Home for Erring and Outcast Girls

by Julie Kibler

  She wouldn’t let Mama Stell share her tips. “Hush now,” she’d say, as Mama tried to shove a fistful of coins in her pocket. “I eat supper upstairs at your table every night. Why would I take that?”

  Mama Stell pulled her close to hug her neck, and Mattie realized how much she missed her own mother. She’d never properly grieved after her death, no time to mourn while she cooked and cleaned in service, too exhausted even to cry herself to sleep. Then Cap came along, and she was a mama herself.

  When Mama Stell asked why she didn’t have a fella—the one topic she wouldn’t leave alone—Mattie shrugged her off.

  It wasn’t for lack of opportunity. “I see boys in the grill trying to catch your eye,” Mama Stell said.

  “You’re right—they’re boys,” Mattie said. “I want a certain kind of man, but that kind wouldn’t give me a second look.”

  “You’re just not paying attention.”

  “Maybe I’m just particular.”

  It was true. As impatient as she’d been to pursue love and adventure when she left the Home, she’d learned that most men assumed a working girl who lived on her own with no real family around would be easy—especially if they knew her history.

  Mama Stell’s boys—the lodgers—were a nice enough bunch. If she encouraged any of them, she’d have a date in a minute. But when Mattie said she wanted a man, she didn’t mean that old. Mama Stell was nearing seventy, as were some of the roomers. The youngest was fifteen years or more Mattie’s senior. She had set romance aside. She was fine.

  One morning, Mattie went for breakfast and work as usual. By noon she felt off. She assumed it was just a little cold, but by the time she made it to her room later, she felt awful. When she didn’t show up for coffee, supper, or breakfast the next day, Mama Stell heaved herself four flights to Mattie’s room to find her white-faced, shaking, and coughing like crazy.

  Mattie needed someone to take care of her, but Mama Stell wasn’t sure she could make the trip another time. She’d care for Mattie at her home. Mama Stell informed the hotel manager Mattie would return when she was well—a benefit of union membership, new since Mattie had started work—and two hotel employees helped her get Mattie to her apartment.

  Mama Stell put her in her own bed, alternately covering her to her chin or soaking her with cool rags. She fed her warm broth from a straw when Mattie dried out from the vomiting and diarrhea. Mattie was hardly aware of Mama Stell’s fussing the first day or so, but by the third day, she was coming back around, and she savored the feeling of being cared for, as if her own mother were there again. The few times she’d been sick at Sister Welch’s, Mattie had hacked her way through illness alone in her narrow bed. The woman hadn’t been a nurturer.

  Her cough lingered—she’d been prone to wheeziness forever—but by the end of a week, she felt well enough to work a half shift. Mattie forced herself into a warm bath and then pulled on her uniform, which hung off her worse than a sack. She’d always had trouble keeping on weight, other than pregnancy, and even then at first, but this was the limit. Her hair was lackluster after rubbing the sheets all week, and her eyes were dull. Illness hit her harder the older she got, but she’d survived.

  She promised Mama Stell she’d leave work as soon as she could that afternoon. Mama had given up her room all week, sleeping in her easy chair with a sheet thrown over her. Mattie felt awful keeping her from her bed, but Mama insisted she slept there half the time anyway.

  By noon Mattie was exhausted, but optimistic. She’d passed the point of relapse, it seemed, and she felt mentally strong, even if her body protested.

  She went up the stairs to the apartment. When she opened the door, Mama Stell was asleep in her easy chair, but her head lolled far to one side.

  Mattie had seen the screaming headlines about the deadly new influenza as she made her way to work. La Grippe, they called it, or the Spanish flu. Soldiers overseas were dying in droves, with more fatalities from flu than combat, and it had finally hit home. The list of symptoms fit. So many cases had been reported in OKC by now, the paper issued warnings encouraging people to stay home, sick or not, and avoid public spaces. The schools had closed, and congregating in groups was prohibited until the epidemic passed.

