Brigid walked smugly down the hill, quite pleased with herself as she bid Molly goodbye at Huron Street. When she got to Ontario Street, she could have easily gone into the house through the back gate, but she always made it a point to go in the front door. To her way of thinking, back entrances had always been meant for the hired help.
By the time she got inside, Maggie had already set out the oatmeal, fresh milk, stewed prunes, and soda bread on the sideboard in the dining room for the boarders’ breakfast. It was just a little past nine. She could hear the murmur of voices and the clinking of silver against china drifting into the center hall as she passed the doorway and continued to the kitchen. Zeb had killed two chickens, just as she had ordered. They were in the sink, waiting to be cleaned.
She put water on to boil. There was work to be done.
Sunday breakfast was always late and light. The Baughmans were members of Saint John’s Lutheran Church on Commerce Street, and the Carter sisters went to the Presbyterian church at the end of Huron Street. Chester Deidrick joined the Carter sisters whenever he was in port, which wasn’t often. Both had services at eleven o’clock, so on Sundays, the boarders slept later than usual.
Zeb didn’t go to any church. His feeling, which he didn’t keep to himself, was that all churchgoers were hypocrites, even though he’d never really given too much thought to the spiritual side of it all. He found it mighty convenient to think that way, since he hated to get dressed up for church—or any other occasion, for that matter.
This arrangement worked out perfectly for both Brigid and the boarders. Knowing that dinner was at one, the boarders ate lightly, not expecting the usual large morning meals of fried potatoes, bacon, eggs, and sausages, not to mention the pots of tea or coffee and Brigid’s hearty homemade breads, slathered with freshly churned butter and blackberry or cherry preserves.
Sunday dinner was always promptly at one, and Father Charles had arrived fifteen minutes early. He let himself in the back door and went into the kitchen to talk with Brigid as she prepared the meal, surreptitiously picking at whatever crumbs he could get in his hands and up to his mouth.
“You know, Bridie, I don’t think I’ll ever get used ta Sunday fasting. Tis a long wait from twelve midnight on Saturday till one o’clock Sunday afternoon.”
“Surely you had a crust of bread after the ten o’clock ta fill that hollow of yours?” she asked, looking at him curiously.
“And spoil one of your wonderful banquets? Not a bit of it. He quickly crammed some dressing in his mouth as Brigid stood with her back to him, stirring the gravy and pretending not to notice, aware that he had little to eat other than meals the parishioners provided. His was a life of real poverty.
Maggie moved back and forth from kitchen to dining room, carrying water and food as it was prepared.
The formal dining room was quite large. Two long windows faced the front of the house, and there were two more on either side of a marble fireplace. It was a beautiful room. The large, gold–framed mirror over the fireplace picked up the light from the five–tiered crystal chandelier suspended over a long table, casting its light into the room. Two tall, matching jade ginger jars, encrusted with pink roses and trailing ivy, graced either side of the mantel, and a tall brass clock under a glass dome sat in the middle, its intricate workings quietly marking the progression of time. The walls were covered in a light gray and silver striped paper, and the draperies and cornices were a slightly darker gray.
The linens on the table were white, and a long, low centerpiece of evergreens and pine cones dressed its center. Waterford crystal, Belleek china, and the good silver, all treasures Brigid had brought with her from Ireland, completed the table setting. After dinner, these would all go back into the china cupboard that sat on the back wall, only to be used on Sundays and special occasions.
This room was made to entertain aristocracy. But then, this was not just any boarding house; it belonged to Brigid Mahoney. Having once belonged to Carl Herron, it still contained the furnishings that had been part of its original elegance. Brigid had purchased it that way. And those who chose paid handsomely for the privilege of dwelling in such luxurious surroundings.
The boarders began sauntering into the dining room around five minutes to one. The Carter sisters entered from the large front foyer, giggling like two schoolgirls—something about a joke the minister had told that morning during his sermon. Agnes Carter, thin as a pencil in a dark brown wool dress with soft lace at the edge of the neck and wrists, entered first. Chubby Clara wore black, broken only by a large pearl pin at her bosom. Despite their ages, they effused a youthfulness that brightened rooms and uplifted hearts. They were totally devoted to each other.
