Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse Read online

  · Also by Faith Sullivan ·

  Repent, Lanny Merkel

  Watchdog

  Mrs. Demming and the Mythical Beast

  The Cape Ann

  The Empress of One

  What a Woman Must Do

  Gardenias

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  © 2015, Text by Faith Sullivan

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Milkweed Editions, 1011 Washington Avenue South, Suite 300, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55415.

  (800) 520-6455

  www.milkweed.org

  Published 2015 by Milkweed Editions

  Cover design by Mary Austin Speaker

  Author photo by Kate Sullivan

  15 16 17 18 195 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  Milkweed Editions, an independent nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from the Lindquist & Vennum Foundation; the McKnight Foundation; the National Endowment for the Arts; the Target Foundation; and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. Also, this activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund, and a grant from the Wells Fargo Foundation Minnesota. For a full listing of Milkweed Editions supporters, please visit www.milkweed.org.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Sullivan, Faith.

  Good night, Mr. Wodehouse / Faith Sullivan. -- First editon.

  pages; cm

  ISBN 978-1-57131-917-3 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS3569.U3469G66 2015

  813'.54—dc23

  2015009151

  Milkweed Editions is committed to ecological stewardship. We strive to align our book production practices with this principle, and to reduce the impact of our operations in the environment. We are a member of the Green Press Initiative, a nonprofit coalition of publishers, manufacturers, and authors working to protect the world’s endangered forests and conserve natural resources. Good Night Mr. Wodehouse was printed on acid-free 100% postconsumer-waste paper by Friesens Corporation.

  For my children

  and Grandson Jack, Ace of Hearts,

  and

  in memory of

  Grandson Ixtlali, and Friends Peach, Ty, Hal, and Steve,

  the Irreplaceables

  She read Dickens in the spirit in which she would have eloped with him.

  Eudora Welty

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Chapter twenty-eight

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Chapter thirty

  Chapter thirty-one

  Chapter thirty-two

  Chapter thirty-three

  Chapter thirty-four

  Chapter thirty-five

  Chapter thirty-six

  Chapter thirty-seven

  Chapter thirty-eight

  Chapter thirty-nine

  Chapter forty

  Chapter forty-one

  Chapter forty-two

  Chapter forty-three

  Chapter forty-four

  Chapter forty-five

  Chapter forty-six

  Chapter forty-seven

  Chapter forty-eight

  Chapter forty-nine

  Chapter fifty

  Chapter fifty-one

  Chapter fifty-two

  Chapter fifty-three

  Chapter fifty-four

  Chapter fifty-five

  Chapter fifty-six

  Chapter fifty-seven

  Chapter fifty-eight

  Chapter fifty-nine

  Chapter sixty

  Chapter sixty-one

  Chapter sixty-two

  Chapter sixty-three

  Chapter sixty-four

  Chapter sixty-five

  Chapter sixty-six

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  prologue

  IN 1944, AT AGE SIXTY-EIGHT, Nell Stillman wrote her obituary. (This despite perfectly good health.) Years later, the new owner of the Standard Ledger published the piece in full:

  In our town, the custom is that an obituary should be kind. A kind word at the end is a little reward for dying. Never mind that no one spoke well of you before death, nor will hence. Death is a serious business—“The undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns”—and this one time you are owed.

  But, frankly, Helen Ryan Stillman was no better than she should be. So—contrary to custom—I will not reward her for dying.

  On October 12, 1876, Helen—Nell, as she was called—was born in Woodridge, Wisconsin, to shanty Irish immigrants—affectionate and gentle Onnie and Donal Ryan, late of Tipperary. Donal being an untutored farmer on unimproved land, the family struggled with poverty.

  After high school, Nell worked her way through Milwaukee State Normal School, obtaining teacher certification in 1896. In January of 1897, she married Herbert Bartholomew Stillman of Rhinelander, Wisconsin. They moved to Harvester, settling in an apartment above Rabel’s Meat Market, where Nell would reside until her death. On December 18, 1898, she gave birth to Hillyard Donal Stillman, a soul without stain. He now dwells in Elysian Fields, where—should it mean swimming the length of the River Styx—Nell plans to join him.

  In 1909, Nell discovered P. G. Wodehouse, who became her treasured companion and savior. She recommends his books to all who know distress. And, of course, to all who don’t.

  But, further, she simply commends reading—Dickens, Austen, Steinbeck, or whom you will. In books are found solace, companionship, entertainment, and enlightenment. The stuff of our salvation.

  Mrs. Stillman taught third grade for thirty-seven years in the Harvester Public School.

  Preceded in death by both husband and son, Nell Stillman knew the kindness of dear friends and, eventually, the love of a good man.

  For days, folks in Harvester spoke of little but Nell’s obituary. Bonita Hansen had never heard of the Elysian Fields. Nor of the River Styx.

  Of course, even today—mass communication notwithstanding—there are many things of which people in Harvester have never heard.

  Irma Blessing felt that the obituary was eccentric: “A sign of mental instability. I blame it on the Bomb.”

