American Progress

by Veda Boyd Jones

  That costs the least and does the most,

  Is just a pleasant smile.

  Carrie’s house was only four blocks from the Simmonses’ place, and she was home in a matter of minutes. Their Chandler Six was sitting in the driveway when Carrie arrived. Mother, dressed and ready, was pacing in the front room.

  “Caroline,” she said when Carrie entered. “How inconsiderate of you. Mr. Clausen will be fuming if we’re late.”

  “Sorry, Mother. Truly I am. Sonny came in with a radio set, and we all went to look.”

  “Sonny Simmons?” Mother shook her head. “I don’t mind you playing with the Bickerson children, but I wish you wouldn’t keep company with Sonny. He’s a ne’er-do-well if I ever saw one.”

  “Don’t worry. He calls us little kids and chases us out.”

  “Good enough.” Pulling on her gloves, Carrie’s mother waved her toward the stairs. “Your togs are laid out on your bed. Hurry and change.”

  The air was muggy after the rain, and Carrie didn’t feel like hurrying at all. She certainly didn’t feel like playing tennis. She changed into the pleated white skirt and middy top with the navy sailor ties that hung down the front. Kicking off her play shoes, she pulled on the long cotton stockings and white canvas tennis shoes. Strands of her dark hair were falling out of her braids, but there was no time to redo them. She was out in the upstairs hall when she stopped, ran back into her room, grabbed the racquet in the corner, and ran back out again.

  Mother was in the car with the motor running. Carrie jumped in, propping the racquet beside her. As they drove out toward the country club, Mother talked about the work she’d done that morning with the League of Women Voters. Carrie’s mother was always off and doing with some group or other. Sometimes it was with civic groups, sometimes with the church. “We must give back to society,” she’d say. “None of us can be takers only.”

  The country club was a long, low building made of rough native stone and surrounded by manicured golf courses. Mother pulled the Chandler Six up under a shade tree to keep it cool while they were inside. Carrie hopped out and hurried to keep in step with her mother as they went up the winding walk.

  “We’ll go around this way,” Mother said, pointing to the side of the building. “It’ll be faster.”

  Mr. Clausen, looking cool in his white slacks and knit shirt, was sitting at one of the little tables on the patio shaded by a yellow-and-white-striped umbrella. His hair was slicked back, movie-star style, and he was sipping an iced drink. He was young and terribly good-looking. He looked nothing like the pastor he was studying to become. The part-time job at the country club was helping to put him through divinity school.

  He looked up at them and smiled as they approached. He insisted he’d been waiting only a few moments and didn’t seem nearly as upset as Mother had indicated he might be. To Carrie, it appeared as though he had nothing else to do.

  Mother chose to wait inside out of the hot sun. “I need to make a few telephone calls,” she said, giving Carrie a little wave.

  This was Carrie’s fourth lesson, and each time she seemed to do worse instead of better. “Today we’re working on the backhand,” Mr. Clausen instructed after the warm-up exercises were completed.

  Carrie wondered how she could have progressed to a backhand when her serve was still quite terrible. Repeatedly, Mr. Clausen had demonstrated how to throw the tennis ball up and then swing at the ball as it came down. He made it look so easy. But she missed it more times than she hit it.

  Now she listened and held the racquet just as he instructed. “The backhand, just like the forehand, begins low and ends high,” Mr. Clausen told her. “Reach across like so.” Standing beside her, he demonstrated the proper technique for a backhand. She wasn’t sure that she would ever catch on.

  After several practice swings, he moved to the other side of the net to hit a few balls. As Carrie fumbled about the court, in her mind ran the first two lines of a new poem:

  Anyone for tennis?

  To me, it’s just a menace!

  Mr. Clausen was kind, and he seemed to sense her heart wasn’t in the sport of tennis. “Think of it this way,” he told her as they took a short break. “You may never play at Wimbledon, but if in a few years some handsome young fellow asks you on a tennis date, you’ll at least know which end of the racquet to hold.”

