by Alice Duncan
I smiled back. I did so love my husband, even though . . . well, you know. “I don’t want another commendation. I only want to get back to my old life. My life without cooking and criminals, I mean.” I glanced at Johnny and Flossie. “Not that I don’t appreciate everything the Salvation Army does, you understand, but I hope you’ll be able to carry on without me from now on. I am, after all,” I added, “a Methodist, you know.”
Flossie gave me a gentle smile. Boy, before she met Johnny, I wouldn’t have guessed she had a gentle smile in her. I was sure wrong about that. “Daisy, you’re absolutely wonderful, and we love you. You’ve done us a huge service. I think I’ll be able to take over the cooking classes from now on. I’ll carry on in exactly the way you did.”
I sincerely hoped she didn’t mean that.
Evidently so did Johnny, who said, “Except that Flossie can cook.”
Everybody in the entire room laughed. Except me. Truly, I have a good sense of humor. It had been battered out of me that day, I reckon.
* * * * *
As you can probably imagine, I was pretty stiff, sore and tired for a couple of days after my last great adventure. I didn’t even go to church on the Sunday after that fateful last-class day, because my muscles felt as though they’d been nailed into place by a maniacal biologist. I called Mr. Hostetter to tell him I was ill. He said that he was sorry and that they would miss me. Since I was a mere alto unless I was singing a duet with Lucy, I figured he’d get over his sorrow soon.
There was one visit I had to make, however, and I managed to get my sore and scraped body up and ready a little after noon that day. I’d spoken to Johnny and Flossie, and they said that Hilda Schwartz didn’t have to work on Sundays and that she lived in premises on the Salvation Army grounds. Evidently they’d set aside some apartments for the women they were trying to help.
Not much was open on a Sunday afternoon in the fair city of Pasadena, but I managed to find a little roadside flower stand on North Marengo near the Chinese Methodist Church. I bought Hilda a pretty bouquet of daisies and roses and set out on my mission of mercy.
Hilda was home. She answered my knock and looked perfectly astounded to see me. “Mrs. Majesty!”
“How do you do, Miss Schwartz?” I thrust the flowers at her. “This is a small thank-you for your invaluable assistance yesterday. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be dead right now.”
I guess my words had been a little too blunt, because Hilda staggered back slightly. She grabbed the bouquet first, however. “Dead? Dead? Ach, nein!” She straightened herself, looked a little brighter, and said, “Really? I really help?”
“You really helped,” I assured. I took a deep breath and then came out with it. “And I’m hoping to help you in return.”
“Oh?” Was that a wary look in her eyes?
Maybe. I’m not good at reading other people’s facial expressions. “Yes.”
“Please to come in.”
She stepped back, and I entered her tiny little place. There wasn’t much to it: just a small parlor that I imagine doubled as a bedroom and a kitchen. I presume she and the other residents used the bathroom facilities down the hall. Somewhere. She always looked clean, anyhow.
“Thank you, Miss Schwartz.”
She gestured to a sofa, which, I was almost sure, was also her bed. I sat. “I have something to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” She didn’t seem awfully happy to hear that, but went on, “But first I make tea, yes?”
“Thank you.”
So she did, and as we sipped our tea, I told her what I suspected about her—I swear, the woman nearly fainted—and what I aimed to do about it.
When I was finished, she sat still, staring at her lap, for what seemed like several hours. If I’d been in better physical shape, I’d have been twitching by the time she finally spoke. She did so without lifting her head.
“You know . . . I am German?” Her voice was so tiny, I very nearly didn’t hear her.
“I guessed,” said I gently.
She looked at me then. “And you want to help me?”
“Yes. I want to help you.”
“Because I help you?”
“Actually, I wanted to help you achieve legal status before yesterday’s incident, although that surely cemented my intentions.”
She started crying then, and I swear to goodness, I didn’t think she’d ever stop. I finally left my seat on her sofa, which hurt all my damaged muscles and scrapes and bruises, and put an arm around her. The position was awkward for me, since she sat on a chair and I had to lean over her, but I figured she’d saved my life; what was a little discomfort?
After her sobs had quieted to soft hiccups, her story came pouring out of her. I learned that her village in Germany had been bombed to smithereens during the conflict, her family killed, and all of her hopes and dreams had gone up in smoke. Literally. She managed to make her way to Belgium—and I don’t ever want to think again about everything that befell her on that awful journey. When she finally got to Brussells, half-starved and frightened almost to death, she learned about the Salvation Army’s effort to assist people whose lives had been disrupted by the war. She pretended she was Swiss, and, well, you know the rest of the story.
I finally left her, although she held on to me as if she never wanted me to leave her side. But I was tired, darn it, and I’d done my good deed for the day. When I finally got home, I nearly fell into bed, I was so exhausted. Nevertheless, I felt good about having spoken to Hilda. And about helping her, too, even though she was a German.
