by Alice Duncan
“Oh?” I felt myself on firm ground here. “And why is that? Because the newspapers say so? Because reporters dog his footsteps and report salacious gossip that probably isn’t true? The studios have entire publicity departments to make up stories about their pictures stars, don’t forget. Harold Kincaid has told me all about that, and if anyone should know, it’s Harold.” I felt like adding so there, but knew it would be childish, so I didn’t.
“No. Not because the newspapers say so. I’ve heard things from other sources that I can’t go in to here. Police business.”
Indignant, I cried, “If that isn’t just like you, Sam Rotondo! First you bring up something to intrigue us and then tell us you can’t talk about it! Nuts.”
My mother said, “Daisy” again. Huh.
Sam sighed. By the way, that night Vi had prepared a delicious beef stew with lots of vegetables and the most tender biscuits you can even imagine with which to sop up the gravy. My aunt Vi was the best cook in Pasadena. Probably the entire United States of America. What’s more, we were going to have floating island for dessert. I love floating island, which consists of a creamy custard sauce with little baked meringues floating on top of it. Hence, the name, in case you hadn’t already guessed.
Billy, gallant as he was, tried to cut the hostility in the room. “If the woman’s ancestors go back to infinity, why isn’t she a member of the DAR? That would mean her family’s older than some Confederate family that might have shipped over from Ireland during the potato famine in the earlier eighteen hundreds.”
Boy, I loved my husband! He knew by that time that it would take a real distraction and not a mere “Daisy” from my mother to get Sam and me to quit fussing at each other. I looked over at him and grinned. “I think she’s still fighting the Civil War in her mind, Billy. Some of those old southern families just won’t give it up.”
Pa said, “Well, personally, I don’t give a hoot. Maybe that’s because my side won.”
“Probably,” said Sam, his voice still evincing a little strain, but evidently willing to turn the topic.
“I read in the National Geographic that some southerners won’t even call it the Civil War,” Billy said. “To them it’s the ‘War Between the States or ‘the Recent Unpleasantness.’ ”
“Recent?” I laughed. “The Civil War ended almost sixty years ago. Those guys have long memories.”
Billy shrugged. “I reckon they do, and maybe for some cause. The south was well and truly destroyed during the war. Their whole economic way of life was ruined. I guess they carry grudges. Aside from the slave issue, Sherman cut a swath through some of those states so deep, they haven’t recovered yet.”
Billy’s favorite magazine was the National Geographic, probably because it allowed him access to people and places he’d never be able to see for himself. Even if his health hadn’t been ruined by the war, chances were slim that we middle-class Majestys would ever have been able to tour the world. Or even the South.
“Well, maybe so,” said I. “But I don’t understand how anybody can justify slavery, even if the institution of slavery did save the plantation owners money.”
“I don’t, either,” said Sam.
“Everyone else has to hire workers,” I pointed out. “Why not farmers and tobacco growers?”
“Right,” said Billy. “Why not, indeed?”
Murmurs of agreement followed, and my sentiment seemed to be unanimous at the dinner table, which was nice since the conversation had begun with dissension.
Billy said, “Slaves were considered property. Sort of like horses and oxen. I read somewhere, probably in the National Geographic, that a slave had been hanged for running away from his master, and the State of Georgia gave the slave-owner four hundred dollars in compensation for lost property.”
I stared at him. “That’s . . . horrible.” My mind turned to Jackson, Mrs. Pinkerton’s gate keeper, a fine colored gentleman who’d taught me some very interesting things about voodoo and other types of mystical stuff he’d gleaned from his boyhood in Louisiana. “It absolutely boggles my mind how evil people can be to each other, yet still call themselves Christians. Or whatever. I’m thinking Chinese emperors. Didn’t those guys do some pretty horrid stuff to their people?”
“And,” said Billy, smiling, “don’t forget that good old Romanian guy, Vlad the Impaler. He nailed some Turkish officials’ turbans to their heads at one point in his career.”
