Ladies In The Parlor (21 page)

On the other side of the card was printed,

Blessed are they that mourn, for they

shall be comforted. St. Matt. V. 4.

May Jesus have mercy on the Soul of

MARGARET ROSENBLOOM
(née Murphy)

Born December 23, 1876, Ireland.

Departed this life Saturday, August 12, 1932,

2:00 p.m. at ______.

Funeral services at St. Patrick’s Church, Wednesday morning, August 16. Requiem High Mass at 9 o’clock, Rev. Father Henry Gilligan officiating.

O Gentlest heart of Jesus, ever present in the Blessed Sacrament, ever consumed with burning love for the poor captive souls in Purgatory have mercy on the soul of Thy departed servant.

Be not severe in Thy judgment but let some drops of Thy Precious Blood fall upon the devouring flames, and do Thou, 0 merciful Saviour, send Thy angels to conduct her to a place of refreshment, light and peace.

Amen.

Many waiting vehicles were outside the church.

In slow procession they followed Mother Rosenbloom to her grave.

Like lost children, all returned to the desolate house. When lunch was served, they seated themselves about the table and ate sparingly.

The housekeeper’s eyes were red. Otherwise she was frigid as ever.

“We’ll have no more men here,” she said.

“That’s right,” said the musician.

“I’m sick of seeing them,” declared the housekeeper. “It’s a wonder where they all come from—like so many rabbits.”

“Well, Mother didn’t mind,” put in Selma.

“We’ll go a long ways,” said the old musician, “before we find a better place than this,—it’s just like the sun’s gone out.”

“But didn’t she have a nice funeral?” added Doris. “Yes,” said the house doctor, “she’d of enjoyed that.” “We’ll all have to find new places now,” decided

Selma, “it’s like leaving home for me.”

“None of us will starve right away,” the housekeeper added. “No person in the house has been left less than five hundred dollars cash. Some have been left more.” She looked at the professor, and Leora, and added, “so the secretary told me.” No one else spoke of money.

The words came slowly, “Mother wouldn’t forget.” The old musician looked at his plate.

The personality of the barrel-built woman lingered everywhere in the house. In every room was an echo of the woman who had gone.

According to her last wish, her diamonds had been buried with her.

“She won’t need them,” said the house doctor, “the worms’ll be too blind to see them.”

“Maybe the ghouls won’t,” declared the housekeeper.

“They’d have to kill Mother over again,” retorted the musician, “if they ever tried to steal her diamonds.”

“She looked nice though,” sighed the housekeeper more softly, “holding her watch the way she did—she looked just like she was asleep.”

“Well, she is,” blurted the house doctor, “and all hell can’t wake her.”

“Maybe that’s not so bad—being through with clap doctors forever is worth something.” Though the housekeeper’s tone was sharp, the house doctor laughed.

“You will have your little joke at us doctors, won’t you, Matilda?” he chuckled; “it was not Mother who needed my services.”

“Well it wasn’t me, either,” snapped the housekeeper. “You know best,” soothed the heavy man; “I’ve never examined you.”

All laughed. The housekeeper rose indignantly, and left the table.

When the echo of her footsteps could no longer be heard, the doctor’s eyes circled the table.

“A peculiar form of psychosis,” he began.

“Speak English, for Christ’s sake,” stabbed Selma.

The doctor’s little eyes opened wide as possible. “I can furnish knowledge but not brains,” he said. The housekeeper stood in the doorway.

“It’s no time to speak of either,” she said. “Mother’s just getting settled in her grave, and everybody’s quarreling already.”

The words came, sharp as broken glass. She looked at the house doctor, “And I’ll thank you for no more names.” She left the dining-room again.

“Strange, isn’t it?” The professor looked at the doctor. “If Mother were at the table, she’d be meek as a lamb.”

“It can all be explained,” vouched the doctor: “Certain functions undeveloped.” He looked warily toward the door.

“Does she need a man?” asked Mary Ellen. “Succinctly, yes.”

