You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  My stomach lurched. My cheeks flamed.

  Eugenia Wardlow. That gossip! She’d been spreading her awful rumors. To Mrs. Cavendish, of all people. Heat rose up my neck.

  “So tell us, dear,” Mrs. Cavendish said in a kindly way. “When is the big event?”

  “Oh,” I rushed to explain, “there is no big event.”

  Mrs. Steiglitz looked confused. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

  In my panic I blurted, “I mean, that’s just a silly rumor going around town. I’m not . . . in a family way.”

  Silence reverberated. Every eye in the room was trained on me, or more precisely, my midsection.

  After an interminable moment, Mrs. Cavendish recovered. “Well, of course not, my dear. I don’t believe anyone said you were.”

  Floor, swallow me now. “But you—you said—Eugenia Wardlow, and a big event, and so I thought—”

  Someone said, “My word.” And someone else said, “Who is she again?”

  “The wedding, Miss Corrigan,” Mrs. Cavendish said. “By big event, I meant your wedding. Eugenia was discussing your flowers.”

  Feeling sick, I squeaked, “September fifteenth.”

  “Have you considered zinnias?” Mrs. Gleener chirped in an overly bright tone.

  “Will you excuse me, please?” As gracefully as I could, I rose from the armchair and set my cup and saucer on an end table. I ached to run from the room, but my legs suddenly wouldn’t carry me. I shot up a quick and desperate prayer. Dear Lord, whatever You do, please don’t let me throw up in front of all these ladies!

  The Lord obliged. I did not throw up.

  But before I knew what was happening, I keeled over face-first, straight into Mrs. Cavendish’s prize palmetto.

  And faster than you could say “social pariah,” I found myself bundled onto a train hurtling its way to Chicago.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As the miles clattered past, I scratched around in my brain to ferret out some common thread among the fainting spells that had overtaken me at the theater, the dry goods store, and the tea. I could recall no specific food that would have made me ill. No certain time of day, no circumstance I could pinpoint. When I wasn’t passing out cold, I felt fine. Vertigo? Dr. Perkins had ruled that out. Maybe he was correct in his suspicion of some heart problem, some congenital weakness passed down to me from my mother like an unwanted inheritance. Maybe I, too, was doomed to die young.

  I stared out the rain-spattered window at the passing horizon, wishing I still shared Helen’s, and lately Charlie’s, firm conviction in the power of prayer. Church felt like a duty, something decent people did on Sundays and didn’t think much about during the rest of the week. Even Frances, for all her talk about what Christian ladies do and don’t do, seemed to care more about appearances and how things looked than in actually living out her faith.

  Charlie’s faith had helped him overcome his battle with the bottle. And Helen—under the influence of the devout Mrs. Varney—sought God at every opportunity. I used to feel the same way when I was her age, even younger. But that was before God saw fit to take away both my mother and Jack, in spite of my fervent prayers to keep them safe. Gradually I’d stopped trusting Him with anything important, lest He see fit to yank it away from me. I figured that if today I turned my health situation over to God, tomorrow I’d wake up with bubonic plague. So while I admired Helen’s deep faith, I chose to stumble along without the comfort of prayer, except about the most trivial matters.

  With such discomforting thoughts swirling in my head, I lapsed into a fitful doze laced with strange dreams involving John Gilbert and Eugenia Wardlow and a gigantic wedding cake. When I awoke with a crick in my neck, we were nearing the city. Through the grimy window, the farms and small towns gave way to neat suburbs, then belching factories, and finally the clanging, clattering, smoky cavern of Chicago’s Union Station. I gathered my things, followed the other passengers off the train, and became engulfed in the flood of humanity pouring into the terminal. The air smelled thick with axle grease, popcorn, and bus fumes. My ears rang with the din, punctuated by announcements crackling over the loud speaker and cheery greetings directed toward other passengers. I longed for a friendly face in the crowd but knew it was pointless to look. Richard’s elderly great-aunt was too frail to come down to the station. I’d assured Richard I’d manage fine on my own, but now, faced with multiple staircases and exits, I didn’t know which way to turn. I must have looked lost because after several terrifying moments a kind female voice called, “May I help you, miss?”

