Lucinda's Solution Page 4

  To Malcolm, she wrote about baseball tournaments, as well as Egyptian artifacts and other museum discoveries. And automobiles. New Haven was a becoming a babel of motorcars, and Catherine described in great detail the mechanics as well as the hilarity that often ensued from the clash of unreliable vehicles and ornery horses.

  I read almost every line of my letters aloud, only omitting the parts about my college aspirations, and of course, Catherine’s effusive compliments on her husband’s good looks, as that seemed to me to be Catherine’s private thoughts that my father and mother need not hear.

  My parents also skipped paragraphs; it was obvious that there existed much more writing on the page than was repeated at the dining room table. Mother read mostly about the precious babies, surely the most clever of children ever born. And Father read about Martin’s career and his slow but steady progress.

  I was quite sure that the parts that my mother skipped were those of loneliness for us, despite Catherine’s happy marriage. And I suspected that Father omitted Catherine’s exhortations on my part. She was as determined as I that I should further my schooling. And I believed she may have used a tactic that I had not considered: My father’s pride.

  To be the first Benedict with a degree. Think how my father could trumpet that to Randolph Patterson and the officers at the Knights of Columbus. And that he was broad-minded enough to encourage a daughter in such intellectual pursuits.

  I believe that Catherine was relentless in her entreaties. As my Father skipped down through whole paragraphs, his eyes would involuntarily dart to me. And eventually she won.

  In August of 1918, Father relented.

  He announced at dinner that he had given great thought and copious prayer - my father used the term ‘copious prayer’ on a frequent basis - that I should perhaps go to college after all.

  “I would like you to take another year at home to transition your duties at the yard to Malcolm, during which time you should apply to certain institutes of higher education where you may pursue either teaching or nursing, whichever you prefer.”

  Well, I was overjoyed. Not that I desired to be a teacher or a nurse - those pursuits were not in my plans. But the idea that I might in one year be in college. I was overcome.

  Father continued, “I would prefer that you attend a Catholic university, but that doesn’t seem viable if we would have you stay in New England. While I believe you may receive a fine education at the University of Massachusetts, you would be required to take classes alongside men. And that would be worrisome to me.”

  “But I work alongside very rough men every day at the lumberyard,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but I am there to protect you,” Father said.

  “And me,” Malcolm added. “I would never let any of those men harm you or talk rough around you. I would fight any fellow that would disrespect you. He wouldn’t even have a jaw left when I was through!”

  “Why, thank you, Malcolm,” I said. “You are my knight in shining armor.”

  “Back to the subject at hand,” said Father. “I have made a list of a few women’s colleges that are acceptable to your mother and me. At the top of the list is Mount Holyoke. There you would get a superior education, and still be close to home.”

  “Mount Holyoke!” said Mother. “How marvelous that would be!”

  I was near tears at this point. College. And Mount Holyoke at that. It was more than I could even imagine.

  “This is an expensive proposition,” continued Father. “So I will expect you to save even more of your wages than you do currently. You must show us that you are committed to this proposal.”

  “Oh Father, I will save every penny. I need nothing this next year but the paper and ink to apply. You have made me the happiest girl in the world!”

  CHAPTER 10

  In September of 1918, New England was ravaged.

  It was influenza.

  All through Massachusetts and Connecticut, families were wiped out. Unlike other epidemics, the disease spared many of the small children and the elderly, while strong and healthy young adults fell victim. Folks who were fine on Sunday were dead on Tuesday. The wagons collecting the dead were overwhelmed with bodies, and although it was sinful and disrespectful, bodies were stacked one atop the other.

  Schools and businesses came to a halt, or operated amidst worry and sorrow.

  Jolly Jack fell ill during the first weeks of the scourge but survived. Not as fortunate were two of the colored workers in the yard and several of our coal customers. Our neighbor to the south of us lost three daughters.

  So we Benedicts were lucky. Or so we were told.

  We lost only one.

  At the beginning of November, when the worst of the epidemic seemed to have passed, Catherine died.

  CHAPTER 11

  We received a telegram. We had a telephone, and Martin had access to the phone of his landlord. But he telegraphed. I believe that Martin could not bear to hear any of our voices. Or perhaps he could not bear to hear his own.

  The telegram read:

  I am so sorry, Dear Mr. and Mrs. Benedict. Catherine has died from the influenza. The children are well. Please come immediately. Martin.

  Father hired a car to bring us to New Haven. Mother sent Amelia and Malcolm to Aunt Helen, but I was adamant that I would not be left behind. It took several hours to drive down, and the only words spoken were Mother’s: “This is surely some terrible mistake.”

  But it was not. We arrived at Catherine’s apartment to find Martin sitting on the stoop with his head in his hands. It took several minutes to determine that Catherine had already been taken to a mortuary somewhere in the city - Martin could not remember where - and the babies were with a neighbor, although Martin was not sure which one.