  Carrie smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Clausen. That gives me a glimmer of hope.” He handed her a towel, and she mopped at the perspiration on her forehead.

  It had only been during this, her tenth summer, that Mother had begun this “well-rounded” thing for Carrie. “It’s not enough to just float through life,” she said. “It’s important to learn a little bit about many things in order to have a well-rounded education and personality.”

  And before Carrie could enjoy barely a month of summer freedom, she found her free time was entangled with workshops and lessons all week long, every week. She could hardly keep the times straight. Garvey said it must be like living in a straitjacket. While his description made her smile, it was true. The endless lessons almost took all the fun out of summer.

  Before practice was completed, Carrie finally executed a couple very nice serves. “Ah, good,” Mr. Clausen said. “Now I’ll be able to tell your mother you’re coming along famously.”

  Carrie laughed. “Don’t go overboard. No sense making her expect something that isn’t there.”

  “You have a point,” he replied.

  Mother was standing out on the patio in the shade of the yellow awning as they approached. Mr. Clausen reported on Carrie’s good lesson, then said, “Let me treat you and Caroline to an ice-cream soda.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Clausen, but we’ve no time for sodas today. Too many things to do.”

  “It’d only take a few minutes,” he protested. “I have a feeling Carrie would finish hers off rather quickly.”

  Mother put her hand on Carrie’s shoulder, leading her away. “Next time, perhaps.”

  Carrie felt cranky and out of sorts as she climbed back into the car, which had heated up to oven temperature. How could a person have time to drive clear across town for a tennis lesson but have no time to enjoy an ice-cream soda?

  That made no sense to Carrie. No sense at all.

  CHAPTER 4

  Family Gathering

  The Constable house was full to overflowing as it usually was on Sunday afternoons. This was Carrie’s favorite time of the week, when she could be with all her cousins and aunts and uncles.

  Garvey’s family and Carrie’s family attended the same church, and Garvey was even in Carrie’s Sunday school class. The Maurers—Aunt Elena, Uncle Hans, and Cousin Edith—attended a different church in another part of town, but they usually came to the Constables’ for dinner as well.

  The Maurers’ oldest daughter, Liese, sometimes came with her husband, Donald, and their two little ones. Carrie loved being around the babies. She liked to pretend they were her little brother and sister. Sometimes it got a little lonely being an only child.

  Garvey always told her she should be thankful to be the only one. “Larry teases me,” he’d say, “Gloria bosses me, and little Felix gets into my stuff. It’s no fun at all.” But in spite of what he said, Carrie knew they had good times together.

  Carrie was sitting on the floor in the front room. “See if he’ll come to me,” she said to Liese. Tall, slender Liese was sitting in the rocking chair with baby Joseph in her lap. At almost a year old,

  Joseph was learning to take his first baby steps. Liese set him down, and Carrie held out her hands. Joseph cooed and smiled then took a couple unsteady steps before practically falling into her lap. Carrie held him close, cuddling him and inhaling the sweet baby smell.

  “Oh, I love you, little Joey,” she said as she rocked him.

  “I think his first words are going to be Cousin Carrie,” Liese joked.

  “I’d like that,” Carrie answered. “I’d like that a lot.”

  �
�You’d like what?” Garvey’s thirteen-year-old sister, Gloria, had just come out of the kitchen where the women were still cleaning up the dinner dishes.

  “I’d like for Joey’s first words to be Cousin Carrie.“

  Gloria smiled as she sat down on the floor next to Carrie. “He’s growing so fast,” she said, giving Joseph an affectionate pat on his thick diapers. “I can hardly believe he’s walking already.”

  “Watch him,” Carrie said, setting Joseph back up on his feet.

  As Gloria held out her arms, he toddled to her, laughing and cooing as he went.

  Behind them, the men were talking in earnest about radios. Fifteen-year-old Larry was sitting with them, intent on being included in the adult conversation.

