The House on Seventh Street

by Karen Vorbeck Williams

  “John, I’m sorry, but I’m struggling to remember what happened to Maggie. I know she died around the time we took Dad to Denver to dry out.”

  “She died in ’82—in Aspen—ski accident.” He looked at the ice in his empty glass and Winna guessed he wished it were full.

  “I’m sorry. She was such a great friend and a wonderful skier. I’ll never forget skiing with her. We had so much fun.” Winna paused a moment as a memory came to mind. “Did she ever tell you about the time we were spring skiing at Aspen? We were hot and took off our sweaters, tied them around our waists, and skied in our bras. That got us hoots from the boys on the chairlift.”

  “No, she didn’t,” he said with a forced smile. Winna remembered that young John would have frowned on such gay abandon, unless he had been the one to remove her sweater.

  The last time Winna saw John was before they went off to college. She was ready to say goodbye and get on with her life, but he was not happy with their separation. Feeling on edge with the memory, she paused and returned to the subject of the house.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to get that old house cleaned out and ready to sell. My daughter Emily has been a great help, but things are going slowly. My home and my work are waiting for me in New Hampshire. I’ve got to hire some help.”

  He leaned in as if to come to her aid. “What kind of help are you looking for?”

  “Handyman and garden jobs—someone strong—there are heavy pieces of furniture to move, painting to do, trash removal, the yard—you name it.” She suddenly felt overwhelmed.

  “I know a guy. Can’t think of his name right now. Todd knows him too,” he said. “Why don’t you call me at my office and I’ll look him up for you. Sometimes I have work for him.”

  “Great. I will.” She paused, then glanced at John. “It’s funny being here with you—in this town. The place is so haunted for me—”

  He laughed. “I know what you mean. I feel like—well—let’s just say my memories of you at sixteen are vivid.”

  Winna blushed and looked down at her hands, afraid to admit that in his presence she felt completely vulnerable, unsure that she still had sixty-one years under her belt.

  “Now, pretty lady, I’ve kept you to myself long enough. Let’s go inside.” He grabbed Winna’s hand, pulled her up from the chair, and led her back inside the house.

  “Look at them.” Holding her gaze, John inclined his head toward the roomful of guests. “You went to school with almost half of them. You did so well identifying me. Let’s mingle a little, and see if you can identify the remains of your former schoolmates.”

  7

  1938

  NORA GRUMMAN OPENED her eyes and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was eight—only four hours of sleep. Henry’s place in bed was cold. He had gone to work. She felt sorry for him and pulled his pillow into her arms for a long hug and a kiss. She rolled over to her back and stared at the ceiling. Still dancing, the music lingered in her head.

  What a night it had been—the music, the crowded ballroom, the lavish Christmas decorations, the women’s gowns, the men in tuxes, her partners’ delighted faces. Again, she felt Henry holding her close, waltzing her around the room, whispering in her ear. He was a wonderful dancer. She had never been so happy—a happiness so intense she felt she would burst if she didn’t share it.

  Wide awake, she got out of bed, reached for her robe, and headed for the coffee pot. With the coffee made and a cup to sip, she sat down in their barely furnished living room, a couple of Life magazines in her lap. Their apartment did not have a desk or even a table and she couldn’t find a pen or stationery. On the back of an envelope, with a pencil, she began a letter to her mother.

  Oh, Mother!

  We did have such a wonderful time last night at the La Court—the night of the big party in our honor. I’ll send you a clipping from the newspaper so you will know who all was there—everyone said they wished you hadn’t moved away and asked me to send you their love.

  Nora described the decorations, the flowers, what everyone wore. She explained that Juliana had wanted to give the party in honor of the bride and groom while Nora could still wear a formal. She wrote that she could feel the baby she was carrying just a little, but she didn’t show yet. She had worn the gown her mother had made—the blue one that matched her eyes. She thanked her, saying:

  Everyone went mad over it—and me—if I do say so. I am not conceited, you know that, but it was so much fun to have everyone so fond of and proud of me. Mrs. Chandler said I looked like a ‘Dresden Doll.’

