Mothers & Daughters

Chapter 1 

“Oh my Lord, Belva! Could it be you?” A thirty-something woman exclaimed from behind a tall, three-paneled, dingy cardboard menu. Her red lipsticked mouth was grinning with tight-pursed corners as she whipped the menu to the side to stare at the waitress in front of her. Her eyes gazed excitedly up and down and she nodded with spray-glued peroxide-orange curls as she took in all the details of the teenager.  

 

The waitress was dressed in grey standard issue, an off-white apron with two deep bulging pockets with a pen sticking out of one of them, beige nylon hosiery with a seam up the back, and old low-heel chunky pumps. She wore a hairnet cupping her dark tresses close to her long neck and shoulders and a name-tag that clearly said “Jane.”

 

“All grown up and working already. Shouldn’t you be in school?” She did not wait for an answer. “My oh my, Lord, Belva. Would you look at you!”

 

The girl opened her mouth but said nothing, frozen in her tracks, with a note pad in front of her chest, posed to take an order. Her dark eyes widened in surprise and tensed creating a deep furrow between her two brows. She looked down a moment, shook her head, looked up and stammered, “Ah, what is it… that I can get for you?”

 

The woman observed the girl’s darker complexion and sculpted cheekbones, “Got your daddy’s Indian blood I see.” She continued, “And so skinny! Just like a beanpole! Won’t last long you know.

 

I was your age when I married William. Three kids and each one made a lasting impression.” She patted the pillow of her tummy hiding under her floral print dress and grinned.

 

A slightly older, slimmer man was quietly sitting beside her on the wooden bench directing his attention to securing a safe place for his narrow brimmed felt hat. He quickly snapped it up from the burgundy cushion between them, where it might get squashed, to the table in front of him.

 

The woman squeezed over a couple inches closer to the gent and grabbed his hand the instant he let go of the hat, as if to clarify the meaning of her commentary, then dropped it. “Not him, of course. I mean not his kids. William’s.” She tried to explain further. “And he thought, William thought, I wasn’t popping them out fast enough. So I had to go.”

 

Jane’s quizzical expression deflated the woman momentarily. “You married yet?”

 

The girl shook her head no.

 

“That’s when the fun stops you know,” she laughed, looking once again at the man studying his Lamplighter menu. She leaned in and tapped him on his thigh looking for agreement.  He smirked quietly and picked up his menu as if he did not wish to get involved in the discussion.

 

“Don’t think we ever even went on a date. Not ever. Not even to a picture show that I can recall. Maybe one. William just saw me. Liked what he saw. Made the arrangements and that was that. 16 years old and never had a chance to do any living. Just didn’t know any better. Down on the farm, you get yourself married soon as you can.”

 

Jane shrugged her shoulders and waited for the order, unsmiling but totally captivated.

 

“And then it was all set to makin’ babies. As though that was all the fun I was ever ‘sposed to have. Know what I mean? And… it… (pause) wasn’t any fun, I tell you. Not like it is for the guys, you know. Right?” She jabbed the man again with her elbow who responded by rolling his eyes upward.

 

She turned back to the waitress to exclaim loudly. “Course you don’t know yet! I sure hope not. What kinda mother would you have if you knew anything about such stuff at your tender age. You can’t blame me now do you? My, oh my, Belva!”

 

A man in a business suit seated at a table across from them turned on his bench, raised his large body and stared at the waitress sternly. The girl observed this, ignored it for the time being and asked for the couple’s order again. “We’ll make it easy for you” she said quickly. “And both get the Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and peas,” she leaned her head sideways to glare back at the impatient intruder. “Costs a bit more but it sounds classier than a hamburger.”

 

When Jane returned with their order, the older woman picked up on the conversation again. “This kinda reminds me of the only other fun we was ‘sposed to have down on the farm. And that was entertaining folks. Kinda like what we’re doing now. ‘Cept everyone’s in the kitchen not a nice restaurant like this. You are ‘sposed to slave over the stove all day, then serve us and catch up on old times. How long’s it been?

 

“Over ten years,” Jane responded as she placed two plates in front of them.

 

“My this looks so good! Gotta save room for desert!”  She elbowed her partner again and gave him a wink. “OH MY! How time flies when you’re having fun.

 

So this is fun, isn’t it, Belva Jane. It’s kinda like the fun your family’s used to, isn’t it.

Lots of folks getting together. You’re serving us. And it’s even better because someone else is actually makin’ the food. We don’t mind. In fact we’ll let you treat us, if you want, so it really feels like family.”

 

Jane barely caught the remark and did not have time to disagree as she had already turned her back to serve another customer from her tray. When she returned the woman leaned in to talk to her, lowering her voice in a confidential manner.

 

“That’s actually why we came in tonight. We were feeling kinda bluesy because we were out of money on a Friday night. Imagine no money in our pockets to go out and enjoy ourselves. And we remembered that we’d heard you worked here. Of all the miracles in life, you couldn’t believe how much I consider this to be that. A miracle! You don’t know how much I’ve really missed you, missed seeing you grow up, honest!”

 

Jane remained silent, keeping her thoughts to herself, as she took in the woman’s confession.

 

“This here is my boyfriend Ray, by the way, he’s a keeper. Not like most of the guys you’re going to meet who’re just wanna get their paws all over you and not even buy you a nice dinner, a real gentleman.” She squeezed the hand of the man who looked a bit older, a bit slimmer, and a lot quieter than the woman beside him. He smiled meekly.

 

“We believe in going out, not like your family ever did. Having fun every once in a while. Like here’s Friday and you got tips in your pocket I bet.”  

 

“Only a bunch of nickels from coffee customers, and a few quarters mostly from the lunch crowd,” Jane answered quickly.

 

“Oh can’t even believe it. You’re in the big city now girl, New Albin, not down on the farm. Folks tip pretty good especially on a Friday night and you been working all week. Show me!” she demanded tapping her finger on the table.

 

Jane obliged by pulling the change out of her apron, leaving a pile of quarters, nickels and dimes on the table before them. Just then the businessman behind her called out “Dearie?” and Jane turned to take his request.

 

When she returned, the red head was bobbing up and down, counting the change on the table. “Naw. Don’t believe it. You haven’t been nice enough to your customers. Like that ol’ man behind us. You don’t talk enough, or smile.” She leaned in and whispered, “If you let him touch you, lean over and let him have a good look, you can double your tips.” She winked, paused to let her advice settle, then demanded, “What’s in your other pocket?”

 

Jane fingered her other bulging pocket with the pen in it and the pad. “These are just some checks I haven’t put in the register yet. Pay, not tips.” She pulled a handful of tabs out with a few bills and some change and laid it on the table.

