All Good Women

by Valerie Miner

  Papa nodded evenly.

  Wanda wanted to jump in and defend Papa, for she knew it was Mama who had first told him about Emma Goldman and how she wrote to protest the execution of Kotoku in the Japanese Free Speech Trials of 1910. Perhaps as Papa’s radical ideas had turned to idealism, Mama’s had turned to cynicism. Wanda didn’t know what to say. She found communication harder these days as she was forgetting her Japanese.

  Wanda concentrated on the hem of the new blue print dress that she had bought to wear for Roy tonight. She enjoyed the simplicity of sewing and the direct reward of these even stitches. Mama had raised her to marry a good Nisei boy, to get a job and to make a contribution to the world. Not an easy mandate, but a mandate nonetheless, and for that she was grateful. Sometimes she felt she was walking a tightrope strung between conflicting interests. Well, she would try. The only times she was really nervous was when she turned around and saw Betty following on the tightrope, watching her closely.

  Roy would like the navy shirtwaist. She thought the dress, with its white accents — like luminescent gulls sailing over a clear night sky — was the perfect combination of tailored and romantic. It highlighted her own contrasts, the shiny black hair and the warm, ivory complexion. I’m not vain, Wanda reflected, I just know my advantages. The question was, could Roy handle all this?

  She pricked herself with the needle, and, sucking her finger, considered that another good question was did he want a wife? After all, he, himself, had big ideas of being a photographer, of travelling to Africa in search of animal faces. Deep down she believed that they would make a fine team, but he would have to discover that for himself. Lately she had seen more photographs by Dorothea Lange. That’s what she wanted to do with journalism, tell social issues through people’s lives. She would go to Mississippi and Alabama to interview the Negro people. And her special plan was that they would go back to Yokohama when things calmed down to do a story that would express the complexity of Japan. Last night in her diary, she had outlined their preparations. Language classes first, since neither of them spoke Japanese well enough. They would also study the geography and politics of the city. They would take gifts to Roy’s grandparents and her own. They would … the diary had been crammed with plans lately. She used to chronicle the day’s events, but work was so tense now that it was more relaxing to record plans. It seemed to help her sleep, too. Oh, there was lots of potential for her and Roy. That made the possibilities of failure all the more frightening. So she would play it day by day, stitch by stitch. She felt satisfied. Almost finished now. Yes, this dress would be perfect.

  ‘I’m in the mood for … lasagne,’ Ann laughed as she whipped the eggs. Lightly, as if you were whipping a soufflé, she remembered Miss Fargo’s typing maxim. Why this ridiculous song? She liked Glenn Miller a thousand times better than Benny Goodman, so much more intelligent and subtle. But it would be more appropriate to sing ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. If there was one thing Ann was not in the mood for, it was romance. Lasagne, let’s see now, she scanned the recipe in Angela’s neat hand. All Catholic girls wrote so precisely. What did Angela call this way of writing? Yes, yes, the ‘Palmer Method’. ‘Tomato sauce, noodles, ricotta, eggs, salt, pepper, ground beef, mozzarella, Parmesan, pan 9 by 13 inches.’ At least this was a practice run. It had been her own bright idea to invite the parents for dinner next week, her clever notion to serve an exotic dish that would be foreign to all of them. So it was only fair that she be elected cook. Staring at the cheese and egg mixture, she had grievous doubts that this would emerge as edible. She turned to shred the mozzarella; the long, even sheets of pale yellow reassured her. The lasagne was delicious when Angela cooked it. And she had been good at following directions since childhood. In fact, she was confident she, too, would have perfected the Palmer Method of Penmanship if she had been accepted at the Catholic school where her father tried to enroll her — over Mama’s protests — because it was good on academic discipline. Yes, she would have learned the Palmer Method if she hadn’t been Jewish and left-handed. They were sorry, said Sister Agatha, who could smell past the rose in her name, but there was no more room in the first grade.

