August 12, 1926
Dearest Iris,
Your father was tinkering with our new cash register this morning when he threw up his arms and exclaimed, “Celeste, write Iris. We need another hand around here!” So… c’est moi! He said you’re a whiz at punching keys. Hopefully they’ll be flying in September with the mountain of sales we expect. Hope you’re ready for hard work.
We are exhausted but elated! The grand opening simply sparkled. I’ve enclosed the new Bootery business card. Every day we learn more about our Kansas City customers—demanding and discerning, to say the least. Sound like anyone else you know???
No nibbles on the Atchison house. If I had half a minute I’d come up there and put a polish on the place. The first impression—that front porch—cries out for a scrub and fresh paint. Actually the whole place needs… something! Your father suggested you send a list—hopefully short—of what you want to keep.
We signed a two-year lease at the Del Mar Apartments. You will love it! It’s on the fourth floor—two bedrooms, a railed balcony, a full kitchen, and a southern exposure. I can’t wait to display my whatnots and wedding gifts in the light of day. I do hope you’re better about dusting than I am!
Charles plans a trip to Atchison next week to arrange the shipping of his desk, the wardrobe, and bookcases. We won’t have a corner to squeeze in that piano. Too bad and too too too many details for my rattled brain! Your father is ecstatic to move out of his rooming house. My motto is: Petite is perfect for feet, but not living quarters!
Just the same, we decided it’s best for you to live with me until Oct 10th, even though my apartment’s no bigger than a shoe box. (We’ll be just like sisters.) It’ll be a pinch, but who has time to spend there anyhoo?
Have you made a decision about high school? I understand you already have the credentials to graduate! Inherited your father’s brains, didn’t you? If a senior year is not necessary, we hope you will finish your education on Petticoat Lane just like I did. Lots of young girls, with the right touch, can work their way up from stockroom to salesperson to model!
I don’t know the nature of your connection with the Nesbitts, but if you wish, please invite them to the nuptials. I doubt the elderly mother could come, but it’s the proper thing to do, unless you think they’d feel out of place. My land, what an experience you’ve had in Wellsford. We’re dying to hear all your folksy farm stories.
Enough of my rambling. Less than a month until Labor Day and your debut in Kansas City.
Au revoir!
X O X O
I drop the letter on the table, grab the sides of my head, then wipe my fingers on my skirt as though Celeste’s personality has rubbed off on them. I flip the pages to the blank side, grab Mrs. Nesbitt’s crossword pencil, and scribble a reply:
Dearest Celeste,
Here’s my list. It’s not things, it’s advice for living with my father.
1. Project yourself! Wear bright colors, strong perfume, and heels that click. Otherwise he will forget you are there.
2. Don’t cough. He’ll be mad that you have tuberculosis.
3. Remember your shoes are more important to him than your eyes.
4. Learn to drive yourself.
5. Advertise your upcoming birthday, or else you will buy, wrap, and open your own presents.
6. Find a friend who will listen to you. That person is not me.
7. If you need to know something, read his mail.
8. Pretend you are a virgin no matter what.
9. Collect thousands of exclamation points inside you—you will need them to stay excited about him!!!!
10. Get rid of your question marks??? He will not answer your questions.
11. He’ll expect two sugar lumps in his coffee. He will not remember if you drink coffee.
12. Don’t tell him about this advice. He hates anything cheap, much less free!
P.S. For more luck, spit on a horseshoe and lick the hind leg of a white mule every day. Avoid whistling in graveyards and cross-eyed people.
P.P.S. I am bringing my chickens to live with us. More folksy advice: If you swallow a raw chicken heart on your wedding day, it’ll bring good luck in love.
I slump at the kitchen table, shake out my writing hand. My heart sinks. For a strange moment I truly want to protect Celeste from the future with him. She’s counting on so much, and she wants me to be happy for her, with her.
The ghosts crowding my cellar and all the goddesses know about Daddy by now. So do Carl and Leroy. But the Nesbitts don’t. They don’t know I am nothing to him. Celeste will find out she’s nothing too. I wonder if Mama knew. Did she get gritty and ground up inside every time he opened his mouth? Did she ever dig in the heels of her Baldwin’s boots?
I hear Henry scraping across Mrs. Nesbitt’s floor. She’s up from her nap.
I fold the two-faced letter that I won’t mail to Celeste. But I could leave it right here on the table for Mrs. Nesbitt to find. She’s curious and meddlesome enough to read it, at least until Gladys Dilgert arrives full of blabber about her storybook family.
I know how Mrs. Nesbitt would answer the question: Does Iris ever tell stories about her mama and daddy?
Never.
Marie and I carry the letter to my room, put my brilliant advice and Celeste’s enthusiasm about her whatnots in my Kotex drawer.
Marie curls up on my coverlet, then sits up suddenly, perks her ears. I hear the knock. She hops from the bed and races to the front door, barking her head off. I wipe my eyes, cold fear zipping through me. Who else could it be but Cecil, with his habit of showing up when Dr. Nesbitt’s gone?
I walk into the hall wishing I had the shotgun, even though I know nothing about using it. Why is he at the front door? I pull back the sheers. Neither Cecil’s wagon nor his car is in the driveway.
Marie is fit to be tied, frantically circling the front hall. Mrs. Nesbitt and Henry tap up behind me. I open the door and squint at a man. He’s broad-shouldered, his arms and neck suntanned, his face shadowed beneath a hat.
Marie darts out, sniffs his scuffed work boots and knapsack.
A flame of rust-colored hair catches the sun when he removes his hat. He looks down in my eyes, his face deadly serious.
“Leroy!”