  I followed the voice to see a neatly dressed lady standing behind a desk under a sign reading “Traveler’s Aid.” That was me: a traveler in need of aid. I scurried over and gratefully handed her the piece of paper on which Richard had scribbled Miss Brownlee’s address. The woman unfolded a map of the city and mapped out a route to Miss Brownlee’s house. Then she directed me through the maze of a station.

  At last I stood outdoors with my suitcase, trying to get my bearings. The Windy City earned its nickname with warm powerful gusts that threatened to blow my hat straight into the murky river. The rain had subsided and brilliant bands of pink and orange glowed to the west where the sun was burning down. Towering iron-gray buildings cast gloomy shadows over noisy streets, where more automobiles than I’d ever seen in one place honked and jockeyed for position in a sort of endless road rally. A billboard caught my eye: “Marshall Field & Company . . . Give the lady what she wants.”

  What the lady wants right this minute is to turn around and go home.

  But there was no turning back. After two streetcar rides, one of them in entirely the wrong direction, I found myself standing in front of a narrow brick building on a leafy street. I paused to check my face in a pocket mirror and collect my courage. I’d never met any of Richard’s family, other than his parents, who lived in a tony section of Des Moines. I’d dined with them exactly once—a starched-linen affair in an atmosphere as chilly as the ice cubes clinking in the silver pitcher. It was not an experience I was eager to repeat, although of course I would embrace them as my parents-in-law once Richard and I married. I’d dwell on that another time. Right now I had a great-aunt to impress.

  In response to the bell, the door was opened by a woman who looked younger than I expected. I offered my hand. “Good afternoon. Miss Brownlee?”

  “I’m Miss Jessop, Miss Brownlee’s nurse.” She scanned me with a cool, appraising eye. “You must be Miss Corrigan. Miss Brownlee is expecting you.”

  I picked up my bag and followed her into a gloomy parlor that looked like a stage set for a Victorian play. She took my raincoat and excused herself from the room. While waiting, I took stock of my surroundings. Photographs of unsmiling relatives peered down from ornate frames. A stiff horsehair sofa sat against one wall, flanked by two upholstered chairs. A spinet piano, a fringed rug, and a table bearing a lamp and two china shepherdesses completed the decor. Limp lace curtains hung at the window facing the street.

  A stooped woman with gray, marcelled hair shuffled into the room, leaning on a cane and assisted by Miss Jessop, who announced, “Miss Brownlee, this is Miss Corrigan, Richard’s fiancée.”

  Pale blue eyes peered up at me through thick spectacles.

  “Miss Corrigan,” the elderly woman said in a quivery voice. “How do you do.” She held out a gnarled hand and I took it.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  She smiled. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting Richard’s bride. I only wish it were under better circumstances than medical tests. I do hope they find nothing wrong.” I was about to thank her when she added, “The Brownlees have never had any health problems of any sort. Goodness knows it’s best not to introduce any now. Do sit down.”

  I perched on the horsehair sofa as Miss Jessop eased Miss Brownlee into a chair. Then she said, “I’ll fetch our tea,” and left Miss Brownlee and me to regard each other with polite curiosity. I wracked my brain for something clever to say but ca
me up blank. Eventually she spoke.

  “How was your journey, dear?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Oh, lovely.” The mantle clock ticked off the seconds. “How is dear Richard these days? He hasn’t paid me a visit in ever so long.”

  “He’s well,” I replied. “As you know, he’s practicing medicine in Kerryville.”

  “Kerryville?”

  “It’s a small town in western Illinois. He’s on staff at the hospital there.”

  She shook her gray head. “I’ll never understand why he chose to serve in the middle of nowhere when he could have had his pick of positions here in the city.”

  “I wouldn’t say Kerryville is the middle of nowhere.” In truth I had said that, many times, but felt prickly about a stranger saying so.

