Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt Read online

  Ellen looked up. “Nettie Vine?”

  “Marie Antoinette Vine,” Ivy corrected. “Only her mother called her Marie Antoinette. To everyone else, she was just Nettie.”

  Ellen started to say that the name was on her interview list, but something in Ivy’s voice made her hold back.

  Ivy didn’t seem to notice Ellen’s hesitation. “I guess you or somebody else will be interviewing her because she’s still around. Back then, I had no idea who she was until I met her by accident about a month after we arrived. You see, I was anxious to work as a seamstress, but being in the country was a handicap. I needed a place in town where I was visible. And, to be honest, even though I was a great help to Clara, especially with her expecting, she and Nate sometimes needed a little more privacy than they were getting with me around.

  “I came up with this idea. I went to the Archers, who had an empty space in back of their dry goods store. I offered to work in the store for free if I could use the extra room as a workshop. I could pull a curtain across the back half of the room and have a place to sleep when I didn’t want to ride the five miles out to the claim.”

  “That showed a lot of initiative,” offered Ellen.

  “I thought it was a good idea, but Mr. Archer didn’t like it one bit. He didn’t mind getting free labor or letting me set up shop, but he was dead set against a young, unchaperoned girl staying alone. Lucky for me, his wife had a real nose for profit. In less than ten minutes she’d talked him into having me stay at their house in a little room off the kitchen that was barely bigger than a closet. And she made him see how it was to their benefit having a seamstress right in their store.

  “Of course, there was ready-made clothing available, but a lady doesn’t like to walk into church or a big social event and see two other women wearing the same thing. Mrs. Archer understood that. I was counting on it. Ladies coming in to see me would walk by shelves of bolts of fabric and sewing notions like buttons and lace trim. They’d buy their goods from the store, and when I wasn’t sewing, the Archers got free labor.”

  Ivy shook her head. “Looking back on it, I’m surprised the plan worked. Of course, I still helped Clara when I could, and there were more times than I can count when I rode alone between town and the claim. For protection, I carried Father’s war pistol holstered at my side. Nate taught Clara and me to shoot, just in case some desperate type came to the soddie when he wasn’t around, or we encountered snakes or other varmints. You can’t imagine the freedom I felt! My mother would have been mortified, but I worked under that old assumption that what she didn’t know wouldn’t trouble her—or me, for that matter.

  “Well, as I was saying, the day I approached the Archers is the day I met Nettie. She came waltzing into the store to pick up some parcel for her mother. When she saw me, she came right over to introduce herself. She was very social. Not long afterward, she came out to the claim, driving that pony cart of hers along the track just as fast as she could make that poor animal go. She wanted to invite me to a lawn party the coming Saturday afternoon. Other young people living on claims close to town were invited. I would have a chance to meet my neighbors, as well as people my own age living in town.

  “I went, with the Archers’ permission to take off work, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. There were about twenty of us, but there was no doubt Nettie expected to be the center of attention. No one seemed to mind because she was so vivacious. Most anything she suggested, whether it was croquet or musical chairs, we happily agreed to.”

  Ivy looked out toward the backyard. “You can keep that part,” she told Ellen, “but leave off this last. There were other parties and get-togethers. Nettie arranged many of them, but not all. There were times when a bunch of us would just decide on the spur of the moment to go down to the river on a Sunday afternoon or to meet at someone’s home. This bothered Nettie, because she considered herself the leader. She felt snubbed, even when she came along. It’s not a kind thing to say, but the more I got to know Nettie, the less I wanted to be around her. If things didn’t go her way, she could be quite unpleasant. She would pout or say hurtful things to whoever was closest at hand.

  “As it worked out, I became too busy to do much socializing or to think about Nettie. When I wasn’t helping Clara on the homestead, I was working at the Archers’ and sewing. People began to come to me with all sorts of requests, and I obliged, whether it was reworking out-of-style clothes to make them look new or stitching up dresses and shirts from scratch. Then, of course, Wheat and I began to court.”

  “When you married, what happened to your business?”

