chivalry? Noblesse oblige? Aristocratic rules of conduct? Personal responsibility
for the welfare of the State? One may as well search for fur on a frog.’ Is that
something I heard my father say? No. Well, not exactly. It is something I recall
from about two o’clock in the morning in the Oyster Bar of the Renton House in
Kansas City after Mr Clemens’ lecture in January 1898. Maybe my father said part of
it; perhaps Mr Clemens said all of it, or perhaps they shared it – my memory is not
perfect after so many years.
Mr Clemens and my father were indulging in raw oysters, philosophy, and brandy. I
had a small glass of port. Both port and raw oysters were new to me; I disliked
both… not helped by the odour of Mr Clemens’ cigar.
(I had assured Mr Clemens that I enjoyed the aroma of a good cigar; please do smoke.
A mistake.)
But I would have endured more than cigar smoke and raw oysters to be present that
night. On the platform Mr Clemens had looked just like his pictures: a jovial Satan
with a halo of white hair, in a beautifully tailored white suit. In person he was a
foot shorter, warmly charming, and he made an even more fervent admirer of me by
treating me as a grown lady.
I was up hours past my bedtime and had to keep pinching myself not to fall asleep.
What I remember best was Mr Clemens’ discourse on the subject of cats and redheads
.. . composed on the spot for my benefit, I think – it does not appear anywhere in
his published works, not even those released by the University of California fifty
years after his death.
Did you know that Mr Clemens was a redhead? But that must wait.
News of the signing of the peace protocol reached Thebes on 12 August, a Friday. Mr
Barnaby, our principal, called us all into the lecture hall and told us, then
dismissed school. I ran home, found that Mother already knew. We cried on each other
a little while Beth and Lucille were noisy around us, then Mother and I started in
on a complete, unseasonal spring cleaning so that we would be ready when Father and
Tom (and Mr Smith? – I did not voice it) got Nome sometime next week. Frank was told
to cut the grass and to do anything else that needed doing outdoors – don’t ask;
just do it.
Church on Sunday was a happy Praise-the-Lord occasion, with Reverend Timberly being
even more long-windedly stupid than usual but nobody minded, least of all me.
After church Mother said, ‘Maureen, are you going to school tomorrow?’
I had not thought about it. The Thebes school board bad decided to offer summer high
school (in addition to the usual make-up session for grammar school dullards) as a
patriotic act to permit older boys to graduate early and enlist. I had signed up for
summer school both to add to my education (since I had given up the idea of college)
and to fill that aching emptiness caused by Father and Tom (and Mr Smith) being away
at war.
(I have spent the longest years of my life waiting for men to come back from war.
And for some who did not come back.)
`Mother, I had not thought about it. Do you really think there will be school as
usual tomorrow?’
‘There will be. Have you studied?’
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(She knew I hadn’t. You can’t do much with Greek irregular verbs when you are down
on your knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.) ‘No, Ma’am.’
‘Well? What would your father expect of you?’
I sighed. `Yes, Ma’am’
‘Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Summer school was your idea. You should not waste
that extra tuition. Now git! I will get supper by myself tonight.’
They did not come home that week.
They did not come home the following week.
They did not come home that fall.
They did not come home that year.
(Chuck’s body came home. The GAR provided a firing squad and I attended my first