 

“Honey, lemme show you.” She advised, assuming a helpful tone.  You need to offer to get us something to drink with this too. ”She turned to the man and said, “Ray? Whatcha want. Mind you, they don’t serve any beer.”

 

The quiet man said his first words, “another cup of coffee’s okay for me.” He looked up at Jane, and gallantly quipped, “Cupcake, fill her up!” as he tipped his cup.

 

Jane’s eyes were still on the proof she had laid on the table. She nervously reached over to grab it. But the woman gestured her hand aside, pushing each coin to the side carefully.

 

 “Big Cola for me dear, and don’t just make it mostly ice this time. I know what you’re all doing trying to fill it up with too much ice so you don’t have to give up the real merchandise.” She commanded keeping her eyes on the coins. “Start thinking more about your customers and you’ll get bigger tips, now, run along.”

 

When Jane returned with the drinks she noticed that the coins were missing from the table. “You can’t do that! I need that money!” she pleaded, trying to keep quiet so no one would be alerted to the problem she knew she foolishly stepped into.

 

“Oh come on now, calm down. We expect to come into some cash tomorrow and will pay you back. You can’t spend it now anyway, being underage on a Friday night. You should just go home and do your studying now.”

 

Jane shook her head and scowled.

 

“For heaven’s sake, Belva, it’s been too long since me and Ray have had a good night on the town. I used to have great work during wartimes but they cut us off just like that when the boys came home. I’m out, still lookin’.  Was proud to do my share, now we’re ‘sposed to get back to makin’ babies. You don’t wanna remind me of the olden days.”

 

Jane mind was flooding with memories that she was doing her best to hold back. Right now she needed to protect her interests here in the diner, her job, her money and not call attention to the problem she knew she had helped to create. “I gotta pay Mrs. Moots. Since I’ve been working I don’t help around the house as much and I am trying to finish school, get a diploma.”

 

“What do you need that for dearie, with your good looks. You’re gonna snag a keeper like my Ray in no time.”  She squeezed Ray’s arm.

 

“Tell you what. We’ll just consider that dinner’s on you tonight, like a good old farm girl. You had the pleasure of our company and didn’t even have to cook!

 

Jane fidgeted nervously in their presence then tried to strengthen her position. She leaned into the table, and tried to object quietly, without creating undue attention. “But…”

 

“Now you don’t want me giving you a lecture about how you was raised or anything to be a selfish girl.” The woman interrupted. “ So we’ll just consider this money to be a loan and pay you back before it’s missed. Tell ya what, we can be back in here on Sunday. Mrs. Moots won’t miss it.”

 

“I don’t work Sundays,” Jane said

 

“Sure you don’t!” she replied saccharin sweetly. “You’re a good old country girl, wouldn’t miss church I’m sure.

 

Still go to church? Isn’t that the other kinda fun times we were ‘sposed to have living down on the farm? Socializing, putting on airs, wearing our pretty dresses once a week? Flirting with the minister. All looking holier than thou. Then the whole rest of the week we got dirty in so many ways. You know what I mean?”

 

She did not wait for an answer, but blurted with a loud generous tone. “God, talking with you about it makes me really glad I’m out of there. And now on our way to have a good time.  Because of you sweetie! See we can still have some kind of re-lation-ship. I’m certain you feel good about giving me and Ray this money in our time of need.”

 

“Lending it,” Jane said slowly, realizing she’d been defeated.

 

“Since you’re off on Sunday, we’ll come in sometime during the week and pay you back, get a cup of coffee or something. Maybe when you’re not so busy as on Friday night.”

 

“No, I can come over on Sunday to pick it up.” Jane offered. “Be glad to stop in and see where you live. Maybe…” her voice trailed off and picked up some distant hope.

 

She shifted her weight and pleaded earnestly, but softly. “It would be wonderful, if we really could… maybe start over some way.” The teenager looked as if she was desperately seeking the right words to say.  “Or I could help out around the house… or…”

 

The woman recoiled from Jane’s earnest pleas. Her face clouded like thunderstorms on the horizon, as her lipsticked smile fractured into a twitching scowl. She looked at Jane with piercing eyes and leaned in as close as she could to the girl, who was standing still quietly waiting for her response. She held red-orange painted fingertips between her face and the older man on the other side of the booth.

 

“And you’d just love,”: she whispered menacingly “to sashay aroun’… and wiggle your skinny arse… and pretty bitty t*****s… all over my boyfriend now too, I’ll bet.”

 

Jane recoiled, her eyes looked like a doe caught by surprise.

 

The woman changed her tone abruptly again and raised her voice as if she were only joking, and laughed. “You gotta get your own, girl!  Get out more! Don’t need your nose in the books. Use it while you still got it; they don’t teach you that on the farm.

 

We’ll be back in so you can pay the woman whose taking care of you, now that you’ve run away from your family and left them with all those babies to take care of. Oldest girls shouldn’t do that, you know. We heard all about it. Didn’t you learn that at church about respecting your parents? But never mind. I’d of done it too, you know.

 

You know,” she repeated meaningfully, leaning in again and adding a wink. “Glad I did. We’re alike Belva, no doubtin’ that for sure! Soon as I heard it I thought, that’s my girl!”

 

Her face brightened again, “Oh and that’s ok, we’ll save desert for another time dear.”

 

The couple stood up quickly and walked toward the door. Jane watched and shook her head when she saw they really did not leave money to pay the check. She had hoped it was all just a joke.

 

Ray turned around suddenly and Belva’s heart lifted expectantly. He almost ran into her while she was still standing at the table. He smiled awkwardly, caught her eyes in his & put a nickel on the table with a crisp snap. Ray shrugged his shoulders, adjusted the felt hat on his head, smirked and looked into Jane’s disappointed eyes once again.  Then he reached into his pocket and leaned toward her, taking her hand as if to shake it and pressed a few more coins into it.

 

Watching him running after his girlfriend, Jane knew the coins in her hand would not be enough to cover their tab and the confiscated tips and receipts for the evening.

 

She picked up the check and tried to follow the couple, already half out the door. “Hey!” she called just loud enough to get them to turn around.

 

The redhead stepped back inside, “What, you expecting a hug or something, since you haven’t seen me in so many years?” she said pretending to be oblivious to the problems she had caused and embarrass the waitress instead. “You’re a professional now. You wouldn’t like me slobbering all over you when you got customers waiting for you to take care of them. Get back in there!” She pushed Jane back toward the register.

 

Jane tried to keep her composure dignified, realizing that she had lost this round, and clueless as to how she could gain the upper hand.

