Ladies In The Parlor (12 page)

A flagstone walk led from the house to the roadway.

The house was finished all through in black walnut.

Her grandfather and father were born in this house. “It’s a place that has lived,” Mary Ellen told Leora, “so many people were born and married and died there. I used to lie awake at night and listen to the wind in the trees and imagine it was their ghosts talking to one another.”

When Mary Ellen’s grandfather was fifty he married a girl of eighteen. She had ten children.

She would become hysterical and throw herself on the ground each time she discovered herself with child. It would require several people to keep her in bed before the baby was born. Five of her children died in infancy.

“I must take after my grandmother,” Mary Ellen said to Leora. “There were bees in her bonnet too.”

All in the house were fond of Mary Ellen. She was cheerful, generous, and kind by nature.

She would take long walks in the country at every opportunity and would stop to pat the heads of the horses in the meadows and the dogs who ran toward her.

Her mother was a widow with three children when she married Mary Ellen’s father.

They made a compact between them. He would provide a home for her children and be a father to them on one stipulation—that she would have a child for him. They married and settled in the large house.

Mary Ellen was born a year later.

Her childhood was happy.

On summer evenings she would go up to the cupola and remain alone. The farm and the ancient oaks, softened by the moonlight, were very beautiful. The child could see the shadows of the leaves on the “carriage house” and the white road stretching by.

The “carriage house,” its ancient glory departed, was now the garage. It was always called the “carriage house.”

She would often walk down the road on moonlit nights and call; then wait for the echo of her voice to return, while the crickets and the owls, and other revelers of the night, would make weird noises.

In the early morning the child could hear the cooing of doves in the quiet neighborhood.

Her home was a haven for birds. Her father would not allow a gun on the farm. They nested everywhere in the wide trees and at dawn the place was alive with song.

Each spring the scent of apple blossoms would be heavy in the air. There were rows of apple trees behind the house and when the earth became warm they were a mass of pink and white bloom.

It was Mary Ellen’s self-appointed task each year to fill the house with apple blossoms.

The wind would howl on winter nights and the snow would scud against the windows and give the child a feeling of security.

Whole weeks would pass in which the trees were weighted with snow. The sun shining upon them made them gleam like myriads of diamonds.

During the winter there were many entertainments at the school-house, and Mary Ellen, who read well aloud, would always be one of the principals.

As the ground was generally covered with snow, the family would go to the school in a bobsled, the runners creaking over the snow-crusted road.

Christmas Eve was gay in the large house. The family would rise in the morning before daybreak and go down stairs together. A loaded Christmas tree stood near the window.

Each year the threshing machine came to her house, accompanied by a dozen men. It would remain about a week. The air would be full of flying chaff as the grain was threshed. The women of the house prepared food for the men.

There was a picture of a farmer wearing a straw hat, a wide smile, and holding a scythe, on the threshing machine. Beneath his picture, on a scroll, was printed, “The Farmer’s Friend.”

The threshing machine company offered a prize of twenty-five dollars one summer to the boy or girl under fifteen who wrote the best essay on “The Farmer’s Friend.”

As Mary Ellen was fourteen, she entered the contest and wrote for hours each day, and was awarded the prize.

She was helped in the composition by a young student named Jeremiah Randum.

His father was a large landowner who lived in the County Seat. Jeremiah became attached to Mary Ellen. A studious boy, a few years older than Mary Ellen, he would often tell her how he wanted to become a great lawyer.

She had learned stenography at school and went to work for the summer at the County Seat.

She remained a year, and then secured a position in Chicago.

Jeremiah made her promise to correspond with him. “I’ll wait till you’re ready to come back,” he said, “I’m not the kind that gives up.”

She thought of him but seldom in her new world.

In that city she fell in love with a young married man and became his mistress. He deserted her in two years. During this time she corresponded with Jeremiah, who was now a lawyer.

She had a nervous breakdown after the desertion of her lover.

Bitter and cynical, she returned home for a visit.

Her tactful mother talked to her about Jeremiah. She would not listen.

The farm had lost its early glamour.

Jeremiah came to see her as of old.

Saying nothing to her parents about her unfortunate love affair, she returned to Chicago.

A year and a half passed. The melancholy girl met a friend of her ex-lover. With him she went from one dissipation to another, until brought to the attention of Mother Rosenbloom.

That remarkable judge of women knew that Mary Ellen would please her wealthy clientèle. She was not mistaken.

Mother Rosenbloom., in Mary Ellen’s words, “took the kinks out of her.”

In a burst of confidence one evening she told of Jeremiah’s loyalty, while Leora and Mother Rosenbloom listened.

“He’s been elected district attorney,” she said, “the youngest in the state—and here I am—a wreck.”

Mother Rosenbloom grunted, “You’re not a wreck,—you’re just a God-damn fool. I’d go back and marry him if I had to crawl there.”

“But look at my past, Mother,” exclaimed Mary Ellen.

“Past be damned—you’re a better woman for what you’ve gone through. He’s better off with you—and he should be proud to get you. No whore ever lived who wasn’t better than a lousy lawyer.”

Mother Rosenbloom rose with difficulty.

“Write him in the morning that you’re coming,” she said.

“All right, Mother,” Mary Ellen said, holding the large woman’s hand, “you’re a peach.”

“Never mind that,” said Mother, “don’t go on being a God-damn fool.”

Mother Rosenbloom occupied two immense rooms in a quiet part of the house. A skylight had been cut into the roof. She liked to watch the stars from her specially mounted golden oak bed. All about her bedroom walls were autographed pictures of women who had entertained men in her house.