  Carrie had never known it to fail. Whenever the family gathered, the men were always debating about some issue or another. Uncle Kenneth, a physician, and Carrie’s father, a newspaper reporter, seldom agreed on anything. Uncle Hans, a foreman in the flour mill, was the quieter one. While Uncle Hans had definite opinions, he was never quite as vocal as the other two. Liese’s husband, Donald Albright, joined in, as well.

  Garvey came in the room just then, all hot and sweaty from playing in the yard. Four-year-old Felix was right on his heels. Felix was Garvey’s little shadow, following him wherever he went.

  Uncle Kenneth looked up from fiddling with dials on his console radio. “Garvey,” he said, “you’re getting grass all over the floor. If you don’t want your mother to throttle you, I suggest you go to the porch and brush it off.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garvey answered.

  “Yes, sir,” Felix echoed. The two went back outside again.

  “As I was saying,” Uncle Ken said to his brothers-in-law, “there should be absolutely no commercialism on the radio.”

  Sizzly static sounded through the speakers until he got the radio tuned in. A voice came on announcing an orchestral number.

  “I don’t agree,” Father countered. “It’s already been proven that when a product is mentioned on the air, sales immediately shoot up. The potential to sell products on the airwaves is too great to discount.”

  Uncle Ken shook his head in his solemn way. “Why, Glendon, the airwaves belong to everyone. It’s like a public trust.” Static sizzled once more, and Uncle Ken worked the dials again until the noise cleared. “If we let money-hungry corporations put their commercials on the air, radio will become distasteful to everyone.”

  “Nonsense,” Father retorted. “What better way for listeners to learn about new products?”

  Uncle Hans held Liese’s three-year-old daughter, Patricia, in his lap. The little girl was nearly asleep. Carrie could tell her uncle was thinking, but he kept his comments to himself.

  “The radio weather reports are a great help to the pilots out at the airport,” Larry put in. Larry worked at the Twin Cities Flying Field and loved everything about airplanes and flying. “But,” he continued, “I don’t see how announcers and radio personalities can be paid if commercials aren’t allowed. Where will the money come from?”

  “See there, Kenneth?” Father quipped. “Your son understands the concept clearly enough.”

  Joseph toddled back to Carrie, and she placed him on his back on the floor, tickling his tummy and making him gurgle. As she did, she made up a little ditty:

  Hie–di–ho and away we go,

  Listening to our radio.

  Commercials yes, commercials no

  Pay big bucks, we’ll air your show.

  Now it was Uncle Ken’s turn to laugh. To Father, he said, “Excuse me, Glendon, but it sounds like your daughter understands the concept. It’s all about big bucks.”

  Now everyone was laughing, even Father. Carrie was blushing. She hadn’t meant to make a point. She just liked the rhythm of the words.

  “Back to what I was saying,” Father continued. “The Detroit News has set up a radio station right in their newspaper office. Obviously, they see radio as the perfect news medium—an extension of the newspaper, if you will.”

  “That makes sense,” Donald Albright put in. “Listeners can get bits of headlines on the radio and then get the details from the newspaper.”

  “Exactly,” Father agreed. “I’m trying to talk my boss into sending me to Detroit to see how their system is set up.”

  “Why don’t you just fly to Detroit?” Larry asked. He always thought of travel in terms of flying. “I could help you hire a plane and a pilot.”

  Carrie looked over at her father to see his reaction. Glendon Ruhle loved new adventures, which is why he was such a keen newshound. She saw his eyes light up at the prospect of taking an airplane trip.

  “I hadn’t thought of that, Larry. Flying to Detroit would certainly be the quickest way. How much would it cost?”

  “Probably just the price of fuel,” Larry told him. “Most of the pilots out at the field jump at a chance to fly—anywhere, anytime.”

  Father nodded. “You find out, and let me know.”

  Just then the women came in from the kitchen, and all talk of airplanes and radios stopped. Mother sat down near Father and Uncle Kenneth. To her older brother, she said, “Frances just told me that Jonathan Carruthers has hired a Jewish immigrant as his new chauffeur. A single man with no family.”

  Uncle Ken nodded. “I heard.”