  But to Harvey Munson it was “More like egomania. Imagine thinking you were smarter than Mr. Estes at the Standard Ledger, writing your own obituary.”

  “‘Eventually, the love of a good man’? What’s that supposed to mean?” milkman Casey Birnbaum wondered.

  Out in Elysian Fields, Nell agreed; composing her own obit
uary was perhaps eccentric and egotistical.

  But as for the ‘Elysian Fields’?—look it up.

  chapter one

  6:45 A.M., JULY 17TH, 1900.

  Wiping egg from his plate with a scrap of toast, Bert cast Nell a dubious smile. “I’m not sure a good Catholic woman oughta enjoy the bedroom.” He reached to pinch her breast. “Like you did last night.”

  Nell winced and pulled away. In bed he often treated her like a whore, but if she responded like one, he’d press, “Who taught you that,” though she’d never been with a man before their marriage.

  Pushing back from the table, Bert rose to fetch his cap from a hook by the door. Turning, he grabbed Nell’s waist, squeezing it in a sinewy arm even as she stiffened.

  “Now, girl,” he said, affecting a brogue, “no wild carryin’-on because y’ miss me. A man’s got t’ put food on the table and clothes on his lad.” He saluted the eighteen-month-old peeking out from behind his mother, clutching her skirt in his two plump hands.

  Bert was a physical man, one who had to work off his impulses, and he looked forward to the lifting and hauling and driving of horses that made up his days at Kolchak’s Dray and Livery. Kolchak was a fair and canny boss, and he had plans for Bert. Horseless vehicles, that was where the future was, Kolchak had told him, and Bert knew that the man was right.

  Back in the Wisconsin logging camps, Bert had yearned for a job like this, something with a future—a town life, a pretty wife if he was lucky. Well, he’d been lucky. But, by God, she’d been lucky, too. And she’d better be careful they didn’t get another kid.

  “I’ll try to behave,” Nell told her husband, pulling back and laughing rather too lightly.

  “And next time I’d appreciate meat with my eggs and potatoes. A working man needs meat.” Bert released her and swung away, out the screen door and down the outside stairs, admonishing, “Meat, Helen old girl!”

  She frowned. He would insist upon calling her “Helen,” though no one else did.

  “‘Nell’ sounds like a barkeep’s daughter,” he’d assured her often enough.

  And “Meat, Helen old girl!”—where was she supposed to find the money for that?

  Nell lifted the baby into her arms, watching her husband cross Second Avenue, whistling, headed for work. The heat of the day was already cruel. From beneath Bert’s heavy boots, a close-woven cloud of dust rose up, enshrouding him.

  Summer heat pays no mind to death. The temperature was ninety the morning following Bert’s death.

  Dressed, Nell sat in the wicker rocker, nursing the baby. It was important to feign calm, not to upset the child. Even so, she must make her way through a tangle of questions. The first being, where could she turn?

  Panic swept through her with a chill, and she shuddered despite herself. Beneath her arms her dress was wet with cold sweat.

  At the screen door, a hard, familiar knock.

  “Come in.” Nell plucked a piece of flannel from her lap, placing it over her breast and the baby’s head.

  Trailed by her husband, Bernard, Bert’s Aunt Martha let herself in, wheezing, “Poor Herbert. Only thirty-five years old. Just thirty-five.” Dabbing at her wet hairline with a handkerchief and laying a tapestry reticule on the table by the daybed, she turned. “The heat . . . and the dust. I’m not well. The drive to town has done me in.”

  Nell noticed Martha’s gaze falling upon the wicker rocker, which the older couple had given Bert and Nell as a wedding gift. Martha’s eyes narrowed acquisitively. Then her finer nature appeared to prevail and she sank down onto a straight chair, the dry wood crepitating beneath her.

  “What will you do now?”

  Nell could only shake her head.

  Tucking the handkerchief inside the cuff of her dress, Martha considered her husband, perched with hat in hand at the edge of the daybed—as if all of life were, for him, quite tentative, including this visit. “Bernard, where’s the ground-cherry jam and the preserved chicken? Left them in the buggy, did you?”

  Shoulders sloped in perpetual resignation, Bernard rose, shambling down to the street to fetch the jam and chicken.

  “Thought you’d be able to use them,” Martha told Nell. “I don’t imagine you and Herbert had much put aside for . . . something like this.”

  For something like death? No. Bert’s salary at Kolchak’s had barely covered their modest expenses. There was nothing put by. Though Nell had a teaching certificate, the Harvester school board did not hire married women, especially not of childbearing age.

  Another cold panic washed through her.

  No money. No work. She couldn’t return to Wisconsin. Her father was dead, her mother living with Nell’s sister, Nora—who already had enough on her plate thanks to her shandy husband, Paddy; two young sons; and an acreage of no consequence.

  “I’m not clear about something,” Martha pressed, adjusting her glasses. “Why was Herbert lifting a heavy trunk by himself on a blistering day?” Her tone implied that a fine Italian hand, possibly Nell’s, must be somewhere involved.

