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Third installment of The House on the Hill, by Adele Kurtz. Based on the true story of a Midwestern farmgirl who ran away from home at the age of 12 in the 1940s, and the hardships she endured.
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Details
Third installment of The House on the Hill, by Adele Kurtz. Based on the true story of a Midwestern farmgirl who ran away from home at the age of 12 in the 1940s, and the hardships she endured.
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Third installment of The House on the Hill, by Adele Kurtz. Based on the true story of a Midwestern farmgirl who ran away from home at the age of 12 in the 1940s, and the hardships she endured.
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The speaker reminisces about their mother's stories and tries to imagine what her mother's life was like based on the stories. They find old pictures of her stepmother and try to envision what her real mother looked like. The speaker also reflects on their own inability to forgive as easily as their mother and the importance of family. They mention the possibility of confirming their mother's Indian ancestry but their mother declines, stating that she knows enough from courthouse papers. The speaker continues to write down their mother's stories and wonders if it is a way to feel closer to her. They express gratitude for the time they have with their mother and contemplate releasing her ashes in a peaceful place. House on the Hill 4, My Mother's Archive Part 3 It was getting late, and the summer air would be stifling in the old house if it weren't for a ceiling fan in the hallway. Its blades harumphed away, creating background syncopation as a mesmerizing accompaniment to my reveries. I looked in on my mother in the room next door. The lights were turned out, and moonlight was beginning its dance. I remembered how she used to creep into my room to tell me her stories at this magical hour. She would describe her life on the farm, how she ran away and the trouble she got herself into being young and naive. She called herself stupid. Sometimes I would cry for her, I'd feel real tears welling in my eyes. She would soothe them away by telling me to see things from another perspective. She always forgave her tormentors, every one, but she couldn't resist ending each story with a doozy that left me wanting to hear more. Oh, no more tonight, Adele. I'll save that for later. Go to sleep. But I couldn't fall asleep, not instantly. I needed to repeat her words and fill in the missing details, imagine the conversation, what they may have said and how they may have dressed. I wondered what her mother looked like, the color of her hair. I would weave that in from what I knew from visits to the towns my mother grew up in and the people she introduced me to in my nighttime reveries. I had seen a faded black and white photo of her stepmother, Esther, on the farmhouse mantel alongside one little girl's pink patent leather shoe. In my mother's room, I found these pictures once again and even looked for the shoe that I lost in the muddy field of my grandfather's house. While I did not find that, I did stare at the picture of her stepmother. Esther was a large, strong-looking woman dressed in a shabby, faded floral house dress that billowed around a full figure, shut tight with an apron. Her face looked stern. Her eyes looked pained with a faraway gaze. Something mean in them, I thought, for sure, but also real pain. I could picture the lady in the photo grabbing a kitchen towel, slightly moist from drying a few dishes, then twirling it into a weapon and whipping it swiftly against a child's dancing out-of-the-way legs. I had never seen a picture of her real mother, Alvira, but I could conjure up a vision based on what I knew of her times. I had plenty of time to do so as I lay awake at night in the darkness, filling in the details of my mother's stories. I knew that girls on the farm only wore makeup on Sundays, that a woman who moved into the city in order to experience more fun, as my mom said Alvira told her father she wanted, would wear makeup even on weekdays and probably change her hair color. She had little money, so she'd try peroxide and other home treatments. If she tried a home perm overtop of that, it would turn her hair a strange color and texture, which satisfied my imagining since I didn't want to make Alvira up to be a more mature version of my own beautiful mother. I'd make her plumper and more cidified when I imagined the scene of their restaurant meeting, the one where she took advantage of her daughter and stole her tips. She would have been nervous and wanted to talk a lot, to explain herself, make up for lost time by giving contradictory advice, and try to distract the situation away from her small crime. I sometimes interrupted my mother's stories to protest against these crimes committed. I used the word crime and watched her wince. Oh, no, no, no, no, not a crime, my dear, she said. There can be no crimes against family. Family members often are the ones to hurt one another the