by Alice Duncan
“Oh, boy, that party just never ends, does it?”
“Looks like it,” said Pa, laughing.
“I’m glad of it. The Castleton fixed some mighty tasty grub.”
“It did indeed.”
I decided to heck with toast, got a plate and filled it with deviled eggs and stuffed mushrooms and some little crackers with squiggly things on them. I presume someone with a pastry bag or something akin to it had created the squiggles, which were made of soft stuff that tasted good. Cheese perhaps? Liver sausage? Both? Sounded like a lot of work for a cracker that would end up in someone’s tummy, but it made me happy to know there were people who liked doing such things, since people like me appreciated them so much. After I’d set my plate on the kitchen table, I got a little bowl and filled it with fruit salad.
By the way, the only reason I know what pastry bags are is because Vi told me what one was as she used one of them to fill chocolate éclairs for our dessert once.
Boy, that was a good breakfast! Mind you, when Vi fixes us breakfast, it’s always good, too, but she hadn’t had to prepare any of this stuff, which gave it an added appeal. If that makes any sense. Spike enjoyed bits of it, too, because I managed to “drop” a few pieces of egg for him.
Ma and Vi walked into the kitchen as I was stuffing my face with a deviled egg. I’d picked it up, what’s more, and hadn’t bothered cutting it with a fork. Ma gazed upon me with disapproval because I was using bad manners. But golly, nobody else was in the house, and I figured I could relax the proper etiquette she’d taught me for one single morning.
Rather than scold me, Ma said, “Where’s Mister Prophet?”
After goggling at her for about the second and a half it took me to swallow my bite of deviled egg, I said, “I guess he’s across the street. Why?”
Putting on her hat and securing it with a hat pin, Ma said, “I just worry about him, is all. The poor man needs nourishment and, as much as I admire your Sam, Daisy, I doubt he has a kitchen stocked with food suitable for an elderly man.”
“Sam? Lou Prophet? Elderly?” I goggled a trifle more. “Ma, Mister Prophet’s been taking care of himself for longer than any of the rest of us has been alive. I doubt he could have reached his elderly state—if that’s what you want to call it—if he didn’t know how to take care of himself.”
“That’s not kind, Daisy,” said Ma, her frown deepening. “When people get older, they often lose some of their abilities. For instance, I’m sure it’s much more difficult for him to get around these days, what with one of his legs missing.”
Before I could think of a suitable response to this statement, which was true, although having a peg leg didn’t seem to bother Mr. Prophet a whole lot, Pa rose from the table and gave Ma’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sure Sam saved some of the party food in his own Frigidaire, Peggy.”
Ma tilted her head slightly, and her frown turned to one of troubled concentration. “That may well be so. But don’t you think you should go over there and knock, Joe? Just to make sure Mr. Prophet’s all right?”
I’d have grimaced in bewilderment if I didn’t know such an expression on my face would invite rebuke. But honestly. Did Ma really think Lou Prophet, former bounty hunter, gunslinger, bedder of every loose woman who ever came his way, I’m sure, with a lot of other things I didn’t even know existed, would starve to death if we Gumms and this Majesty (and the one Rotondo) didn’t look after him? Maybe she did. I suppose stranger things have been thought by stranger people. My mother, who was practical under all circumstances, also possessed a supremely kind heart.
“If it will make you happy, Peggy, I’ll go over there right now,” said my father, who was also a kind person, and who didn’t allow his wife’s odd notions to upset him. Great guy, my father.
“Thank you, Joe.” Ma kissed Pa on the cheek and looked happier.
I exchanged a speaking glance with Vi. I do believe our glances spoke the same language that morning.
Nevertheless, I could tell Ma was a happy woman when she and Vi left the house to walk up the street toward Colorado. Ma would make a detour at the Hotel Marengo, where she worked as chief bookkeeper. Vi would continue to Colorado Street, where she’d catch a bus to Mrs. Pinkerton’s palace.