  “I closed it, but when someone asked me to sew up something for a special occasion, I tried to oblige.”

  “Did you regret giving up something you’d worked so hard for?” Ellen couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  “Of course not.” Ivy shook her head as if the very idea was absurd. “I was proud of myself because I’d made a success of it, but the business wasn’t the most important thing to me. Wheat was.”

  That settled, Ivy asked the time as she bent over the hem’s last few stitches.

  When Ellen checked her watch and told her, Ivy let out a little gasp.

  “I had no idea it was getting so late! I’ve got to iron this dress, and my daughter-in-law will be here in a few minutes. She’s going to take me to the church so we can organize the clothing bank for this weekend. I was never very confident about operating an automobile. After Wheat died, I gave our Ford to my grandson. Now, I have to rely on others to get around.”

  Ivy reached across the table to pat Ellen’s arm. “Time just flew, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, it did. You’ve given a wonderful interview.” Ellen tucked the notebook and pencil away, trying not to show her disappointment that their time together was over.

  “I could ask Constance to wait if you want to hear more, but that would just raise a stink. She has every minute of her day organized and hates to be put off stride.” Ivy leaned over, giving Ellen the impression they had become close confidantes. “She was a little miffed when Iris Hewitt was asked to head this interview project, but Constance doesn’t know a thing about history—or writing, for that matter. To tell you the truth,” Ivy continued, “Constance and I have our tussles. Since Wheat died, she gives me more attention than I want. She means well, but sometimes I just want to throw something at her.”

  Ellen couldn’t help but laugh. She could see Ivy Hamilton doing just that.

  “You best be going, but could you come back?” Ivy’s expression was hopeful.

  Ellen brightened. She would very much like to see the woman again. She pulled out her assignment list. “Yes, I would like that, but I can’t do it this week. Mrs. Hewitt has given us pretty full schedules. Would next Tuesday afternoon be okay?”

  “I was just thinking if you came Saturday afternoon, after we close the clothing bank, I could show you the old soddie.” She rose to walk Ellen to the front door. “I saw you have an automobile. You could drive us out there and get an idea of the place I’m talking about.”

  Ellen agreed enthusiastically but hesitated when Ivy suggested she come for lunch first.

  “You’ll eat better than at Miss Jewell’s,” Ivy cajoled. “You are staying there, aren’t you?’

  Ellen nodded, suddenly reminded that Opal’s Grove was no different from other small towns. People noticed newcomers, like the WPA workers. Ellen suspected they had been discussed from the courthouse to the barbershop to the post office.

  “The room and board includes breakfast and dinner. If we want lunch, it’s extra.”

  “All the more reason to eat with me. Miss Jewell is a good cook, but on Saturdays she brings out leftovers from the week before and calls it potluck.”

  They agreed Ellen would come to the clothing bank, take Miss Ivy home for the promised lunch, and then set out for the soddie.

  At the door Ellen again thanked Ivy for the interview. She was already looking forward to Saturday. She like
d the woman and felt sure Miss Ivy had much more to tell.

  CHAPTER 7

  ELLEN

  Ellen arrived at the courthouse buoyed by the morning’s interview and feeling comfortable with finding her way around town. Except for the railroad, its depot, and a hotel for travelers on the southern edge of town, everything centered on the courthouse square. Two state highways, one running north-south, the other going east-west, intersected on the square’s northeast corner. Unlike so many towns the Depression had turned into sad, abandoned shadows of what they once were, Opal’s Grove remained fairly prosperous.

  She checked her watch. Before her afternoon interview there was enough time to go to the WPA office, type up her notes, and then get lunch at Miss Jewell’s. She got out of the car, swiping at the back of her dress where it stuck to her legs. The temperatures for June were already above normal, and if the trend continued, said forecasters, the summer would be even hotter than the one before. After another tug at the dress, Ellen hurried across the street to the courthouse. She nodded hello to the men sitting on benches under large shade trees. Some sat here most of the day, spitting tobacco, gossiping, and talking politics.

