Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse Read online

  “We’ll only be a minute,” Mrs. Lundeen repeated.

  “Please have a seat, at least. It’s kind of you to call.”

  Diminutive Juliet Lundeen, with her prematurely graying auburn hair and small, eloquent hands, sat on a straight chair, the soles of her black calfskin boots barely brushing the floor. Though her frame was delicate, Nell suspected that the woman was not in the least fragile. Bent a little forward, as if by urgency, Juliet said, “We were saddened to hear of Herbert’s death. And shocked. My goodness, he was so young. And the two of you with a darling baby.”

  As though he understood, Hilly proffered Mrs. Lundeen a wooden block. She bent and kissed his hand. Laurence, now settled into the rocker, cleared his throat. “We want to be useful, Mrs. Stillman,” he said, his tone both avuncular and businesslike. “May I call you Nell?”

  Nell was amazed that these people knew her name. And Bert’s. And that here they were, wanting “to be useful.”

  “Laurence is president of the school board,” Mrs. Lundeen pointed out. “And we’ve been told that you have a teaching certificate. That was farsighted of you. Many women would not be prepared to provide for a child.”

  My God, it’s true! thought Nell. I’m no longer a married woman!

  Looking up from the pale Panama held in his hands, Laurence Lundeen again cleared his throat. “We’re losing our third-grade teacher this fall.”

  “And the board was wondering if you might consider the post,” Juliet Lundeen pursued. “They’d rather not go afield if someone local is available. Someone qualified, of course.”

  Nell reached for the arm of the daybed, lowering herself onto it. “To substitute, you mean? Until you find someone?”

  “No, no. We’re offering you a year’s contract,” Laurence Lundeen said.

  Nell’s eyes filled.

  “Of course you’ll need time to think about it,” Mrs. Lundeen added.

  Nell willed back her tears. “I don’t need time. I need work.” She withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and dabbed at her nose. “I’m overcome,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” Lundeen told her, rising. “We need a teacher, and you are one.”

  His hand went to an inside pocket. “You may need a bit of cash to tide you over until September,” he said, handing her an envelope. “With an infant, there’s always something, isn’t there?” He smiled and donned the Panama. “Good day, then.”

  Weak from the Lundeens’ improbable kindness, Nell clasped the envelope to her middle and slumped against the doorjamb. As the Lundeens rounded the corner of the street, she wandered back toward the kitchen. Had she owned whiskey, she’d have enjoyed a tot; as it was, she poured cool tea and sat down at the kitchen table, staring at the unopened envelope.

  In the living room, Hilly crawled to the wooden chair and pulled himself to his feet. Toddling into the kitchen, he grabbed his mother’s apron and looked up at her in the demanding way that infants do. Still moving in a daze, Nell took him on her lap. At length she ran a fingernail under the envelope flap and extracted five twenty-dollar bills and a slip of fine vellum on which Juliet Lundeen had written, Nell—A small recognition of your loss. Use as needed. J. L.

  One hundred dollars. As much as Bert had made in three months at the Dray and Livery. Then she wept loudly, and the child bawled to see her tears.

  chapter three

  “AUNT MARTHA!” NELL CALLED THE NEXT DAY, as Bernard helped his wife down from their new buggy. “Glad I caught you.”

  What fresh incommodity was this, Martha appeared to wonder, fanning herself with a handkerchief. “I’m in an awful hurry,” she said.

  “I won’t keep you. I know the heat is bothering you.” Nell shifted Hilly on her hip. “I’m going to be teaching this fall, and I’ll need someone to look after Hillyard. I hoped you might know of a girl.”

  “Teaching? Where?”

  “The school board has offered me a contract for third grade.” Nell brushed Hilly’s hair off his damp brow. “It’s a godsend. I didn’t know which way to turn.”

  “But you’ve only just begun your mourning. What will people think if you rush out to work?”

  “I can’t care. Do you know of a girl?”

  “Well . . .” Martha began, “Herbert’s cousin Roland has a daughter—Elvira. Left school after eighth grade to help at home. But her younger sister’s twelve now and old enough to take hold, so Elvira will be looking for a place. I’ll talk to the mother.”