Another gem culled from the pages of the National Geographic, I have no doubt. I said, “Ugh. Isn’t that the legend that inspired Bram Stoker’s book? I understand some German guy—” I tried not to shudder at the word German. “—is turning Dracula into a movie. What’s the title? I can’t remember.”
“Nosferatu,” said Billy promptly. He had all sorts of facts at his disposal, since he spent most of his days reading everything from National Geographic to newspapers to just about anything else he could get his hands on.
“Interesting,” said I, not voicing what I was thinking, which was, It would be a German, wouldn’t it?
Sam then changed the subject with a bang that had us all goggling at him. “Some studio’s making a picture in Pasadena, beginning next month, and it’s going to be filmed at Mrs. Winkworth’s mansion.”
I think it was Ma who spoke first. “Really?”
Sam nodded. “Yes. It’s some sort of epic, from what I hear. Along the lines of that Griffith picture. What was the name of that thing?” From this question, I got the impression that Sam, unlike Billy, didn’t have the luxury—if you could call it that—of sitting around all day reading things.
“Birth of a Nation,” I said. “Good picture.”
“I liked it,” confessed Billy. “Although they portrayed those night-rider guys in sheets in a good light. If you’re against slavery, you probably should be against them, too.”
“You’re right,” I said, meaning it. “But Sam, how come you know about this picture project? You don’t generally keep up with stuff like that, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I have a job to do,” he said gruffly. “Unfortunately, I know about this one because I have to be on the blasted set. And the set is Mrs. Winkworth’s estate.”
I think the response to this was general, to judge by all the gaping mouths and staring eyes. I was the first to react. I’m always the one who talks the most; don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. “Oh, wow, Sam, that’s the cat’s meow!”
He gave me another frown. “You think so, do you?”
“Well . . . sure. I think it would be a lot of fun to see a picture being made. Harold’s told me it can be a dead bore, but I’d still like to see for myself.”
“Huh.” Sam swiped a biscuit in his stew bowl and didn’t say anything else.
“So why are you being made to do this arduous task, Sam?” Billy asked, as curious as I, if not more so.
Sam chewed and swallowed and then heaved a deep and melancholy sigh. “It’s part of the case I can’t talk about.”
I’d have rolled my eyes, but I didn’t want Ma to get mad at me. “Nerts. I wish you wouldn’t talk about your cases unless you could talk about them,” I said, nettled.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” grumbled Sam. “But I’m not looking forward to having to hang around that dratted place for days at a time. That’s not what my job is supposed to be about.”
“Then why’d they assign it to you?” asked Billy.
“I’m the senior man. I’ll have two other uniforms under me. We’re supposed to keep an eye on things.”
“Whatever’s going on, it must be quite important for the Pasadena Police Department to assign three men to a picture set,” said Pa, surreptitiously handing Spike a bit of biscuit. None of us were supposed to feed the dog at the table, but we all did it, and we all pretended not to notice when the others did. It was kind of like a game, although Spike was beginning to show the results thereof.
“It must be,” said Sam in a mildly savage voice. “Waste of
manpower if you ask me.”
“Well, maybe Pasadena doesn’t have enough crime to go around these days,” I suggested, knowing as I did so that the comment would annoy Sam. I couldn’t seem to help myself.
He only glared at me some more.
“Daisy,” said Aunt Vi, who had her own ways of keeping me under control, “why don’t you pick up the plates while I go in and fetch dessert?”
Naturally, I did as my aunt asked, fuming as I did so. I continued to fume as Ma and I washed up the dinner dishes and Sam, Billy and Pa played gin rummy in the living room. Naturally, fuming did no good at all, and I was still mad at Sam for not divulging his precious mystery by the time I went to bed that night.
* * * * *
Fortunately for the state of my nerves and my mood, the following day was Saturday, and Saturdays were the days Billy and I took Spike to the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club at Brookside Park, where Pansy Hanratty tried to teach us dog-owners to train our dogs. I loved those classes. Saturday mornings were the only times during the week when I knew for a certainty that Billy and I would be getting along.