  “Good for him,” Uncle Hans spoke up. Uncle Hans, who’d known much persecution both as a labor union man and as a German during the war, was always in favor of the underdog, the down-and-outer.

  “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Father said. “The Klan activities in the city have increased in the past few months. They don’t much like the Jews—or the people who have anything to do with Jews.”

  Seventeen-year-old Edie, the youngest Maurer daughter, entered the room just in time to hear that last remark. She seated herself on the floor with Gloria and Carrie. “Klan members don’t seem to like anyone different than they are,” she stated flatly.

  “I saw him,” Carrie said.

  “Saw whom?” Aunt Frances asked.

  “The chauffeur.”

  “You saw Yerik Levinsky?” she asked.

  Carrie nodded. “If that’s the name of the chauffeur. I was playing with Violet Bickerson next door. I saw him bringing the Packard home after taking Mr. Carruthers somewhere.”

  “Well, tell us,” Edie said, leaning forward. “What did he look like?”

  Carrie thought a minute. “He has a nice smile.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Uncle Kenneth said. “Could we be suspicious of someone who has a nice smile?”

  Uncle Hans shook his head. “People who live with suspicion don’t look at smiles—or any other virtue for that matter.”

  “Papa’s right,” Edie agreed. “The Klan just took up where the hate from the war left off.”

  Carrie had heard a few things about the Ku Klux Klan. None of it was good. She knew there were groups of them all around the country and that the members wore white robes with big pointed hoods. Father had said they hid because they were ashamed of their acts.

  There were reports that Klan members were against people of other faiths, such as the Jews and the Catholics, and people of other races, such as those with black skin. That sure seemed like a lot of people to hate. How could they keep it all straight? Mostly, Carrie couldn’t figure out how a Jewish immigrant could be a threat to someone like the Ku Klux Klan.

  “Jews have often been discriminated against,” Uncle Ken stated, “but we mustn’t forget that they are our heritage. They are God’s Chosen, the Bible says. We, on the other hand, are merely grafted in.”

  The announcer on the radio advertised an upcoming jazz band. Uncle Ken reached over and turned it off. He didn’t much care for jazz music.

  After everyone’s dinner had settled, they went outside for a game of croquet. Carrie gladly took care of Joseph while Liese joined in the action.

  “Since Carl and Oscar aren’t here,” Liese said, referring to h
er two brothers, “I have to defend the family name!”

  Carrie sat on the grass for a while, watching the game. When the baby got fussy, she went inside to the kitchen, where Aunt Frances was getting the custard ready to make homemade ice cream.

  “Carrie,” said her aunt, “I’m going to keep Patty and Joey for Liese one day next week. Why don’t you ask your mother if you can come over and help me?” Aunt Frances knew quite well how much Carrie loved being around the babies. Liese’s mother, Aunt Elena, worked as a typist in a freight office, so she wasn’t available to keep the babies during the day like Aunt Frances was.

  Carrie sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and gave Joseph his bottle, rocking him as he fed. “I have something scheduled most every day of the week,” she said with a sigh. “So I’m not sure if I can come and help or not.”

  Aunt Frances stopped what she was doing and turned around to face Carrie.

  “What do you have scheduled?”

  “I’m taking tennis, elocution, piano, and a couple of art appreciation workshops. Last week, I nearly forgot the tennis altogether.”

  Aunt Frances studied Carrie closely, which made Carrie uncomfortable. Aunt Frances could see a lot when she looked right at you. Much more than Mother ever saw.

  “And how do you feel about all this?” her aunt asked pointedly.

  In spite of herself, Carrie glanced about just to be sure Mother wasn’t anywhere near. “I don’t really mind the piano lessons.”

  “What about all the other things?”

  Carrie shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess. I just wish it weren’t during summer.” She hesitated to say how much she disliked playing tennis.

  Aunt Frances returned to her work, pouring the custard into the ice-cream freezer cylinder. “I think this is mostly my fault,” she said.

  “Your fault? What are you talking about?” The baby had fallen asleep and was a dead weight on Carrie’s arm. She turned so her arm was propped against the back of the kitchen chair.