 

The restaurant owner noticed that something was amiss; Jane was not at her station, and came toward the group blocking the doorway to his establishment. “Everything okay over here?”

 

Jane shrugged her shoulders, shook her head and stuffed the check back in her apron, as the couple walked away.

 

“Hey what did they order?” he asked. “What’s the problem? Where’s your cash?”

 

He could see tears welling in her eyes as she looked in the direction of the distant couple.

 

He seemed to guess that they were a no-pay and offered to run after them.

 

She shook her head and said emphatically, “I promise, I promise I’ll pay you back.”

 

“I told you Jane, you can’t be treating your friends here to free dinner,” he said.

 

She isn’t my friend, Mr …

 

“That don’t make it any better,” he interrupted, trying to be understanding but firm.

 

“She’s my mother.”

 

Chapter 2  

Jane let the week go by, another Friday and Elvira and Ray had not shown up at the restaurant. Not that she really expected it, although she still hoped and gave them the benefit of the doubt. She managed to earn enough tips to repay her debt to the Lamplighter.

 

She felt like she was able to even the score a bit by finding out where the couple lived, just by asking a few questions. New Albin may be a big city but it’s small enough that everyone knows one another’s business. Maybe she could beat them at their game by surprising them in their home the way they’d done to her at the Lamplighter Diner. After all, her mother told her she’d pay her back this week. This was Saturday; she may be expecting her visit.

 

She found their house easily enough and knocked. When there was no answer, she tried to let herself inside, but it was locked. So she took a seat on the porch and waited for them to return. She observed that the porch could use a good cleaning and a coat of fresh paint. She’d even be willing to do that, if her mom wanted her to. Maybe that would be a way to get on her good side and resume a relationship that she sorely missed in some big uncertain way.

 

She thought about the last time she saw her mother. She was little, barely five years old, crouching on the stairs, peering between the rails on the banister looking at the door. Because her father’s back was between her and Elvira, most of the conversation was muffled, some loud and emotional, but she could clearly hear the part that interested her the most.

 

“So what do you want to do about the children?” he asked in a strong clear voice.   She remembers that she prayed, “Pick… me. Pick me, pick me, mom, please!” She also remembers a contradictory thought at the same time. That she didn’t really want her mother to take her away from her father. She liked him so much better. Bill was more fun, took her for carriage rides, sang to her, taught her things. Elvira acted like a scared little child most of the time, clumsy, uncomfortable in the role of farmwife and mother. Which she was, exactly; Jane understood that now.

 

She could hear Elvira responding, “Well William, Earl is getting big enough that he’ll be a big help to you on the farm, and Belva will soon enough too, I reckon.” Her heart sank.

 

“Little Merlin, he’s just a baby. Will be more trouble than he’s worth for awhile now. So I’ll take him and leave you the other two.”

 

Her father barked back instantly, “Like hell you will, woman! You don’t get any of them. Get out of my house!” He slammed the door and that was the last the children ever saw of their mother, until now, Jane presumed.

 

She would be called Belva, which she hated, or Belva Jane until she dropped the use of it when she ran away from home years later.

 

That’s how Belva Jane came to care for a baby before she was quite old enough to go to school. Bill remarried soon enough, a more experienced woman, Esther, with a small brood of her own. Since Belva was the oldest girl she was expected to care for her stepmother and the other kids while the woman of the house punctually went about creating a new child every year to help out on the Gordon farm.

 

The farm was as large as possible, given that banks and government interests had taken much away over a hundred-plus years. Originally, she was informed, their property took in bits of Iowa, Wisconsin and Minnesota. “So you can always spot it on any map or globe.” Her father told her stories of her ancestors, the Rosses, who came to settle in the area, making peace with the Indians. Part of the deal was the mingling of their races through the gift of an Indian princess to her great-great-grandfather, John Ross, the leader of the settlers.  By their mingled blood he would protect the Indians, share the land and farming techniques, and assure a peaceful existence that would last over a hundred years.

 

She didn’t know how much of her father’s stories were true. Others in the family scoffed at them, told her he was making them up to please her. But she would stare at her cheekbones in the mirror, and her olive complexion, her dark hair and eyes and see a faraway resemblance to a quiet Indian princess yearning to be free and live a peaceful coexistence with Nature as her guide.

 

Her only escape as a child was the one-room schoolhouse that was packed with a dozen other kids in addition to the pride of Gordons. Belva’s favorite memories were of her father packing all the kids in the carriage to take them to school on snowy days. He’d put bells on the horses so they would arrive in fancy form, feeling like Cinderella and Christmas all rolled into one.

 

Other days they were expected to walk two and a half miles after doing their morning chores. Which was all right. Belva enjoyed running ahead of her brothers. Earl teased her a lot, trying to make her feel stupid. He liked to bring up special matters that made her feel creepy inside.

 

“Looking forward to seeing your boyfriend?” Earl teased. “Maybe Woody will come over after church again. Belva, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

 

“His name isn’t really Woody, is it?” Belva asked, not suspecting what Earl was up to.

“Aw you know who I mean,” her older bother said, then started pumping his midsection back and forth the way Elvis would many years later. Belva laughed, thinking it was a silly imitation of a jerky dance. She blushed now thinking of her naïveté.

 

“You just love it when he picks you up and twirls you around. He tickles you all over and puts you on his lap.” Earl started grinding his midsection again, this time making grunting noises. “He tells you how good you look in your Sunday dress and touches your soft skin.” It took a while for her to catch on that this was wrong. She was so innocent at the time, and wished to remain so as long as possible.

 

She recalled that Earl seemed especially proud in a mischievous way to relate a time when he happened to walk in on Woody unexpectedly and found him with his boots on. They were on their walk to school when he told her.

 

“You know what I mean, don’t-cha Belva?” he teased. “I mean he’s got those big puddle rubbers on, that go clear up to the knee, and it ain’t raining, and there’s not a lick of water even out there in the field. HA!”

 

“And the sheep are out there making bleating noises, I heard them! Got it now girl?”

 

She didn’t.

 

He continued, “And all’s he’s got to do is grab one of them and stick their back legs into those boots,” he laughed. “and they can’t go nowhere.”

 

She didn’t want to think about what Earl wanted to tell her next, so she ran off, faster than he could catch up to her, and beat him into the schoolhouse. Safe. She felt the seeds of distrust growing into hatred of men, boys and their disgusting stories. Even deeper if these stories were true, which she’d like to believe they couldn’t be. She wanted to believe in the decency of men, that they were all as good and kind as her father. They wanted to take care of girls and women. She wanted to believe that with all of her heart.

