Belles on Their Toes (20 page)

“I guess you mean,” Martha said as civilly as she could, “does Mother rely on her for money.”

“Of course, it’s none of my business,” Cousin Leora tittered nervously, “but your Mother is such a dear friend of mine.”

Fred leaned over when he thought no one was looking, and whispered something else to Dan, this time so quietly that no one heard.

“I saw that,” Cousin Leora snapped. “What was that you said, young man?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Fred mumbled.

“I want to know what you said. Speak up!”

“Do I have to tell her?” Fred asked Mart. “It’s going to make her mad.”

“I guess you’d better tell her,” Martha nodded sympathetically.

“I said,” Fred stuttered, looking at his plate, “if you’re such a good friend of Mother’s, why don’t you ask her?”

Dan decided to give Fred what moral support he could. He made up his mind that since Cousin Leora was already convinced we didn’t get enough to eat, he might as well give her something interesting to put in her letters to California.

“If Fred has to leave the table for whispering,” Dan asked, “can I have his hash? I’ve lost more weight than anyone else this year.” Fred bared his teeth and growled in mock ferocity. “If you touch it, I’ll bite you,” he snarled.

“Goodness,” said Cousin Leora.

“That’s enough, boys,” Martha warned sternly. “And if any body gets the hash, I’m going to be the one. I’m the oldest, so I need the nourishment more than anyone else.”

We heard Mother coming up the front steps, then, and ran out to meet her. Bill took her coat and hat, and Tom brought in her plate from the kitchen. Mother said the speech in Philadelphia had gone fine, and that she was so glad, this time, not to miss Leora.

“I love hash,” Mother announced enthusiastically, and partly for Tom’s benefit, as she sat down at the table. “And I love to get home after a train ride. Well, what were you talking about when I came in?”

“Nothing much,” Martha put in hastily. “Just chatter.”

“As a matter of fact, Lillie,” Cousin Leora told Mother darkly, “we were discussing whether this one”—she pointed a diamond studded finger at Fred—“should leave the table.”

“Why, Freddy!” Mother said softly. “What did you do, dear?”

“I whispered,” Fred admitted. “I didn’t think anybody was looking.”

“It’s not polite to whisper,” Mother announced, relieved that the offense hadn’t been something more serious. “You know when I was a girl, and we whispered at the table, my father used to make us say it out loud. Sometimes,” she laughed, “it was mighty embarrassing, too.”

“That’s what Cousin Leora made me do,” said Fred.

It all sounded rather gay to Mother—not serious at all. “And what were you whispering about?” she asked, laughing again.

“Harumph,” Cousin Leora cleared her throat noisily.

“Well,” said Fred, “she wanted to know if you got money.”

“What group were you speaking to in Philadelphia, Lillie, dear?” Cousin Leora interrupted.

But Mother was listening to Fred. “Who wanted to know if I got money, Freddy?”

“Harumph, harumph,” said Cousin Leora.

“Cousin Leora wanted to know if Grosie sent you any money, and I whispered that if she wanted to know that, she ought to ask you.”

Nobody said anything for a minute. Our guest looked as if she had swallowed some of her hash the wrong way, and Mother stared at her with something that was part wonder and part contempt.

“I’m going to answer your question, Leora,” Mother said finally. “I haven’t been getting money from California. They’ve offered, of course. But so far I’ve been able to handle things by myself. And I think the worst of it is over.”

Cousin Leora glared defiantly. We knew she never had liked us, and now we knew she didn’t like Mother, either.

“You haven’t been able to handle it,” she spit out spitefully, “when your children don’t even get enough to eat.”

If she had sat down and rehearsed that speech from the day she had learned to talk, she couldn’t have come up with anything that would have made Mother any angrier. But Mother decided she wasn’t going to lose her temper in front of her children. She felt around with her foot for the bell under the carpet, pressed it, and asked Tom to bring in the dessert. The left side of her mouth was twitching, or trembling—we couldn’t be sure which. It was the first time we had ever seen it act that way.

Tom came in, heavy laden with a tray of chocolate blancmange. Perhaps it was the vibration of his footsteps; perhaps it was chance. At any rate, there was a booming, house-shaking roar in the basement, followed by a metallic ping as something hit the basement ceiling, directly below us.