  Miss Jessop returned with tea and crumbly shortbread cookies. The conversation jerked along for another half hour or so until Miss Jessop interrupted, explaining Miss Brownlee needed a rest. She wasn’t the only one. Miss Jessop showed me to my room and said, “Dinner’s at seven. I believe Cook is making beef stew this evening.” As I unpacked my belongings, the growling of my stomach was the only thing that kept me from dreading the next grueling round of sociability.

  The next morning, once I’d located the correct building at the sprawling university hospital, a brisk and efficient clerk guided me through a confusing labyrinth of hallways to the cardiology wing.

  Gruff and abrupt, Dr. Cragin wasted no words and asked only the most necessary questions as he conducted his examination. He drew blood, listened to my heart, checked my pulse. Later I was thoroughly poked and pinched by an unsmiling nurse. It was impossible to tell from anyone’s facial expression, or lack thereof, whether my diagnosis was excellent or dire. I was told to come back on Friday for the results. Until then, I had three days to ponder whatever problem the tests might reveal. I needed to find a distraction.

  In the May sunshine, the city seemed friendlier than it had the evening before. Skyscrapers that had looked scary and forbidding at dusk now stood majestic and proud. Shop windows beckoned with glittering temptations. Delicious smells wafted from café doorways. Eager to put off the gloom of Miss Brownlee’s house as long as possible, I decided to go exploring.

  Vast Lake Michigan sparkled azure blue in the sunshine, dotted with crisp white sailboats. Enthralled, I strolled along Michigan Avenue, past the gleaming white Wrigley Building. A warm wind whipped off the lake, blowing my hat brim and ruffling the hem of my skirt. From the bridge over the murky Chicago River I watched a flat brown barge glide past, bound for some mysterious port of call. All around me, men in suits and hats and women in bright summer dresses rushed past on their way to somewhere important. The only one without a clear destination, it seemed, was me.

  A seawall of skyscrapers towered to the west, while to the east stretched the green lawns of Grant Park and the shimmering lake beyond. At the south end of the park stood the neoclassical façade and wide staircase of the Art Institute, flanked by two majestic bronze lions. Carved high into the limestone walls were the names of famous artists. Botticelli. Rafael. Titian. My breath hitched as I recognized some old friends from art class at Kerryville High. I went inside, and didn’t emerge until closing time. After wandering the spacious galleries for a while, I’d sat captivated in front of a painting of people at a picnic. The longer I looked at it, the more deeply it drew me in.

  A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Grande Jatte, the label read. I called upon my high school French to pronounce the artist’s name. Seurat.

  Passersby voiced mixed reactions. “Why, it’s just a bunch of dots,” complained one woman. “Let’s go back to the statues.”

  But to me it was an explosion of color and light that touched something deep inside of me, something aching and hopeful, like a long-dormant storybook fairy stretching her fragile wings.

  At the bottom of the grand staircase near the exit, a rack of literature caught my eye. I scanned it, searching for a pretty postcard for Helen. Instead I spotted a brochure titled “Art Classes” and picked it up. A guard called out, “Please move along.” I folded the brochure and jammed it in my handbag.

  Even as I stepped out onto the sunbaked boulevard, my mind still swam with vivid color. On board the streetcar, I unfolded the brochure. “Beginning Art Classes for Adults,” it read. “Evenings and Saturdays.” My eyes trailed down the list of offerings. Sculpture. Oil painting. Textiles.

  Textiles. The word rolled deliciously on my tongue as I gazed out the streetcar window at the lake, envisioning the expanse of water as a bolt of silk moiré, gleaming sapphire and azure and sky-blue, depending on the way the light hit the waves.

  My reverie ended when a grandmotherly-looking woman laden with shopping bags sat down next to me.

  “My land, it feels good to sit down,” she said to no one in particular. I smiled.

  The streetcar lurched forward. “Warm one today,” the woman said, mopping her brow with a handkerchief.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Are you an artist?” she asked, gesturing to the brochure in my lap.

  “Oh, no,” I said, blushing. I folded the brochure and stuffed it in my handbag. “I’m—I’m getting married.”

  If the woman was taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, she didn’t show it. “Oh. Well, that’s nice,” she said. “Best of luck to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I looked out at the cityscape without really seeing it as thoughts jumbled around in my mind.

