Beyond the Carousel Read online

  Rose

  You might think it’s an easy thing to settle into having something more than what you’ve expected of life, but it’s not. When you’ve spent years believing you’re poor, your mind keeps thinking it even after it’s no longer true.

  This past week when we left Penney’s without ordering the furniture we intended to buy, I started wondering how it was I’d come to be saddled with such a fear. Emory grew up poor just as I did, but he’s not at all this way. He takes whatever good fortune comes his way, says, Thank you, Lord, and goes about the business of enjoying it.

  I thought about this for a long while and realized the only reason I’m this way is because Mama was. She never lived a carefree day in her life. She’d start out the day worrying about what was gonna happen tomorrow; then when tomorrow came and nothing bad happened, she’d start worrying about the next day.

  Looking back, I understand Mama was that way because of Daddy. He liked whiskey better than he did his family and made no bones about it. A thousand or more times I heard him tell Mama he should never have gotten married because he wasn’t cut out to be a family man. How is hearing such a thing supposed to make a woman feel?

  I think somewhere in her heart Mama wasn’t just worried about money. She was worried Daddy would one day up and leave us. Sure enough, he did.

  Understanding this made me realize that being well off and comfortable isn’t just about having money in the bank. It’s knowing that come what may, the person you love will be there for you. I know I won’t ever be poor as long as I’ve got Emory to love me.

  The Parlor

  Something about the new furniture changed the dynamics of the Hawthorne household. It was as if the plush velour sofa had an extra layer of sociability built in. What was once called the living room was now called the parlor, a name that seemed more befitting of the luxurious surroundings. The week after the furniture was delivered, Rose walked next door and invited Marion Eastman and her husband, Albert, to dinner without giving a second thought to the cost of a larger roast.

  “Nothing fancy,” she said, “but I thought it would be nice to get together.”

  Up until that day Rose and Marion had done nothing more than chat with one another across the backyard. For three years they’d spoken only of laundry soaps, recipes and such, but after that evening they became the best of friends.

  Marion invited Rose to join the ladies Wednesday afternoon bridge game, and within a few months Rose had grown friendly with every woman who lived along Chester Street. Tuesdays had always been her day for dusting, but now instead of fussing over furniture that didn’t have a speck of dust to be seen she strolled down the block and sat for a cup of tea with Bess Pearson or Emma Applewhite. And they in turn came to visit her.

  There was something very special about the parlor. It was a place to invite friends, a place to be proud of and a place where she could wile away the evening sitting across from Emory as he read the paper. When there was an article of interest he read it aloud, and Rose openly offered opinions on everything from President Harding’s new import tax to the latest movie featuring Rudolph Valentino. Time, it seemed, flew by in the flutter of an eyelash as she sat on the velour sofa darning a sock or rolling a skein of wool into a ball.

  “This is such a pleasant place to be,” she told Emory. “Why was it we didn’t realize we needed a parlor like this sooner?”

  Thinking back on the day they’d ordered the furniture, he smiled fondly.

  “Maybe sooner would have been too soon,” he said, then moved on to talking about the possibility of the New York Yankees winning the World Series.

  The parlor was only the start of the changes that came to the Hawthorne household that year.

  For Christmas Emory bought a brand new RCA radio for the family to enjoy together, and on New Year’s Day he settled in to listen to the Rose Bowl game. The first kickoff had yet to occur when the doorbell started ringing.

  “Marion said you’ve got a radio,” Albert Eastman said. Then he walked in and plopped himself down on the sofa. Right behind him was Charlie Morton and Walter Wetzel. By time the first quarter ended the room was filled with neighbors, and Rose was setting out a platter of sandwiches.

  The next day Laura started inviting her friends to radio parties, which made her the most popular sophomore in Wyattsville High. In the afternoon the girls would gather in the Hawthornes’ living room on the pretext of studying, and before long the still-new coffee table would be pushed against the wall and they’d be dancing the Charleston to tunes like Black Bottom and Shimmy Like My Sister Kate.

  On the days when Emory came from work and found the parlor cluttered with teenage girls, there was little he could do. He would on occasion fold his expression into a scowl, deepen his voice and say it was time to start studying, but beneath the stern expression there was generally the hint of a smile. The truth was the energy and vivaciousness of the girls made the house seem more alive. Happier perhaps.

  When Laura was in her junior year of high school, everything changed. It began two weeks before Labor Day. Rose was in the kitchen fixing egg salad for lunch when she heard a peal of laughter come from the parlor. The sound was different than the raucous giggling that usually came from Laura and her friends.

  Rose tiptoed down the hallway and peeked around the corner. Sitting next to Laura was the Jennings boy who lived at the far end of the street. After seeing the look on Laura’s face, Rose stepped into the room and asked if the lad would care to stay for lunch.

  “It’s only egg salad sandwiches,” she said, “but we’ve more than enough.”

  The boy looked up with a wide grin. “I love egg salad.”

  That was the first time Rose actually met Henry Jennings, but before long he became a fixture around the house.