The housekeeper was again at the door. “As I was saying,” resumed the doctor, “Mother Rosenbloom made a valiant fight. It was her time to go. Her work on earth was done. Men who delve into the higher mysteries are firmly of the opinion that, high or low, poor or rich, each has his work to do—when we are whisked away like thieves in the night to become angels in another sphere.”

Selma tittered. “Imagine Mother an angel,” she said.

The housekeeper had been listening intently to the doctor. She turned her stern eyes upon Selma.

“How can you make light of your dead benefactor?” she asked. “Didn’t she give you a home and a chance to make a living and plenty of money?”

Selma scanned the housekeeper with defiant eyes. “Listen, old crowbait,” she sneered, “I’ve had enough of this. Mother Rosenbloom don’t owe me anything, and I don’t owe her anything; if us girls hadn’t gone to bed with every son-of-a-bitch that had ten dollars, where the hell would you have been?”

Leora put her hand on Selma’s arm. The girl continued to look at the housekeeper, “Why the hell didn’t you go to bed with somebody—you’re so God-damned smart!”

“Dear, dear,” said the doctor, “this is a high-class house.”

When the laughter stopped, the housekeeper snapped, “I’m a lady and I refuse to answer.”

“And I’m a whore,” flared Selma, “and I want you to act like a lady.” She looked from Leora to the other girls. “You’ll never see the day in your damned cranky life you’ll be the lady these girls are.”

The housekeeper stood erect, her lips tight. “But I respect the dead,” her words grated.

“Yes, you respect the dead—you’d better. You didn’t respect Mother when she was alive, and us kids did—we played square—fifty-fifty, and you had a bone in your throat, spying on us every chance you got.”

The housekeeper hissed, “You’re a liar and a whore.”

The words were hardly uttered when Leora threw a hard bun. It crashed against the housekeeper’s lips. She was still off balance when Leora stood before her.

“Don’t call any of us whores, you old witch.” She slapped the housekeeper several times before Alice and Selma could intervene.

With bleeding lips, the housekeeper ran from the room.

Selma put an arm about the defiant Leora, and smiling, said, “You little tiger.”

Leora straightened her hair before she said, “The damned hypocrite—she feels better than us in her heart, and I don’t like it.”

The doctor lifted his ponderous weight from the chair and looked at Leora, “What a wild and beautiful country you are to hear from,” he remarked.

Selma, with her arm still around Leora, said, “Come, Leora, let’s leave the house.”

“Not me,” returned Leora, “Mother left us some cash. No one’s going to chase me away till I get it.”

“The secretary will soon be here,” said the professor. “It’s all ready. I know that.”

“How do you know it?” asked Mary Ellen.

“It was the last thing Mother told me—she didn’t want anyone to wait—she hated wills,” the professor answered.

When the secretary came, all the girls were called into her small private room.

With solemn mien she gave each girl five hundred cash. “I’ve been asked to give this quickly,” she said, “and Mother will sleep better out there if she knows I’ve obeyed her.”

“Will you girls have dinner with me tonight?” the doctor asked as they returned from the secretary, “just a little farewell party. The professor is coming.”

The girls looked at each other. “All right, Doctor,” said Leora. “Where’ll we meet you—I want to bring Alice.”

The doctor studied. “Make it the Vanderhoff—eight o’clock.”

He had gone but a few minutes when the doorbell rang noisily. The maid admitted several men. “Where’s Mother?” one asked. Selma appeared, “She’s dead—buried today.”

“My God,” exclaimed the man who had asked. Leora and Mary Ellen came into the room.

“Are you girls all packed?” asked Selma.

“Yes,” Leora answered.

The old professor thumbed the piano keys as if in a daze.

The men looked about helplessly. Finally one said, “Well, let’s have a drink to Mother’s memory.” “It’s all right with us,” returned Selma.

A bottle of wine was brought. Just as the glasses were lifted, the housekeeper entered and looked askance.

“Well,” said the first speaker, as they left, “we’ll be seein’ you.”

Their car could be heard starting.

“Let’s get our things out of here,” suggested Selma, going to the telephone.

“All right,” the other girls agreed.

With baggage on the way to the railroad station, they bade farewell to the maids and the cook, then went in a body to the housekeeper.