  “You’re so kind,” Nell said, holding Hilly close. “So kind.”

  When the baby was down for the night, Nell stood in the semidark at the west-facing window of his bedroom. Below, voices rang out, mostly farm families starting late for home, wagons creaking, horses nickering, the dusk of nine o’clock lighting their way to country roads. One by one, they emptied Main Street.

  On this, her third night of widowhood, Nell listened to men going in and out through the propped-open door of Reagan’s Saloon and Billiards, a strident piano accompanying them. And from a two-block distance came the hushed tinkling of the piano at the Harvester Arms Hotel, these reaching her like memories of country dances.

  She had let down her hair and braided it into a single plait. Now she thrust it over her shoulder. Inside her cotton nightdress, perspiration trickled down the flume of her spine, and she reached back to wick it with the gown.

  Soundlessly she fetched two kitchen chairs and placed them against the low bedside to prevent Hilly from rolling out. Despite the heat, he slept as if drugged. She wished that she could take him in her arms, absorbing his untroubled serenity like a sleeping powder.

  Back at the open window, she fell to her knees weeping, but weeping for what? At length, a wisp of night breeze, what her mother called a “fairy kiss,” lifted the damp strands of hair clinging to Nell’s nape and temples. She breathed deeply and rose, staring down at Hilly’s blurred form against the sheet.

  Life’s purpose grew as clear, then, as a drop of pure water. This child must grow up gentle—and happy, of course. And I must see to it.

  “I’m Elvira.” The girl at the door spoke softly, shifting an ancient carpetbag from one hand to the other.

  Nell had expected a girl with thick ankles and thicker wits. But the young woman on the landing was tiny and well formed, with intelligent dark eyes set in a perfect oval of pale skin.

  “Come in, come in.” Nell held the door. “You’ll share Hilly’s room,” she said, leading the way. Nell had purchased a twin bed and bureau from the newly opened Bender’s Second Hand. A new kerosene lamp stood on the bureau.

  Since the baby was asleep, Nell whispered, “This will be your bed and this”—she pointed—“is your bureau. Mrs. Rabel gave me lavender from her garden to scent the drawers. I hope you like lavender.”

  The girl nodded a blank face.

  “The Rabels are good to us. To me. I still forget that Herbert’s gone.” Odd the way she’d begun thinking of him as “Herbert,” not “Bert,” as if in death she’d put him at a little distance. As if he were both strange to her now and, at the same time, finally coming clear. “Well, I’ll let you put your things away. Would you like a glass of cool tea when you’re ready?”

  Turning back, Nell said, “There’s a commode in the bathroom. I’m afraid emptying the pot will be your job.”

  Again the girl nodded.

  Shy or anxious, Nell thought, setting out ginger cookies on a plate and pouring tea into two glasses.

  “The baby’s handsome,” Elvira said, pulling out a kitchen chair from the table.

  Nell smiled. Handsome. “Thank you. He looks like Herbert.” Did he? She was no longer quite sure. She sat down. “Think you’ll like town life?”

  “Oh, yes!” the girl said. “So many things going on.” She hugged herself. “Exciting.”

  “I forgot to ask. Are you Catholic?”

  “Yes. I’ve brought my missal and rosary.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered, but this way
we can go together.” Nell held the cool glass to her temple. If the heat continued, the classroom would be hot, the children restless.

  “Do they have parish dances here, Cousin Nell?” the girl asked.

  “No, but there are dances at the hotel every Saturday night. Herbert and I used to go before we had Hilly. But—please—just call me Nell.”

  The girl took a bite of cookie and chewed. Then, “Do you have to have a beau to go to the dances?”

  “Heavens, no. All the girls go. Town girls and country girls.”

  “Are the town girls stuck up?”

  “I don’t think so. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

  “You wouldn’t mind if I went to a dance?”

  “Goodness, no. Maybe you’ll find a beau. How old are you?”

  “Sixteen. Ma says I oughta be married.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I want to find out about town life first.” She paused. “Maybe find a town beau.” She peered up from beneath black lashes to see if Nell was shocked.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Had enough of the farm.” She smoothed the oilcloth covering the table.

