Max winked at Charlie. “Charles came shortly after, delivering a secret cache of Mr. Burkhardt’s Red Sox Beer. Mr. Ruth, being the gracious host he’s known to be, invited Charlie to stay. As the night wore on and the bottles were tipped, I was asked to honour the party with a song or two.
“The next thing I knew, Babe picked me up, plopped me on top of the player piano and set the crank to spinning. Just as I launched into ‘Somebody Stole My Gal,’ four of his cohorts began to roll the thing out the door, carrying me away to the middle of the frozen pond.” Maxine closed her eyes and swayed back and forth. “What a beautiful night it was. My voice was clear, and I remember the full moon shining white through the trees. A few other guests slipped out around the piano to dance while I sang, ‘Good-bye Broadway, Hello France.’”
Charlie interrupted Maxine’s tale, grinning. “It was ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game,’ and I wouldn’t call it singing.”
Rachael laughed, spitting whiskey all over the ground. Judith slapped her arm while Rachael elbowed her, and said, “Well, he’s right, she can’t sing.”
Maxine rolled her eyes and continued with dramatic flair. “Just as we reached the chorus, Charlie cried out, ‘Everyone off the ice, she’s gonna go!’ It was madness—people were scurrying and slipping their way to the edge of the pond, while I was stranded on top of the piano.”
Charlie whispered in my direction. “She didn’t even notice—she just kept on singing.”
Maxine cleared her throat and went on. “Your dear brother Charles came to my rescue and skated me away in his arms, gliding along in his boots as if he were Hans Brinker. The piano, however, met an unfortunate end and sank to the murky bottom of Willis Pond.” She kissed Charlie firmly on the lips. “I owe this man my life. The least I could do was give him a job and a place to stay. He’s my lucky star.”
As we left for home, Maxine pointed out three children who were dancing around a wishing stone in the corner of the graveyard. We watched them as they skipped, merrily singing, “Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.” When they were done, they each took a turn sitting on top of the stone, eyes closed, one finger to the sky, one finger to granite.
Maxine insisted we do the same. “Nine times ‘round, widdershins, and then sit on the stone and make your wish.”
Charlie wished for another kiss from Maxine.
Maxine wished for a kiss from Rudolph Valentino, but Charlie kissed her anyway.
Rachael wished for Mr. Ruth and the Red Sox to win the World Series.
Judith wished for more days like today.
I wished for Wrennie to always be happy.
Mrs. Bertine Tupper
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
September 5, 1918
Mrs. Dora Bigelow
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
Dear Dora,
We’d be more than willing to dig up Mrs. Ketch if it’s the only way to prove your innocence. Our ears are to the ground, waiting to hear whatever else we can learn. Anything for you, dear sister.
Ginny came back from Canning with a funny story, I’ll hand the pen to her to tell.
Hello Dora,
How is life treating you in steamy old Boston-town? I am missing you terribly and have the highest hopes that you will be home in time for my new baby’s arrival. I have found that Dr. Thomas relies on books and charts more than he relies on his heart. I went in last week to tell him that I have been suffering from ongoing bouts of morning sickness. (It had gotten to the point where I was unable to keep much of any food down.) He said he’d have me cured in no time using “the latest in obstetrical theory,” something called “the suggestive method.”
He came to the house and ordered everyone out, even Laird. Then he did the strangest thing…he brought the soup tureen from my grandmother’s china set (the only thing of value I brought with me when I married and moved to the Bay) and placed it in the middle of the bed. He ordered me to use it as my sick bowl. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to get sick all over my granny’s china. Can you imagine what it might do to the gilding? I turned to the side of the bed and got sick on his shoes instead!
He says that morning sickness is neurotic in nature, the pregnant woman’s way of gaining attention from a husband who is uncomfortable with his wife’s condition. “Very common and nothing to worry about.”
Laird told him “a pregnant wife ain’t nothing compared to a pregnant cow.” I’m not sure what he meant by that.
Anyways, not to worry, I’m feeling much better. My only complaints now are swollen ankles and hands, as well as an occasional headache. “Very common and nothing to worry about. Eat more bread and less meat.” So says Dr. Thomas.
By the way, even if the doctor turns out to be right in all things medical, I’m still sane enough to figure out that he and Brady Ketch are thick as thieves. Laird’s mentioned in the past that Brady’s taken Dr. Thomas hunting, but I didn’t think anything of it until the last time I was down to Canning and Mrs. Thomas invited me to their home for tea. To my shock and sadness, the head of Miss B.’s beloved white doe had been stuffed and mounted, and was staring at me from above the mantel in the parlour. We are wondering what Brady got in return.
Much love to you,
Your sisters in crime, Ginny and Bertine
~ September 12, 1918
The news of the white doe brought tears to my eyes. I guess Dr. Thomas won’t be happy until he’s taken every last thing that mattered to Miss B. My heart aches tonight as if I’ve lost her all over again.
Ginny’s comments about the doctor’s care also concern me. I can’t see how his advice will help. In fact, I think it’s likely to make things worse. Still, she’s prone to fretting and my telling her my thoughts on the matter may set her off. I’ll send happy words and a little advice from Miss B. and leave it at that for now.