  Nora described the men in their tuxes and how Henry had looked like a prince, the band Juliana had hired, the delightful music. She said that she hardly had a chance to dance with her husband because all the men had wanted to dance with her. How, at last in his arms, he had said that the more he looked around at other girls, the more he loved his Nora.

  It’s so much fun being so happy. Henry and I decided last night that we just couldn’t be unhappy—we just don’t know how. I think I’ll go back to sleep. I just had to tell you what a wonderful time we had and I couldn’t hold it any longer. Mother, I can’t begin to tell you—I wish you could be here. All our love, Nora

  THE DAY AFTER Winna was born by caesarian section, Nora counted sixteen bouquets of flowers from family and friends delivered to her hospital room: roses, carnations, lilies, and lilacs crowded onto table tops, windowsills, even into the corners of the room. The Watsons, who owned one of the two flower shops in town, sent a large purple orchid; in Grand Junction orchids were seldom seen and much prized. Because St. Mary’s Hospital was famous for terrible food, Nora’s best friend brought delicious meals. There were gifts: a satin baby pillow, a pretty compact and nightgown for the new mother, and lots of cards and telegrams filled with good wishes. All this, even though the child was a girl named Edwina for her grandfather. She was supposed to have been another Edwin. Nora was glad it was a girl and laughed off the memory of her father-in-law’s offer to pay her three-hundred dollars if she would give him a grandson.

  Lying in bed surrounded by the sweet scent of flowers, Nora could see Grand Mesa out her window, a blue flattop mountain bordering the east side of the valley. All her life she had watched clouds move over the valley dropping blankets of shade over the mountains.

  Now and then, she still pinched herself. She had come back to Grand Junction. The very town she was excited to leave when her father was promoted and transferred to LA in 1935. She grew to love Hollywood and the City of Angels with its theatres, art museums, and nearby beaches. She liked the cool foggy mornings, the afternoon sunshine, the almost constant presence of flowers in the garden. Sometimes—with a sense of liberation—she thought back to the unimportant little town where she was born, glad to be living so far away.

  Then one day, as Nora was helping her mother shell peas in the kitchen, Henry Grumman—and Grand Junction—came to her door. She welcomed him inside the house and into her heart. They had been friends in high school, had dated once or twice. He had changed. No longer boyish, he stood there a full-grown man with love in his eyes. Their reunion led to a brief, passionate courtship followed by a wedding at Carmel by the Sea. Nora’s pregnancy was also a surprise, an event that pulled them back to Colorado where Henry had been promised a partnership in the family business. Home again, they struggled to live on the small salary Edwin Grumman paid his son. Henry did not complain and encouraged Nora to be patient. His father would increase his wage as he took on more responsibility and ascended to full partnership.

  Nora lay in her hospital bed learning how to nurse her baby girl. Even though her friends swore by an infant formula, she wanted to breast-feed her baby. Dr. Sloane seemed not to have an opinion one way or another and neither did Henry. Magazine ads made using the baby formula sound preferable, easier, even more nutritious. Nora thought differently—Mother Nature could not be improved upon. At first, nursing was painful. Nora worried, but as the days passed it beca
me easier and the baby gained weight.

  Every time her mind wandered off to all she had left behind, Nora told herself to forget California. She loved her husband and the tiny daughter in her arms. She would make her life here. Two very dear friends still lived in town and the mountains and countryside beckoned to her. She wanted to spend time there with her drawing materials, to draw the mesas and the rows of peach trees in the orchards, and to paint the skies with oils.

  After eight days of hospital confinement, Nora was helped into Edwin Grumman’s shiny black Cadillac Fleetwood, baby Edwina was placed in her arms, and they were transported to the house on Seventh Street where her mother-in-law, Juliana, would nurse her back to health. A caesarian section required a long period of bed rest.

  Carried upstairs by two hospital orderlies, Nora was put to bed in the guest room. She had not wanted to be isolated upstairs all day and had hoped they could make her a bed in the library. Juliana insisted that she be in a proper bedroom where she could rest away from the household bustle. The baby was taken to the nursery down the hall from her room—Henry’s old bedroom. Nora was told that confined to bed in a quiet room, she would heal faster and regain her strength. She knew it was useless to complain and surrendered herself to Juliana’s will and care.