  For the remaining days of summer, the lad was practically camped out on their front porch. He showed up early in the morning and didn’t leave until the sky turned dark. When dinnertime came and Henry was still sitting beside Laura on the front porch swing, Rose always asked if he’d like to join them for dinner. The first few times it seemed harmless enough, but before long it was just assumed there’d be an extra place setting at the table.

  Thinking maybe she could drop a subtle hint, Rose asked, “Do you want me to call your mama to make sure she’s not expecting you home?”

  Henry shook his head. “I already told her I’d be staying.”

  Rose knew Edna Jennings, Henry’s mother, from the ladies bridge club, so there was nothing more said. When Emory came in complaining that he’d nearly tripped over the boy’s bicycle in the walkway, Rose put her finger to her lips and made a hushing sound.

  “Lower your voice, or he’ll hear you,” she said. “His mama is a friend of mine.”

  “Well, then, it would seem you could—”

  Rose again shushed him, this time a bit more emphatically.

  The problem seemed to be that Laura liked Henry as much as he liked her, although why Emory couldn’t say. The boy was a lanky string bean with knobby knees and oversized feet.

  “Laura will be terribly upset if you start fussing at Henry, so try to be patient,” Rose urged. “She’ll be going back to school in a few more days, and then she’s sure to move on to some other interest.”

  Laura did go back to school but didn’t move on to another interest. Every morning when she left the house he’d be standing on the sidewalk, waiting for her so they could walk together. After school he’d swing by his own house, drop his books off then come back to spend time with Laura. When the weather turned cold they simply moved from the front porch to the parlor, and more often than not the boy sat in Emory’s favorite chair with his gangly legs stretched out. On the rare occasion when Henry wasn’t at the house he’d call on the telephone, and Laura would stand in the hallway for an hour or more talking about absolutely nothing.

  As fall turned to winter and then spring, it began to appear as if they were in love. Twice Rose asked her daugh
ter if they had spoken of anything as serious as marriage.

  Laura laughed. “Of course not. We just enjoy being together. Henry knows I’ve still got another year before I finish high school.”

  “What about him?” Rose asked. “He graduates this year. Has he mentioned what he plans to do then?”

  “He’s already got a job lined up. The gas station where he’s been working part time is going to put him on full time, and they’re going to let him buy the 1921 Hatfield they’ve got sitting out back. It needs work, but Henry’s very knowledgeable about fixing cars.”

  It was not the answer Rose wanted to hear. She knew Emory was hoping the boy would go away to college, but obviously Henry had other plans.

  “Before you two become serious, I wish you would try dating other young men,” she said.

  “Why?”

  It was an uncomfortable moment. Rose stumbled over several thoughts then gave what she believed to be the best answer.

  “Henry is a nice enough young man, but he doesn’t have much ambition. I question whether he’d be—”

  “Mama!” Laura cut in sharply. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Tinkering with cars is fine for a boy, but as a man—”

  “Daddy was a street car conductor when you married him!”

  “Yes, but your daddy had ambition. He knew he’d have to support a family and—”

  “Henry has ambition too,” Laura snapped. She whirled on her heel and trotted up the stairs.

  From that point on, any discussion about Henry was prickly as a briar patch. When Emory suggested that perhaps he should have a talk with the lad, Laura flew into a fit of tears.

  “I’m only saying I think you’re too young…” Emory stammered, but by then she’d stormed out of the room.

  Emory turned to Rose with a mystified expression. “I simply do not understand teenage girls.”

  “No one does, dear,” Rose replied.

  A Change of Heart

  Laura and Henry continued to date all summer. He went to work at the gas station and did indeed buy the Hatfield she’d spoken of. It was a two-seat coupe that rattled as if it would fall apart any moment.

  Rose feared once he had the car they would be off riding around to God-knows-where, but such was not the case. If anything the boy seemed to develop a greater sense of responsibility. Any number of times he volunteered to drive Rose to the Safeway store and wait while she shopped. When they arrived back at the house, he’d carry in the groceries.

  Such courtesies impressed Rose, and in time she convinced Emory to accept the likelihood that Henry would one day be their son-in-law. Once the thought settled in, even Emory began to see the lad’s good qualities. He was polite, came from a nice family, went to church on Sunday, had a job and was apparently willing to wait until Laura graduated high school before even mentioning anything as serious as marriage.

  For well over a year all appearances would lead anyone to believe Laura was crazy in love with the boy, but that winter the courtship began to wane. On afternoons when Rose expected to see him at the house, she’d find the living room filled with Laura’s girlfriends.

  “Isn’t Henry coming over?” she’d ask.

  More often than not Laura would say he was busy working at the gas station or polishing his car.

  Then in February the entire month passed by without Henry at the dinner table even once. It seemed as though once Emory and Rose accepted the lad as a suitable son-in-law, Laura changed her mind.

  On the day of her graduation they had no doubt Henry would be sitting beside them as they watched Laura walk across the stage to receive her diploma, but the seat remained empty. Afterward when asked about Henry, she simply said he had to work that day.