  We begged and cajoled Martin to come with us back up to the apartment. He declared that he could not go in. “I must wait here,” he replied, and continued to sit in the cold. My father finally convinced him to get up by sternly reprimanding him.

  “Martin, you are putting your family in jeopardy with your self-pity. Get up, sir, and open your apartment and let your mother-in-law out of the cold. And then we shall find your children. And make proper arrangements for Catherine.”

  And Martin rose and apologized. We went up the stairs and into the apartment, where we found the landlord’s wife feeding Jonathan and Charlotte.

  My mother snatched up little Charlotte and began to weep. “Oh my Catherine,” she cried.

  Father said to Martin, “Come sit here on the sofa with me.” And when Martin obeyed, Father wrapped his arms around Martin and said rather imperiously, “Now you go ahead and cry, young man.”

  I stood in the kitchen and watched. Watched my mother weep over Catherine’s daughter and Martin weep in my father’s arms.

  Jonathan, then three, said, “Can I have more pudding, please?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Martin’s landlord was able to supply us with the information as to the location of Catherine’s body, and Mother and Father left with Martin to make arrangements to bring her body back to Springfield for burial. I thought Martin would object, but he seemed relieved that we would take her home.

  I stayed with Jonathan and Charlotte. I didn’t have a tremendous amount of experience taking care of children. When Amelia and Malcolm were infants and toddlers, my mother did not trust me at such a young age to handle them. So my care of them was no more than patting their cheeks, or perhaps feeding them little spoons of applesauce. When they were older, I was often in charge of seeing that they did not eat dirt or fall down the stairs, but other than that, I avoided them as far as was possible.

  Jonathan and Charlotte were three and two, respectively. A small infant who could not move by itself would have been quite a bit easier than watching these two tumble and climb and occasional
ly swat at each other. Charlotte was still in diapers, but I had watched my mother do that duty often enough that I managed to pin her into her nappy without sticking her. Jonathan, on the other hand, needed to use the little potty chair that resided in a corner of the kitchen. I had not seen Malcolm’s privates since I was six years old, and I suppose I must have suppressed the awful memory of the unpleasant look of boy parts, as I was a bit surprised at his little thing nestled in what appeared to be a soft dumpling. I managed to pretend that it was normal - and I suppose it was, after all.

  Within two hours, Jonathan began to cry for his mother, and I was ill-equipped to console him, as each time he sobbed “Mama,” I wept myself. Distraught, I drank a small thimble of some rye whiskey I had found in the back of a cabinet, and sat for a moment with Jonathan on my lap and held him close. I considered giving Jonathan a taste of the whiskey as well, but he finally fell asleep on his own.

  I laid him in his crib, and took up Charlotte.

  She babbled and giggled and tried to tell me something about her dress that I was not able to understand. I suppose if you listen to a baby’s voice every day you understand what they are saying, or at least enough to get by. All I understood was “Auntie” and “No No.” I sang her a song from my memory about an old gray goose, and she started to sing along a bit. Catherine must have remembered the same song. There is a line in that song - “Go tell Aunt Rhody the old gray goose is dead.” Why would you sing about death to a little child?

  “Let’s sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star instead,” I suggested, and Charlotte was happy to do so.

  Both of the babies were napping when my parents and Martin returned. My mother looked in on both cribs.

  “You were wonderful with the children,” said Mother, although she had no real evidence to prove this was so.

  It was decided that Martin and the babies would come back to Springfield with us and stay until after the funeral and burial. Martin sat as still and silent as a stone while my mother packed clothing for him and the children. I packed up a few of the children’s toys. I chose those which seemed most worn, since those would be the ones that were most likely also the most loved.

  The hired driver was fetched and he brought the car around.

  “I think that is everything,” said Mother.

  “No,” said Martin, speaking for the first time in many hours. “We need a dress for Catherine.”

  And he went to the bedroom and opened a pine wardrobe that had been painted to resemble cherry. He took out Catherine’s wedding dress.

  “This one,” he said. “It is her most beautiful dress. Do you think it would be right to bury her in her wedding dress? Is there any rule about such a thing?”

  “It will be perfect,” said my Mother.

  CHAPTER 13

  Catherine was buried on a Monday. The day it was announced that the Great War had ended.

  Martin and the children stayed in Springfield for a week. Martin mostly sat in the sitting room in his funeral suit. My mother took care of Jonathan and Charlotte, and tried to teach me how to manage two restless children, keeping them happy and safe, while letting them still be children.

  It amazed me how resilient they were - or rather how short their memories were. They asked for their mother quite often, but were easily distracted by a toy or a cookie. It was a blessing, I imagine, although I found myself angry that Catherine might be so readily forgotten. It would have been easier for me, and perhaps for Martin too, had they cried relentlessly, as we all wanted to do.

  But we kept up appearances. I played with Charlotte, dressing and undressing her dolls, and Malcolm pulled Jonathan in a small wagon.