 

The problem is, sometimes the loyalties of men regarding whom they should protect, the woman or the girl, becomes divided.

 

Belva Jane’s stepmother, became more of a concern as her temper became shorter over the years. She heard her own inner voice warning: When mamma says “I’m seeing red.” You better believe you’d best get out of her way.  She’d grab the first whoopum item she saw, a strap or a fire-poke and apply it to whatever body parts she could reach.

 

Time on the porch was passing fast. Jane couldn’t hold back the tide of childhood memories crashing up to the day she decided to leave her father’s farm for good. She was getting hungry, and there were apples on the trees. So she picked a bunch and started munching them, leaving the cores on the edge of the railing in a neat long row. She thought it would be cute to just leave them there for her mother to see when she returned. To let her know she’d been there for awhile, and that she’d taken care of herself and her hunger with what was at hand.

 

The apples on the rail of the porch reminded her of a time she was fighting with Earl about who’s turn it was to do the dishes, to wash or dry. They took their fight outside.

 

Earl, being older and more secure, always chose whichever he wanted first.  This time she decided she wasn’t going to take it. So she started swishing a towel at him on the porch, imitating her mamma, and he bolted away screaming “Fine, you can just do them all yourself!”

 

She took off after him, confident that she could outrun and maybe even tackle him. She saw her brother scoot under the barbed-wire fence and followed.  She was midway under the fence when she felt strong hands clasp her ankles and pull her slender body straight up and out. She felt the barbs of the fence cut into her shirt and deep into her skin.

 

The lacerations she endured reminded her of the scourge of Christ himself. Belva tried to be more humble and accept it. She actually hoped that something good would come out of it, like Christ. She prayed that folks would feel sorry for her, tend to her wounds, that Esther would see those stripes and cry. And change her ways. She imagined that her father would take her side and intervene on behalf of the children. So this would never happen again. They’d all live happily ever after.

 

Instead Esther just tore open her shirt and slapped grease on her back, maybe lard, to keep the wounds moist. “There, all better! Quit your whining.” That was as close to an apology as she got.

 

Her father’s face looked sad as he tried to explain. “Me and Esther have a deal where I take care of the farm and she takes care of the children. It’s got to stay that way, Belva. Love you, but that’s the way it goes.” So it went.

 

No too long after that, when it was time to return to school, Belva realized she was not included when they were getting supplies in order: knapsacks and pencils, notepads and books. She began to panic the first day the house was quiet after summer, no other kids around except for the youngest, and she was left alone with Esther.

 

She didn’t object out loud, because she didn’t want to risk a beating. She did the best she could to never upset her stepmother. Over the years she had proved she was a quick study. She learned to clean and sew. Her father knew better than to over-compliment her on her stitches, which surpassed Esther’s only because a girl’s eyesight and dexterity are both better than an older woman’s, of course.  Belva also enjoyed making basic repairs around the house and tending to the animals.  But she yearned to go back to school.

 

She was excited to see the schoolmistress walking up to the house one day, and rushed to greet her. Esther ordered her to get back in the house and Belva listened in on the stairs, once again, to try to hear what they were talking about. She prayed that the schoolmistress would be able to convince Esther to let her return to school.

 

That was not to be. “Belva Jane’s help is needed around the farm here and the law says she don’t need any more schooling after 12, so that’s that!” Esther ordered the schoolmistress to leave and never come back.

 

Belva Jane ran up to her room and packed the largest flour sack she could find full of her belongings and took off, imagining that this would teach her family a lesson. How could they get on without her?

 

She ran into her father several months later. He seemed happy to see her, hugged her, and inquired as to how she was doing. She told him everything was great, hoping he’d demonstrate his love by begging her to come back home when he saw how strong and grownup she’d become. She wasn’t sure how she’d answer but she still hoped he’d, at least, ask.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Belva believe that God had showed his love for her by giving her Mr. and Mrs. Moots instead. They were an elderly couple who saw the runaway sitting at a bench with her flour sack at the train station, the only place Belva knew where she could stay for long hours without arousing suspicion. Here she could also wash up, use the toilet and sometimes, when lucky, even find food left behind as passengers rushed to catch their trains.

 

The couple took a seat beside her, one on each side, and started a conversation. Where was she from, what was she doing here. She told them she had been waiting for someone who hadn’t shown up yet. They told her they’d wait with her; she assumed they’d give up. So they all waited together and swapped stories to pass the time.

 

After awhile of getting to trust one another, she got around to telling them about the schoolmistress and Esther. Mrs. Moots made an excuse after hearing that one, to take her husband aside. When they returned they told the young girl that she should come with them to their home for some dinner, since it was obvious that her party was not going to show up.

 

At dinner, they pressed further, offering that she could go to school near them, an even better school, in exchange for helping them with chores that were becoming too much for them around the house. “A fair deal,” they agreed. Several years had passed under this arrangement and they proved to be true and good for one another.

 

Sitting on the porch, waiting for her mother to return, thinking about the ways their lives paralleled, filled Jane with a sense of peace. Everything was turning out all right in the end, wasn’t it? “As it was meant to be,” she thought.

 

She actually felt sympathetic toward Elvira. Love would take a little longer. Her heart ached for something more than she ever had, things that were missing. She could understand why her mother left her family ten years before.

 

Perhaps they were alike, as Elvira had hinted. She would like to know more. It takes strength and courage to leave, to walk out of a bad situation and make something of yourself. She was beginning to feel almost proud; eager to hug her mother and tell her everything could be fine between them, better than ever. The blue veil of night was quickening and Belva knew she had to find her way back home. Mr. and Mrs. Moots would worry about her.

 

The next morning she was awakened by police pounding at the door of the Moots house.

 

Ray and Esther had filed charges against Belva Jane Gordon for trespassing, creating a disturbance and theft of personal property. The apples cores left on the railing were their proof. The police took the child away in handcuffs, documented her as a 15-year-old run-away, and fingerprinted her at the station. She spent a day and a night in jail until she was released back to the Moots’, charges dropped, point well made.

 

That was the last time she wanted to see her mother, and she never got her money back.

 Chapter 3 

“Please don’t go yet,” I pleaded softly to my mother as she flipped the covers over my body and the bed. The soft wind dance she created with the fluttering sheets excited my imagination and I wanted her to stay longer. “Tell me another story.”

 

“Which one?” she smiled. I knew she enjoyed telling her stories as much as I loved to hear them. I don’t recall her ever reading a book to me. She never liked fairy tales. To this day she prefers true drama, switching on crime and court programs on the t.v. She has the gift of the Irish, I believe, inherited from her father along with her distant Indian ancestry, for telling true stories, lightly embellished for added interest.

