to marry and receive a favorable answer.

  "Well, but anyway, Mama," I continued, "isn't it nice to be married?"

  "Of course," she said simply. She scraped the onions off the cutting board and into the pot of water boiling on the stove, then pulled apart a stalk of celery.

  "But, well--what's it like, Mama?"

  Mother frowned a moment as she laid two sticks of celery side by side on the cutting board. She raised her long serrated knife over the doomed vegetables and went to work with the swiftness of an executioner. Finally she said, "Well, Ginny--I mean, Virginia--this is what being married is all about"--she paused and gestured with her hands--"what we're doing right here. It's cooking and cleaning and raising children. It's about taking care of your home and family."

  Narrowing my eyes, I peered at Mother. I didn't know whether she was purposely being evasive or whether she simply wasn't aware of how dull she was making marriage sound. I had no intention of growing up only to do more of what I was doing now. "But, Mama," I protested, "there must be more to marriage than that. There must be something nice about being in love and being together and--oh, I don't know, just being with the man you love."

  Mother lifted her eyebrows and sighed. "I suppose," she said. Then she pulled a linen handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbed at the perspiration on her neck. "Not even noon yet and already it's hot enough to melt a mountain of steel. I can remember some hot summers, but this one has outdone them all."

  I was beginning to get frustrated, and I wasn't about to let Mother change the subject--not until I got a suitable reply. "But, Mama," I cried, "surely there must be something romantic about marriage."

  Mother laughed and sighed simultaneously. "Oh, Virginia," she said, "you're such a dreamer."

  But of course. Of course I was. What was the use of living if one wasn't going to dream? I couldn't help feeling rather sorry for Mother--she seemed to have no idea what made life both wonderful and worthwhile.

  Chapter Seven

  On the tenth of June, Violet Sharpe committed suicide. As a maid in the household of Anne Lindbergh's mother, she was to be questioned a second time by police in their investigation of the kidnapping of baby Charles. Apparently unable to handle the thought that she was a suspect, she evaded the police by swallowing cyanide chloride. She was discovered near death in the pantry by Mrs. Lindbergh's mother, and a moment later died in the woman's arms.

  For a few weeks I had forgotten I was angry with God, but this incident reminded me. I commiserated with Charlotte and found myself tempted to agree with her when she said such tragedies proved God to be only a myth, anyway.

  "Mama says if there really was a God, the world wouldn't be in such a me
ss," Charlotte said.

  I considered Mrs. Besac's philosophy. It appeared sound enough on the surface. The world certainly was a mess, what with the murder of innocent children and the Depression and people like my uncle Jim losing his job and his home. Every morning we were given an update on the worsening situation by Dr. Hal, who, along with his toast and coffee, religiously ingested Walter Lippmann's syndicated comments in the local paper. Shaking his head and frowning, Dr. Hal could be counted on to make such discouraging announcements as, "Well, according to the American Federation of Labor, more than thirteen million people are out of work now."

  One of the defining events of the Depression had begun only a couple weeks earlier out in Washington, D.C. According to reports we heard on the radio, a horde of veterans from the Great War had gathered to demand payment of the bonus bill Congress had passed back in 1924. The news had it that somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five thousand veterans were living in encampments along the Anacostia River and in a number of abandoned buildings on Pennsylvania Avenue. They were determined to stay put until they received the bonus they believed was rightfully theirs. The money was supposed to be in an endowment fund until 1945, but a Texas congressman in 1929 had introduced legislation for immediate payment of the bonus. His idea gained support from several other congressmen, from the Hearst newspapers, and from that popular radio priest from Detroit, Father Charles Coughlin.

  The one person who wasn't keen on the bill was Herbert Hoover. I didn't know much about Hoover beyond the fact that he was president, but from bits and pieces of conversation among the grown-ups, I did gather that he wasn't doing his job--at least not to most folks' satisfaction. The majority of people blamed him for both the Depression and for our inability to pull out of it. They only laughed at his assurances that the country had "passed the worst" and we would "rapidly recover." I remember Uncle Jim saying, "Prosperity may be just around the corner, but that man Hoover has no idea just how far it is from here to the corner!"

  Actually I felt a little sorry for Hoover. I couldn't imagine that our country's troubles were entirely his fault, and I didn't think it fair that he should have to shoulder all the blame. I recalled him saying sometime in the winter of 1931, "No one is going hungry, and no one need go hungry or cold." Since I myself was neither hungry nor cold, I had no argument with him.