  “No one else was at the livery. Ted Shuetty had gone home for lunch, and the trunk needed delivering. Eudora Barnstable had already sent a boy to see about the delay.”

  Martha suspired audibly, pursed her lips, and threw her head back. “That one,” she said, referring to Mrs. Barnstable. “Imagine forcing a lone man to load a heavy trunk on a ninety-degree day.”

  “She didn’t know he was alone.”

  “Doesn’t matter. That’s her way.” Martha whipped the handkerchief from her cuff, mopping her throat.

  Nell was sorry she’d mentioned Eudora Barnstable. “May I get you a glass of cold tea? There’s a pitcher in the icebox. Or I can fetch water from the pump out back.” Hoping Martha would refuse, Nell didn’t rise.

  “Here’s the jam and canned chicken,” Bernard said, appearing in the doorway.

  “For crying out loud,” Martha told him, “shut the screen before you let in every fly in town.”

  No refusal coming from Martha, Nell rose, the baby still in her arms. “I was about to pour cold tea for Martha,” Nell told Bernard. “You’ll have a glass, won’t you? And cookies. Only store-bought I’m afraid. Too hot to fire up the cookstove.”

  Moments later, one handed, Nell set the tray on the table beside the daybed, handed Martha and Bernard tea, and passed around napkins and a plate of ginger cookies. Martha snapped open the coarse linen napkin as if it might conceal a viper, then tucked the fabric into her ample bosom.

  “Now, back to Herbert . . .” she began.

  “Dr. Gray said he died instantly. He showed every sign of a burst artery.”

  Martha blew crumbs from her shelf. “Doctors don’t know everything.”

  “Hillyard needs changing,” Nell told her. When she’d returned with the freshly diapered child, she asked, “Would you like to hold him? He’s a very good baby.” Nell patted the satiny skin of Hilly’s plump thigh and looked from Martha to Bernard.

  “We have to be going,” Martha said, rising and tugging at her overburdened corset. “When do you need us for the funeral?” She might have been inquiring the schedule of the westbound train.

  “At ten. The women’s sodality is serving lunch in the church basement afterwards. I hope you can stay.”

  “Depends on my dropsy. I haven’t been well.”

  “Of course.” Nell moved with her in-laws toward the door. “We don’t want you overdoing.” She kissed the top of the baby’s head and smiled at Martha, now on the outside landing.

  “We’d like to be more help,” Martha said, one hand grasping the rail, the other clasping the tapestry reticule to her breast, “but you understand, we’re still paying for our new buggy.”

  The baby blew little bubbles and waved as the aunt and uncle descended the wooden stairs.

  chapter two

  AND NOW? Nell shifted the baby and stared at the altar; at the linens, beautiful, immaculate; at the gold cup and paten. In this little church
in this small village, a gold cup and paten. Who had paid for those?

  She was in debt for the coffin, the undertaker.

  Did Kolchak owe Bert wages? She tried to recall. For God’s sake, Nell, stop it. Nothing was owing. Her chest constricted. My God . . . My God . . . My God . . . The baby whimpered. She was holding him too tightly.

  The next day dawned fiery. Not a day of kindly portent. Lethargic with the heat and despair, Nell lay in bed, absently running a hand along her left arm, testing the tender spot above the elbow where a bruise had not yet healed. Another on her right hip was deeper, more painful.

  Bert. Her mind was an awful confusion this morning. So much to consider. Yet it would wander back, where it never should: Bert’s fist . . . last winter. Afterward, snow and blood. Then, the outhouse.

  She flung the damp sheet away with a suppressed cry, hurling herself from the bed. Trembling, she leaned heavily against the bureau.

  What now, Bert? I’ve got sixty-five cents in a jar in the kitchen.

  Dressed, she roamed the four sparsely furnished rooms.

  What furnishings they had, apart from the wicker rocker, Bert had haggled off a foreclosed couple moving back east. Would she soon be carrying this small collection down to the street to sell?

  A finger absently dragged across the top of a bureau and the back of a chair came away soiled. Though Nell cleaned daily with a damp cloth, in the warm months dust collected on every surface, drifting up from passing wagons and buggies on the unpaved street below.

  She had fed and bathed the baby and set him on the floor with wooden blocks and a battered pie tin when she heard steps on the outside stairs. Crossing to the open door, she was perplexed to see the Lundeens, Laurence and Juliet.

  Nell knew the two only by sight; they were Methodist, not Catholic. Laurence owned a dry-goods store, a bank, and a brand-new lumberyard. He sat on the school board and his son, George, had graduated from Harvard this past spring. Did Herbert owe them money?

  “May we come in?” Juliet Lundeen asked as Nell opened the screen door. “We won’t stay but a minute, but we wanted to pay a call.”

  “Please. The apartment is very warm, but there’s cool tea.” Ignoring the offer, Mr. Lundeen removed his Panama hat and followed his wife into the stifling living room. He had the rosy, healthy complexion common to Scandinavian faces, and his eyes were the unclouded blue of bachelor’s buttons.