I agreed. “But I may have to phony an age of at least sixteen.”
“I see. Her brother is screwing her, isn’t he?”
I answered, “Is this room soundproofed?”
“Yes. And so is my nurse. We’ve heard everything, dear, much of it worse than a little brother-sister incest. We had a case last week—not Howards, thank God—of ‘His brother is screwing him.’ Be glad your kids are normal. With brother-sister games all that is usually needed is to see to it that she doesn’t get pregnant and that they get over it in time to marry somebody else. Which they almost always do. Haven’t you run into this before?”
“Yes. Before you took over your father’s practice. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Are you kidding? Pop treats the Hippocratic Oath as handed down from on high. How did it work out?”
“Okay in the long run, although it worried me at the time. Older sister taught younger brother and then younger brother taught still younger sister. I walked on eggs for a while, wondering whether to catch them or just to keep an eye out for trouble. But they never let it get intense; they just enjoyed it. My kids are a horny lot, all of them.”
“And you aren’t?”
“Shall I take off my panties? Or shall we finish this discussion?”
“I’m too tired. Go on.”
“Sissy. Eventually they all took the Howard shilling, and now all three couples are friendly, with, I think, occasional Westchester weekends. But they keep such things out of my sight to keep from shocking poor old strait-laced Mama. But these two don’t have that easygoing attitude. Jim, I’ve got to get that girl married.”
“Maureen, Priscilla isn’t ready to get married. The cure would be worse than the disease. You would ruin some man’s life while spoiling hers, not to mention the damage to possible children. Hmm—Priscilla told me she had just moved here from Dallas. I don’t know Marian. Hardy family—right? What sort of a person is Marian?”
“Jim, I am not an unprejudiced witness.”
“That from the woman who can always see the good side in the Devil himself tells me all I need to know. Well, Marian may have had good intentions but she did not do a good job on Priscilla. At least not good enough to risk letting her marry at fourteen no matter how mature her pelvic measurements are. Maureen, I’ll fake any age you say—but don’t let her get married so young.”
“I’ll try, dear. I’ve got a tiger by the tail. Thank you.”
He kissed me good-bye. Shortly I said, “Stop that; you said you were too tired. And you’ve got a waiting room full of patients.”
“Sissy.”
“Yup. Some other time, dear. Give my love to Velma. I want to get you both over for dinner next week to see my new house. Maybe then.”
Princess Polly took a while to accept the move. For two weeks I kept her indoors and using a sand box. Then I let her out. An hour later, not being able to find her, I drove slowly back the eight blocks to our old house. When I was almost there, I spotted her, parked quickly and called her. She stopped and listened, let me approach her, then scampered away, straight for her old home. No, her only home.
I watched in horror as she crossed diagonally at Meyer and Rockhill—two busy boulevards. She made it safely and I breathed again and went back for my car and drove to our old house, arriving as she did because I conformed to traffic rules while she did not. I let her sniff around inside an empty house for a few minutes, then picked her up and brought her home.
For the next ten days this was repeated once and sometimes twice a day. Then came a day—the day after Labor Day, I believe—when a wrecking crew arrived to clear the site. George had warned me, so that day I did not let her out; I took her there—let her go inside as usual and sniff around, then the crew arrived and started tearing the house down. Princess came running to me and I let her sit in my lap in the car, at the curb.
She watched, while the Only Home was destroyed.
Aside from fixtures, which had been removed earlier, nothing was salvaged. So they tore down that fine old nineteenth-century frame structure in only a morning. Princess Polly watched, unbelieving. When the wreckers hitched bulldozers to the north wing and pulled it down, made it suddenly rubbish, she hid her face against me and moaned.
I drove us home. I did not like watching the death of that old house, either.
I took Polly back the next day. There was nothing but soil scraped bare and a basement hole where our home had been. Princess Polly would not get out of the car; I am not sure she recognized the site. She never ran away again. Sometimes gentleman friends came to call on her, but she stayed home. I think that she forgot that she had ever lived anywhere else.
