shot back.
“So does Buffalo Bill,” Granddad answered. “Girl, they’re in
show business.
”
“Papa, she was barred from the Washington Park clubhouse by the best ladies in Chicago society!”
“They’s hypocrites,” Granddad spat.
“She’s a fallen woman.” Aunt Euterpe stumbled over her words.
“Horsefeathers,” Granddad replied. “She’s from Clinton, Iowa. And she can hit high C eight times in the same song.”
“Papa,” Aunt Euterpe reasoned hopelessly, “that woman has been married three times.”
“She could marry four times if she’d have me!” The crowds around us stared at Granddad, and Lottie went beet red. “I’m goin’ in to see the show,” he said.
“Papa, I am taking these children home.” Aunt Euterpe’s patience had snapped.
“Take ’em,” Granddad said, walking away already, following the crowds into The Columbian Theater.
Confused, Buster called after him, “Granddad, did you bring Lillian or not?”
T HE W ORST D AY IN A UNT E UTERPE ’ S L IFE
Part One
S omehow Aunt Euterpe found our way home to Schiller Street. It must have been midnight before Lottie and I climbed into the unfamiliar bed. Then she sat up, writing a letter to Mama and Dad. I dashed off a postcard, but she wanted to get everything down before something else happened. Whether she wrote to Everett or not I couldn’t tell, and she didn’t say.
I was almost off in dreamland when we heard Granddad’s stumble on the stairs. He was singing a song, more or less. It was a new one to me. He must have picked it up on the Midway:
I ride alone to the distant blue,
My bicycle gliding away
To the fields of green
Where my loved one lies,
Awaiting the judgment day.
Then we slept, and awoke with a jolt. Daylight streamed in. We didn’t know where we were at first. The bedroom, high in the house, was far smaller than our room down home: coffin-narrow and tall with a good deal of mahogany woodwork. The wallpaper was brown vines of ivy. The window was layered with curtains. The breeze was off the stockyards.
Lottie rose up like Lazarus beside me. “Rosie! We’ve overslept, and on our first day.” Her substantial feet hit the floor. Her hair was a rat’s nest. “There’s a clock on the landing.” She elbowed me out of the bed. “Go out there and see what time it is.”
“It’s pretty nearly five-thirty,” I said, rushing back. We’d lolled in the bed like a pair of lazy town girls. Lottie was already pulling her underskirts up beneath her nightgown, grunting with the effort.
Aunt Euterpe’s house had a bathroom lined with tile and bright with nickel fittings. We didn’t tarry to marvel at it. Lottie didn’t approve of the arrangements anyway. She said it wasn’t sanitary to have the privy that near the sink.
But we were glad for the running water. Then she nearly scalped me by jerking my hair into quick, tight braids.
“Pin them up. I don’t want them hanging down my back,” I told her, but she claimed there wasn’t time.
I’d brought a faded calico shirtwaist and a feed sack skirt for every day—a short skirt, sadly. In our old shoes we clattered down the hall past the door of Granddad and Buster’s room, where they seemed dead to the world.
To our relief no one was in the kitchen before us. It was a dim room, and Tip whined at the back door like a lost soul. We handed out a mouthful of cold mutton for him, and he buried it in the yard. Lottie and I had found aprons and set to work.
We’d brought a double dozen eggs from home, now only a day old. An icebox stood in one corner with a pan beneath to catch the drips. Lottie rooted around in it for butter. I built up the fire in the range from stove lengths in a box. I knew that when Lottie got a good look at the stove, she’d hit the ceiling.
She did. “Rosie, we can’t cook in here. The place is a pigsty.”
It was. Nobody had cleaned that range since Grant took Richmond. The whole kitchen was a disgrace, crusted
“So does Buffalo Bill,” Granddad answered. “Girl, they’re in
show business.
”
“Papa, she was barred from the Washington Park clubhouse by the best ladies in Chicago society!”
“They’s hypocrites,” Granddad spat.
“She’s a fallen woman.” Aunt Euterpe stumbled over her words.
“Horsefeathers,” Granddad replied. “She’s from Clinton, Iowa. And she can hit high C eight times in the same song.”
“Papa,” Aunt Euterpe reasoned hopelessly, “that woman has been married three times.”
“She could marry four times if she’d have me!” The crowds around us stared at Granddad, and Lottie went beet red. “I’m goin’ in to see the show,” he said.
“Papa, I am taking these children home.” Aunt Euterpe’s patience had snapped.
“Take ’em,” Granddad said, walking away already, following the crowds into The Columbian Theater.
Confused, Buster called after him, “Granddad, did you bring Lillian or not?”
T HE W ORST D AY IN A UNT E UTERPE ’ S L IFE
Part One
S omehow Aunt Euterpe found our way home to Schiller Street. It must have been midnight before Lottie and I climbed into the unfamiliar bed. Then she sat up, writing a letter to Mama and Dad. I dashed off a postcard, but she wanted to get everything down before something else happened. Whether she wrote to Everett or not I couldn’t tell, and she didn’t say.
I was almost off in dreamland when we heard Granddad’s stumble on the stairs. He was singing a song, more or less. It was a new one to me. He must have picked it up on the Midway:
I ride alone to the distant blue,
My bicycle gliding away
To the fields of green
Where my loved one lies,
Awaiting the judgment day.
Then we slept, and awoke with a jolt. Daylight streamed in. We didn’t know where we were at first. The bedroom, high in the house, was far smaller than our room down home: coffin-narrow and tall with a good deal of mahogany woodwork. The wallpaper was brown vines of ivy. The window was layered with curtains. The breeze was off the stockyards.
Lottie rose up like Lazarus beside me. “Rosie! We’ve overslept, and on our first day.” Her substantial feet hit the floor. Her hair was a rat’s nest. “There’s a clock on the landing.” She elbowed me out of the bed. “Go out there and see what time it is.”
“It’s pretty nearly five-thirty,” I said, rushing back. We’d lolled in the bed like a pair of lazy town girls. Lottie was already pulling her underskirts up beneath her nightgown, grunting with the effort.
Aunt Euterpe’s house had a bathroom lined with tile and bright with nickel fittings. We didn’t tarry to marvel at it. Lottie didn’t approve of the arrangements anyway. She said it wasn’t sanitary to have the privy that near the sink.
But we were glad for the running water. Then she nearly scalped me by jerking my hair into quick, tight braids.
“Pin them up. I don’t want them hanging down my back,” I told her, but she claimed there wasn’t time.
I’d brought a faded calico shirtwaist and a feed sack skirt for every day—a short skirt, sadly. In our old shoes we clattered down the hall past the door of Granddad and Buster’s room, where they seemed dead to the world.
To our relief no one was in the kitchen before us. It was a dim room, and Tip whined at the back door like a lost soul. We handed out a mouthful of cold mutton for him, and he buried it in the yard. Lottie and I had found aprons and set to work.
We’d brought a double dozen eggs from home, now only a day old. An icebox stood in one corner with a pan beneath to catch the drips. Lottie rooted around in it for butter. I built up the fire in the range from stove lengths in a box. I knew that when Lottie got a good look at the stove, she’d hit the ceiling.
She did. “Rosie, we can’t cook in here. The place is a pigsty.”
It was. Nobody had cleaned that range since Grant took Richmond. The whole kitchen was a disgrace, crusted
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