  Nell noticed that the girl’s hands were rough and sore. Small burns marked the wrists. Canning; probably milking and cooking for hired men. No fieldwork, though: Elvira’s face was fashionably pale. At the Saturday dances, she’d give the other girls a run for their money.

  When the girl picked Hilly up from his nap the next afternoon, she told Nell, “He’s the best baby. Not like the ones in my family. Such fussers. Colicky, most of ’em. That’ll tire you out.” She rolled her eyes and held Hilly close, kissing his warm cheek. “This one’s like a doll.” She changed his dirty diaper, sponged his bottom, and powdered him with baking soda.

  They’d taken to each other, Elvira and Hilly. Both were children, really, Nell thought. For all Elvira’s talk of a “town beau,” the girl was artless and vulnerable. And Nell soon saw that Elvira liked pretending that Hilly was her own. She playacted the little mother, dreaming of a town husband, Nell supposed.

  A few days later, Elvira took Hilly for the first of many walks to the Milwaukee depot, three blocks away. Having lived on a farm, far from a railway, Elvira now gravitated to the depot. She timed the walks to coincide with the arrival of the 2:30 p.m. passenger train. After the first excursion, she reported that she and Hilly had seen a commercial traveler alighting with his satchel and sample case. “Least, that’s what Mr. Loftus”—the depot agent—“called him. Commercial traveler.”

  One afternoon, while Elvira and Hilly were out, Nell sat at the kitchen table drumming her fingers. A week until she must prove herself. She had a teaching certificate, yes, but almost no practical experience. Just a few days substituting in a country school.

  What if town children were cannier than country children? What if they set out to bring her down? Such things happened. Hadn’t she heard of a young woman in Minneapolis who’d hanged herself when the school board wouldn’t renew her contract? She’d been unable to control her pupils, they’d said. And no other school wanted a teacher whose contract hadn’t been renewed.

  What if, after all their kindness, Nell failed the Lundeens?

  chapter four

  THE DAY BEFORE IT OPENED, Nell walked down Main Street to the Harvester school, an impressive three stories and built of dark-red stone. Unusual for so small a town. In a lofty belfry hung the bell she had heard on many mornings, calling children in. Clearly Harvester placed great value on education and expected only the best from its teachers. Nell’s step faltered and she held a clammy palm to her middle.

  Earlier, she had carried home textbooks, poring over them, mapping out lessons and quizzes. Now, alone in her classroom, she printed her name on the blackboard. Moving on, she wrote, “‘A day of the learned is longer than the life of the ignorant.’ Seneca. Do we know what this means?”

  Mercifully, the first day of school was a half day. Desks were assigned. Attendance was taken. Texts were distributed. Monitors were chosen: one to keep order should Mrs. Stillman be called away from the classroom; one to check the cloakroom at the end of each day; one to assist at recess; one to clap erasers and clean the blackboard.

  “I will reassign these jobs at the end of the first six weeks,” she told them, “and I may find that I need more monitors as we go along.”

  Everyone wanted to be a monitor. Everyone wanted to be important.

  Before dismissing the children at noon, Nell told them, “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about what Mr. Seneca meant in his quote.” The following day, Cletus Osterhus was so excited and desperate to explain the Seneca quote that, after he’d raised his hand and been called upon, he found that he must first run to the outhouse.

  Returning, breathless, he gasped, “I asked Grandpa Hapgood. He was in the Civil War, and he knows a lot. That wasn’t cheating, was it, asking him?”

  “No. That was research. Going in search of information.”

  “He said life’s more interesting and full of good stuff to . . . to fill the day if you know a lot of things. And life isn’t so interesting and not so full of good stuff if you don’t.”

  Though these first days of teaching passed without event, Nell felt no relief. She would be on trial for a long time. With a child to provide for, she could not afford a misstep.

  On the sixth of September, days after school had opened, President McKinley was shot, succumbing on the fourteenth of the month. News of his death arrived with the westbound train. On Friday, school was canceled.

  “What’ll happen now?” Elvira asked at breakfast, her eyes huge with alarm.

