To Sail Beyond the Sunset (22 page)

Did I mention the transaction under which I obtained Random Numbers from Mr. Renwick? Perhaps I didn’t. He wanted to “swap a little pussy for a little pussy”—that’s the way he expressed it. I walked right into that because I asked what he wanted for the kitten?—expecting him to say that there was no charge as the kitten hadn’t cost him anything. I did not expect anything else because, while I was aware that some pedigreed cats were bought and sold, I had never actually encountered one. In my experience kittens were always given away, free.

I had not intended ever again to let Mr. Renwick inside the house; I remembered the first time. But I was unexpectedly confronted with a fact: Mr. Renwick carrying a cardboard shoe box with a kitten in it. Grab the box and shut the door in his face? Open the box on the front porch when he was warning me that the kitten was eager to escape, and scraping, scrambling sounds confirmed it? Lie to him, tell him, sorry, we have already acquired a kitten?

When the telephone rang—

I wasn’t really used to having a telephone. I felt that a ringing telephone meant either bad news or that Briney was calling; either way, I had to answer it at once. I said, “Excuse me!” and fled, leaving him standing in our open door.

He followed me in, through the central hall, and into my sewing room/ office/chore room, where I was on the phone. There he put the shoe box down in front of me, and opened it…and I saw this adorable gray kitten while I was talking with my husband.

Brian was on his way home and had called to ask if there was anything I wanted him to pick up.

“I don’t think so, dear. But do hurry home; I have your kitten. She’s a little beauty, just the color of a pussywillow. Mr. Renwick brought her, the driver for the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company. He’s trying to screw me, Briney, in exchange for the kitten… No, I’m quite certain. He not only said so, but he has come up behind me and put his arms around me and is now playing with my breasts… What?… No, I didn’t tell him anything of the sort. So do hurry. I won’t fight with him, dear, because I’m pregnant, I’ll just give in… Yes, sir; I will.
Au ’voir.
” I hung up the receiver…although I had thought of using it like a policeman’s truncheon. But I truly was unwilling to fight while I had a baby inside me.

Mr. Renwick did not let go of me, but when what I was saying penetrated his head, he held still. I turned around in his arms. “Don’t try to kiss me,” I said. “I don’t want to risk so much as a cold while I’m pregnant. Do you have a rubber? A Merry Widow?”

“Uh—Yes.”

“I thought you would have; I’m sure I’m not the first housewife you’ve tried this with. All right; do please use it, as I don’t want to contract a social disease, and neither do you. Are you married?”

“Yes. Christ, you’re a cool one!”

“Not at all. I simply won’t risk being raped while I’m carrying a baby; that’s all. Since you are married, you don’t want to catch anything, either, so put on that rubber. How long does it take to drive from Thirty-first and Woodland?” (Brian had called from Twelfth and Walnut, much farther away.)

“Uh—Not very long.”

“Then you’d better hurry or my husband will catch you at it. If you really do mean to do this to me.”

“Oh, the hell with it!” He abruptly let go of me, turned away, headed for the front door.

He was fumbling with the latch when I called out, “You forgot your kitten!”

“Keep the damned cat!”

That is how I “bought” Random Numbers.

Raising kittens is fun, but raising children is the most fun—if the children happen to be your own—if you happen to be the sort of person who enjoys bearing and rearing children. For Jubal was right; it is subjective, a matter of one’s individual disposition. I had seventeen children on my first go-around and greatly enjoyed rearing all of them—each different, each individual—and I’ve had more since my rescue and rejuvenation, and have enjoyed them even more because Lazarus Long’s household is organized so that taking care of babies is easy for everyone.

But I often find other people’s children repulsive and their mothers crashing bores, especially when they talk about their disgusting offspring (instead of listening to me talking about mine). It seems to me that many of those little monsters should have been drowned at birth. They strike me as compelling arguments for birth control. As my father pointed out years ago, I am an amoral wretch…who does not necessarily regard an unfinished human being, wet and soiled and smelly at one end and yelling at the other, as “adorable.”

In my opinion many babies are simply bad-tempered, mean little devils who grow up to be bad-tempered, mean big devils. Look around you. The “sweet innocence” of children is a myth. Dean Swift had an appropriate solution for some of them in “A Modest Proposal.” But he should not have limited it to the Irish, as there are many scoundrels who are not Irish.