  Most terrifyingly, she’d read that it hit with no mercy and could kill overnight. She’d been lucky. But now she rushed to Mama Stell’s side, who half opened her eyes, blearily smiling. “I’ll be fine, darlin’, just having a little rest. I’m not feeling so well.”

  Mattie stripped her wrinkled sheets from the bed. Mama Stell had used her best ones for Mattie. The second set was patched and nearly worn through.

  She helped Mama Stell to the bedroom and spent the rest of the afternoon and all night nursing her, as Mama had done for her. She held her head when she vomited, and boiled water in the kettle to steam the room when Mama Stell struggled to breathe.

  The next morning Mama Stell seemed improved. One of the lodgers had the day off, and he promised to fetch Mattie if she worsened again. On her break, Mattie ran to check on her. In the street, she froze. Two men carried a stretcher down the stairs from Mama Stell’s apartment toward an ambulance at the curb, a figure huddled beneath the sheet. A third man was posting a placard in the stairwell. She saw the word in black capital letters: QUARANTINE.

  “I live there!” she said. She had lived there, all last week. “What’s happened?” The lodger who had promised to keep an eye on Mama Stell was nowhere to be seen. “She was better this morning!” she said to the man posting the sign. “Is she going to the hospital?”

  She tried to push past him, and he held her arms. “Ma’am, you can’t go up. The man who called us must stay inside until the danger passes. We’re taking her away. I’m very sorry.”

  He gestured to the ambulance, and she read the words on the side. City Morgue.

  Mama Stell was not worse. She was dead.

  Mattie fled, afraid they’d learn she’d been the one to pass the flu.

  She worried about the lodgers still at work, where they’d go tonight, and where they’d live with Mama Stell gone—and about Pat Madigan, the lodger inside the apartment alone. She ignored the placard and carried food to the door and knocked. Pat called out. He was well. She left food on the mat until the quarantine passed.

  This time, she had time and room to mourn. She woke each morning with her pillowslip soaked in tears she hadn’t even known she’d cried. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to love Mama Stell, or how comforting it had been to have someone who cared for her too.

  Mama Stell’s sons claimed her body and buried her without delay next to her husband—formal funerals were a luxury now with so many deaths in the city. Mattie chose not to impose in their time of grief—not to mention her guilt at spreading the deadly flu to their mother. She sent a simple sympathy note. A few weeks later, one asked for her at work. They’d packed what they wanted from the apartment. His mother had frequently mentioned Mattie, and he was sure she’d want her to take anything she wanted that remained.

  Mattie wandered the formerly homey space—now musty from being closed up for weeks. The other lodgers had come for their belongings. Pat intended to leave the next day.

  Mama Stell’s sons had removed few of the shabby furnishings and household goods. The pictures on the walls were out of style. They’d taken a few personal effects—family documents and photographs—and of course, the Victrola, but had left a few records and all the penny novels Mama Stell had collected. Mattie began to pile those into a carton, but then her hands slowed.

  The apartment had become her home. She’d saved enough to pay a deposit and several months’ rent in advance. And she was tired. Tired of the hotel. Tired of cleaning up after guests who left rubbish strewn about as if they had no proper upbringing, mud from their shoes on the carpets, and hardly ever a tip.

  Pat, too, seemed unsure where h
e’d go next.

  “Would you stay if you could?” she asked.

  He looked up, startled. She’d rarely spoken to him when Mama Stell was alive.

  “I could take it over,” she said. “And the job at the grill, too, if they’ll have me.” Nearly everything had shut down while the flu gripped the city. She doubted they’d hired a replacement yet.

  Pat, who’d worked as a track man for the railroad for years, was homely and rough mannered but didn’t require much. He reminded Mattie of Lizzie in some ways.

  “You wouldn’t raise the rent on me?”

  “Not if you help me fill the rooms again.”

  “Hard to find a place this nice even when there ain’t an epidemic on. Two are still looking.”