 

“Maybe one about you and your mother.” I’d whisper softly, not wanting my sleeping sister, Audrey, hidden in the darkness across the room, to overhear the spicy details my mother was willing to share with me. I pretended we shared secrets like girlfriends, and was eager to hear more.

 

She would sit beside me and stroke my hair behind my ear. Although the lights were turned out in our bedroom, my bed faced the hallway, which was lit and provided a back glow to my mother’s slim figure in silhouette. A window above my headboard allowed moonlight to dance across her face providing a perfect stage and setting.

 

She would tell me about her life on the farm, how she ran away, and the trouble she got herself into, being young and naïve. She called herself “stupid.”

 

Sometimes I would cry for her, feel tears welling in my eyes. She would soothe them away by telling me to see things from another perspective. She always forgave her tormentors. Every one. But she couldn’t resist ending each story with a doozy that left me wanting to hear more. “Oh, no more tonight, Adele. I’ll save that for later. Go to sleep.”

 

But I couldn’t fall instantly to sleep. I needed to repeat her words and fill in the missing details, imagine the conversation, what they may have said and how they may have dressed. I’d wonder what her mother looked like, the color of her hair. I’d weave what I knew from visits to the towns my mother grew up in and the people she introduced me to into my nighttime reveries. I had seen a faded black and white photo of her stepmother Esther on the farmhouse mantle, alongside one little girl’s pink patent-leather shoe.

 

Esther was a large strong-looking woman, dressed in a shabby faded floral housedress that billowed around a full figure, shut tight with an apron. Her face looked stern, her eyes looked pained with a faraway gaze. Something mean behind them, I thought, for sure, but also real pain. I could picture the lady in the photo grabbing a kitchen towel, slightly moist from drying a few dishes, twirling it into a weapon and whipping it swiftly against a child’s dancing-out-of-the-way legs.

 

I’d never seen a picture of her real mother, Elvira, but I could conjure up a vision based on what I knew of her times. I had plenty of time to do so as I lay awake at night, in the darkness, filling in the details of my mother’s stories. 

 

I knew that girls on the farm only wore makeup on Sundays; that a woman who moved into the city in order to experience more “fun” as my mom said Elvira told her father she wanted, would wear makeup even on weekdays and probably change her hair color. She had little money so she’d try peroxide and other home treatments. If she tried a home perm overtop it would turn her hair a strange color and texture, which satisfied my imagining since I didn’t want to make Elvira up to be a more mature version of my own beautiful mother. I’d make her plumper and more citified when I imagined the scene of their restaurant meeting, the one where she took advantage of her daughter and stole her tips. She would have been nervous and want to talk a lot, to explain herself, make up for lost time by giving contradictory advice, and try to distract the situation away from her small crime.

 

The crime was small, my mother suggested, because it was between family, and family members often hurt each other the most. Besides, even if it could have cost her daughter a job, it was one that she was legally too young to hold.

 

I let my mother’s stories into my dreams, with my own editorial spins, and would sometimes awaken with dialogue playing in my head. I’d remain under the covers for as long as I could, trying to overhear more. I could hear the faint jingling of sleighbells and catch glimpses of children laughing and chasing one another in the snow.

 

It broke my heart to know that my own dear mother had never known the kind of love that she and I shared. The next night, as she tucked me in, I’d ask her how she felt about certain things, gently, trying not to make her so uncomfortable that she would not indulge my hopeful curiosity. I admitted I did not think that I could be as forgiving as she had been.

 

“I just put myself in their place. You never know how you would behave in their situation,” she’d say.

 

Her stepmother, Esther, the one in the photo, died of a slow-growing brain tumor. “She couldn’t help what she did when she saw red.” She’d explain.  “When she was angry the blood must of felt like it was exploding her brain. She must have been in terrible agony. And she just shared it with us kids.”

 

She’d look at me sadly with her dark faraway eyes, and even accepted part of the blame. “After all to her, we were causing that pain, through whatever we were doing wrong. She didn’t know what else it could be.”

 

That night I closed my eyes and saw Bill Gordon’s lean leathery face and imagined looking through his hollow eyes on the figure of his twelve-year old daughter that he left all alone on the streets of New Albin. I could see a figure that I imagined to be John Ross behind him as well, wearing a rancher’s hat and holding the hand of his Indian Princess, who looked remarkably like my mother. Their spirits would look after her, guide her in her adventures, I believed. Her stories were sad and courageous. She was always noble and proud.

 

“I was just a stupid little girl from the farm,” she often told me, especially when I tried to compliment her on her bravery. “A little dummy who didn’t know any better.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ASIDE

 

My mother is dying, I know. She weighs 89 pounds and is disinterested in eating. It pains me to type these words. We used to talk for over an hour on the phone, several times a week, and now she is too tired to talk and wants to hang up after only a few minutes. It’s the day before Thanksgiving and she has selected a facility to move into. She has told me that she may not be able to bear being tucked away in the guest room of my brother’s home tomorrow, to hear the chatter and whispers of her family preparing a feast she does not wish to eat. She would like to have another option where she would not be a burden to anyone she cares about.

“To hell with the doctors and nurses,” she told me on the telephone. “It’s their job to listen to my complaints.” My mom does a good job contrasting her frail appearance with a strong and vocal resistance to things with which she disagrees.

 

This past week, her stories are reappearing in my head every night. Many times during the day, as well, her words interrupt my thoughts and stir up pictures in my mind. Is it because her fading spirit wishes to share them again with me? Or is it some guilty indulgence of mine that feeds my longing to be close to her?

 

I sit in a leopard fleece bathrobe and type on my computer to capture the words and images. Sometimes I awaken as early as 4 a.m. and type until 7:30 or so, until the images have stilled or I am called to do something else.

 

I’ve got pages going off in all directions, and still do not know where this is headed, if anywhere, and feel that my mother might want to know what I was up to. Two days ago I told her I was writing again and hinted that she was the subject along with her stories.

 

“You’ve always been such a story teller,” She laughed, using a tone that could be taken as either accusation or praise.

 

“Not me, mom, I got it from you, as you did from your father,” I switched the blame. I could tell from a happy hum in her voice and the stillness that followed that she was receiving it as a compliment. “The Irish tie. You know you make an interesting feisty character, with your chutzpah and courage. You’ve had an amazing life.”

 

“That I have,” she agreed. 