Miss Dora Rare
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
September 14, 1918
Mrs. Bertine Tupper
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
Dear Bertine and my sisters in the O.K.S.,
Thank you for your recent letter and for standing by me through my exile. A special thanks to Ginny for her account of Dr. Thomas’s “suggestive method.” Just the thought of the good doctor’s surprise at Ginny’s “reaction” to his treatment was enough to bring a smile to my lips. I have a feeling that he’s left quite puzzled when the results are not as he expected them to be. Let’s hope this mishap leaves him wondering. Curiosity in medicine (and life) is essential…it nobly takes up where doctrine leaves off. Tea and rest, Ginny, and don’t forget to put your feet up.
Life in Boston is bursting with activity. The other women in this house are somewhat wild with their lives (and their words), especially the woman who runs the place, Miss Maxine Cabott. She is supported by family wealth and treats the rest of us with more than our share of whatever we might need, filling the house with glorious bouquets, our bellies with food, our hands and our minds with literature. How Charlie came to be her errand boy is a tale in itself that I could only do justice by telling you in person. While I can’t say exactly what it is she does, I can tell you that she’s had her heart broken at least once in her life, that her beauty is glamorous and brooding and that she always has her hand in something, “stirring the pot” as Miss B. would say.
Tonight, Maxine is hosting a suffragist meeting. We are preparing hundreds of postcards to be sent to those senators who still oppose women getting the vote. I’ll admit, I carry some pride in knowing that women are already persons of consequence in Nova Scotia. Sadly, though, I can see now that I never did enough to take any credit for our victory. Why is it that I have often thought to myself how unfair life has been for women, or for the men who are made to fight in the trenches, but h
ave never been strong or bold enough to protest? Women have been imprisoned, have died for these rights, while I was complacent, happy enough to sit at home and knit.
Even with children in our arms, there is always more we can do.
Kiss Wrennie for me.
Your sister, Dora
P.S. As you may have noticed, I have decided to change my name to its former state, Miss Dora Rare.
43
A GROUP OF WOMEN, including Rachael and Judith, read from the Greek play Lysistrata for an “Evening of Letters at 23 Charter Street.” Maxine read poetry from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, and I chose to read from Judith’s copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. It is horrible to think that we must hide these books away and limit our sharing of them to an intimate, secret group of friends. They have been “banned in Boston” by the Watch and Ward Society, and those caught with such works in their possession are subject to fines and even imprisonment. Maxine has taken to rescuing whatever books, plays and art she can get her hands on. Tonight’s selections came from a raid of her mother’s estate, where she and Charlie recovered several boxes of literature that had been collected for a book burning.
“We thanked Mother for a lovely evening, slipped out to the carriage house, loaded up the goods and sped away in my trusty Hupmobile coupe. It’s the least that woman owed me for having to sit and listen to her rattle on about the evils of modern music. She thinks that anyone who’s out to have a bit of fun is headed straight for hell. No wonder Daddy takes his leisure in the dark of the billiards room (he and more than a few snorts of rum). I wish I could be a little bird sitting on her shoulder when she finds the fuel for her bonfire’s gone missing.”
Most evenings I’m happy to sprawl out on my bed and write letters, or make notes in my journal. Last night there was a wet breeze pushing the blinds in and out as if it were breathing against the window frame. The shade on the Trap side glowed red. As Rachael first advised, I’ve made it a practice to always keep the blind down on this side of the room, especially since the spindles at the head of my bed rest against that window. Maxine loves to tease me about it. She often sneaks into my room of an evening and tries to get me to lift the corner of the shade like a peeping Tom. I always refuse. I find it’s enough just to lie on top of the covers with the mist of the rain coming in, bringing hints of perfume, music and Miss Honey.
Since my arrival, Miss Honey has been a busy woman. She has, by far, the most visitors at Paddy Malloy’s Playhouse, and from the sound of things, it’s a different man nearly every night. Last night’s guest had a low, appreciative hum to his voice. “Honey, you always know what I need…”
She answered, in her bright, sassy way, “That’s right, I do, and don’t you forget who’s in charge here…it’s Miss Honey to you.”
“That’s right, baby, that’s right.”
Echoes of the rest of Paddy’s Saturday Evening Girls drowned out Miss Honey’s musky conversation, their heels grinding and stomping on the downstairs stage, the piano rolling, talking back in heavy strides of the blues.
A good man is hard to find
You always get the other kind
Just when you think that he’s your pal
You look for him and find him foolin’ ’round some other gal
Then you rave, you even crave,
To see him laying in his grave
The wind lifted the shade to reveal that Miss Honey had left the light on. Her shadow danced over the mister’s body with heady sweet perfume. He lifted her hips, tugging at her garters and lace.
“Mmmmm, Miss Honey, that’s right, that’s right.”
So if your man is nice, take my advice
And hug him in the morning, kiss him every night
Give him plenty of lovin’, treat him right
’Cause a good man nowadays is hard to find.