  THE GRUMMANS HAD two servants, a married couple who lived on the third floor at the back of the house. Maria kept house and cooked, and Roberto did maintenance and the lawn and gardens. After Nora and the baby arrived, Juliana told Maria to carry on with her usual chores, she would take care of the mother and child. With her patient captive upstairs, Juliana put on a cotton housedress and apron and bustled through her chores, never complaining about extra work—diapers and baths for baby, clean bandages for mother.

  At the time of Winna’s birth, Juliana was too old to have any more children of her own. She knew she appeared matronly, her waist thickened, her once lustrous hair bobbed and streaked gray, her honey brown eyes glistening behind thick glasses.

  Overwhelmed by the fierce love she felt for her first grandchild, she made time to sit down and write a flowery poem about little Edwina’s rosebud mouth, petal soft skin, deep-as-the-midnight-sky eyes, and her own rose-colored glasses. She liked to write poetry, long, long letters to her friends, and short stories. She submitted her poems and stories to newspapers and magazines—sometimes with success.

  Within two days of Nora’s release from the hospital, Juliana held a dinner party, inviting her three best friends and their husbands. Juliana was a good cook and enjoyed planning and helping Maria prepare the meal.

  When Nora insisted that she felt well enough to come down for dinner, Juliana sent Henry upstairs to quash that idea. “She may very well be able to walk down the stairs, but walking back up would pose a threat to her. The doctor said no stairs! I insist you talk sense into your wife.”

  Juliana wanted to be the center of attention that evening. She asked Henry to bring baby Edwina downstairs for a showing and she was passed around and ogled. One by one, the ladies excused themselves and went upstairs to say hello to Nora. After courtesies were paid, Juliana asked Maria to take dinner up to her daughter-in-law. She had insisted that her son dine with her guests. Nora dined alone.

  It was obvious to Nora that having a baby in the house filled the new grandmother with a burst of fresh energy. She probably misses the days when she had babies of her own. No one ever talked about the Grummans’ daughter, Grace, who was born when Henry was three. The child had died of influenza at the age of five, leaving Juliana to grieve—unreasonably long, according to old Dr. Northrop. Henry had said that the doctor suggested to Edwin that as an aid to his wife’s recovery, the child’s name go unmentioned. Nora followed that advice and was careful not to pry.

  After their arrival at the house on Seventh Street, when baby Edwina was brought in to nurse, she did not seem hungry. Urging her baby to the breast, Nora felt comforted by the infant’s eyes focused intently on her face.

  “Who are you, little one?” she whispered, wishing for her own mother. It is true babies are little strangers. She looks at me like I’m a stranger with a face she must memorize.

  Nora’s mother had wanted to come for the birth. It had been planned, but Hope Neely was recovering from a recent bout of pneumonia. Nora missed her.

  Puzzled by her mother-in-law, she wondered when they would bond. Nora was willing. She admired Juliana, saw her as intelligent and accomplished, but her affection seemed to run hot and cold. Every time Nora began to fear that Juliana disliked her or wonder if she had somehow offended, her mother-in-law would tell her how lovely she was or say something about how much she hoped they would be good friends. Once, Juliana told her how deeply she had loved her own mother-in-law, how she hoped Nora would love her just as much.

  When Juliana weighed her granddaughter every day, she happily reported her progress to Nora. Even though the baby seemed to spend very little time at the breast, she was gaining weight nicely. Soon Nora’s breasts were engorged and Juliana called the doctor.

  Faced with his patient’s bleeding nipples and agonizingly inflamed breasts, Dr. Sloane forbade her to continue breastfeeding. He bound her tightly in strips of an old sheet and prescribed large doses of aspirin. The aspirin made her head spin and her ears ring but never quite touched her pain. All she could do was close her eyes and try to sleep the nightmare away.