  We tried to postpone the decision that was inevitable.

  Martin could not take care of the children and also provide an income. The children needed to be taken care of while Martin worked.

  Mother suggested that Martin move to Springfield, and take up employment with my father. This had been my original goal five years ago, but my intention had been to keep Catherine close. Now we may have Martin and Catherine’s children, but Catherine was lost to us. We needed to focus on the children. If Martin moved in with us, my mother would raise the children with my and Amelia’s assistance.

  But there was a complication to this plan. Martin’s employer in New Haven lost six employees to influenza. They needed him. They finally offered him the promotion that Catherine had so hoped for. He wanted that position. He wanted to work there, not for my father.

  And they needed him as soon as possible. Three days after the funeral Martin packed the children’s things and hugged my mother and thanked my father and boarded the train back to Connecticut.

  I went with him.

  I was to care for the babies during the day. I learned as quickly as possible from Mother how to properly prepare food for toddlers, and how often to feed them. And when they should nap and when to awaken them, and how to handle tantrums and arguments.

  I didn’t think I could do it. I didn’t think the children would be safe under my inexperienced care. I didn’t think I could handle Martin’s profound grief. I wanted my mother to go to New Haven with Martin and let me take care of Father and Amelia and Malcolm. I knew those three. I may not have much affection for them, but I could keep them alive. But that made no sense for me to stay. I was the one - finished with school and wrapping up my own duties with Father - who was free to go.

  I took three dresses besides the one I wore, two nightgowns and an extra pair of shoes. I wore my winter coat. This could not last forever. Martin would make arrangements for a housekeeper and nanny. I would go home in perhaps a month, and continue my plans for my education.

  Of course, there was no real room for me in the tiny apartment. I slept on the settee, and changed into my nightdress after everyone was in bed, and rose before sunrise to wash and dress again.

  Not that it would have mattered. Martin stumbled through the mornings and evenings, and spent most of his day at the factory.

  He spoke very little. He did make an effort with the children, playing on the floor with blocks and dolls, but he had lost that lighthearted merriment that I had witnessed before Catherine‘s death. On our infrequent visits last year, he would swing the children high over his head until they squealed with delight. I had not seen him repeat that one time in the weeks that followed. I prayed for the melancholy to fade.

  The children often picked up on his sadness, and their response was not reciprocal sadness, but demands for attention. Usually, they would wait for their father to leave, and then present me with their most dreadful behaviors.

  Jonathan would throw his toys and scream. I would stand helplessly out of the path of the heaviest missiles, and wait for his anger to dissipate. Then the tears would flow. Not just his. I would cry with him as he pounded his little fists against my chest.

  Charlotte’s reaction was more chilling. She would stiffen on the floor, and refuse to move, or even meet my eye. As small as she was, she was nearly impossible to pick up in this ossified state. I found that the easiest thing to do was to lay on the floor with her.

  “We are playing Statues,” I explained to Jonathan, and he would lie down with us. Eventually, Charlotte would sleep.

  I loved best their nap-time. I would sit with my book and savor the quiet. Sometimes I filled the hour writing letters of application to college. Letters I could not mail. I cursed Catherine for leaving her children. For leaving me.

  One Saturday, not long before Christmas, I took the children out to play in the recent snowfall. As I bundled them up against the cold with extra trousers, and scarves and mittens pinned to their coats, I begged Martin to come with us.

  “Please, let’s have an hour where we can laugh with the children. The fresh air will do us all good.”

  He agreed, and donned his coat and hat and dragged o
ut a small sled that he had stored in the basement. He pulled the children with breathtaking speed along the snow-covered street, and they hollered and cried, “Faster, faster!” He lost his footing eventually and fell into the snow, where the children climbed over him and piled their snowy selves on his chest. We went in rosy-cheeked and drank warm milk and Martin read a story about Christmas.

  It was our best day.

  And later that night, after the children had been put down to sleep, Martin said, “I am both happy we had such fun this afternoon, and devastated that I could smile. Catherine should be here and I don’t want to be happy ever again.”

  “I can’t imagine that Catherine would want you to be sad for the rest of your life. She loved to hear you laugh more than she loved anything in the world. She would want to hear you laugh again.”

  “Well, she can’t. She can’t hear anything buried in the ground in Massachusetts. Please spare me the ‘looking down from heaven’ nonsense.”

  I was stunned.

  I knew that Martin may have shared Catherine’s heretical views, but this sounded more like atheism than agnosticism. But as doubtful as I was myself of the Catholic view of heaven and hell, I was not ready to relinquish my father’s passed-along devotion. Not completely. Although I understood Martin’s utter discouragement. God let this happen.

  “I won’t argue about Catherine’s ability to watch you live your life,” I said. “How about if we just put our attention to creating some joy for the children? Without having to worry whether this makes us feel better or worse. Because probably nothing will make us feel better. But the babies are too young for lifelong sadness.”