most. Besides, even if it could have cost me, her daughter, a job, it was one that I was legally too young to hold anyway. She always held herself to a higher standard and forgave others their flaws. I let my mother's stories into my dreams with my own editorial spins, and I would sometimes awaken with dialogue playing in my head. I remained under the covers for as long as I could, trying to overhear more. I could hear the faint jingling of sleigh bells and catch glimpses of children laughing and chasing one another in the snow. It broke my heart to know that my own dear mother had never known the kind of love that she and I shared. The next night, as she tucked me in, I would ask her how she felt about certain things, gently, trying not to make her so uncomfortable that she would not indulge my hopeful curiosity. I admitted I did not think that I could be as forgiving as she had been. Oh, I just put myself in their place. You never know how you would behave in their situation, she would say. Her stepmother Esther, the one in the photo, died of a slow-growing brain tumor. She couldn't help what she did when she saw red, my mother explained. When she was angry, the blood must have felt like it was like exploding her brain. She must have been in terrible agony. And she just shared that agony with us kids by, you know, oh, I thought, oh God, that's still too much forgiveness for my taste. She would look at me sadly with her dark, faraway eyes and even accepted part of the blame. Well, after all, to her, we were causing that pain through whatever it was that we were doing wrong and she didn't know what else it could possibly be. That night I closed my eyes and I saw Bill Gordon's lean, leathery face and imagined looking through his hollow eyes on the figure of his twelve-year-old daughter that he left all alone on the streets of New Albem. I could see a figure that I imagined to be John Ross behind him as well, wearing a rancher's hat and holding the hand of his Indian princess, who looked remarkably like my mother. Their spirits would look after her, guide her in her adventures, I believed. Her stories were sad and courageous and she was always noble and proud. No, no, I was just a stupid little girl from the farm, she often told me, especially when I was trying to compliment her on her bravery, a little dummy who just didn't know any better. I went into her room and watched her lying on her bed, a wrinkle in the sheets. I never knew a wiser woman and I bet I never will. When she was feeling a bit better, I asked her if she would like me to confirm her Indian ancestry. You know, you know they have these kits through Ancestry.com nowadays, I told her. You just spit on a cardboard or something and they'll test your DNA, just like they do for paternity tests. There's like 99.99% accuracy. They can even tell you exactly which tribes you're from, you know, like you say it's Fox or I don't know, and they'll nail what percentage. She interrupted me with a flash of her hand, oh, you know, Del, I always thought that I wanted to be buried with my ancestors. I told you about the Ross Cemetery where they all are, named after our family. Of course, I don't want to be buried ever, not really, so I just want you to let my ashes go flying free in that same place that brings me just so much peace. I took her notebook and started writing this down, okay, tell me, tell me where, Mom. She waved her hand again, oh, don't worry about it, Grace will tell you where to go. And once you get there, you'll know what I mean, you'll just feel it too. Oh, it was like so peaceful, I remember, a valley. Her voice trailed off, and just as I thought she was going to fall back to sleep, she tried to lean up, she looked startled, except forget all that now, I've been thinking about it for a long time, and I don't want that anymore, and I don't want to be tested. I've been to the courthouse, and I've seen some papers that tell me what I need to know. That's how I know it's not the Winnebago like I told you before. And I believe if someone wants to dispute it, like Gracie, because that's what she wants to believe, well, just let her have that too. My daddy always talked about our Indian blood to me, and if he didn't say the same to my other sisters, well, maybe that's okay too. If that's the way you feel, Mom, I respect that, I said, a little disappointed. But it's only like a hundred bucks, not invasive, and you can do it anytime, there's no rush. She growled under the covers. I feel my mother losing her grip on life, yet her stories have never been more alive. In every room of this house, her words interrupt my thoughts, and stir up pictures in my mind. Is that because her fading spirit wishes to share them again with me, or is it some guilty indulgence of mine that feeds my longing to be close to her? Before she is awake, I still cannot sleep, so I get up and sit in this leopard fleece bathrobe and type on my computer to capture the words and images. Sometimes I awaken as early as 4 a.m. and type until like 7.30 or so, until the images have stilled. I listen for rustling in the room next door to tell me when