  Ann enjoyed grating the Parmesan, watching the soft flakes fill the bowl, savoring the sharp, hardrock aroma escape from the grater. Very good at following directions … that’s why she was flying through the Greek course. It was kind of Professor Watson to let her audit the classes, but she could see he was pleased to have a secretary who was interested in the curriculum. San Francisco State wasn’t the most prestigious Greek faculty in the country, but she wasn’t exactly ready for graduate work.

  At least she was recovering from her jealousy of Daniel. For years her brother’s courses at Stanford tormented her: history, English literature, calculus, French. She should never have taken him up on his invitation to visit the campus. It would have been easier to bear — him finishing college and going straight to law school — if she hadn’t seen how elegant Stanford was. All those graceful Spanish buildings. The tall eucalyptus trees. The wonderful, large communal dining rooms. And his friends — boys from Long Island and Louisiana and Italy and Africa. Well, now she was making her own way, differently, more slowly. She would show Papa, who had dreamed she was going to business school so she could type in her brother’s law office!

  She hated this envy because she really loved Daniel. They had been natural allies — neutral in the war between their parents. Even though he was two years older, they often played together. They both hated leaving New York for California and they were buddies in this arid and overfragrant place, travelling to the zoo and the museums together on weekends. They also developed a mutual vigilance as Mama grew more quiet.

  Papa said they were silly to miss New York. Who wouldn’t prefer a nice, warm climate with beautiful palm trees and the Pacific Ocean. They were crazy. Soon they would forget the concrete land where people shoved and pushed and were always categorizing who you were and where you came from. California would be a new life for all of them. Mama would be happier. He promised they could move back to New York in five years if they still missed the damn place. When Ann and Daniel took him up on the bargain — Ann, aged fifteen and Daniel, seventeen — Papa said he was sorry they hadn’t adjusted, but the family couldn’t pull up its roots for such whim. Roots! Ann screamed. Papa thought they had roots here? Daniel tugged at her sleeve, come on, this is a waste of time. Ann wondered why she was the one who always got angry.

  Now Ann shook her head and picked up another piece of the Parmesan Teddy had brought home from Bertolis’.

  Teddy, faithful Teddy, encouraged her about college. Teddy would make the perfect mother — do what you want dear, whatever makes you happy. Yet there was something about her that made Ann feel Teddy would never have kids. Funny, the friends one chooses. Teddy was so different from anyone she or Carol ever talked to in high school. So slow and easy. They probably wouldn’t have even noticed her. It still hurt to think about Carol, and Ann watched her mind return to a safer topic. This house would be a good place for studying Greek and Latin. After all, they helped each other survive Tracey Business School here. And she was close enough to Filbert Street to run home in an emergency, which, God knew, was likely.

  Yes, she was getting a better perspective, like a paleontologist predicting shifts in the surface of rock over time — the various layers of movement and possibility and resistance. She could not detach herself from her parents or their parents. They were all part of the same mountain.

  Mountain was what this Parmesan was becoming. Well, fine, the extra cheese would keep in the icebox until next week for the real occasion. Meanwhile, the dry run was smelling more and more like lasagne.

  Clip. Chomp. Clip. Moira manoeuvred the pruners gingerly, intent on avoiding her fingers as Teddy had warned. How did Teddy know just the right angle and pace? She was so like a man in her useful ways: fixing the sink, lighting the pilot of their water heater. It was
nothing, Teddy insisted, she had learned on the trip West, helping Pop fix the truck that was always breaking down. Nothing, sniffed Moira, like typing was nothing. ‘Now is the time …’ It gave her a neckache just remembering.

  Actually, this looked halfway decent. She stood back, appreciating her handiwork. A little uneven by the porch there, but she could hide that with the potted geraniums. Mother would be so pleased to see them thriving since she had sent the seeds last winter. Moira was bloody amazed, never having potted anything besides herself before. So like Mother to send seeds rather than flowers. Seeds would renew the investment. Mother just assumed Moira could plant seeds and make them grow. She assumed Moira could do anything she put her head to. But since Moira had abandoned Los Angeles for San Francisco, nothing had gone according to plan except the geraniums. And they were flourishing only in comparison to the ivy.