  An art student. Me. What a scream. I can’t take an art class. I have to go home. I’m getting married. I’m not meant to be an artist. I’ll be a doctor’s wife. A doctor’s wife.

  The streetcar felt stuffy and airless. I tugged the grimy window open for a breath of fresh air. A crowded streetcar was no place to faint.

  Pull yourself together, girl. I needed to be practical. How silly, getting so riled up over a few paintings.

  Which was exactly what Frances would say.

  And the thing deep inside my soul—the dreamy sprite that awakened from her slumber when she laid eyes on those paintings—whispered, Frances isn’t here.

  I sat up straighter. Maybe I did not have forever, but I had tomorrow. Maybe I could not enroll in an art class, but I’d be staying in the city for a few more days and could visit the museum whenever I wanted. With nobody to stop me, or accuse me of wasting time.

  As quickly as it had come, the dizziness subsided. I glanced up to see my seatmate peering at me.

  “Are you feeling all right, dear?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “You looked a bit peaked for a moment there.”

  “I’m all right.”

  When I reached Miss Brownlee’s, Miss Jessop was seated in the parlor, working a piece of needlepoint while Miss Brownlee napped. “What did the doctor say?” she asked politely.

  I shrugged. “Nothing yet. He did some tests and told me to come back on Friday for the results.”

  “Friday?” She sniffed daintily. “How tedious for you.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. It will give me a chance to explore the city.”

  Lines deepened around Miss Jessop’s mouth. “I don’t know how appropriate it is for a lady to be traipsing about the city unchaperoned.”

  “I feel perfectly safe. I’m beginning to understand how the streetcars work, and I’ve already been to the Art Institute. What a magnificent place.”

  “Magnificent?” she spat. “You wouldn’t catch me there. All of those naked statues.” She shuddered. “Why, everyone knows all of those artists have loose morals.”

  She shook her head as she bent over her needlework. “Not that it’s any of my business, but I don’t think the Art Institute is a respectable place for Christian ladies to be seen.”

  I suspected Miss Jessop didn’t think nice Christian ladies belonged anywhere outside of their own parlors. “Excuse me. I’ll wash up for dinner.”

  “By the way, Miss Cor
rigan,” Miss Jessop called as I climbed the stairs, “please be so kind as to limit the length of your baths. We are not running a hot springs resort.”

  Up in my room, as I pulled a comb from my handbag, the brochure fell to the floor. I picked it up and glared at it, and then at my reflection. What a harebrained idea. My student days were far behind me. I was on track for a different future entirely. I dropped the pamphlet in the wastebasket. Only later, after another tiresome meal with my hosts, did I fish it out and tuck it into my suitcase.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mindful of the promise I’d made to Frances to look for bridesmaids’ gifts, the next day I took the streetcar to the downtown intersection where the giant Marshall Field & Company clock loomed over the corner. Although I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to afford to buy so much as a pencil at the famously luxurious emporium, it had been recommended by Richard’s mother as the last word in retail. I thought I could pick up a few merchandising pointers for Corrigan’s Dry Goods, if nothing else.

  I pushed open the heavy revolving door. The main floor took my breath away. Fanning out in all directions were glorious displays: delicate chiffon scarves in brilliant peacock colors, snowy linen handkerchiefs, glittering crystal perfume bottles, glossy leather handbags. Deferential clerks and well-heeled customers spoke in hushed tones, in contrast to Meyer’s Department Store back home, where Mabel Meyer screeched at the clerks in a voice that could peel paint off the walls.

  I stood disoriented for several moments, breathing in the scent of luxury. A gentleman sporting a boutonniere in his lapel approached and asked if he could help me. Had my well-worn shoes and unfashionable hat signaled I wasn’t a regular customer? I explained my errand.

  “I see. You’ll want Bridal, on six. The elevator is to your right.” He gestured with a sweep of his arm.

  I thanked him and headed for the elevator. I stepped into the gilded box.

  “What floor?” asked the uniformed attendant.

  “Six, I think. The bridal section.”