But I did not forget. Never go back to a house you once lived in—not if you loved it.
I wish that Priscilla’s problems had been as easy to cope with as Polly’s. It was Friday before I saw Dr. Rumsey; Thursday we moved to our new house and any such move is exhausting, even though I used professional packers and handlers, not just their vans. It was simplified, too, by the fact that most of the furniture was not moved to our new house, but given to Good Will—I told both Good Will and the Salvation Army that a houseful of furniture, plus endless minor chattels, were to be donated to charity but they must send a truck. The Salvation Army wanted to come over and select what they wanted, but Good Will was not so fussy, so they got the plunder.
We kept only the books, some pictures, my desk and my files, clothing, some dishes and flatware, an IBM typewriter, and a few oddments. About eleven I sent Donald and Priscilla over to the new house with all salvaged food from pantry and freezer and refrigerator. “Donald, please come back for me after you unload. Priscilla, see what you can find for lunch; I think they will be loaded by noon. But don’t fix anything for which timing is critical.”
“Yes, Mother.” Those were almost the only words she spoke to me that morning. She had done whatever I told her to do but made no attempt to use initiative, whereas Donald tackled the job with imagination.
They drove away. Donald came back for me at noon, just as the crew was breaking for lunch. “We’ll have to wait,” I told him, “as they are not quite finished. What did you do with Princess?”
“I shut her into my bathroom for now, with her sand box and food. She resents it.”
“She’ll just have to put up with it for a while. Donald, what is eating on Priscilla? Last night and this morning she has been acting as if someone—me, I think—had broken her little red wagon.”
“Aw, Mother, that’s just the way she is. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Donald, it’s not the way she is going to be, not if she stays here. I will not cater to sullenness. I have tried to give all my sons and daughters a maximum of freedom consistent with civilized behavior toward other people, especially toward their own family. But civilized behavior is required of everyone at all times. This means politeness and a cheerful demeanor, even if simulated rather than felt. No one is ever exempt from these rules, no matter how old. Do you think you can influence her? If she’s sulky, I am quite capable of telling her to leave the table…and I don’t think she would like that.”
He laughed without mirth. “I’m sure she wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, perhaps you can put it over to her. Possibly she won’t resent it from you.”
“Uh, maybe.”
“Donald, do you feel that there is anything I have said or done—or required of her—or of you—that she is justified in resenting?”
“Uh…no.”
“Be frank with me, son. This is a bad situation; it can’t go on.”
“Well…she never has liked to take orders.”
“What orders have I given that she doesn’t like?”
“Well…she was pretty upset when you told her she couldn’t come along and help decide which house we would take.”
“That was not an order. I simply told her that it was my business, not hers. And so it is.”
“Well, she didn’t like it. And she
didn’t like being told that she had to be what she calls ‘poked at.’ You know.”
“Yes, a pelvic examination. That was indeed an order. An order not subject to discussion. But tell me, what did you think of my requiring her to submit to a pelvic examination? Your opinion won’t change my mind; I would just like to know what you think about it.”
“Uh, none of my business.”
“Donald.”
“Well… I guess girls have to have them. If her doctor is going to know whether she’s healthy or not. Yeah, I suppose so. But she sure didn’t like it.”
“Yes, girls do have to have them for their own protection. I don’t like them and never did and I’ve had them so many, many times that I couldn’t begin to count. But it’s just a nuisance, like getting your teeth cleaned. Necessary, so I put up with it…and Priscilla must put up with it, too, and I won’t take any nonsense out of her about it.” I sighed. “Try to make her see it. Donald, I’m going to drive you back and drop you, while they are still eating, and then I’ll turn right around and hurry back, or something will wind up in the wrong truck.”
I got to the house about two, then supervised where things went while carrying a sandwich in my hand. It was after five by the time the van left and still later before the house was arranged—if you can call it arranged when the back yard was strewn with cardboard cartons and clothes were dumped on beds and books were simply shoved into any bookcase to get them off the floor. Was it Poor Richard who said that “Two removes equal one fire?” Yet this was an easy move.