That morning, I bundled Billy and Spike into our lovely new self-starting Chevrolet—bought with money given to me by a happy customer of my spiritualist business. Well, more or less. The money that bought the Chevrolet had been given to me by the mother of the ghost I’d exorcised from Mrs. Bissel’s basement. But that sounds too absurd, and it’s a whole ‘nother story, so never mind.
Anyhow, after Billy and Spike were in the machine, I folded up the special bath chair I’d bought for Billy for just this purpose and stuffed it into the wooden rack Pa had built for it and installed on the back of our auto. Pa was clever about things like that. Billy used to be, too, but . . . well, never mind about that, too.
Anyhow, it was a perky threesome that drove down the twisty path to Brookside Park and pulled next to a field where several other people and their dogs already awaited that day’s lesson, which began at ten o’clock sharp, Mrs. Hanratty being cut of a general’s cloth. Although she was kind if she noticed one of us owners doing something wrong, she tolerated no tardiness or sloppiness, and she insisted that we practice what she taught us. We were there to train dogs, and she expected us to behave. I got the feeling Mrs. Hanratty liked her dogs considerably more than she liked most people. I understood her point of view, and even agreed with it to a degree.
I hauled Billy’s bath chair out of its rack, unfolded it, helped a wobbly Billy into the chair, and the three of us joined the others at the training park. Billy wasn’t the only observer of the action. Not only were there parents gathered to watch their children learn to train favorite pets, and husbands and wives of other participants, but there were also two other war-injured men who liked to come and watch the fun. One of them had lost both legs at the knee during the recent war, and the other poor fellow had lost an eye and an arm. In some ways, Billy was lucky.
No he wasn’t. Everyone who’d fought in that terrible conflict had suffered. So had their loved ones. There wasn’t a single lucky thing about the whole damned war.
Sorry about my language. I don’t usually swear.
Anyhow, I settled Billy near his chums—they were chums by that time, although they hadn’t met each other until we’d begun taking Spike to the park for obedience training—and Spike and I set out to join the circle of eager dog-lovers.
“Today, we are going to practice sitting, staying, and heeling,” Mrs. Hanratty said in her characteristic voice, which was kind of loud and hollow, if that makes any sense. “Remember what we learned last week, and I trust—” She gave us all a stern look. “—that you’ve been practicing with your animals every day, as I instructed you to do.”
Most of us nodded meekly. It was the truth, at least in my case. Billy and I enjoyed taking Spike out to the back yard, where our spring-bearing orange tree was in full fruit, and there Billy would instruct me in Spike’s training practice. Not that I needed his instruction, but I didn’t mind. Telling me what to do made him feel good, and he had very little to feel good about in those days.
“So,” Mrs. Hanratty continued. “Let us all get our dogs to heel. Then we’ll walk for a few minutes. I’ll tell you when to stop walking, and see how well you have done in getting your dogs to sit and stay.”
By that time—I think we’d been coming to these classes for three weeks—Spike was an absolutely master at heeling, sitting and staying, so I was feeling pretty confident that we’d pass muster. Sure enough, as soon as Mrs. Hanratty gave the signal, we all began slowly speaking to our dogs.
“Spike, heel!” I said to Spike, and then I started walking in the prescribed circle. Spike heeled. What a good boy he was!
“All right now. Let’s come to a halt,” said Mrs. Hanratty after we’d been walking in a circle for a few minutes whilst she inspected our performance.
I halted. I looked down at Spike. Spike looked up at me. I said, “Spike, sit.” Spike appeared confused for a moment, so I bent and did as Mrs. Hanratty had instructed us to do: I squeezed the spot right in front of where his legs joined his hips. Spike sat. It’s a fool-proof way to get your dog to sit. Trust me on this.
Oh, and you’re not supposed to repeat your commands, either. Mrs. Hanratty was very specific on this issue. You tell your dog what you want him to do, and then make sure he does it. I clearly remember what she’d told us the week before when we were taught the command “Sit.” She said, “None of this ‘sit, sit, sit’ nonsense. You’re the boss. You either train your dog, or your dog will train you.”
She was right about that, too. Spike had already taught me to do many things for him. I figured it was past time to turn the table on him. So to speak. I didn’t mean to bring my employment into this discussion.