Now you may be so prejudiced and opinionated that you feel that my children are less than perfect—despite the overwhelming evidence that mine were born with halos and cherubs’ wings. So I won’t bore you with every time Nancy brought home straight A’s on her report cards. Practically every time, that is. My kids are smarter than your kids. Prettier, too. Is that enough? All right, I’ll drop the matter. My kids are wonderful to me, and your kids are wonderful to you, and let’s leave it at that, and not bore each other.

I mentioned the Panic of 1907 when I told about Betty Lou’s marriage to Nelson but at the time I had no idea that a panic was coming. Nor did Brian, or Nelson, or Betty Lou. But history does repeat itself, somewhat and in some ways, and something that happened in early 1907 reminded me of something that happened in 1893.

After the birth of Georgie on Betty Lou’s wedding day, I stayed home as usual, for a while, but as soon as I felt up to moving around, I left my brood with Betty Lou and went downtown. I planned to go by streetcar, was unsurprised when Nelson volunteered to drive me down in his Reo runabout. I accepted and bundled up warm; the Reo was rather too well ventilated; it had an open buggy somewhere in its ancestry.

My purpose was to move my savings account. I had placed it in the Missouri Savings Bank in 1899, when we married and settled in Kansas City, by a draft on the First State Bank of Butler (the booming metropolis of Thebes had no banks), where Father had helped me to open a savings account when we came back from Chicago. By the time I was married, it had grown to more than a hundred dollars.

Footnote: If I had more than a hundred dollars in a savings account, why did I serve my family fried mush for their evening meal? Answer: Do you think I am crazy? In 1906 in the American middle west, a sure way for a wife to castrate spiritually her husband would be to suggest that he was incapable of keeping food on the table; I didn’t need Dr. Fraud to tell me that. Males live by pride. Kill their pride and they won’t support wives and children. It would be some years before Brian and I would learn how to be utterly open and easy with each other. Brian knew that I had a savings account but he never asked me how much I had in it, and I would serve fried mush or do any symbolic equivalent as often as needed before I would buy groceries with my own money. Savings were for “a rainy day.” We both knew this. If Brian fell ill, had to go to a hospital, I would use my savings as needed. We had no need to talk about it. Meanwhile Brian was the breadwinner; I did not intrude into his responsibility. Nor he into mine.

But what about Foundation monies? Didn’t that hurt his pride? Perhaps it did. It may be indicative to take a look into the future: In the long run every dime we received from “ringing the cash register” wound up with our children, as each got married. Brian never mentioned to me any such intention. In 1907 it would have been silly to do so.

By early 1907 my savings account had grown to over three hundred dollars, by nickels and pennies and tightest economies. Now that I was working at home and could no longer go to school downtown it seemed smart to me to move my account to a little neighborhood bank near the southside post office substation. One of us four had to go to our post office box each day; whoever did it could make deposits for me. If ever I had to withdraw money, then that one could be I.

Nelson parked his runabout on Grand Avenue and we walked around to 920 Walnut. I took my passbook to a teller—did not have to wait; the bank was not crowded—and told the teller that I wanted to withdraw my account.

I was referred to an officer of the bank, over behind the railing, a Mr. Smaterine. Nelson put down the newspaper he had been glancing at, stood up. “Difficulty?”

“I don’t know. They don’t seem to want to let me have my money. Will you come with me?”

“Sure thing.”

Mr. Smaterine greeted me politely, but raised his brows at Nelson. I introduced them. “This is Mr. Nelson Johnson, Mr. Smaterine. He is my husband’s business partner.”

“How do you do, Mr. Johnson. Please sit down. Mrs. Smith, our Mr. Wimple tells me that you need to see me about something.”

“I suppose I do. I attempted to withdraw my account. He told me that I must see you.”

Mr. Smaterine gave a smile that displayed his false teeth. “We are always sorry to lose an old friend, Mrs. Smith. Has our service been unsatisfactory?”

“Not at all, sir. But I wish to move my account to a bank closer to my home. It is not too convenient to come all this way downtown, especially in this cold weather.”