  The doctor insisted that they give the baby formula, but he had nothing to prescribe for Nora’s disappointment, her feelings of failure. As clean bed linens snuggled her to sleep, she could not help but compare Juliana’s lovely guest room—the rose covered wallpaper and white curtains, the pretty twin beds covered with pale green coverlets—with the tiny, barely furnished apartment she shared with Henry.

  She longed for those four small rooms: to sleep curled around Henry’s back, to get back to her first cookbook and the mastery of a new art. She wanted to sew curtains for the living room. Handsome new material was waiting for her at home. Nora wanted to go home, even to the ironing board they used for a kitchen table.

  JULIANA REIGNED VICTORIOUS. The doctor insisted that the baby be bottle-fed and her daughter-in-law was drying up in the guest room. She was certain it was for the best. Unknown to everyone, she had been feeding the baby with formula. She went on with her usual preparation, no longer hiding like a sneak thief mixing it up out of sight.

  Juliana had been unable to nurse her own babies and believed the infant formula superior. In fact, she believed she had done Nora a favor. The silly girl was old-fashioned in her thinking and would soon get over her disappointment. Besides, she wanted to feed her granddaughter herself, to hold the bottle and rock the precious child in her arms.

  She had not recovered from her son’s decision to marry without her blessing, or the fact that the wedding had taken place in California. She wondered why Nora, who had come from a fine family, hadn’t known better.

  Juliana had to admit that Henry had chosen well. He married the daughter of a formerly prominent family in Grand Junction. It was, in her opinion, good fortune that Nora’s immediate pregnancy had brought her wandering son home. Ever since he had dropped out of college, he had fruitlessly looked for a job—first in New Orleans and then San Francisco—his two favorite cities. The Depression had made it impossible for him.

  His first two years, Henry had attended Mesa College. His grades were good and he applied to Columbia University’s School of Journalism. When his letter of acceptance arrived, Juliana could not wait to hear the news. She steamed open the envelope. Then came the bitter disappointment. He left Columbia after only one semester, having failed every class. Henry did not want to be a journalist after all. Saying that “a life of hard work and adventure” would suit him better, he wanted to ship out to South America on one of United Fruit Company’s banana boats.

  She doubted that. His remark was designed to horrify her. She had to tell her friends something. “Henry has gone out into the world to find himself.” At the ver
y least, that sounded poetic and not so shameful. Though she could hardly let herself think it, she feared that her son wanted to get as far away from her as possible. The unions came to her rescue when they forced United Fruit to stop hiring non-union men. For the first time in her life, she thanked a union.

  Nora and Henry had joked about getting pregnant on their wedding night, but Juliana wondered. Whether or not Nora was pregnant before the marriage, the scheduled caesarian delivery of the baby exactly nine months to the day after their marriage date had worked perfectly.

  ONE AFTERNOON NORA looked up from her book to see her mother-in-law standing in the guest room doorway with the baby wrapped in a blanket, fondly contemplating her grandchild’s face. Without a word, Juliana raised her narrowing eyes and looked at Nora with a cynical smile on her face.

  “Nora, my dear,” she said coolly, “you know I could take this child away from you if I wanted.”

  Nora caught her breath and closed her book. “What? What are you saying?” As if she felt a chill, she grasped the opening to her bed jacket and pulled it close. “Why in the world would you want to do that?”

  Juliana spoke bluntly, her eyes unwavering. “I don’t—but I could if I had a reason.” Then with a shrug, as if to say, “Well, like it or not, now you know,” she turned and disappeared into the hall with Nora’s baby in her arms.

  8

  1999

  EXCEPT FOR THE RELATIVELY new double-door refrigerator, Winna liked to joke that the large kitchen on Seventh Street should be preserved in a museum. A vintage 1950s electric stove—still in working condition—squatted beside the original four-legged wood-burning stove still shining like a well-blackened shoe. A cast-iron sink and drain board on tall fat legs stood under a large sunny window, the built-in breakfast nook waited below a row of stained-glass windows with square green medallions set among stylized leaves. The windows opened to a view of the garden as if through a leafy portal.