 

When I asked if she would like to hear any of it, she asked me to save it for another time. I hoped to be able to write a lot so I could share as much as she would want to hear with her, someday soon, in person. I wished I could be with her to flip the sheets across her long, tiny body, wherever she might be, so she could feel the wind caressing her and carry her off if she wanted to fly. The sheets delicate landing would assure her that she was safe. I wanted to hold her fragile hands, once again, hug her tense, scared body, touch her soulful face and read her stories that evolved from the ones she had told me very long ago.

 

On the phone, I warned her that my versions of her stories are based on the information she had shared with me many times before. But the stories I wrote down had become colored by my imagination to fill in the blanks, like the programs she loves to watch on t.v.

 

“Oh you’ve always had a good imagination,“ she said, using that same tone that could be taken either way.

 

I chose to take it as passive encouragement to continue recording the stirrings in my head, as quickly as they come, without regard for outcome. I hope to be able to share bits and piece of the life of an extraordinary woman who had the greatest influence on mine.

 

Chapter 4 

Jane did not get a chance to finish high school. Once she became employable, she felt she should no longer impose on the Moots’ generosity. In the late 1940’s with the glory of war’s victory behind them, plenty of men were looking for women to enjoy and perhaps settle down with, and Jane was fast becoming a very attractive catch. 

 

She thought her first name of Belva sounded too country, now that she lived in a larger city. The actress Jane Russell was becoming the nation’s leading sex symbol. So going from just “plain Jane” suddenly escalated in sophistication, she thought.

 

“Going to the movies was a completely new experience to me,” my mother told me. You would see these women larger than life, acting like no one you’ve ever met before. They could take it with the best of men. And if the men acted out of line, they would simply slap them.”

 

I laughed, thinking that seemed like a fair deal. I could accept being the weaker sex, if we could hold our own against the stronger one.

 

“But I have to tell you, Adele, that doesn’t work in real life.” Her eyes clouded dramatically. “No. It doesn’t, I found out.

 

They slap you back.

 

Once it came out that I was a runaway. That I had no parents or anyone looking out for me. The way they treated me changed. How stupid I was for being out on my own! It didn’t matter how classy I tried to be.

 

I always tried to carry a chip on my shoulder, like they did in the movies. You need to do that.  A little more detached. Not smile too much, not be gabby like the other girls. When other girls opened their collars to show more cleavage, I’d dress the opposite and button it up to the top.  The other waitresses would try to encourage me to get more tips by leaning over a certain way, or letting men touch their behinds. Grrr disgusting.” She growled.  “Don’t ever be a waitress, anything else, but not that!

 

I’d go out of my way to make sure my signals were not that kind. No one could ever say I flirted, I didn’t. But it didn’t matter. It also didn’t matter how nice these guys acted before they asked me out on a date. A lot of these guys were real nice guys. Just not to me or my low kind.

 

They’d slap me. And I mean hard.” She looked away and stopped.

 

There she was again, giving excuses to those who hurt her, and giving them the power.

 

“Anyway after a while of this… s**t, I made myself a promise.” She paused.

“I vowed that I’d marry the first guy who said he loved me. Even if I didn’t love him back.”

 

 

Ken Pruitt walked into her life in a white suit and straw hat. He looked slim and sweet and was always a gentleman to her. To tell the truth, my mother preferred larger men, taller men who she could look up to.  She’d demonstrate her preference by lifting her arms up as if to wrap them around a figure a half-foot higher than her 5’7”. “Perfect, right here.”

 

She was also more accustomed to tough guys, boys like her brothers who would tease her, chase her, wrestle a bit, then let her go. She learned to outrun and outwit them, and enjoyed the challenge.

 

Ken Pruitt was not that kind of guy. There was never any challenge involved in outwitting or outrunning him.

 

“He was the kid of guy who would whine if he got sand between his toes.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “We would go to the beach and he would step carefully, keeping his shoes and socks on. Then he would lay the blanket down just so, taking his time to get the corners just right. Sit down in the middle, take off his shoes and socks, one at a time. Sometimes he wouldn’t even bother.  Just leave everything on and sit there fully dressed, looking very uncomfortable the whole time.

 

Christ Almighty already I’d think. I’d quickly strip to my swimsuit, kick my clothes into a pile in the sand, be ready to run & swim, then turn back to take a good look at him, and think: Un-believ-a-bull.” She shook her head.

 

“Of course the minute someone ran or walked by him they’d mess everything up. And he hated it. Couldn’t stand it. Not that he would say anything. Just wince like a little goddam baby.”  She shuddered.

 

“And when he took off his shirt. Ah… let’s just say he was not my type. He looked like the guy that gets sand kicked in his face in the commercials. Who needs Weight-On. He looked pretty dressed up in a suit, but without it… Oh God!” She gestured hands-off, shook her head violently and grimaced with a clear look of disdain.

 

“And I thought I was marrying someone older and wiser!” She shook her head again. “But he was, in fact, it turned out, just plain goddam stupid. Maybe not really, but I often thought so.  Ken would get fired from every job he ever had,” she said. “Then be ready to pick up and move.”

 

They moved around a lot from town to town, following leads for work for Ken. Factories were hiring all over the country revamping the economy after the war. The couple discovered that, for reasons that probably had to do with her good looks and the fact that men did all the hiring, that my mother had an easier time getting hired first. With her strong work ethics and fast learning skills she made a strong impression. They developed a technique where each time they moved, my mom would get a job first, make a good impression, then introduce her husband, who just happened to be available, to the foreman. “It worked out well for a while, my mom said, “Then Ken would make some blundering mistake, get fired and we’d be on the road again.”

 

She was very pleased when they headed for the Miami area, where the Mafia had invested a great deal of cash to prepare as a playground for their bored wives.

 

“Hey, what’s the favorite wine of an Italian American Princess?” the joke goes.

 

The punch-whine: “I wanna go to Miami!”

 

“It seemed so glamorous!” my mother exclaimed.

 

There was no factory work, so she got a job tending bar in Ft. Lauderdale. For her it was perfect. She worked nights and had days free for playing on the beach.

 

“It was really the first time in my life that I really enjoyed myself, by myself. I really thought I would be content to live there for the rest of my life!” she told me.

 

“And I was getting strong enough to realize that I didn’t need a guy to take care of me. In fact I’d be better off without him.” When Ken followed her into town, bringing his devoted mother to stay with him, she made herself another promise.

 

This time she vowed that if she were not pregnant, she’d leave him.

 

She was, so she didn’t.

 

“From the moment Johnny entered this world,” my mom said, “he reminded me constantly of Kenny. He even hated having sand between his toes!” She laughed. But I taught him to get over it. I loved the fact that I now had an excuse to take the baby all day to a place where Ken and his mother did not want to go.”