  Clip. Chomp. Clip. Funny how this part of the street was treeless. The Italian neighbors didn’t want anything between them and the sun. Practical, thought Moira, none of those damn leaves to rake in the fall. Her parents would be startled. To them, America meant luscious trees and finely groomed lawns like the one they reverently tended in Los Angeles.

  Of course she had been right about coming to San Francisco. If she had stayed in Los Angeles, she would have been required to parade daily along the intricately trimmed path through the Finlaysons’ ideal lawn. She would never escape until she had won a husband and a contract. And living at home would make her fit for only one role — mad Lady MacBeth. Besides, J.D. had promised her an interview with Randolph next month.

  What a funny conversation she had had with Wanda last night, Wanda asking why she wanted to be an actress. No one had questioned her motivations before. Because everyone wanted to be in the movies or because they dismissed her as a piece of fluff? But Wanda knew exactly why she was going to be a journalist. She would expose injustice and help people communicate. All Moira could say was that she liked being creative. ‘But,’ Wanda persisted, ‘what do you want to do with acting?’ Moira tried to shrug it off. However, when she went to bed last night, she reflected that her interest in acting came from the secrets.

  Home had been padded with secrets. The more Mother protected her from the secrets, the more scared Moira felt. Now she wanted to tell the secrets, to have feelings and to shout them on a stage before thousands, millions of people. Moira didn’t know when she first became aware of the secrets, probably when she began to compare her family with the families of her school friends. They all had brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles. Moira had distant relations spread throughout the Commonwealth whom Mother never mentioned unless Aunt Evie was in town. Moira still wondered if she would have learned about Daddy without Aunt Evie, who was as gregarious and irascible as Mother was reserved.

  Although she was just seven at the time, Moira remembered almost every detail about that morning. Mother and Aunt Evie were sitting on the sofa. They must have been talking about Glasgow because their accents were noticeably thick. Moira liked it when Aunt Evie visited because she heard the music in Mother’s voice that usually was so carefully subdued. Mother even tried to get Daddy to stop using ‘Och now’, and ‘Aye’. Moira wasn’t listening to the content of what they said so much as to their brogues; suddenly the room grew still.

  ‘You’ve told her about Keith, of course.’

  ‘No.’ Mother lowered her voice. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, when? The child is almost eight.’

  ‘When she’s ready.’ Mother looked over at Moira with such a scowl that Moira threw a ball of yarn to their cat, awakening the animal on the other side of the room.

  ‘She’ll find out somehow. Surely Tim will want her to know.’

  ‘Shhh, Evie, don’t poke where you’re not invited.’ Mother stood and walked toward the kitchen. ‘More tea?’ Her voice was strained.

  ‘No! You’re bloody impossible. I’m going for a walk. That is if I can stand outside in this desert for more than five minutes without melting.’

  Moira sat frozen. Even the cat seemed wary. Finally she found a voice. ‘Shall I be your scout, Aunt Evie, like yesterday? I could show you the department stores.’

  ‘You’ll stay here, young lady. We have some talking to do.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ Moira curled up next to the bookcase to make herself smaller. She tried to understand what she had done. Eavesdropping was a sin, she knew that from Sister Robert. She hadn’t done it intentionally and she had tried to close her ears when it sounded as if they were discussing important matters or at least when Mother had grown tense.

  The front door slammed. It seemed like hours before Mother returned with a fresh cup of tea. ‘Come here, Moira, come sit by me.’

  Moira walked to the couch slowly, as if her pockets were weighted with 100 pounds of stolen chocolate. Mother had tears in her eyes. Since she had never seen her cry, Moira felt more guilty. What had she done to this poor woman who tried so hard? Suddenly Moira hated Aunt Evie’s loud, brash ways.

  ‘Not your fault,’ Mother sobbed. ‘Now come on, child, I have something important to tell you. There was another Daddy before Daddy. We came to America from Scotland together, but he died …’

  Although it had been a painful conversation, they seemed closer for the next week than they had in years. Aunt Evie left a day early. Moira didn’t think much about her father — or fathers — at first because she felt so close to Mother. She understood now that it had been she and Mother alone, at first, against the world. As the weeks passed, she began to stare at Daddy in different ways, to observe how she resembled only her mother. She wondered what this other daddy, Keith, looked like. Would Mother have any pictures? Could she ask to see them? No, she would wait a while. Meanwhile, she savored being the girl with the biggest secret in the second grade.