Elsa and Kurt Baughman, who occupied the entire third floor, followed a few minutes later. Kurt was expounding on the disgraceful behavior of the Ritter children during church services, Elsa following, nodding agreement to his insufferable blustering.
“Their parents ought to cuff their ears, teach them some manners,” he spouted. “I never saw the likes of it. Whispering and giggling. Disreputable behavior. And all the while the choir was singing.” He flung up his arms and rolled his eyes, yanked out a chair, and parked himself.
Elsa sat down quietly next to him.
Kurt was obtrusive and loud, spouting whatever thoughts he had into the air. Fortunately, the Carter sisters buffered his presence.
Agnes, always one to champion the cause of the underdog, spoke up. “Now, Kurt, surely you must remember when you were a lad. Those Ritter children are truly as sweet as they can be. You can’t blame them for getting a little bored and restless sometimes.”
Kurt grumbled, “Never in my born days will I understand these younguns today.”
By the time Zeb shuffled in with his usual hound dog look, the rest of the boarders were seated. Maggie was putting food on the table as he plunked himself next to Clara. Although usually unkempt and slightly dirty, he’d managed to wash his face and hands for dinner. The Carter sisters had set him straight on that a while back. A shock of salt and pepper hair hung over one eye, which prompted him to occasionally jerk his head so he could see.
He said, “Did hear ’bout Bert and Marabelle Swanson up on Ontario Street?” He flicked the hair out of his eyes and looked around, hoping he’d caught everyone’s ear. Dirt was not just for digging up; it was always nice to spread some of it around. Satisfied he’d grabbed their attention, he continued. “I don’t like to be the bearer of tales, but it aint no secret that Bert Swanson has always had an eye fer the ladies. Not that any harm ever come of it, ’cause Marabelle always had her eye on Bert.”
Everyone looked at him in silence, waiting to hear something they didn’t already know.
“Anyway, Widow Barnes—you know, the one with the yeller dyed hair, the one that lives over by the quarry?”
Everyone nodded.
“Well, do you recall she lost her husband, Fred, to that pneumonia a few months back?”
He leaned back in his chair, giving them time to do their recollecting, looked around, then leaned forward to take them into his complete confidence, saying almost in a whisper, “Now I know you ain’t gonna believe this, but his body ’twern’t hardly cold when she took up with Bert.”
He paused once again to make sure he had their curiosity completely piqued. Satisfied, he continued. “Seems he and Fred had been great pals, workin’ together at the quarry and all. Then after poor Fred got the pneumonia and died, Bert felt it his Christian duty to spend some time consolin’ the poor widder. Which was purely understandable to Marabelle under the circumstances, them bein’ such friends and all. Now, as far as she was concerned, that was the extent of it, ’cause she understood how it would be if she lost her Bert. She’d be needin’ some consolin’ herself. She had no idea what was going on.
“But then Bert comes home one day and says he’s movin’ out. Goin’ to live with the widder, he says. Now, he ought never told her that while she was ironin’ them clothes. Beat him unmerciful with that hot iron, she did. And you know what a little fella he is. Marabelle must have forty pounds on him. ’Twern’t never a fair fight. So now he’s over to the widder’s house. Healin’, I guess. They’re plannin’ to move over to the States soon as some of them burns and bruises go away. I’m thinkin’ they’d better git movin’ pretty quick, before Marabelle gits her temper up again and does the both of ’em in.”
The faces around the table sat gaping. Clara let out a long “Ohhh, my!” just as Brigid and Father Charles came in.
It was exactly one o’clock.
Only on Sundays did Brigid grace the dining room table with her presence, and only because of Father Charles. Otherwise, she and Maggie ate in the kitchen after Maggie was done serving the boarders.
Maggie hung her apron on the hook in the kitchen next to the hall and went in to join them, taking a seat next to Elsa. The good father said grace, and food was passed around, family style. Conversation began with a discussion of the unseasonably warm weather, much welcomed and appreciated by everyone except Kurt.