 

As long as Ken had a day job, and Jane worked nights, they got along fine. His mother took over responsibilities for babying her grown son, cooking and tending to his persnickety ways. He grew up particular about how he liked his foods, his clothes and his mother was pleased to fuss and resume caring for such details full time. She took very little interest in his wife or child.

 

It worked out until Ken lost his job again and started packing. My mother convinced him that it would be better if he went first this time. That she’d send them cash until he and his mother settled in, then follow up after he had a job.

 

This bought her enough time to make arrangements to serve him with divorce papers. “I didn’t want attorneys involved, just to get it resolved quickly and permanently.” She described her last scene with him.

 

“I told him, I don’t want a dime from you. You’ve been good to me and the baby. And he was. But you know, yourself, that you would probably do better without us.”

 

Ken talked it over with his mother and they both agreed it could be a good deal. “Not a cent?” he asked, “ever?”

 

“As long as you agree to never try to make contact with me or with Johnny again,” she assured him.

 

She recalls that his last remark to her was uncharacteristically catty.

 “Great!” he told her. “I’m sure I had more sex before I got married to you, than after.”

 

My mother seemed remarkably proud of herself for her part in that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Chapter 5 

 

The Fort Lauderdale establishment where my mother tended bar in the early 1950s served a lot of servicemen on shore leave. Two of her favorite regulars were a pair of marines named Joe and Don, who always showed up together in snappy uniforms.

Joe was the more sociable of the two, with dark eyes and long lashes, always quick with a laugh and a long story. “Very good with the ladies,” she said.

 

Don was the quiet man, stronger looking and blonde, with crystal blue eyes and broad shoulders. Just my type exactly. The right height, right up to here.” She raised her arms in a high dancing position. “The strong silent type, mmmm.” She smiled.

 

“But, he never asked for anything more than a shot and a beer. So I figured he wasn’t interested. And I started dating Joe on occasions when he was in town.”

 

One day Joe ran into the bar in a panic, asking if Jane had seen Don. “He’s AWOL! And the ships ready to take off!” she told me he said. “He’s in a shitload of trouble! This is the stuff you get court-martialed for!” He ran out as quickly as he had come in, clearly concerned about the welfare of his friend. He left Jane to wonder about whatever happened to that tall good-looking marine.

 

A few weeks later Don showed up at the bar. “Grinning ear to ear. Totally nonchalant, as if he hadn’t a concern in the world.” Jane said. “I told him everyone was looking all over for him, very worried. Where the hell had he been?

 

He just ordered his regular, without answering the question, then asked me out!”

 

She thought it was uncharacteristically disloyal for Joe’s best friend to make a move while the guys were “out on maneuvers. Where Don should have been.” She told him so, though maybe not in so many words.

 

He just smiled, looking down at his beer. He drank his shot quickly in one swoop, cocked his head sideways, and looked up at her with his baby blue eyes. His one eyebrow arched over a cockeyed grin with a shrug that said “So?”

 

She answered “yes,” she admitted, and sighed.

 

“Maybe it was a long story and he needed time to tell it. So I figured it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy his company,” She said. “But it sure took him a while to get around to it!”

 

Everything seemed to going well, although she couldn’t recollect exactly what they did or where they went. She felt wondrously safe and beautiful just walking next to this Gary Cooper in his starched tan uniform. She felt like they made a movie-star couple. The glances and smiles from passersby confirmed this. She felt proud to tuck her hand around his elbow, and stood up straight and proud, taking long-legged Jane Russell strides on the April Friday streets of Fort Lauderdale.

 

Up until this moment, she had been somewhat ashamed of her height. Women in the movies were so petite and delicate. By the 1940s they appeared to get stronger, more willful. But actresses still appeared to be a head shorter than the men. So they could look up into their eyes and put their rosy cheeks on their shoulders, to cry and throw tantrums if need be.

 

“There, there, now, little lady. Everything’s gonna be alright.” Sometimes you need big shoulders to cry on, and she had never had that before.

 

She took up smoking because she had been warned it could stunt her growth. She wanted that. She asked Don to light her cigarette, and held it high to show off her delicate wrists and long manicured fingertips. He did. She blew smoke into curls in the air.

 

She observed that he had the habit of holding his cigarette rather sideways, and low. She liked that. It looked more like something Humphrey Bogart would do. From that, she surmised, he might be a little tough with her. But by now she felt confident she could handle herself. She could be a Lauren Bacall kind of lady.

 

She had the opportunity to take on this role by the end of the evening, when he pressed himself upon her and made his moves. For all the enchantment of the evening, and how special he made her feel, she did not want him to be just like the others. She did not want to feel worthless this night.

 

“So, I just let him have it!” she told me. “Really laid into him!

 

I told him to keep his goddam hands off me. That I knew he wasn’t going to marry me. So keep your hands off, buster!”  

 

“What did he do?” I asked.

 

He gave up quickly enough,” she admitted. “Then he turned to me and said something like, ‘That’s how much you know.’

 

He was taunting me. But I finally got him to tell me where he had been for the past three weeks.”

 

Don went on to explain that the reason he went AWOL was to spend time in Chicago, to find out how his family would feel if he married a “divorcee with a three-year old kid.”

 

He said he didn’t wish to start something with her, unless he was certain that he could carry through with honorable intentions. He would need the full backing of his Catholic family. And although he didn’t tell my mother the full story when he asked her to marry him, if that’s what this proposition was really all about, he actually needed the full three weeks he went AWOL.

 

“Anyway, now that he was back, he was in a hurry,” she explained, “because his ship was coming in the next day. And he needed to answer to his captain. No delays.

 

I had heard this story before too. Or other versions. Good Marine heading off on maneuvers. Doesn’t know when he’ll be back, or if. Honey please! Give me something to remember you by! Jesus!” she begged in earnest imitation of scenes she recalled.

 

“But this bit about the big strong Catholic boy actually going home to mom and dad to ask their permission to marry? That’s the icing on the cake! Nothing could top that one! I didn’t think he had it in him.

 

I guess I thought I needed to challenge him.  Stupid huh?” she asked.

 

“We barely knew each other.

 

Or rather, he knew a lot more about me than I did about him. From hanging out at the bar and seeing how I handled the customers. He liked that I didn’t take any s**t from them. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t wear clothes that showed off my figure.

 

And he knew a lot about me from whatever it was that Joe said. I didn’t take any s**t from him either. No hanky panky. None of that going on.

 

But what did I know about him?

 

Not a goddam thing really. Liked his looks and the way I felt with him that day.