Cousin Leora jumped out of her chair in terror, and even Mother dropped her fork.

“Earthquake,” croaked Leora, who had been through the San Francisco one. And then much louder, “Earthquake!”

There were four more window-rattling roars, each followed by a ping, and then we heard something flowing and dripping, down below us.

“Listen at that,” said Tom. “It ain’t no earthquake. It ain’t nothing to get excitet about.”

“What in the world is it then?” Mother demanded sharply.

“It ain’t nothing but the children’s beer,” he assured her.

“Mercy Maude,” sighed Mother. “It gave me a start.”

“The children’s what?” shrieked Cousin Leora. “Did he say the children’s beer?”

“Root beer,” Mother explained, and the left side of her mouth was vibrating again. “They make it themselves.”

“Root beer,” said the visitor, edging toward the hall, “doesn’t explode. Only something with alcohol in it explodes. I don’t think it’s safe in here.”

She opened the door to the hall, and an unmistakable aroma of alcohol permeated the dining room.

“So you’ve even let your children do that, have you?” she called over her shoulder as she went to get her wraps. She grabbed them and started for the front door. “I’m going to write your mother about you, Lillie Gilbreth.”

The door slammed and two more bottles exploded. We heard gravel spatter as the limousine rolled out of the driveway.

Mother was simply furious. Psychologist and doctor of philosophy she might be. But now, just for once, both her psychology and her philosophy deserted her.

“Let her go ahead and write her, then,” Mother mumbled. “See if I care. My folks have more sense than to believe anything like that. Let her go ahead and write a whole book. See if I care.”

“Don’t let her upset you, Ma’am,” said Tom. “She ain’t nothing but a fat old snoop.”

“Fat old snoop,” Mother repeated, as if that was what she had been looking for. “Fat old …” She glared at Tom, who started nervously dealing out the blancmange.

“Let’s hear from you,” she said, and we had never heard her talk like that before. “Where did that alcohol smell come from?”

“All right, Ma’am,” Tom conceded, and he was gaping like the rest of us. “It must have been one of them bottles I put prunes in. Just to change the flavor, of course.”

She asked Tom to step into the kitchen with her. She closed the door behind her, but we could hear the rise and fall of her voice. And then we heard Tom sob, and go up the back steps toward the attic, where his room was.

When Mother returned, she was pale and shaking. She wasn’t furious any more.

“I had to do it,” she told us. “I had to let him go. I know how you feel about him, but that’s simply the last straw. I have enough on my mind, when I leave you children alone, without worrying about something like that.”

No one felt much like eating dessert, or talking. We knew it was Mother’s decision to make, and we didn’t blame her. But we thought there’d be an empty place in the house without Tom.

He didn’t have many things to pack, and pretty soon we heard him come down stairs again, and then descend into the basement.

Mother looked around the table miserably, but we avoided her glance.

“I told him to get rid of the bottles with the prunes in them, before he left,” she explained.

We still didn’t say anything.

“After he gets rid of the bottles,” Mother sighed, “you go down there, Frank, and ask him if he wants his job back. Tell him that, just this once, I changed my mind.”

18.
March on Washington

W
ITHIN THE NEXT FEW
years, Mother became accepted as an industrial engineer, and motion study began to play an increasingly important part in the mass production of the Twenties.

The, fight had been uphill, but many of Dad’s former clients—and a good many new clients—finally had conceded that Mother knew her business, and had hired her firm as a consultant. The family finances, while not in a state of great prosperity, were immeasurably improved. Mother still rode in buses and upper berths. But she was able to start paying off her debts and to make a dent in the mortgage on the house.

Mother’s goal of sending all of us through college now seemed more than just a possibility. Martha was enrolled at New Jersey State College for Women, and Frank was at the University of Michigan. That meant there were only Bill, Lillian, Fred, Dan, Jack, Bob, and Jane to usher into the halls of higher learning. Mother was sure it was going to be a breeze.

While Mother’s nose was healing, she had started writing
The Home Maker and Her Job,
published in 1927.
Living with Our Children
was published the following year. She continued to teach her Motion Study Course, served on the New Jersey State Board of Regents, and was a delegate to the World Power Congress in Tokyo.