It was lucky for me that Mrs. Kincaid had already started out on her honeymoon, because I was in no shape or mood to deal with her hysterics. I just wanted to sit at home and sleep and read for a bit. That was okay by Billy, who liked having me around. When he wasn’t mad at me for some unaccountable reason. Spike, needless to say, was overjoyed to have another one of his humans in the house more often than usual.
On the second day after my ordeal, I resumed sewing Christmas presents for everyone. Sewing is such a relaxing occupation—for me, anyhow. Evidently some folks consider cooking relaxing; don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.
At any rate, I was involved in hemming the skirt of a dress I’d made for Ma when Miss Emmaline Castleton telephoned. I think this happened on the Wednesday after the Rossis were captured.
“Oh, Daisy,” she said, sounding more elated than anyone had a right to sound. Or maybe I was still sore from my trip with the Minnekes—Rossis, I mean. “Everything’s going to work out all right. Father just heard from his congressman, and both Miss Schwartz and Kurt will be allowed to stay in the country. Father’s giving Kurt a job at the estate, and Miss Schwartz can remain in Mrs. Bissell’s employ. If she decides to leave Mrs. Bissell for any reason—well, other than a serious transgression—I’ll find her employment with one of Father’s companies.”
I stared stupidly at the telephone for a moment, the receiver pressed to my ear. Then I said, “Um . . . I thought you wanted to meet Hilda before you agreed to help her.”
“After what she did for you, and after I spoke with Mr. Buckingham and Mr. Rotondo—”
“You talked to Sam?” I regret to say I rather screeched the question.
Emmaline hesitated. “Well, yes. I spoke with him on Saturday evening, after we gathered at your home. He was quite receptive to the proposition after hearing Kurt’s story. He was already willing to help Miss Schwartz.”
He was? He hadn’t sounded very darned receptive to me, curse the man. I said, “Oh.” Very well, I wasn’t feeling very bright and bubbly yet. “I mean, that’s wonderful. Thank you very much for helping Miss Schwartz, Emmaline. And thanks for calling with the good news.”
“It’s my genuine pleasure, Daisy. I’m only sorry you had to go through such a terrible time before the two of them could be assisted by people who count.”
“Yes. Me, too. I guess that’s just the way life works, though, isn’t it? It’s not ex
actly fair.”
I heard her sigh through the receiver. “No. It certainly isn’t. When I think about your husband and my Stephen, and then think about those terrible criminals . . . well, no. Life isn’t fair.”
And with that, we said our good-byes. I was very happy for Hilda, and I devoutly hoped Kurt was worth the effort Emmaline had gone to for him.
On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for Kurt, Hilda would never have been assisted with her problem, because Emmaline would never have heard about her, and she’d never have forced her father, who forced his congressman, who did who knows what to get both parties to enter and remain in the United States legally. I guess it’s true that God works in mysterious ways. Either that, or He makes his minions here on earth go through insane contortions in order that truth and justice should prevail.
But there I go sounding cynical again. I apologize.
The truth was that I’d learned a valuable lesson. It was a lesson Billy’d been trying to teach me for years, but I hadn’t been willing to learn it until now. However, I had to agree with him at last. Every nation in the world has its good folks and its bad folks. What the leaders of those nations do often causes the citizens in those same nations to do things they’d never do ordinarily. They—the leaders—get away with it by pretending that their causes are noble and patriotic and by pretending that the guys they hate are universally hateful, rather than merely annoying to them—I’m talking about the leaders again. And we—the citizens—allow them to do it to us time and time again.
Heck, we all fall into the traps our noble leaders set for us. I remember crying when I heard Enrico Caruso singing “Over There” on a recording machine at Mrs. Kincaid’s house during the war. I recall thinking that our men—and my Billy—were fighting for a glorious cause. At any rate, these things always turn out the same way: the ordinary citizens suffer, while the leaders . . . well, I don’t know what they do. Sulk, I guess, until the next time they get so peeved they start another war.
I think we human beings give ourselves too much credit for being creatures of a higher order than the base animals of the world. In truth, we are only animals, and we behave the way the human animal behaves. We clearly don’t learn from our mistakes, or we’d have stopped fighting wars after the very first war ended—and that was thousands of years ago.
But I probably shouldn’t wax philosophical any longer. I make a lousy philosopher at the best of times, and these days I’m weary and indignant.
Eventually, I got over my exhaustion. I even gained a modicum of enthusiasm for life once more. With Mrs. Kincaid—I mean Mrs. Pinkerton—out of the picture for a couple of months, I had lots of time to make my Christmas presents.
I was involved in such a pursuit one afternoon in my sewing room at the back of the house when Billy knocked at the door. I kept it closed and had asked everyone to knock before entering, since I didn’t want anyone to know what I was making them for Christmas.
“Hey, Daisy, may I come in?”
“Is Spike with you?”
“Yeah. He’s on my lap. Why?”
“Let me put his present away. I don’t want him to see it before Christmas.”
A long silence ensued, and I realized how stupid my statement had sounded. So I laughed. But I still hid Spike’s present, a nice warm jacket for taking walks during our semi-cold Pasadena winter.
“You can come in now,” I said after putting a pattern book on top of Spike’s gift.