He picked up my passbook, glanced at the address in the front, then at the current amount farther on. “May I ask where you propose to transfer your account, Mrs. Smith?”

I was about to tell him, when I caught Nelson’s eye. He didn’t actually shake his head…but I’ve known him a long time. “Why do you ask that, sir?”

“It is part of a banker’s professional duty to protect his customers. If you wish to move your account—fine! But I want to see you go to an equally reliable bank.”

My wild animal instincts were aroused. “Mr. Smaterine, I have discussed this in detail with my husband”—I had not—“and I do not need to seek advice elsewhere.”

He made a tent of his fingers. “Very well. As you know, the bank can require three weeks’ notice on savings accounts.”

“But, Mr. Smaterine, you yourself were the officer I dealt with when I opened my account here. You told me that that fine print was just a formality, required by the state banking act, but that you personally assured me that any time I wanted my money, I could have it.”

“And so you can. Let’s change that three weeks to three days. Just go home and write us a written notice of intent, and three business days later you can close your account.”

Nelson stood up, put his hands flat on Mr. Smaterine’s desk. “Now just one moment,” he drawled loudly, “did you or did you not tell Mrs. Smith that she could have her money any time she wanted it?”

“Sit down, Mr. Johnson. And lower your voice. After all, you are not a customer here. You don’t belong here.”

Nelson did not sit down, did not lower his voice. “Just answer yes or no.”

“I could have you evicted.”

“Try it, just try it. My partner, Mr. Brian Smith, this lady’s husband, asked me to come with Mrs. Smith”—Brian had not—“because he had heard that your bank was just a leetle bit reluctant—”

“That’s slander! That’s criminal slander!”

“—to be as polite to ladies as you are to businessmen. Now—Do you keep your promise to her? Right now? Or three days from now?”

Mr. Smaterine was not smiling. “Wimple! Let’s have a check for Mrs. Smith’s account.”

We all kept quiet while it was made out; Mr. Smaterine signed it, handed it to me. “Please see that it is correct. Check it against your passbook.”

I agreed that it was correct.

“Very well. Just take that to your new bank and deposit it. You will have your money as soon as it clears. Say about ten days.” He smiled again, but there was no mirth in it.

“You said I could have my money now.”

“You have it. There’s our check.”

I looked at it, turned it over, endorsed it, handed it to him. “I’ll take it now.”

He stopped smiling. “Wimple!”

They started counting out banknotes. “No,” I said, “I want cash. Not paper issued by some other bank.”

“You are hard to please, Madam. This is legal tender.”

“But I deposited real money, every time. Not bank notes.” And I had—nickels and dimes and quarters and sometimes pennies. Once in a while a silver cartwheel. “I want to be paid back in real money. Can’t you pay me in real money?”

“Of course we can,” Mr. Smaterine answered stiffly. “But you will find, ah, over twenty-five pounds of silver dollars quite cumbersome. That’s why bank certificates are used for most transactions.”

“Can’t you pay me in gold? Doesn’t a great big bank like this one carry any gold in its vaults? Fifteen double eagles would be ever so much easier to carry than would be three hundred cartwheels.” I raised my voice a little and projected it. “Can’t you pay me in gold? If not, where can I take this to change it for gold?”

They paid in gold, with the odd change in silver.

Once we were headed south Nelson said, “Whew! What bank out south do you want? Troost Avenue Bank? Or Southeast State?”

“Nellie, I want to take it home and ask Brian to take care of it.”

“Huh? I mean, ‘Yes, Ma’am. Right away.’”

“Dear, something about this reminds me of 1893. What do you remember about that year?”

“Eighteen ninety-three—Let me see. I was nine and just beginning to notice that girls are different. Uh, you and Uncle Ira went to the Chicago Fair. When you got back I noticed that you smelled good. But it took another five years to get you to notice me, and I had to slide a pie under you to manage it.”

“You always were a bad boy. Never mind my folly in ’98; what happened in ’93?”

“Hmm—Mr. Cleveland started his second term. Then banks started to fail and everybody blamed it on him. Seems a bit unfair to me—it was too soon after he was sworn in. The Panic of ’93, they called it.”

“So they did and my father did not lose anything in it, for reasons he described as pure dumb luck.”

“Nor did my mother, because she always did her banking in a teapot on the top shelf.”