Speaking of which…
After I’d finished my lovely breakfast of leftover hotel food, I sat for a few minutes at the kitchen table, chin in my cupped hands, and began contemplating what to wear to Mrs. Pinkerton’s house that day. The weather remained fine—I’d already checked on it by standing on the back deck for a few seconds—so I could wear something comfortable. As I anticipated the day’s session to be emotionally wrenching for both Mrs. P and me, I spared a moment to be grateful I didn’t have to wear anything bulky. Nobody wants to hire a bulky spiritualist-medium. And this particular spiritualist-medium didn’t like wearing bulky coats and scarves and so forth. Thinking about my overly stuffed closet, I finally rose from the table, gathered dirty dishes and started washing same.
Before I’d finished cleaning up from breakfast, Pa appeared, towing Lou Prophet behind him. Nertz. Did this mean the man hadn’t found anything to eat at Sam’s place? I didn’t believe it. Frowning slightly, I said, “Good morning, Mister Prophet.”
“How-do, Miss Daisy. Your pa was nice enough to offer me breakfast at your place.”
“Sam didn’t tuck any leftovers in his refrigerator for you to dine on this morning?” I know my tone was snide, and I’m sure my face reflected the same snidity (I don’t think that’s a word) in its expression.
The fellow looked downright respectable this morning, which surprised me. I knew he’d found some used clothing at the Salvation Army thrift store, but I didn’t necessarily expect him to look civilized every day. That’s probably pure prejudice on my part.
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Sam and me, we had a great breakfast. That hotel caters a good party.”
“Yes, it does.”
Very well, my snideness (I don’t think that’s a word, either) hadn’t gone unnoticed by Mr. Prophet because, with a wry look for me, he said, “I just come over to see if you could drive me to that library of yours one of these days. I’d like to get me a card there, now that I’m pretty much settled in Pasadena.” Tipping his head to one side, he gave me a wicked grin. “Sam told me I can stay in the cottage behind your house and be the caretaker.”
“How nice of him,” I said. Then, deciding I actually wanted him in that cottage, I gave him a genuine smile and added, “I’ll be happy to take you to the library, but it’ll have to be after I visit Mrs. Pinkerton this morning. Unless you want to sit inside the library and read or something while I deal with Mrs. Pinkerton.”
“Your friend, Miss Petrie, going to be there?” asked Prophet.
I squinted at him, wondering if he aimed to try to seduce Regina Petrie.
But no. That was absurd. He was an old man in his seventies (probably), and Regina was young and pretty and engaged to marry Robert Browning! Studying Mr. Prophet’s lined face for another second, I decided I’d put nothing past him. Fortunately, all of my female friends were above reproach in the morality department. The same could not, I knew well, be said of Mr. Prophet.
“I’m not sure,” I told him, wiping a glass dry and sticking it in the cupboard where it resided with its fellow glasses. “She might be. I don’t know her precise work schedule. But anybody working at the main desk can help you get a library card.”
“Swell. Think I’ll do that, then. If you don’t mind driving this old reprobate to the library, of course.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. I think I meant it. Actually, I knew I meant it. I don’t know why I was carping about Lou Prophet that morning. Just moody, I guess. Peering behind Mr. Prophet, I said, “Where’s Sam?”
“Had to go to work. Got a call pretty early.”
“Oh, dear. I hope this doesn’t mean another gruesome murder.”
“Don’t know,” said Prophet. “I thought Pasadena was a law-abid
ing community.”
“It is, for the most part.”
“Guess I’ll have to look around until I find the other part then.” He winked at me.
The wicked old man! Oh, very well, I liked him. However, I also rather disapproved of him, if that makes any sense. It probably doesn’t.
“Just stay here with Pa while I get dressed,” I told him.
“I’ll get us each another cup of coffee,” said Pa, smiling and gesturing for Mr. Prophet to take a kitchen chair. Well, not take one. Sit on one. English language usage confounds me sometimes. Think I’ve already mentioned that once or twice.
So Pa and Mr. Prophet sat at the kitchen table, and I retired to my bedroom. Spike, sensing no more food would be forthcoming and not caring for coffee, joined me in my room. I picked him up and deposited him on my beautifully quilted bedspread. An aunt in Massachusetts had quilted my bedspread; I can’t remember which aunt, but the quilt was lovely. From his position on the quilt, Spike could peruse my overflowing closet and help me decide what to wear that day.