“We don’t like each other,” said Selma, “but let’s be nice for Mother’s sake.”

“I’ll forgive you,” she said to Selma; then looking sternly at Leora, “but not you.” She felt her swollen lips.

“All right then,” said Leora, “I’ll forgive you.”

Without looking back at the house in which they had experienced so much, the girls hurried away with the professor.

Selma became thoughtful.

“It’s our last day together,” she said, “I’m taking a boat down the river tomorrow.”

“Gee, that would be fun,” said Doris.

“Why don’t you go along?” suggested Selma. “Business is good in New Orleans.”

“Why sure, I may as well be there as any place,” decided Doris.

“We can get the boat out of Davenport tomorrow.” Selma paused before saying, “I used to live near Clinton.”

For a second she thought of a vagabond boy and a turtle. To banish them she began to hum,

It’s the wrong way to diddle Mary,

It’s the wrong way, I know,

It’s the wrong, wrong, way to diddle Mary,

By God, I know.

Breaking off her humming, she asked Mary Ellen, “What are you going to do, Mary?”

Mary Ellen turned to Leora. “Shall I tell her?” she asked.

“Certainly,” said Leora.

“I’m going to be married.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” snapped Selma. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“And you, Leora?” The girls and the professor looked at her.

“I’m going to be married too.”

All looked at Leora in surprise.

“I thought you loved Judge Slattery,” said Selma. “I did.”

It was some time before Leora spoke again. “We ought to remember June,” she said. “Let’s send her something.”

“Mother remembered her,” muttered the professor. “Are you sure?” asked Mary Ellen.

“Yes, because I’ve been taking her money every week —besides, Mother told me.”

The doctor, bulging in his evening clothes, was waiting for them.

They had touched the high notes of life together. It was now difficult to keep their thoughts from wandering.

After the doctor had ordered with extreme dignity, Selma blurted, “What do you think of that damn housekeeper—she’d starve to death in a ten cent house, and yet she ordered women like us around.”

“Tut-tut,” urged the doctor.

“Tut yourself,” returned Selma.

All were relieved when the dinner at last broke up.

The professor held Leora’s hand long in parting. Mary Ellen sobbed in kissing her good-bye. She was taunted by Selma who had tears in her eyes.

The doctor and Leora accompanied Alice to her apartment.

“Now don’t you girls lose me in the shuffle,” he said in parting.

“We won’t, Doctor, we may need you,” laughed Alice.

A silence came between the girls after the doctor had gone. It was broken by Leora, “It’s terrible to go back and marry him after—” She did not finish.

“Oh, well,” returned Alice, “you may learn to love him—men are all alike anyhow.”

“You know better, Alice.” For a second Leora had the impulse to confide her secret to Alice. Then she suddenly decided to keep it to herself forever.

Leora’s heart was low. To cheer her, Alice clapped her hands and said, “Let’s telephone the doctor.” “All right,” agreed Leora.

“Tell him you’re leaving right away to marry him.” “All right,” again agreed Leora.

When Leora waved from the observation car that evening, Alice said, “Give Mother and all my love and tell them I’ll be home for a visit this summer.” “I will,” said Leora.

Leora went to her seat and gazed out of the window. Smiling vaguely, she thought of Mrs. Haley. Her eyes closed. Tomorrow she would be Mrs. Jonas Farway. And she would bring her husband another man’s child.

She thought a long time, then shrugged her shoulders,

“It’s mine anyhow—and
his
.”

Again she gazed out of the window.

Jim Tully

Jim Tully was born on a farm near St. Marys, Ohio, on June 3, 1886. His parents were James Tully and Maria "Biddy" Lawler. James was born in Ireland and Biddy was a first generation Irish American. They had six children, Jim being the fifth of the six kids. In 1892 Jim's mother Biddy died after giving birth to a stillborn child. This shattered the Tully household and James decided that he could not care for all his children by himself and sent the three youngest boys to live in a Catholic orphanage in Cincinnati. Jim would spend the next six years of his life there. It was at the orphanage that Jim learned to read and write.