She also became a Girl Scout.

Mrs. Herbert Hoover was responsible for Mother’s original interest in scouting. Mother had known the Hoovers for a good many years; socially, since they were fellow Californians, and professionally, since Mr. Hoover was an engineer.

After Mr. Hoover was inaugurated president, Mother sometimes visited them in Washington and at their fishing camp on the Rapidan River. Mr. Hoover appointed her to his national advisory committee on employment. And Mrs. Hoover, who was national president of the Girl Scouts, wanted her to head up the personnel division of that organization.

Mother wasn’t sure she could spare the time. But Mrs. Hoover invited her to a tea at which a delegation of ladies in uniform were present. In a surprise ceremony, Mrs. Hoover announced she wanted to take Mother into the Girl Scouts right then and there. With the other ladies smiling encouragement, Mother arose to recite the oath.

None of our girls had been scouts. But Frank and Bill both had joined the Boy Scouts some years before. Mother had helped them memories their oaths and pass their tenderfoot tests.

Standing in the White House, she raised three fingers of her right hand. Mrs. Hoover nodded reassuringly. It was a solemn moment; Mother started to recite.

“On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country always, to …”

The ladies snickered.

“That’s fine,” Mrs. Hoover smiled when Mother finished. “That means you’re a full-fledged Boy Scout. Now would you like to join the Girl Scouts?”

Mother said she would.

“Girl Scouts try,” said Mrs. Hoover. “Their oath starts like this. ‘On my honor I will try to do my duty.’”

Mother raised three fingers again and swore to try. Later on, she even got a uniform. When our older girls teased her about it, and kept asking her to give her scout’s honor every time she made a flat statement of fact, she’d threaten to buy khaki shirt and trousers and a campaign hat.

“I can always switch to the other branch, if you don’t like this uniform,” she’d say. “I took both oaths, you know.”

On one of Mother’s visits with the Hoovers, the President urged her to bring all of us to a formal afternoon reception at the White House. The affair was to be held within a few days, and was for the Cabinet, Supreme Court and the Diplomatic Corps.

“I’d like to meet all the Gilbreth children,” the President said cordially.

Mother was grateful for the invitation. But she knew we didn’t like appearing en masse at anything. Besides, she had visions of railroad tickets and new outfits for everybody.

“They’d all love to come,” she said, “but I’m afraid they’d strain the seams even of the White House.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Hoover. “We’d love to have them.”

“Suppose,” said Mother, who thought a compromise was in order, “I just bring the six boys.”

“The boys will be fine,” Mr. Hoover agreed hospitably. “Why don’t you telephone them right now? Come on. I won’t take no for an answer.”

A phone was thrust into Mother’s hands, and she put in a call for Montclair. Frank, who was home from the University of Michigan on a holiday, answered the ring.

“I have great news,” Mother said, while the Hoovers beamed. “The President has been kind enough to invite all of you boys to a reception at the White House.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the Hoovers. “I can just see their faces, can’t you?”

“For crying out loud,” Frank groaned. “See if you can’t get us out of it, Mother.”

“I can’t,” said Mother. “I tried, but I can’t. I can’t believe it’s true, either.”

“I don’t want to bring all those kids down there,” Frank complained. “Besides, I’ve got a date for almost every night of my vacation.”

“You’ll have to break it, dear. You’ll have to break the news gently so the other boys won’t take the roof off the house when they hear the glad tidings. The Hoovers are right here, just think of that.”

“Good night,” said Frank, only much quieter. “I’m sorry. We’re trapped then, eh?”

“You certainly are,” said Mother. “We all are. It’s not something that happens every day.”

Mother told Frank she had business in Washington and wouldn’t be able to return to Montclair to supervise the boys’ preparations. They were to wear their best suits and of course white shirts and black shoes. If they took an early morning train from Newark, they’d get to Washington about lunch time. Mother would be waiting for them at her hotel, and they could come to her room and wash up, before the reception.

Bill, who was now a senior in high school and currently in charge of the checking account, withdrew enough cash from the bank to cover the cost of three full and three half tickets to Washington and return.