  “Theodore Roosevelt will be president,” Nell said, ladling out oatmeal.

  “You think he knows how to be president?” Elvira pressed, ignoring the pitcher of milk Nell set in front of her.

  “I believe he’s intelligent and well-educated. No one can know if he’ll be a good president.”

  “My gran remembers when President Lincoln was shot. Those were terrible times, she says. Everybody thought the country was gonna come to an end. The country won’t come to an end now, will it?”

  “No, no. I have a good feeling about Mr. Roosevelt.” Did she? “Anyway, President Garfield was assassinated, too, and the country kept on going.” She spooned a little brown sugar onto Elvira’s oatmeal. “Now, eat and stop worrying. I’ll look after you.”

  Late in September, Elvira told Nell, “Hilly and I saw Father Gerrold outside the post office. He reminded us that the St. Boniface bazaar is next month. Will we go?”

  “It wouldn’t be proper for me, so soon after Herbert’s passing,” Nell said, “but you must go and take a pie. I’ll give you a bit of change to put in your pocket for the wheel of fortune.”

  Clapping her hands, Elvira cried, “You’re so good to me,” and ran to embrace Nell. “Nobody’s ever been so good to me.”

  The night of the bazaar, Nell brushed Elvira’s hair, tying it back with red ribbon. “You’ll need a heavy sweater,” she told the girl. “Take mine.” Before Elvira stepped into the dark, carrying an apple pie, Nell dabbed vanilla behind the girl’s ears. “You’ll be the prettiest girl there.”

  “Best-smelling, too.”

  It was ten before Elvira returned, cheeks flushed. “Our pie was the best-looking one,” she rhapsodized. “And guess who bought it—Mr. Lundeen!”

  The girl flung herself onto the screeching daybed. “We got to talking and he said they could use an extra hand at the dry-goods store on Saturdays, at least till after Christmas. And Mrs. Lundeen said yes, they were short-handed and they’d probably need me till after inventory, whatever inventory is.” She sat up. “Would you mind?”

  “Saturday afternoon and Sunday are your time. If you want to work at the store, that’s fine. You can make yourself a little cash.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Wouldn’t Ma be surprised to get a store-bought present for Christmas?” Elvira hugged her little body.

  “Now
, tell me who all was at the bazaar,” Nell said. “Any likely beaux?”

  “There was one kinda sweet on me. But he’s from the country, so that’s that.”

  chapter five

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!” Elvira said. “They let me write up a sale and ring it on the cash register. And I helped Mrs. Rabel find the thread she needed. I felt so grown-up, Cousin Nell.”

  “There’s a little coffee left from supper,” Nell said. “I’ll heat it while you get into your nightdress.”

  “Oh, don’t bother. It’s only nine-thirty. I thought I’d look in at the dance. I wish you’d come with me.”

  Pulling on the old alpaca coat that hung to the floor and had once been a man’s, Elvira kissed Nell’s cheek. “I know, I know. It wouldn’t be proper for you to come.” And then she was gone.

  Smiling, Nell drew the rocker close to the lamp and opened the copy of Sense and Sensibility she’d come across in Bender’s Second Hand while searching through used housewares for another iron skillet.

  So much about Elinor in this book reminded Nell of herself. Her calm, her self-sufficiency. And wasn’t it a good thing to have an aspect of one’s nature illuminated by a character? A book could be a mirror helping one to understand oneself, accept oneself—maybe even one’s more refractory parts. We were ourselves probably the sphere we least understood.

  On a typical afternoon, when the three-o’clock dismissal bell rang in the school tower, Elvira bundled Hilly up, walking him up Main Street and into the school. In the third-grade room, Nell corrected papers by a kerosene lamp and entered the marks in her grade book.

  Impressed by the school, Elvira invariably exclaimed to Hilly, “Isn’t this the biggest building you ever saw?” While they waited for Nell to finish, Elvira carried the little boy to the windows, pointing to the rim of the western horizon where a spectacular sunset yielded to the icy blackness of a winter night. In the darkening village, lamps flared to life inside houses where wives tossed more wood into cookstoves.