Some townsfolk thought Tate, the village stockbroker, an opportunist. But Will liked David Tate not because he owned a Model T Ford, but because he was a genuinely good fellow. They served as church trustees, and Will knew that David was keen on President Hoover’s commitment to voluntarism, and that David could be counted on whenever there was a need. And now, in late 1922, the market moved upward and David began to prosper. Will was happy for his friend’s good fortune, but some people thought Tate’s wealth was the Devil’s money.
One day Will heard, “Hey, Will, you in here?” float through the office and into the garage, where he was working. He slid from under a Lizzie. “Hold on, I’ll be right there.”
Will rubbed grime off his hands and tossed the soiled cloth into the steel barrel that he kept for greasy rags. “Can’t be too careful about fires,” he’d say.
“Is that you, David?” he called through the door as he walked into his office and showroom. “I kinda expected to see your face today. I heard the markets are up.”
“Now’s the time to buy, Will. Coolidge says the business of America is business, and he’s right on that score. Cal doesn’t speak often, but when he does, you better listen. Our country’s booming and it’s time to get your share.” David paused “It’s time to expand your horizons. Time to put your money to work. You can never earn by the sweat of your brow what your money will earn for you.”
“Maybe you’re right. But I don’t know. You saw what happened in ’07.”
“It’s different this time. You know that. Just look how your business has grown. The Doughboys are back. Everything’s booming, everyone’s buying. Best to make hay while the sun shines.”
“I could always sell the hay. But I don’t think so.” He grabbed a handful of clean rags from his desk drawer and stepped toward the garage. “I’ve gotta get Dobberstein’s Lizzie out. He’ll be here at noon.”
“Think about it. You can make money.” Tate started for the door but turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot what I stopped for. I’m glazing Mrs. Fransen’s windows this Saturday. A good wind’ll drop that glass on the ground. Can you help? Shouldn’t take but half the morning.”
“Poor lady. Mary says she’s having a terrible time getting by.”
Tate shook his head. “Sad. Some people won’t have anything to do with her. They say it’s her fault. That God’s punished her for allowing those Mormons in her house. I think it’s poppycock.”
“It’s a wrathful God who’d take her husband and son because she befriended two strangers. They seemed like nice young fellas to me.” Will hollered back as he stepped into the garage. “I’ll be there Saturday.”
Will knew everyone was doing it, and everyone made money — so they said — but it didn’t feel safe to speculate on the market’s whims. The only money he’d ever made was by the sweat of his own brow. He was glad that Mary had sensible attitudes toward money, too.
When Will got home, one-year-old Sharon waited at the door. “Mamma’s home,” she called to Mary who set a dish of steaming peas on the dining room table.
“You can see who’s important in this house,” Will said as he swept his daughter into his arms. “What’ll she do when she has a brother to confuse her?”
“What makes you so sure it’ll be a brother?”
“Law of averages. A fifty-fifty chance and the first fifty went to our girly here.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“I can dream, can’t I?”
“You just want help at the shop. Cheap labor.”
“I’m busy enough. I could use some help.” Will sat by the table while Sharon pulled on his watch fob. “David Tate was in today.”
“He wants you to invest?”
“He’s convinced it’s time to buy. Says the market’s going up.”
“Mr. Gable says the same.” Mary placed a pork chop on Will’s plate. “He wants me to teach again next year.”
“Our business is booming, so if you want to stay home, I’ll not stand in your way.”
“I hope I can get to the end of this term before I show. It’ll be close.” Mary ladled gravy onto Will’s mashed potatoes. “Do you think your mother can handle two? I’m not ready to hang my ruler up just yet.”
“She handled the three of us, didn’t she?”
“Can your dad get along without her?”
“He won’t object.”
* * *
Summer 1923 was almost over when Mary called Will at the shop. “I think it’s time. I called Mrs. Alderson. You better get Dr. Ruggles.”
Will dropped his ledger onto the desk, stumbled over the chair on his way to the coat rack, grabbed his cap, and rushed out the door.
Ten seconds later Will ran back in, grabbed the dangling phone, and whirled the crank one long twirl, the operator’s signal. “Marge, get Dr. Ruggles to our house. Mary’s having a baby. Hurry, Marge.”
He was half way home before he remembered that he hadn’t told Ed and Ray that Rocco Mangardi would be there at noon for his car. When he burst through the door, he almost knocked Mrs. Alderson to the floor.
“Calm down, Will. It’s under control. Just boil a kettle of water.”
She was half way up the stairs before Will hung his hat on the rack. At the top of the stairs, she shouted down, “And send Dr. Ruggles to your bedroom when he gets here, but you stay there. I’ll come for the water.”
Will paced the kitchen floor while he waited for the water to boil.
Dr. Ruggles didn’t bother to knock, but rushed through the entryway and caught Will leaning across the railing and craning his head up the stairs. Will pointed up, but before he could say anything, Dr. Ruggles was at the landing. “In your bedroom?” he said.
Will nodded, and started to follow, but Dr. Ruggles waved him back. “Better stay there. Don’t want you to get on Alderson’s bad side.”
Will knew that Ruggles wasn’t thinking about him. No one, not even the doctor, crossed Mrs. Alderson at times like this. But no one complained either. She still had never lost a baby.
Will waited for the sound of bubbling water and steam. And he continued to pace, but that didn’t help. What did they say about a watched pot? He was sure he could have returned to the office and told Ed about Mangardi and still been back before the water sang its song. He paced some more.
Mrs. Alderson tromped down the stairs. “Is that water ready?” she called.
Will handed her the kettle.
“Now stay right there. Mary’s doing fine. It won’t be long now.”
Fifteen minutes later, Will heard a weak cry, a couple gasps, then a wail from the room above. He took two steps at a time, but ran into Mrs. Alderson at the top step, a pan of rosy water in her hands. “Hold on, Will.” But he brushed past her and rushed into his bedroom.
Mary looked exhausted, and Dr. Ruggles scrubbed the baby, which screamed bloody murder. She wasn’t very happy in her new world. Well, it wasn’t always a comfortable place, Will knew.
He turned to their bed and knelt beside Mary. “Are you okay?” he said as he took her hand. “You look plumb tuckered out.”
She smiled up to him. “Tired like a runner who just won the Olympic mile.” She looked toward her screaming baby, then back to Will and flashed a weak smile. “Dr. Ruggles says she’s hardy as a range colt.” Mary cocked her head and listened to the noise. “She does have a voice, doesn’t she? Must be an O’Shaughnessy?”
Dr. Ruggles handed the squalling baby girl to Will who cradled her in his arms before handing her to Mary. “She sure knows how to complain,” he said. “What should we call her? Do you have a family name in mind?”
Mary took Will’s hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. I know you wanted a boy, someone to help at the shop.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.” When he patted baby O’Shaughnessy on the head, she stilled her screaming for a moment, and Will was sure she tried to smile. “She’s a real gem. You couldn’t have done better.” He leaned down and kissed Mary’s lips. “I love you, my dear.”
Baby O’Shaughnessy began screaming again.
“Maybe that’s it,” Mary said. “Maybe she’s telling us something. Why, she’s ruby red. Maybe we should call her Ruby.”
“Ruby O’Shaughnessy. I like that. Bold and vibrant.”
Mary scowled.
Will pounded on his chest. “A warrior. Let’s call her Ruby. With that voice, she’ll be another Boudica.”
“Boudica was Welsh, Will.”
“Boudica was Celtic. A fire burns in that girl. She’ll surely live up to that moniker.”