So he did. Then he said, “Johnny’s here. Want to take a break and come out and talk for a while?”
“Johnny’s here? If he’s going to ask me to teach another—”
“I’d never do such a thing to you again, Daisy!” came Johnny’s hearty voice from the front of the house.
So I followed Billy and Spike to the living room. Sure enough, Johnny Buckingham, in his Salvation Army captain’s uniform, stood before the fireplace, in which a fire burned merrily. We who live in Southern California like to pretend we need fireplaces, even though we probably don’t. Still, the weather had been nippy for a few days. It was mid-December, after all.
“It’s a good thing,” I said, but I smiled fondly at Johnny.
“I wanted you and Billy to be the first to know that Flossie is set to teach the next cooking class, which is going to start shortly after the first of the year.”
“Thank God for that!”
Johnny twinkled at me. “Thank God for the class, or thank God for Flossie teaching it?”
“Well. . . .” I eyed Johnny for a moment, but decided he could handle the truth. “Thank God Flossie’s teaching it.”
Billy and Johnny laughed. Eventually I joined in. Why not? Better to laugh than cry, I reckon.
“But, Daisy,” Johnny said after the hilarity died down. “I wanted you to have this as a remembrance of the noble deed you did in teaching that class. I know how much you hated it.”
And darned if Johnny didn’t hand me Sixty-Five Delicious Dishes. “Oh, my,” I said. “Did you rescue this or buy a new one for me?” I knew the answer right after I asked the question, because the pamphlet was spotted and creased in spots.
Johnny clarified the matter anyway. “That’s yours, Daisy. I figured you might need it again one of these days.”
I know it was impolite of me, but I rolled my eyes.
However, Johnny’s visit started me thinking about cooking for some reason, and I decided to surprise my family with a creation of my own that evening. After all, during my last class at the Salvation Army, I had created, with my own two hands and the help of that cooking booklet published by the Fleischmann Yeast Company, a lovely egg-and-pea castle. So I set about to surprise my family with an egg-and-pea castle of their very own.
I ought to have known better.
When I carried my creation to the dinner table, flushed and embarrassed, only Pa spoke at first.
“Um . . . what’s that, Daisy?”
I heaved an enormous sigh. “It’s called eggs and green peas,” I said sheepishly. “It’s a recipe out of that book Johnny gave me.”
“Ah,” said Billy. Then he lifted his napkin to his lips. I knew he was trying not to laugh, curse him.
As luck would have it, Sam was dining with us that evening, too, so my humiliation wasn’t limited solely to the family, who were more or less accustomed to my cooking catastrophes.
Vi said, “Um . . . I think you might have fried the croute a little too long, Daisy.” She hurried to add, “Not that it doesn’t look delicious.”
It didn’t look delicious. And I’d burned the croute to something only slightly less crumbly than ashes. I stared at the disaster in my hands. “I don’t think I cooked the eggs long enough, either.” In truth, I knew I hadn’t cooked the eggs long enough, because the yolks were still runny when I sliced them. I let the drippy parts drain into the sink.
“Well, it’s still lovely of you to do this for us, Daisy,” said Ma, who was cheerful under most conditions, even this one, bless her.
Sam shrugged. “Might as well give it a try.”
So I served him a tiny portion of my eggs and green peas, along with a slightly-less-burned-than-the-rest slice of croute. As I watched him, I saw his mouth pucker. He, too, lifted his napkin to his mouth, but I think it was because he aimed to spit my masterpiece into it.
I must have looked terribly worried, because Vi hastily took a tiny bite, too. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed, then reached for her water glass and swigged a large amount therefrom. Then she looked at me.
“Daisy. . . .”
She didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I knew that expression well. I sighed. “What else did I do wrong?” I asked with a sense of defeated resignation that bowed my shoulders and brought tears to my eyes.
“Well . . . are you sure you used flour in the cream sauce?”
That brought my head up in a flash. “Yes! Well . . . I think I did, anyway.”
Vi smiled kindly. “Daisy, you’re a wonderful girl, and we al
l love you dearly, but I honestly don’t think cooking is your strong suit.”
Heck, I’d known that for years.
“I do believe you used baking soda rather than flour in your cream sauce, dear.”
I stared down at the plate full of burned croute, mushy peas, undercooked eggs and inedible cream sauce. Then I heaved one last sigh and picked the platter up again. “I’ll just go and toss this out.”
All I can say is that it was a darned good thing we had Aunt Vi to cook for us. If my family had relied upon me for nourishment, we’d all have starved.
About the Author
Award-winning author Alice Duncan lives with a herd of wild dachshunds (enriched from time to time with fosterees from New Mexico Dachshund Rescue) in Roswell, New Mexico. She’s not a UFO enthusiast; she’s in Roswell because her mother’s family settled there fifty years before the aliens crashed. Since her two daughters live in California, where Alice was born, she’d like to return there, but can’t afford to. Alice would love to hear from you at [email protected]. And be sure to visit her Web site: http://www.aliceduncan.net.
