was untouched.
Even though the Johnsons had come down from the North, we were not carpet baggers as
Missouri never seceded; Reconstruction did not touch it. Uncle Jules, Father’s
cousin in Kansas City, explained our migration this way:
‘After fighting four years in Dixie, we went back home to Minnesota… and stayed
just long enough to pack up again and git. Mizzourah ain’t as hot as Dixie but it
ain’t so cold, that the shadows freeze to the sidewalks and the cows give
ice-cream.’
Aunt Carole put a polish on my cooking and I was in and out of ha kitchen quite a
lot until I married. It was during that three weeks that the matter of the lemon pie
took place – I think I mentioned it earlier.
I baked that pie. It was not my best work; I had burned the crust. But it was one of
four, and the other three were all right. Getting the temperature just right on a
wood range is tricky.
But how did my Cousin Nelson get that pie into church without anyone seeing it? How
did he slide it under me without my noticing it?
He made me so furious that I went straight home (to Aunt Carole’s house), then, when
Nelson showed up to apologise, I burst into tears and took him straight to bed…
and had one of those three fireworks occasions.
Sudden impulse and quite reckless and we got away with it cold.
Thereafter I let Nelson have me from time to time when we could figure out a safe
way right up to my wedding. Which did not quite finish it, as years later he moved
to Kansas City.
I should have behaved myself with Nelson; he was only fourteen.
But a smart fourteen. He knew that we didn’t dare get caught; he knew that I
couldn’t marry him no matter what and he realised that he could get me pregnant and
that a baby would be disaster for each of us.
That Sunday morning he held still while I put a French purse on him, grinned and
said, `Maureen, you’re smart.’ Then he tackled me with unworried enthusiasm and
brought me to orgasm in record time.
For the next mo years I kept Nelson supplied with Merry Widows. Not for me; I
carried my own. For his harem. I started him off; he took up the sport with zeal and
native genius, and never got into trouble. Smart.
Besides cooking, I endeavoured to straighten out Father’s accounts receivable, with
less success. After consulting with Father 1 sent out some polite and friendly
dunning letters. Have you ever written over one hundred letters, one after another,
by hand? I found out why Mr Clemens had grabbed the first opportunity to shift from
pen to typewriter – first author to do so.
Dear Mr Deadbeat,
Page 39
Heinlein, Robert A – To Sail Beyond the Sunset.txt
In going over Dr Johnson’s books I find that your account stands at umpteen dollars
and that you have made no payment on it since March 1896. Perhaps this is an
oversight. May we expect payment by the first of the month?
If it is not possible for you to pay the full amount at once, will you please call
at the Clinic this Friday the tenth so that we can work out arrangements mutually
satisfactory?
The Doctor sends his good wishes to you and to Mrs Deadbeat, and also to Junior and
the twins and little Knothead.
I remain,
Faithfully yours,
Maureen Johnson
(On behalf of Ira Johnson, MD)
I showed Father sample letters ranging from gentle to firm to tough; the sample
above shows what we used on most of them. With some he said, `Don’t dun them. They
would if they could, but they can’t.’ Nevertheless I sent out more than a hundred
letters.
For each letter postage was two cents, stationery about three. Can we reckon my time
as worth five cents per letter? If so, each letter comes to a dime, and the whole
mailing cost slightly over ten dollars.
Those hundred letters did not bring in as much as ten dollars in cash.
About thirty patients came in to talk to us about it. Perhaps half of those fetched