  Mattie ran downstairs, fast, where Mama Stell’s son was collecting his mother’s final wages from the cantankerous owner. “Have you hired anyone new yet?” she said, gasping for breath.

  The owner shook his head. “Flu’s not good for business. Everyone’s afraid to get out.”

  “Would you hire me?” she said. “And can I take over the apartment?”

  Mr. Gaston’s eyes were wary, but then they relaxed. “You’re that lady always jumping up to help Mrs. Stella.”

  She nodded. At least he’d called her a lady. “I already know the regulars.”

  “Why, sure, I could use you,” he said. His eyes narrowed again. “I’d have to raise the rent on the flat. I ain’t raised it in years. Hated to do it to Mrs. Stella.”

  “How much?” she said.

  “Well, she gave ten a month. I’d need at least eighteen.”

  “Will you take fifteen?” Mattie said.

  He contemplated her shrewdly. They both knew it was fair. “Start Monday?”

  “Yes. And I want a telephone,” she said. “I’ll pay the bill if you put it in.”

  A telephone might have saved Mama Stell—likely not, but Mattie would always wonder.

  The owner shrugged. “All right then. You don’t have kids, do you? I don’t want youngsters tearing up my apartment.”

  “No,” she said, though it always hurt and brought up conflicting emotions to say so. “I’ll be taking lodgers, like Mrs. Stella.” The whole neighborhood was rooming houses and hotels.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” Mr. Gaston said. “Make sure you get good, clean folks. Nothing under the counter, and no funny business, you hear?”

  Mattie shook her head furiously. “Of course not.”

  He rolled his eyes. This wasn’t his only building, and the area kept going down.

  Mama Stell’s son said, “My ma would have vouched for her. She loved her like a daughter.” Mattie choked back tears to hear that Mama Stell had spoken of her so kindly.

  “First, last, and fifteen for the deposit, due by five p.m. or I’ll give it to someone else.”

  “You’ll have it in thirty minutes,” she said, calmly, though she fought to keep from jumping up and down or hugging the man—as grumpy as he was.

  In two hours, she’d paid the rent, quit her hotel position—easy once they found out she’d had the flu—and carried her possessions to the apartment. Most still fit in the trunk she’d brought to Oklahoma eight years earlier. Pat tracked down the lodgers and proposed a dollar more per month. They agreed. Soon a new man showed up, who paid more than the old-timers.

  She was at the counter early Monday, with coffee percolating and smiles. Behind it all, she grieved—especially when someone asked about Mama Stell.

  “Retired.”

  People didn’t like to hear about the flu, and Mattie didn’t like to talk about it.

  Before long, she was at the grill as much as the counter. Mr. Gaston recognized a good cook—each time she returned an order, she explained to the newish fry cook what he’d done wrong. As she climbed the stairs at the end of the week, she smiled. She’d always wanted to cook in a fancy hotel. Well, this was no fancy hotel, but it was her hotel, of sorts, and she spent her days cooking. Life could be worse. She felt content. On top of that, happy—more or less.

  La Grippe eventually loosened its deadly claw, the city schools and theaters reopened, and within a month the armistice had finally been signed. The war was over and for the first time in years, positive headlines overshadowed the gloom.

  MATTIE

  Oklahoma City

  1920–1921

  Mattie had run her little rooming house for more than a year. Two roomers left and two more replaced them. She’d earned enough at the grill to replace the Victrola and records Mama Stell’s son had taken, but she had little time or energy for picture shows now. Pat gradually took over as Mattie’s sounding board, though he didn’t take kindly to her calling him Old Man, as Mama Stell had done.

  Her chief complaint was Mr. Gaston. She didn’t know how Mama Stell had tolerated his nastiness. The customers loved Mattie’s cooking, but he complained she used too much lard in the biscuits, too many peaches in the pie, too much sugar to dress up cheap coffee. “You prefer customers who complain when their coffee makes them cry?” she said. He harrumphed.

  She’d often complain to Pat when he returned from his work repairing and replacing train tracks that ran through the city. He never grumbled, though she knew it was much harder work than hers. One evening, over dinner, he claimed he had a solution.