After pondering far too many selections—I probably should donate a lot of my clothes to the Salvation Army because I sure wasn’t going to stop sewing—Spike and I decided on a relatively new creation. Sewn by me using a Butterick pattern in a blue-patterned fabric, both of which I’d bought at Maxime’s Fabrics on Colorado, the creation was called a coat-dress. It buttoned in a sharp angle to the left. It also had a narrow tied belt, and the skirt flared below the belt into a sort-of folded-up fan.
While I generally selected single-colored garb for my spiritualistic outings, I figured this one was sophisticated enough that I could get away with it having been made using patterned fabric. Besides, although I’d never admit it to anyone, I could probably have shown up at Mrs. P’s house stark naked, and no one except Aunt Vi would even have noticed. Featherstone, Mrs. P’s butler, might have noticed, but he’d never have indicated he had by so much as a blink, much less a stare. Mrs. Pinkerton herself never commented on my clothing, not caring about anyone save herself.
That was unkind of me, too, and I don’t really mean it. A generous woman, Mrs. Pinkerton might be a wee bit dense, and she might not notice anyone else’s attire, but she’d probably not have been my best client for so many years if I’d clad myself like, say, a hobo or your classical Gypsy fortune-teller, or someone along those lines. In other words, my wardrobe fitted my act. I hoped the blue-patterned material of this particular dress wouldn’t put her off.
Naw. She wouldn’t notice any difference at all in what I wore, patterned fabric or no patterned fabric. After Spike and I had come to this conclusion, I put on my flesh-colored stockings, got my black bag and black pumps from the closet, clapped on a black-felt cloche hat—adorned this day with a ribbon fashioned from the same blue-patterned fabric as the gown—grabbed the beautifully embroidered bag containing my Ouija board and tarot cards, and exited the bedroom alongside Spike, whose tail wagged in supreme appreciation of my attire. I’m sure that’s why he wagged. His wag had nothing to do with the plate of deviled eggs sitting on the kitchen table.
“I thought you’d both already eaten breakfast,” I said to the seated men, eyeing the platter.
“We did, but these eggs are good,” said Pa.
“They are,” agreed Prophet.
So, to make it unanimous, I took one also and downed it in two bites. Well, one and a half bites since I gave Spike a half of my half. He appreciated it.
After swallowing, I asked Prophet, “Ready to go?”
“I am,” said he, rising and giving me a bow. “You look mighty pretty today, Miss Daisy.”
“You do, sweetheart. Is that a new dress?”
I felt my cheeks catch fire and burn with embarrassment. Every time anyone complimented me on my appearance, I felt guilty. And there was no reason for me to feel guilty, confound it! Every single garment I owned had been sewn by my own two hands with fabric purchased at a discount in one of a number of stores during their annual or semi-annual sales. The costume I wore that day had probably cost a whopping dollar to make. Maybe seventy-five cents.
I felt guilty anyway. Lifting my chin slightly, I said, “Yes, it is. I got this material on sale at Maxime’s when they had their year-end sale. That’s where I got the fabric for that pretty dress I gave Ma for Christmas, too. And the lovely pink bathrobe I gave Vi for Christmas. And the dresses I just mailed to Polly and Peggy to wear at Easter.” Polly and Peggy are my sister Daphne’s two children in case you wondered. Daphne, her husband Daniel, and the two girls lived in Arcadia, about twelve miles east of Pasadena. They generally came to our house for holidays.
“You’re always a wise shopper,” said Pa. I could tell he wanted to laugh at how hard I was defending my clothing addiction.
“Dress matches your eyes,” said Mr. Prophet, looking me up and down and tilting his head slightly as if he were trying to figure something out. I didn’t ask him what, although his scrutiny made me a little nervous. When he’d stopped staring at me, he put the flat of his palm on a stack of books. “Picked these up at the table beside the front door. Joe says they’re books you want to return to the library.”
“Yes, they are. Thank you.”
“Any old time,” said he, scooping the books into his arms and rising from the kitchen chair. I noticed he used the hand not holding books to steady himself by grasping the back of the chair. I really shouldn’t be so hard on the old guy.