By eight I got some supper into them. We all were quiet. Priscilla was still sullen.
After supper I had us all move into the family room for coffee—and a toast. I poured thimble glasses of Kahlua…because you can’t get drunk on Kahlua; you’ll get sick first. I held up a glass. “Here’s to our new home, dears.”
I took a sip; so did Donald. Priscilla did not touch hers. “I don’t drink,” she said flatly.
“This is not a drink, dear; it is a ceremony. For a toast, if one does not wish to drink it, it is sufficient to lift the glass, say, ‘Hear, hear!’ and touch the glass to your lips, put it down and smile. Remember that. It will serve you well at other times.”
“Mother, it is time we had a serious talk.”
“All right. Please do.”
“Donald and I are not going to be able to live here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m sorry, too. But it’s the truth.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Don’t you want to know why we are leaving? And where we are going?”
“You will tell me if you wish to tell me.”
“It’s because we can’t stand being treated like prisoners in a jail!”
I made no answer. The silence stretched out, until finally my daughter said, “Don’t you want to know how you’ve been mistreating us?”
“If you wish to tell me.”
“Uh… Donnie, you tell her!”
“No,” I objected, “I’ll hear from Donald any complaint he has about how I have treated him. But not about how I have treated you. You are right here, and I am your mother and the head of this house. If you have complaints, make them to me. Don’t try to fob it off on your brother.”
“That’s it! Orders! Orders! Orders! Nothing but orders, all the time…like we were criminals in a prison!”
I recited to myself a mantra I learned in World War II: Nil illegitimi carborundum. I said it three times, under my breath. “Priscilla, if that is what you mean by orders, nothing but orders, I can assure you that I won’t change it. Any complaints you have I will listen to. But I won’t listen to them secondhand.”
“Oh, Mother, you’re impossible!”
“Here is another order, young lady. Keep a civil tongue in your head. Donald, do you have any complaints about my treatment of you? You. Not your sister.”
“Uh…no, Mama.”
“Donnie!”
“Priscilla, do you have any specific complaints? Anything but a general objection to taking orders?”
“Mother, you—There is no point in trying to reason with you!”
“You haven’t tried reason as yet. I’m going to bed. If you leave before I get up, please leave your latchkeys on the kitchen table. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Mama,” Donald answered.
Priscilla said nothing.
Priscilla did not come down for breakfast. “She said to tell you she doesn’t want any breakfast, Mama.”
“Very well. Fried eggs and little sausages this morning. How do you want your eggs, Donald? Broken yolks and vulcanized? Or just chased through the kitchen?”
“Uh, however you have yours, I guess. Mama, Priss doesn’t really mean she doesn’t want breakfast. Shall I go up and tell her that you said she has to come to breakfast?”
“No. I usually have my eggs up and easy but not sloppy. Suits?”
“Huh? Oh, sure! Please, Mama, can’t I at least go up and tell her that you said breakfast is ready and she should come eat?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have not said that and I do not say it. The first child to try a hunger strike on me was your brother Woodrow. He lasted several hours but he cheated—he had stashed vanilla wafers under his pillow. When he finally gave up and came downstairs, I did not permit him to eat until dinnertime, which was several hours away. He did not try it again.” (But he tried everything else, with lots of imagination!) “I don’t coddle hunger strikers, Donald, or tantrums of any sort…and I think no government should. Coddle hunger strikers, I mean, or people who chain themselves to fences or lie down in front of vehicles. Grown-up tantrums. Donald, you’ve objected to my orders twice this morning. Or is it three times? Are you catching this from Priscilla? Don’t you have it through your head yet that I do not give unnecessary orders, but those I do give, I expect to have carried out? Promptly and as given. If I tell you to go jump in the lake, I expect you to return wringing wet.”
He grinned at me. “Where is the nearest lake?”