  But the intimacy didn’t last. Mother always seemed nervous about something. Daddy — she tried calling him ‘Daddy Tim’ to herself, but it was too complicated — tried to cheer up Mother. He was always ready with a joke or a game. The more he laughed, the sterner Mother got. It was hard for the three of them to be together. Moira had great times with Daddy on her own, fishing and hiking. And she had some good days with Mother, mostly shopping. But with the three of them together, it always seemed awkward. Moira thought this was her fault. Without her, they would get along. She even worried that Daddy Keith had left because of her, but this was too crazy to talk about, so she didn’t tell anyone about the worry. She just waited for the bad feelings to disappear, which they sometimes did. But other days she was depressed and listless. She would sit on the back step and brood until Mother caught her. ‘Of course you have plenty to do. You have friends. You could help me inside the house.’

  Turning to the ivy on the edge of the steps, Moira shook herself back to Sunday afternoon.

  She spotted Angela Bertoli waddling down the street. No, that wasn’t fair, she was a big woman, not obese, and Moira admired her solidity.

  ‘Hiya?’ called Angela.

  ‘Fine,’ said Moira, caught by the coolness in her own voice. ‘Nice day.’ But even this sounded more like, ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela, with her usual private smile.

  Moira had a peculiar flash from the previous week — of Teddy and Angela walking off to see Suez together — two blocks ahead of herself and Randy who were going to another movie. She felt something like jealousy, which was ludicrous because she had her date with Randy. When they were a block behind the two women, Moira asked Randy once again if he had a friend for Teddy.

  ‘I’ve tried, haven’t I? With Jimmy last year, and Stan. She’s not interested, I tell you,’ he said nervously.

  ‘Nonsense, she’s only shy,’ snapped Moira.

  ‘Well, just see how shy she is with Angela Bertoli.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Moira spoke more slowly. ‘Never mind. One m
ore crack like that and we’re through.’

  ‘Listen, it’s OK with me.’ He tried to keep his voice light. ‘So she doesn’t like men. That’s her choice. It’s a free country.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She clasped her shaking hands over the strap of her black patent pocketbook.

  ‘Like I said, it’s fine as long as it’s not contagious. You and me, we have a good time together, don’t we?’ He winked.

  Thoroughly flustered now, by his remarks about Teddy and by his fingers creeping around her back to the edge of her breast, she was relieved to see the theatre marquee. By this time Teddy and Angela had turned the corner, Moira and Randy joined the long queue for Drums.

  ‘Hey, this is packed for a re-run from ’38.’ Randy was just as anxious as Moira to switch to a friendly topic. ‘Why the gigantic line?’

  Moira pointed to a romantic poster of Raymond Massey, Valerie Hobson and Sabu. ‘“Brave men”,’ she read aloud, ‘“and the bravest women who follow”.’

  Angela was completely out of sight now and Moira returned to the ivy. Would her parents like Randy? Daddy would enjoy his spunk. Mother might find him charming. Really, he had a lot of good points — loyalty, intelligence, a hardworking nature. She just wished Teddy and Ann liked him more. Maybe they were jealous, no, not in the way Randy was insinuating, but because they didn’t have boyfriends. She and Wanda had great laughs about Roy and Randy so maybe the others felt left out. Whatever her parents thought about Randy, they were bound to like this house. Unlike the other parents, who lived in San Francisco, the Finlaysons were reassured that their daughter was living safely with a group of friends in this strange city. Moira once heard Mother describe the house to Aunt Evie as ‘a women’s hotel, like the Barbizon’. Aunt Evie, who had learned some diplomacy, had kept her peace. The visit might prove a little problematic when they discovered Wanda really was Oriental and Ann was Jewish, because, after twenty-five years in the United States, the Finlaysons were surprised to meet anyone except the Daughters and Sons of the Revolution and, perhaps, a few Indians.