At any rate, Spike sat.
Mrs. Hanratty said. “I trust you remember how to get your dog to stay.” It wasn’t a question. She meant what she said. “I will take note of those of you whose dogs follow you when you walk away from them.” She meant that, too. She watched our progress like a hawk.
Therefore, I leaned over a little, put the flat of my palm in front of Spike’s muzzle, shoved it toward him a bit, and said in a strong, authoritative voice, “Stay.” Then, my heart in my throat, I dropped the leash, turned my back on my dog and walked away from him.
Darned if the little darling didn’t stay! He was smart as a whip, Spike was.
He was so smart, in fact, that Mrs. Hanratty pointed out our excellent progress to several others in the class, whose pups had become confused and tried to follow them as they walked away.
“Let me congratulate Mrs. Majesty and Spike,” said she. I saw Billy grinning from the sidelines and was proud. “If you’ll notice, she is very firm with her dog. You all need to be firm, yet kind. Never, ever, hit your dog. Don’t forget, too, that some breeds are more amenable to correction than others, and believe me, dachshunds can be very stubborn. I trust you are using some sort of bait to help with his training at home, Mrs. Majesty?”
“Bait” in the doggy world meant “treat.” I nodded and said, “Oh, yes. He loves his treats . . . er, bait. He’ll do anything for food.”
Mrs. Hanratty’s smile beamed at Spike and me, and felt as if we’d been blessed by a holy angel or something. “It’s not merely the bait, either,” she said in her honking-kind of voice. “You practice with him, don’t you?”
“Oh, my, yes. Mr. Majesty and I practice with Spike every day in our yard.”
“Soon you’ll be able to take him for walks in the neighborhood, I have no doubt, without a leash because he behaves so well. You’re doing an excellent job with him, Mrs. Majesty.”
I felt my cheeks heat, and I said, “Thank you.” I meant my thanks sincerely, but I wasn’t sure about the neighborhood walks. The only times we walked anymore were when Billy allowed me to push him in his wheelchair, and those times were becoming fewer and farther between.
But back to the class . . . .
“All right
,” said Mrs. Hanratty. “Humans to the fore! Listen to me and practice. Do you hear me? Practice! Any time you meet an unruly dog, you’ll know that its owner hasn’t taken the time to train it. And in order to train your dog, you must be trained in the proper method of teaching him how to behave.”
“Or her,” said a woman I’d already tagged as silly, and who had a fuzzy little toy poodle on a pink leash.
I didn’t mind poodles, although I considered Spike a much more doggly dog, perhaps because he didn’t have to have his hair cut in such a frilly way with puffs and poufs everywhere. Spike looked like a dog. What’s more, he looked like a boy dog.
Mrs. Hanratty smiled at the woman, who had, after all, paid for the privilege of being there. I’d learned long ago that one should never show one’s annoyance to a client, and I guess Mrs. Hanratty subscribed to the same principle. “Or her,” she said. “But you must see, Mrs. Hinkledorn, that Mrs. Majesty has worked very hard with her pet.” She gave the woman’s poodle a small frown. “I suspect you need to practice more with Fluffy.”
Can you imagine anyone naming a dog Fluffy? No wonder the poor poodle didn’t obey as well as Spike did.
The class lasted for an hour, and when we got ready to leave, Mrs. Hanratty came over to speak to Billy and me. And Spike, of course. This was special attention, indeed.
“Mr. and Mrs. Majesty, I truly do mean to congratulate you on your progress with Spike. He’s doing very well. How old is Spike, by the way?”
Billy and I looked at each other and I said, “About a year old, I suppose.”
“Ah. That’s good. Sometimes puppies are more difficult to train than more mature dogs.”
Her words reminded me of one evening shortly after I’d brought Spike home. Billy had handed him a rag, and Spike had pulled Billy’s wheelchair clear across the living room and back while Pa, Sam and the rest of the family laughed hysterically. I decided not to mention the incident to Mrs. Hanratty, whom I doubted would appreciate it.