“What? Swope Park, I guess. Unless we count a water hazard at the golf club. Or a landscaping pond at Forest Hills. But I don’t recommend disturbing either corpses or golfers.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Oh, certainly, some at least. Donald, I don’t mind that Priscilla chooses to skip breakfast this morning, as I need to talk with you without having her hanging over you and putting words in your mouth. When do you two plan to leave? And where do you plan to go, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“Shucks, Mama, that was never serious. How can we leave? No money, and no place to go. Except back to Aunt Marian and we won’t do that. We’ll never go near her again.”
“Donald, just what is it you find so poisonous about Aunt Marian? Six years ago you both elected to stay with her when you could have come with me. What happened? Did she punish you endlessly? Or what?”
“Oh, no! She hardly ever punishes anybody. Sometimes she would have Pop work us over. Like this last hooraw with Gus.”
“What happened there? Gus is a year older than you are and bigger…or was the last time I saw him. You said, ‘He had her down and was giving her a bad time.’ How bad a time? Was he raping her? Or trying to?”
“Uh… Mama, I’m in a prejudiced position. Jealous, I guess.”
“So I would guess, too. Was it really rape? Or—What is it you young people call it today? They were ‘getting it on’?”
He sighed and looked hurt. “Yeah, they were. I—I got sore.”
I patted his hand. “Poor Donald! Dear, are you beginning to realize that you aren’t doing yourself any good by falling in love with your sister? Or doing her any good? You are probably harming her even more than you are harming yourself. Do you see that, dear?”
“But, Mama, I couldn’t leave her there. Uh, I’m sorry we didn’t come with you six years ago. But you were so strict and Aunt Marian wasn’t, and
—Oh, I’m sorry!”
“How was Marian about housework? I am about to assign each of you your share of the work. But Priscilla seems to be clumsy in the kitchen. Yesterday she filled the freezer, dumping stuff in any which way, then didn’t turn it on. I just happened to catch it or we could have lost the whole load. Did she take her turn at cooking along with Mildred and Sara and whoever is the right age now?”
“I don’t think so. No, I know she didn’t. Granny Bearpaw does all the cooking…and doesn’t like having anyone else in her kitchen.”
“Who is Granny Bearpaw?”
“Aunt Marian’s cook. Black as coal and a hook nose. Half Negra, half Cherokee. And a swell cook! Always willing to fix you a bite. But you had better ask for it from the door. If you step inside, she’s likely to wave a frying pan at you.”
“She sounds like quite a gal. And it sounds like I’m going to have to teach Priscilla to cook.”
Donald made no comment. I went on, “In the meantime we must get transcripts and get you two into the city school system. Donald, what would you think of going to Westport High instead of Southwest? Say yes and we might find you a jalopy, four wheels of some sort, so that it would not be too difficult. I really don’t want you in the same school Priscilla is in. She hasn’t any judgment, dear; I’m afraid she would get into fights with other girls over you.”
“Yeah, she might. But, Mama, I don’t need to go to Westport.”
“I think you do. For the reason I named.”
“I don’t need to go to high school. I graduated in June.”
I had lived with children all my life; they had never ceased to surprise me.
“Donald, how did I miss this? I had you tagged for next year, and I don’t recall receiving an announcement.”
“I didn’t send out any…and, yeah, I was classed as a junior this past year. But I’ve got the required hours and then some, because I took summer session last year to make sure I got all the math they offered. Mama, I figured on being ready to go either way…didn’t decide to graduate until May, when it was too late for the yearbook and all that jazz. Mr. Hardecker—he’s the principal—wasn’t pleased. But he did check my record and agreed that I had the option of graduating at the end of my junior year if I wanted to. But he suggested that he just arrange to issue my diploma quietly and I should not attend graduation or try to convince the Class of ’52 that I was in their class since I wasn’t in their yearbook and didn’t wear their class ring and all the rest. I agreed. Then he helped me apply for the schools I was interested in. The really good technical schools, I mean, like MIT and Case and Cal Tech and Rensselaer. I want to build rocketships.”