  “Couldn’t he ask for the afternoon off?” Emory asked.

  “I told him not to bother,” Laura replied. “I’m going to Louise Latham’s party anyway, so he’d just be bored.”

  Later that evening Emory sat in the overstuffed velour chair flipping through the pages of The Wyattsville Tribune, but his thoughts kept drifting from the articles back to his discussion with Laura. After months of staunchly defending Henry, she apparently was ready to move on.

  Bewildered by such a change of heart, he asked, “Are all young girls this fickle?”

  “I can’t say,” Rose replied. “I know I wasn’t. I fell in love with you that day at the church picnic, and I’ve never once changed my mind.”

  Emory folded the paper, set it aside and came to sit beside Rose on the sofa. He draped his arm around her shoulder and tugged her close.

  “I’m a lucky man,” he said then leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  After several minutes passed by, he added, “I hope when Laura gets ready to settle down she’ll pick a sensible young man, someone who will love her as much as I love you.”

  Rose snuggled closer. “I hope so too.”

  * * *

  Although at times it seemed Laura did little or no studying, she was actually at the top of her class. Her typing and stenographic skills were second to none. That summer the Ridge Valley Savings Bank advertised a secretarial opening and seven high school graduates applied for the job, but Laura was the one who got it. She came home glowing.

  “I’ll be working for Mister Burnham,” she said. “He’s the senior vice president.”

  The following Monday she pulled on her crepe middy, dusted powder on her nose, painted her mouth and trotted off to work. Catherine Goodman, the office manager, spent the morning introducing her around and explaining her responsibilities, but once Laura sat down at the desk in front of Montgomery Burnham’s oak-walled office there was actually very little to do. That day she answered three telephone calls, took fifteen minutes of dictation and typed two letters plus one interoffice memo reminding employees that all cash drawers had to be rectified before they were closed out for the day.

  It was much the same throughout the week. Then on Friday afternoon Franklin Wilkes walked in. He apparently knew exactly where he was going because he crossed the lobby and went directly to Laura’s desk.

  “Is Monty around?” he asked.

  She looked up into what was quite possibly the handsomest face she’d ever seen. “Are you referring to Mister Burnham?”

  “Yes, Montgomery Burnham. Tell him Franklin is here.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Franklin chuckled. “I don’t think I need one.”

  Laura motioned to the visitor’s chair across from her desk. “Please have a seat, I’ll check if he’s available.”

  She stood, smoothed her skirt then walked back and tapped softly at the oak door. After hearing him call out for her to come in, she cracked a narrow opening and stepped inside Montgomery Burnham’s office.

  “A Mister Franklin is asking to see you, but he doesn’t have an appoint—”

  Burnham gave a quizzical look. “Mister Franklin?”

  “Tall, dark hair, rather handsome—”

  “Oh, you mean Franklin Wilkes.” Burnham gave a warm chuckle then rose from his seat and followed her out to greet Franklin.

  It was obvious they knew one another well in addition to being business associates. They shook hands as old friends do, and Franklin asked about Burnham’s family. As they started toward the office, in that last second before he disappeared through the door, Franklin looked back at Laura and smiled.

  She returned the smile.

  When the day ended at five o’clock, Laura didn’t hurry out as she’d done earlier in the week. She stayed an extra twenty minutes shuffling papers from one side of her desk to the other, leafing through the pages of her steno pad as if she might have missed something and even straightening the magazines on the table in the reception area. When there was absolutely nothing more to busy herself with, she reluctantly pulled her purse from the desk drawer and headed for home.

  * * *

  Every Monday Montgomery Burnham had lunch at his club with a group of bankers. It
was a thing he’d done for years, and, if nothing else, he was a creature of habit. He left the office at precisely twelve noon and returned at one forty-five.

  At twelve-fifteen Franklin Wilkes walked in.

  “Is Monty around?” he asked.

  After seeing how friendly they’d been with each other, Laura suspected he already knew her boss’s routine and that thought settled pleasantly in her head.

  “He’s out to lunch right now,” she said. “Would you care to wait?” Say yes. Please say yes.

  He gave her the smile she’d been thinking of all weekend.

  “If it’s no bother,” he replied.

  Instead of moving off toward the visitors’ chairs, he perched himself on the corner of her desk and began chatting.

  It was precisely what she’d hoped for. Although she would be hard pressed to say whether it was the way his smile made her cheeks feel flushed or the way he made her think of things that had nothing to do with the bank, Mister Burnham or her job for that matter, something about Franklin drew her to him. His eyes were as dark and rich as chocolate, and the lines that crinkled at the corners made him look as though he was born smiling.

  He asked if she was new with the bank and without taking her eyes from his face, she nodded. Trying to recapture the balance of her senses, she told him, “This is only my second week.”

  “Well, then,” he said. “A week of working with Monty is something to celebrate. If you’re available perhaps we could have lunch later this week.”

  Laura hadn’t stopped smiling since the moment she saw him walk in.

  “I’m available,” she said, and just like that they made a date for lunch on Thursday.