“Too hot for this time of year. Won’t last. If we get a freeze, it’ll ruin the fruit crop, and we don’t want that. Do we, Mama?”
Elsa looked up. “No, Mr. Baughman. We don’t want that.” She turned back to the platter of chicken in her hand, took a large helping, and passed it on.
Zeb grunted, “Pass the mashed potatoes. And I sure would like some more of them there pickled beets. Best I ever et.”
The two Carter sisters sat opposite the Baughmans, daintily eating. Clara said, “Sister, why don’t you tell the others the joke Pastor Roberts told at church today? He had everyone laughing.”
“No, I think it best if you tell it, Clara. I’m just not as good at telling stories as you are.”
“Well, all right, then.” She looked around to see if she had everyone’s attention.
Zeb was lapping up his food. Kurt raised his eyes from his plate for a second as if to say, “Go ahead. I can listen and eat.”
“Well, first of all, Pastor Roberts was talking about how we should love one another and how we should help those in need. Then he told us about poor Kathleen Conroy being left with her brood of children and one on the way, and as to how we should make an effort to help. From that he went on to say how blessed we all are to live in this wonderful country, with such freedom and opportunity. And then, out of the blue, he said that it reminded him of a little joke. He said, seems his friend’s grandfather had come to this country seeking freedom. But that freedom didn’t last long. His wife came over on the very next boat.”
Everyone laughed politely. Zeb grunted, “More stuffing, if ya don’t mind.”
Father Charles was quite pleased with the story. Said he’d have to be rememberin’ it for a later time.
“Oh, Pastor Roberts wasn’t finished,” Clara continued. “He seemed quite taken up with the congregation’s laughter. So much so, he continued with another joke that had absolutely nothing at all to do with the subject at hand.”
She looked around at the smiling faces and went on. “It seems this very successful businessman went to church to pray for a hundred thousand dollars. He desperately needed it to close an important business deal. As luck would have it, he knelt down next to another man fervently praying for one hundred dollars that would save him from losing his home. This poor man was so intent in prayer he didn’t realize he was actually talking out loud. The businessman became quite distracted and impatient, and in order to silence the man’s disturbing prattling, he reached into his pocket, took out a hundred–dollar bill, and pressed it into the other man’s hand. The man was so surprised and elated at the quick response to his prayers that, after thanking the stranger profusely, he got up and ran out of the church. Now alone, the businessman turned back to his prayer. ‘And now, Lord, that I have your undivided attention…’”
Everyone laughed out loud. Zeb, who had actually quit eating to listen, let out a belly laugh, revealing a shiny–gold front tooth. Brigid covered her mouth to keep from spitting out her carrots. Clara had put everyone in high spirits.
They continued to enjoy good company and good food. Praises, the real sustenance that nourished her soul, were heaped on Brigid for the delicious meal.
After dinner, the boarders crossed the foyer and went into the comfortable elegance of the parlor to read or rest and digest—all but Agnes, who sat at a small spinet and began playing a Beethoven sonata. Father Charles and Brigid took themselves for a walk while Maggie cleaned up and did the dishes, humming the whole while.
Warm sunshine streamed through the kitchen windows. She opened them and the pantry door to let the refreshing outside air cool down the room. There’d be no need for a coat that afternoon.
After finishing the last of the pots and pans, she went into the bathroom and stood at the mirror to brush her hair. Never having considered her looks one way or the other, she stared at her reflection and wondered what Rosemarie had meant. It was the same familiar face. She saw nothing special there, although she was quite proud of her long, thick auburn hair and found great pleasure in brushing it until it fell down her back in silky waves. And while it was pleasing to know that her skin was clear and unblemished, unlike so many of the boys and girls her age, she was oblivious to the fact that she was truly becoming a desirable young woman.
Satisfied that she looked presentable, she left by the back door and walked around the house, feeling alive and carefree. The rest of the afternoon was hers. Tim would be there at the pier.