Many bottles of expensive perfume were in a row on the dresser.

No one dared to enter her room without first ringing a chime outside her door.

She slept but a few hours each night, or rather, before dawn. She did not retire until the girls had their all-night guests and the house was in peace. The revelry would often last until after daylight. Mother would always be awake by six o’clock. Her maid would bring her a cup of black coffee mixed with rum. Mother Rosenbloom would sip it slowly. Then the morning papers would be brought to her. She would begin at the first page and read each column carefully. Her acquaintance over the state was quite wide. She knew the histories and ambitions of politicians and thieves, and all other gentry at the top or the bottom of the social scale.

Her tact in handling people was equal to her disdain for them. She had, through her donations to charities, become a secret power in the city. She had preached for years that her house was a necessary evil, and the citizens, always reluctant to quarrel with a generous giver, accepted her dictum.

On the theory that all the store owners cheated her, she sent either the housekeeper or one of the girls to do her shopping. She trusted few people implicitly, and often said that if one believed the worst of humans he would seldom be disappointed. To all who asked favors she was extremely courteous.

To the girls in her house she was often a trifle aloof. Only at rare intervals did she unbend enough to be completely gentle.

Red-headed women were popular with her. “I’d fill my house with them if I could,” she would often say. Her most popular ditty was,

A lean horse for a long race,

A black hog for a boar

A cock-eyed man for a son-of-a-bitch

And a red-headed woman for a whore

She had no feeling for virtue in women. “What the hell’s a virgin for?” she would ask. She would sneer at those who thanked her for gifts. If they did not thank her, she would say that people were all alike.

Only during the Christmas holidays did Mother Rosenbloom ever become tipsy. During that week she would fill her vast body like a tank.

Though her tongue at such times was more sharp, her head remained level.

On Christmas Eve Mother Rosenbloom held “open house.” All the customers who called were to be entertained at her expense. While the champagne and wine flowed, she surrounded herself with her girls and entertained the men who called. As usual she showed her disrespect for ruined women by singing, to the accompaniment of the old musician at the piano, THE SONG OF SHIME,

She was poor but she was honest,

Victim of the squire’s whim,

First ‘e ‘ad ‘er, then ‘e left ‘er,

Going to ‘ave a child by ‘im.

Then the girl went up to London

For to ‘ide her blessed shime,

There she met another squire,

And she lost ‘er nime agine.

See ‘im in the ‘Ouse of Commons,

Makin’ laws to put down crime,

While the womun that ‘e ruined,

Wanders on through mud and shime.

See ‘er in ‘er ‘orse and carriage

Ridin’ daily through the park,

Though she’s mide a wealthy marriage,

Yet she ‘as a breakin’ ‘eart.

In their poor but ‘umble dwelling,

Where ‘er sorrowin’ parents live,

Drinkin’ shampigne that she sends them,

But they never can forgive.

It’s the sime the ‘ole world over,

It’s the poor wot tikes the blime,

It’s the rich wot tikes its pleasures,

Ain’t it all a bleedin’ shime?

The enormous madam was often touched by simple things.

One day while Leora and Alice were shopping, they sent Mother Rosenbloom a five cent post card. It had the picture of a church, with a small cemetery beside it. A winding road ran beyond, while tiny black specks, represented birds, flew aloft in the pale blue sky.

A toast was printed on the card,

Health and long life to you,

The husband of your choice to you—

Land without rent to you—

And death in Erin. . . .

They wrote beneath, “We mean this,” and signed the card, “Alice and Leora.”

Next morning when the mail came she put her glasses on with a stern expression, and glanced casually at the card. She read the lines, then looked at them more closely, put the card down, wiped the fog from her glasses, then picked up the card again and read the words over several times.

She had the card put in an expensive frame and placed it on her dresser. She did not mention ever having received it to either of the girls.

Mother had another verse in a costly frame. She would often gaze at it on the wall for a minute and walk away—

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.

Mother Rosenbloom had many superstitions. She would never discuss where they came from. Many of them hinted of a rural background. Once, on a visit to the professor’s house, she saw one of his pet hens attempting to crow. She left immediately and could not be pacified. She believed that she would die before morning if she remained.

She shook her head in bewilderment and said,

A whistling girl and a crowing hen,

Always come to some bad end.

If she saw two white horses in succession she would make the sign of the cross upon herself. If she met a red-headed man who was cross-eyed, she would take a slug of brandy as quickly as possible afterward. She believed that if one saw a piebald horse and made a wish directly afterward, it would come true. If sparrows hovered around her back door, some person was corning hungry within a day. She swore that her cook could not drive the sparrows away on the day that Doris Mahone came hungry to her door.

If a girl turned her thumbs inward when she folded her hands it meant that her husband would rule her. If outward, she would rule. If a woman’s toes turned in, certain parts of her anatomy were large.

If a bird flew in the house, if a rooster crowed in the doorway, if there was a ringing in her ears, or a window accidentally fell—a friend would die that day.

She would allow no one to lie upon the floor in her house . . . that meant an early death for the person so careless.

She would cover all mirrors on the death of a friend, believing that if one saw his own reflection in a mirror three times within a day after the death, that he would be the next to go. If it rained on the first Sunday of the month, it would rain every Sunday during the thirty-day period.

If a girl dropped a knife at her table, it meant that a male visitor was coming. As more men came than ever knives were dropped, this superstition was more easily verified. If one dropped a fork, a woman was coming to the house.

If one counted the vehicles in a funeral procession he would be the next to die.