  “Right,” she said. “You know I can’t quit.”

  “You can if you marry me.”

  Mattie shut up for a change. She gawked at his face. Was he fooling around or serious? But he wasn’t a joker. She’d made so many jokes about his age, she couldn’t believe he’d think she had any interest in marrying him.

  “You and me get married, and I can help you more with the rent, and you can quit working for that bastard.”

  Mattie’s incredulity turned to laughter. “Oh, Pat, honey. You’re the sweetest. But you don’t want to marry me.” She jumped up to carry their plates to the sink. The other lodgers had already cleared out, for they ate fast and went to bed early, with jobs that had them out at the crack of dawn—and no energy for Mattie’s chatter anyway. She paused to squeeze Pat’s shoulder. “You are my favorite. But I’m not marrying you.”

  He pushed his chair back. From the hallway, he called gruffly, “Change your mind, the offer stands.”

  Mattie sat in Mama Stell’s old chair, her breath suddenly stolen. She’d been short of breath more often since the flu, but this was different. Her first proposal of marriage at nearly forty, and the man was at least twenty years older, laid track for a living—not that she was a snob—and had asked her to marry him across a plate of chipped beef.

  All because she needed extra money.

  She felt dirty, as if Pat wanted to buy a wife. She wasn’t desperate. She’d take Mr. Gaston’s abuse—with no more complaining at the dinner table.

  But Pat surprised her the next evening with a paper poke of daisies held shyly behind his back, and again on Sunday, when he offered to escort her to a picture show at the theater across the street. She said yes—though she insisted on buying her own ticket. When he placed his rough hand over hers in the dark, she didn’t shrug it off. It was unsettlingly warm. Pleasant.

  A month later, on a Friday, he proposed again, this time over a chicken dinner downtown. He said he’d marry Mattie even if she wanted to keep working for that bastard—it wasn’t about the money. So she said yes.

  The next afternoon, Mattie married Patrick Madigan. They rode a train north to Guthrie; Pat said the city courthouse was crowded on Saturdays.

  On the application, he recorded their ages. Mattie’s, forty—thirty-eight really, but she didn’t correct him—and she peeked across his shoulder as he wrote sixty in the other blank. Two decades between them. Ten minutes later, two clerks witnessed the justice of the peace solemnizing their marriage.

  Pat had arr
anged for the other lodgers to be away for the evening. The guys had shuffled off, offering their clumsy wishes when Pat announced their intent to marry.

  Mattie had no time to purchase a pretty nightgown, but while Pat used the bathroom, she turned down the covers, leaving on her nicest chemise instead of wearing the old, mended one that served as her summer gown.

  Pat had removed his shirt. His suspenders still held up his baggy trousers, and his undershirt showed white hair peeking out on his chest, springy and at odd angles. His arms were tanned below his elbows, with muscles more defined than one would expect from a man his age. His heavy work kept him in shape.

  Mattie sat on the side of the bed, but he remained awkwardly in the middle of the floor. “You know you ain’t married a spring chicken,” he said. “Hope you ain’t expecting much.”

  Mattie laughed. “Oh, Pat, it’s just me. Come here. If we’re going to be married, we’re going to do it properly.”

  She was sure she was as nervous as he was. It had been nearly twenty years since she’d been with a man, and she’d tried hard to forget everything about the last time and what it had led to. She’d trusted Mama Stell with some of her history over time, but never that, and Mattie would never tell Pat—not even about Charley and Cap…or any of the rest—unless she had to. She’d written and sealed a letter with instructions for if she died, and she’d tell Pat where it was. But for all he knew of her, he could be deflowering an aging virgin—though she didn’t think she came across as a prude, even if quiet. Now and then, they’d pass one of her old church acquaintances on the street, and she’d politely say hello. But sometimes, they caught her arm and she couldn’t avoid a brief catch-up. He seemed amused that she’d been a missionary of sorts—and relieved that was over.