  The front and back doors of the courthouse stood open, allowing air to circulate. Despite the basement’s musty smell, Ellen welcomed its dank coolness. Halfway down the stairs, Ellen heard a snatch of voices and then laughter. Hope disappeared of having the place to herself. Stepping through the door, she put on a smile, ready to greet her fellow workers. She stopped short. The professor stood with his arms braced on a desk, leaning toward Audrey. Both were laughing.

  Audrey looked up, still smiling. “Well, hello. Sit down. You have to hear this. Ralph just told me the funniest thing.”

  Ralph? Ellen’s mouth dropped open. The man who insisted on being called Professor Reynolds was now Ralph?

  “So, what is it?” She tried to regain her composure and busied herself with pulling out a chair.

  Audrey prompted the professor. “You tell her. It’s your story.” But the man looked away, clearly flustered.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Audrey protested, shaking her head. “This morning the elderly gentleman Ralph was interviewing asked if it was true that Mr. Roosevelt was going to read each and every story we collected. Somehow he got the idea that FDR is just sitting in the White House waiting for these interviews to land on his desk.” Audrey’s laugh rolled against the basement walls.

  “What did you tell him, Professor Reynolds?” Ellen wasn’t going to call him by his first name unless invited to do so.

  “I said it was doubtful, and the old guy perked up. Seems he’s been a Republican all his life and didn’t want any Democrat, even if he is president, knowing his business.”

  Ellen detected a slight smile slip across the man’s face.

  She chuckled along with Audrey as she arranged her notebook and put paper into the typewriter. She still had some time before lunch. Soon she was completely focused on interpreting her notes as she typed. She tuned out Audrey and the professor until she became aware of Audrey at her elbow.

  “We’re going across the street to the lunch counter at Kresge’s.” Audrey raised her voice to be heard over the typewriter’s clacking keys. “Want to come?”

  Ellen shook her head and continued typing. “Thanks. Some other time. I’m going back to Miss Jewell’s.”

  “See ya later then.” Audrey gave a backward wave, following Ralph out the door.

  Ellen did not want to tell Audrey she was watching every penny, even if it was the fifty-cent difference between lunch at the boardinghouse and Kresge’s. She had to save her money. Her father had said as much when he refused her offer to send him a portion of her weekly earnings.

  Her father wanted Ellen to try her wings. “Don’t come home unless you really want to,” he’d told her as she getting ready to leave. “I don’t want you to be miserable trying to fit in with your old friends and maybe marrying one of those men your mother keeps bringing up. No, you save that money.”

  Ellen looked at her watch, gasped at the time, and began to place the pages she’d typed and her notebook back into the satchel. Typed interviews were supposed to be left in the office. Mrs. Hewitt had gone to a lot of trouble, labeling files and setting up an organizational system. But, Ellen rationalized, the interview wasn’t finished. She had more information to collect. Besides, she didn’t want to leave her work out for just anyone to see.

  She covered the typewriter, grabbed her things, and hustled out to the car. The heat wrapped around her. By the time she reached Miss Jewell’s, she felt wilted.

  The boardinghouse was on a nondescript street of unremarkable houses. Miss Jewell, who refused to be called by her first name—Jerusalem—kept her yard neat and the house painted a crisp white. She had three regular boarders, all teachers. But, as she explained to Ellen and Audrey, the teachers were gone for a few weeks of their summer vacations. Two were visiting relatives. The third had set off with friends for the Grand Canyon.

  Ellen found Miss Jewell in the kitchen, cutting potatoes. She hummed a little tune as she peeled and sliced. The woman was middle-aged, softly round like bread dough, and unfailingly cheerful. Her mother started taking in boarders after Jerusalem’s father died, and, now that her mother was gone, Miss Jewell carried on. She was proud of the way she ran the house and secretly delighted in the stories her boarders brought in from the outside world.

  When the woman saw Ellen, she shouted out a “hello” and waved for her to sit. It was one of the house rules. Boarders should be treated as guests and served in the dining room, even when there was only one for lunch.