Most nights for her are like this, she being in charge of him, taking her time, along with the repeated sway of glass beads calling gentle and sweet around the fringe of her bedside lamp. In these past few weeks of listening to her conduct her affairs (far more knowing and better than any of the other girls), I have wondered, is it so terrible to be in her postition? She seems so pleased, so proud of herself, and as far as I can tell, she does it all with no regret. Maybe it’s the women who are quick to be married off for the sake of marriage, the station of a name, a supposed life or even a house…maybe we are the ones who have sold ourselves for far too little a price.
In other matters of love and the fairer sex, I have recently noticed that Judith and Rachael are a pair. I came upon them in the bath while they were washing, enjoying each other with more than the laughter of two sisters. Seeing them kiss and touch one another with such tenderness was enough to keep me there, watching through a crack in the door, holding my breath, until Maxine pulled me away.
“Let them have their ‘Boston Marriage,’ I say. Even the mother of temperance, Miss Frances Willard herself, had a constant companion in her dear friend Anna. I guess that bicycle she was always going on about couldn’t afford her a good enough ride.” The sounds of splashing and laughter spilled out into the hallway. Max raised her eyebrow and grinned. “No matter what form it takes, love is always a glorious thing, wouldn’t you say, Miss Rare?”
I smiled and nodded, wishing I hadn’t wasted myself with Archer. Although I can’t stop my heart from wanting it, I hold little hope that I’ll ever find love or even true affection now that my white dress days are gone.
Miss Dora Rare
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
September 16, 1918
Mrs. Bertine Tupper
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
Dear Bertine,
As you may already know, influenza is making its way through Boston and spreading to other places in America. I suppose it will come to Nova Scotia as well, if it hasn’t already arrived. I’m worried, especially for the children of the Bay, for Wrennie. As soon as you hear of it being anywhere close, please take care in following my advice:
~ Close the road to the Bay.
~ Don’t allow visitors from away.
~ Make gauze or muslin masks for the men to wear at the wharf and for anyone who must go down the mountain to Canning.
~ Have the men strip off their clothes before coming in the house.
~ Wash hands with hot water and soap.
These measures may seem foolish, but if you could see how many shrouded bodies are brought out of houses each day, you would understand. If someone does come down with it in the Bay, open my place as a sick house. No sense in a whole family suffering from this terrible disease.
Yours,
Dora
44
A CASE OF INFLUENZA brought me to Miss B.’s, once. It came on with a fever too stubborn for even Mother to cure. She tried everything to bring on a sweat to break the fever, including Father’s suggestion of wrapping salt herring around the back of my neck (a tradition passed on to him by a peg-legged sailor from Inverness County). When the herring didn’t take and the fever threatened to go higher, Mother bundled me in blankets and gave me up to Miss B.’s care.
“First, she done need a cold bath—to shock the fever—then a dose of onion syrup and a right good rubbin’ with castor oil.” Miss B. sent my mother away and told her to come back in the morning. “A mother’s worry don’t do no good. She has your love, that’s all she needs. Go home.” Mother wrung her hands, kissed my burning forehead and left.
Miss B. dragged a large tub in from the dooryard and placed it in front of the woodstove. I watched through drowsy eyes as she fetched bucket after bucket of water, her shoulders tight and rounded with age, the grip of her fingers crooked and determined. “This ain’t nothing, you know, your illness.” She smiled as she poured Epsom salts in the water. “You turned fourteen this spring, no?” She circled the salt through until it dissolved, shaking her hands, flip
ping drops of water on the milky surface.
I nodded and answered, “Yes, my birthday was—”
“First of May,” she finished for me. “I remember…I gathered the May dew the day you was born. You carried a caul on your eyes as you passed through. Such a beauty you was! Dark hair, pink skin, not wrinkled and ugly like most. There was no mistakin’, you were blessed with something that day…” She motioned for me to get into the tub. “A fever’s just a gift, tapping you on the shoulder. It’s when you don’t pay attention that it sets out to kill you.”
I lowered myself into the bath, body shaking, skin bubbling with gooseflesh. She dowsed my head and face with bowlfuls of water until I was spitting and gasping for air. Painful and cold, I felt my heart opening and shutting, getting smaller and smaller, turning into a tight, frozen fist. Eyes wide, mouth open, I wheezed out any heat that was left inside. She tilted my head back and spooned two large doses of onion syrup down my throat. The taste was wretched, but I was too weak to spit up the thick, dark mixture of molasses, onions and garlic. She took my hand and led me to the bed, her voice singing soft and low as her hands worked the warm oil into my clammy flesh.
My hands are His hands,
My hands are His hands,
Palma Christi,
Palma Christi,
The Hands of Christ.
When she was done, she spit on her finger and traced the sign of the cross on my chest. She fed me brown flour coffee and wrapped me in a thick dark quilt made from worn pieces of wool and velvet, her goose-footed stitches holding together the nooks and crannies. Like a map to heaven, it was covered with flowing patterns of roses, doves and hands pointing their wise fingers to God.