she is awake. I've got pages going off in all directions and still do not know where this is headed, if anywhere, and I feel that my mother might want to know what I was up to. When she was up and listening, I told her I was writing again, and hinted that she was the subject along with her stories. Oh, you've always been such a storyteller, she laughed slyly, using that tone that could be taken as either accusation or praise. Well, not me, Mom. I got it from you, and you got it from your father. I switched the blame. I could tell from my happy hum in her voice and the stillness that followed that she was receiving that as a compliment. The Irish tie, you know. You make an interesting, feisty character with your chutzpah and courage. You have had an amazing life, Mom. I hugged her. That I have, she agreed. I thought again about flipping the sheets across her long, tiny body so she could feel the wind caressing her, and just like carry her off if she wanted to fly. The sheets' delicate landing would assure her that she was safe. I was grateful to have this time to hold her fragile hands, hug her tense, scared body, touch her soulful face, and read her stories that evolved from the ones that she had told me very long ago. I asked her if she would like to hear any of it, but she asked me to save it for another time. Oh, you have always had such a good imagination, she said, using that same tone that could be taken either way. I chose to take it as passive encouragement to continue recording the stirrings in my head as soon as they come without regard for outcome. I hope to be able to share bits and pieces of the life of an extraordinary woman who had the greatest influence on mine, so I pulled out my laptop and went to work once more. Well, why don't we just get back to the story? I guess you're wondering what happens next. My mother never had the chance to finish high school. Once she became employable, she felt she could no longer impose on the Moots' generosity. In the late 1940s, with the glory of war's victory behind them, plenty of men were looking for women to enjoy and perhaps settle down with, and Jane was fast becoming a very attractive catch. She thought her name of Belva sounded too country, now that she lived in a larger city. The actress Jane Russell was becoming the nation's leading sex symbol, so going from just plain Jane suddenly escalated in sophistication, she thought. Going to the movies was a completely new experience to me, my mother told me. You would see these women, larger than life, acting like no one you've ever met before, and they could take it with the best of men. And if the men acted out of line, they would simply slap them. I laughed, thinking that seemed like a fair deal. I can accept being the weaker sex, if we could hold our own against the stronger one. But I have to tell you, Adele, that does not work in real life. Her eyes clouded dramatically. No, it doesn't. I found that out. They slap you back. Once it came out that I was a runaway, that I had no parents or anyone looking out for me, the way that they treated me, oh, that changed. How stupid I was for being out on my own. It didn't matter how classy I tried to be. I always tried to carry a chip on my shoulder, like they did in the movies. You need to do that. Act a little more detached, not smile too much, not be gabby like the other girls. When other girls opened their collars to show more cleavage, I'd dress the opposite, and I'd button it up to the top. The other waitresses would try to encourage me to get more tips by leaning over a certain way or letting men touch their behinds. Disgusting, she growled. Don't ever be a waitress. Anything else, promise me, promise me, but please, not that. I'd go out of my way to make sure my signals were not that kind. No one could ever say I flirted. I didn't, but it didn't matter. It also didn't matter how nice these guys acted before they asked me out on a date. Well, you know, really, a lot of these guys were really nice guys, just not to me or my low kind. They'd slap me, and I mean hard. She looked away and stopped, and there she was again, giving excuses to those who hurt her and giving them the power. Anyway, after a while of this, bullcrap, I made myself a promise. She paused. I vowed that I would marry the first guy who said he loved me, even if I didn't love him back. Okay, Ken Pruitt walked into her life in a white suit and straw hat. He looked slim and sweet and was always a gentleman to her. To tell the truth, my mother preferred larger men, taller men that she could look up to. She would demonstrate her preference to me by lifting her arms up as if to wrap them around a figure a half foot higher than her five foot seven inches. Perfect, right here. She was also more accustomed to tough guys, boys like her brothers, who would tease her, chase her, wrestle her a bit, and then let her go. She learned to outrun and outwit them all and enjoyed the challenge. Well, Ken Pruitt was not that kind of guy. There was never any challenge involved in outwitting or outrunning him. Oh, he was the kind of guy who would whine if he got sand between his toes. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Lee would go to the beach and he would step carefully, keeping his shoes and socks on, and then he would lay the blanket down, just so, taking his time to get the corners dressed right, sit down in the middle, take off his shoes and socks like one at a time. Sometimes he wouldn't even bother. He'd just leave everything on and sit there, fully dressed, looking very uncomfortable the whole time. Christ Almighty, I'd think. I'd quickly strip down to my swimsuit, pick off my clothes into a pile in the sand and be ready to run and swim. And then I'd turn back to take a good look at him and think, Unbelievable. She shook her head. Of course, the minute someone ran or walked by him, they'd mess everything up and he hated it, couldn't stand it. Not that he would say anything, he'd just wince there like a goddamn baby. She shuddered. And when he took off his shirt, okay, just let's say he was not my type. He looked like the guy to get sand kicked up in his face in the commercials, who needs weight on. He looked pretty, all dressed up in a suit, but without it, oh God. She gestured, she gestured, hands off. Shook her head violently and grimaced with a clear look of disdain. And I thought I was marrying somebody older and wiser. She shook her head again, but he was, in fact, it turned out, just plain goddamn stupid. Well, maybe not really, she said, not wishing to sound unduly harsh about the father of my brother. But I often thought so. Ken would get fired from every job he ever had, she said, and then be ready to pick up and move. They moved around a lot from town to town. Following leads for work for Ken, factories were hiring all over the country, revamping the economy after the war. The couple discovered that, for reasons that probably had to do with her good looks and the fact that men did all the hiring, that my mother had an easier time getting hired first. With her strong work ethics and fast learning skills, she made a strong impression. They developed a technique where each time they moved, my mom would get a job first, make a good impression, and then introduce her husband, who just happened to be available, to the foreman. It worked out well for a while, my mom had told me. Then Ken would make some blundering mistake, get fired, and we'd be on the road again. She was very pleased when they headed for the Miami area, where the mafia had invested a great deal of cash to prepare as a playground for their bored wives. Oh, hey, what's the favorite wine of an Italian-American princess? My mother asked, joking. Here's the punch whine. I want to go to Miami. It seems so glamorous, my mother exclaimed. There was no factory work, so she got a job tending bar in Fort Lauderdale. For her, that was perfect. She worked nights and had days free for playing on the beach. It was really the first time in my life that I really enjoyed myself, by myself. I really thought that I would be content to live here for the absolute rest of my life, she told me. And I was getting strong enough to realize that I did not need a guy to take care of me. In fact, I'd be better off without him. When Ken followed her into town, bringing his devoted mother to stay with him, she made herself another promise. This time she vowed that if she were not pregnant, she'd leave him. Well, she was, and so she didn't. From the moment Johnny entered this world, my mom said, he reminded me constantly of Kenny. He even hated having sand between his toes, she laughed. But I taught him to get over it. I loved the fact that I now had an excuse to take the baby all day to a place where Ken and his mother did not want to go. As long as Kenny had a day job and Jane worked nights, they got along fine. His mother took over responsibilities for babying her grown son, cooking and tending to his persnickety ways. He grew up particular about how he liked his food, his clothes, and his mother was very pleased to fuss and resume caring for such details full time again. He took very little interest in his wife or child. It worked out until Ken lost his job again and started packing. My mother convinced him that it would be better if he went first this time, that she would send them cash until he and his mother settled in, and then follow up after he had a good job. Now this bought her enough time to make arrangements to serve him with divorce papers. I didn't want attorneys involved, just to get this all resolved quickly and permanently. She described her last scene with him. I told him, I don't want a dime from you. You've been good to me and the baby, and he was, but you know yourself that you would probably do better without us. Ken talked it over with his mother and they both agreed, yeah, this could be a good deal. Not a cent, he asked, ever? Well as long as you agree to never try to make contact with me or with Johnny again, she assured him. She recalls that his last remark to her was uncharacteristically catty. Great, he told her. I'm sure I had more sex before I got married to you than after. My mother seemed remarkably proud of herself for her part in that.