  Ellen felt ridiculous, but she knew not to argue as Miss Jewell set a glass of tea and a food-laden plate in front of her. “I made a chicken salad, with some cottage cheese and pickled beets on the side.”

  Ellen nodded. Leftover fried chicken from last night had become a salad. Miss Jewell, like Ellen’s mother, knew how to stretch a meal.

  “Why don’t you join me?” Ellen asked the woman. “Even if you’ve already eaten, I’d love the company. I guess Audrey’s not coming back for lunch.”

  “No. She told me this morning she would probably just grab something downtown. I don’t mind getting off my feet for a few minutes.” Miss Jewell sat down heavily opposite her boarder. “This heat is a killer.”

  Ellen took a bite of salad. It was very good. “Stifling. I’m glad I drove to my appointment this morning. Otherwise, I might have passed out on the street trying to walk in this heat. That’s why I’m going to drive to the one I have this afternoon, although it’s not far.”

  “Who are you going to see, if I can ask?”

  Ellen assured Miss Jewell it was no secret and told her the woman’s name.

  “You got a plum there. I don’t know her personally, you understand, but people think a lot of the family. Been around since the town began and always been big supporters of anything that makes it a better place to live.” Miss Jewell nodded approvingly. “Yes, ma’am, you got a plum.”

  CHAPTER 8

  AGATHA

  Ellen admired the Bright home as she made her way up the walkway and across the porch. Moments after she rang the bell, a figure appeared on the other side of the screen door. “You must be Miss Hartley here to see Miss Agatha.” As Ellen moved closer, she saw a woman about her age. “Come on in.” She pushed the door open to allow Ellen inside.

  The young woman was thin and angular. A wide smile revealed a dimple in her right cheek and a small gap between her front teeth. “Just this way.” She pointed toward a door immediately to the right. The room was done in pastel shades of pink and green. Curtains, pulled away from the front and side windows, allowed the breeze to circulate through the room. Agatha Bright, dressed in a short-sleeved dress of pale yellow, sat in a wingback chair to one side of a green-tiled fireplace. Her snow-white hair was pinned into an elegant twist at the back of her head. Her figure, although thickened with age, still suggested the cur
ves that had once given Mrs. Bright an hourglass figure without the benefit of corsets and stays.

  The first word that came to mind was “regal.” Ellen walked around a sofa facing the fireplace. She took Mrs. Bright’s extended hand and introduced herself. For a fleeting moment, Ellen felt the urge to curtsy.

  Mrs. Bright dropped the offered hand and smiled. “Excuse me for not getting up to greet you, but the arthritis is giving me a terrible time today.” She fingered an ebony-colored cane hooked over the chair arm. With the other hand, she waved Ellen to a chair opposite hers. “Thelma can bring us something to drink if you like.”

  When Ellen declined, Thelma nodded and turned back into the hall. Over her shoulder she called, “Just ring the bell if you want anything, Miss Agatha. I’ve got to get to Kresge’s, but Sis will hear ya.”

  Agatha smiled after the girl. “That’s Thelma Weaver. Her father does my yardwork. Her mother cooked for me until her arthritis got worse than mine. Now Thelma’s older sister does the cooking, and Thelma helps out here when she can. In the afternoons she works behind the dry-goods counter at Kresge’s.”

  Ellen took the offered chair and pulled out pad and pencil.

  “Thelma’s getting married in the fall, and saving every cent she can,” Agatha continued. “Going to marry that deputy sheriff, Bill Snyder.”

  The room turned silent. Mrs. Bright fingered the top of her cane. “I’ve been wondering what I’d say in this interview about the old days,” she confessed. “You know, there are some around town that think you WPA people are wasting your time talking to old folks like me who lived in town and not out on a homestead. Well, I say pooh to that. The blizzards didn’t stop at the edge of town. The grasshopper plagues didn’t pass us by, and death sure didn’t stay away. I lost two children to diphtheria and counted myself blessed I didn’t lose the two others.”