Naw. He deserved it.
Anyhow, we exited the house via the side door, Spike mournful and telling me he didn’t understand why dogs weren’t allowed in the library. I told him that, while dogs might be allowed in the library, he knew full well he wouldn’t want to visit Mrs. Pinkerton’s house with me. He agreed wholeheartedly.
And don’t tell me dogs can’t talk. Spike and I understood each other just fine.
Mr. Prophet set the books on the back seat, maneuvered his leg and his peg into the front passenger’s seat, and I backed the Chevrolet out of our driveway. Very carefully, because backing up isn’t something I do well.
We’d just turned north on Marengo when Mr. Prophet said, “Say, Miss Daisy, would you mind if I asked you a question?”
Squinting at him for a mere split-second—didn’t want to take my attention off the road for longer than that—I answered his question with the truth. “I won’t know if I’ll mind until after you ask it.”
“Huh,” he said. I believe he was acquiring the “huh” habit from Sam.
“So go ahead and ask,” I said. “Then we’ll both know if I’ll mind you asking the question or not.”
With a shrug, he said, “How come ladies these days want to look like boys? Like they have no…uh…curves?”
“You mean, why do women these days aspire to the straight up-and-down shape? Or lack of shape? Is that what you mean?”
“Well, yeah. I guess so. You don’t want men to see your…uh…well, your natural curves?”
The funny—odd-funny, not funny-funny—thing about his question is that I’d asked myself the same one not long back. In reference to this very man! I’d come to the conclusion Mr. Prophet probably preferred the way women looked in the olden days—his day, in fact. He’d probably especially prefer the women if they weren’t ladies.
I didn’t instantly answer his question because an instant answer didn’t occur to me. After pondering it for a moment or two, however, I came up with the truth as I saw it. “Actually, we don’t, Mister Prophet. At least I don’t. The fashion houses set trends for us, and we’re stuck with them. I suppose a woman doesn’t necessarily have to wear a corset and a bust-flattener, but if she aspires to earn a respectable living, she’d better.”
“A what?” he asked, staring at me as if I’d gone ‘round the bend. “What did you say ladies wear? I’ve heard of corsets, but what was that other thing?”
Oh, dear. I’d managed to embarrass myself again. I seemed to do that a lot. Flaming face or no flaming face, however, I answere
d his question with another bit of honesty. “A bust-flattener. Women today aren’t supposed to have…bosoms.”
“Oh. That doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“It doesn’t make any sense to me, either, and wearing fashionable clothes can sometimes be downright painful. Especially if a woman is naturally endowed with…curves.”
“Yeah. I can imagine. Don’t know why anyone would prefer a stick to a curve or two.” Shaking his head, he added, “I kind of like ladies’ bosoms.”
“That doesn’t surprise me the least little bit.”
He chuckled. “I suspect Sam does, too.”
While I knew his suspicion to be true, I’d die before admitting it, especially to this man. Rather, I said, “Have you ever seen a production of The Pirates of Penzance?”
“Eh? The pirates of what?”
“The Pirates of Penzance. It’s one of Gilbert and Sullivan’s operettas.”
“Oh,” said Prophet. I got the feeling he wasn’t well acquainted with Gilbert and Sullivan’s work.
“Anyhow,” I went on, “there’s a fellow named Frederic in the operetta who claims he’s a slave to duty. We poor women are slaves to fashion, I guess.”
“Don’t rightly think I’d like to be a slave to anything at all.”
“Says the man who fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War.”
“The War of North—”
Peeved, I interrupted him. Most impolite, I know. “I don’t care what you call it! You fought for the rights of those rich plantation owners to keep slaves.”
“Huh.”
“Don’t ‘huh’ me. Anyhow, it’s men who run the fashion houses, so you ought to complain to them if you complain to anyone. I certainly have no sway when it comes to the designs fashion houses decide we women are supposed to wear.”
“Well, I don’t know as to how I aim to complain to anyone. I just wondered, was all.”
“Fair enough. Anyhow, if Miss Petrie is at the library today, would you mind asking her if she could come to our house on Saturday so I can do a final fitting on her wedding gown?”