 

He said, ‘I’d marry you tomorrow if I only had the ring.’

 

And do you know what I did?” She asked then paused.

 

“Stupid woman that I was! I just wasn’t thinking straight!

 

Before I’d let him lay a finger on me, I wrote him a check for all I had in the bank and handed it to him. ‘Here! Go buy me a ring and let’s do this right!’”

 

“What an end to a romantic evening!” I laughed. 

 

“Yeah right,” she answered.

 

“The next morning I just sat and waited at the courthouse steps for hours. Got there when they opened and waited til they were going to close at noon. I just sat on those steps, all the while cursing myself. ‘Stupid, stupid dummy! His ship is going to pull out and there is no reason for him to show up. Now that you gave him all your money. Stupid, stupid farm-girl. You never learn!’

 

I recalled how she’d lost her money to her mother and her boyfriend a few years before. How she’d waited on their porch until evening and got such a surprise the next morning. She’d given Ken a free exit from his paternal responsibilities. So yes, this was a repeating pattern of hers, for better or for worse.

 

She more often ended up with the short end of the stick. And I thought she needlessly beat herself with it.

 

And who could blame the cowboy for just riding off into the sunset? What would Bogie do? Do cowboys ever get the girl, in the end, really?

 

“Just as I was getting ready to leave, at the very last minute,” she continued. “There he was, running up the stairs with that s**t-eating grin of his. My heart was just pounding! I don’t think we even said a word to each other. I was in complete shock.

 

We made it to the window just as they were shutting it,” she said.

 

“He had to run all over town to get a currency exchange to cash the check. Normally not a problem for the servicemen. But it was a personal check, larger than most. Then he had to go to every jewelry store to find the perfect wedding ring.”

 

I took my mother’s hand and admired her ring, a 3/4 carat solitaire, very beautiful, classic simplicity, in a narrow platinum band.

 

“Then after, we went through with it. Really almost on a dare.

 

Really, I think I just more wanted to see if he would. You know, go through with what he said. We didn’t have any time together really.

 

He spent the next three months in the brig!”

 

“Sounds like you had a wonderful honeymoon,” I joked.

 

“That’s how our marriage started and it didn’t really get all that much smoother from there,” she said.

 

“But I got the man I always thought I’d wanted. Decent and strong, your father. Everyone would say that about him.”

 

Don’s strong, silent demeanor masked a questioning intelligence with the ability to handle problems quickly, decisively.  Whenever he has the opportunity to lead, to solve problems, he rises like cream to the top. He is definitely a man’s man in the classic Bogie, Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood style. Many years later, he did, in fact become a leader of a thousand men, but not in the military.

 

“Whatever happened with the court martial? Did that ever happen?” I asked.

 

“I don’t know that anyone knows the details, not even me. Let’s just say the

Marines gave your father an early General Discharge from service. As you know, it’s just as well. He’s just not the kind of man who can follow orders blindly.”

 

Neither is my mother.  For the next sixty years, these two willful strong minds would make an amazing couple.

 

 

 

 

 Chapter 6

 

After being released from military service, Don brought his new bride home to Chicago to meet his parents, older brother and his wife.

 

Don’s mother, Margaret, a strong Lithuanian woman, was the one who was would not have been too keen on the idea of their marriage. She would have been the reason why Don would need to talk to his parents before even going out with a woman like my mother. She would oppose and stand firm until compromise was met. She believed that her son could have his choice of any girl. After all, she had been “It” in her day.

 

It all made sense to me, of course. One of my earliest memories with her was of being admonished when I was very young.  We were visiting her restaurant and her back was turned, so I called out “Grandma!”

 

She turned abruptly on her heel, came to our table, and leaned down to whisper coarsely at me, “Don’t you ever call me that. Ever. Again!”

 

“What would you like me to call you?” I asked, suddenly confronted by the large arms and huge bosom in front of me. I needed to strain my neck to look up past the mountains to her stern face surrounded by short curls that were always dyed Clairol’s most fashionable reddish blonde.

 

The figure stood up to flash me a big smile and looked up into the air. She added a flourishing gesture, twirling her wrist and fingers, as she surprised me with her answer. “RITA!”

 

I asked my mother about it later, who agreed that this response was a new one. She suspected she might wish to take a name that sounded more exotic in her own place. A diminutive of  “Margarita” would put patrons in mind of Rita Hayworth, with whom she thought she had much in common, including both being “It” girls.

 

Clara Bow brought the “It” concept to the stage in 1927 and admitted that while she didn’t know exactly what “It” meant, Lana Turner was certainly one. Later she added Marilyn Monroe and Robert Mitchum to the list of “those who could have anyone they wanted.”

 

Peggy believed there was a time when she belonged on that list. I could imagine her dancing flapper-style in beaded sequins. She could have been part of Chicago’s roaring twenties, flashing her big smile into the air, responding to the call of Rita.

 

“Just call her Peggy,” my mom advised, “like everyone else does.” And so I always have.

 

Peggy also thought of herself as a free-spirited businesswoman. She purchased property near Bridgeport, during the Al Capone era in his territory. She was proud to keep it in her own name since she bought it in bargain times, when the economy was collapsing, with money she made catering and tending bar. She liked to hint that she served some of these more colorful elements of Chicago notoriety, including certain underworld figures that must remain nameless.

 

“I have my secrets” she enjoyed saying.

 

She also had her prejudices, although she refused to admit them.

 

“Why don’t you go for a nice Jewish girl?” She asked, when Don visited her before he got married. “See, it’s not that I’m prejudiced!

 

I’d even give into that, being such a good Catholic as I am. See?” She thought she was demonstrating how very open-minded she was being about the situation, willing to compromise even on issues of faith.

 

“I’d rather see a good-looking guy like you -- who could have any girl -- marry into some money…” she paused.

 

“than some dirty Irish farm-girl… Oi Yesus!” she exclaimed theatrically.

 

“God forgive me! And one’s who’s divorced! Oi! With a child! Oi! Yesus, Yesus, Maria!”

When Don spent time with his father and brother alone, they were far more encouraging.  “Do you love her?” That was their only question, which they assured him he didn’t need to answer out loud.

 

In the end the good businesswoman negotiated a compromise based on which aspects of the truth they could color. She advised her son that, if he chose to marry this woman, they should just tell the family that the child’s father died in service to his country, which would be more acceptable.

 

The rest, they would need to work through, as best they could.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

First 6 Chapters & very concerned about the flow. I know I need to nail the story. Intend to introduce some strong women & show how their choices impact one another. Weave their stories together ala Amy Tan... Is my flow ok? Have I created intrigue?