A Woman of Independent Means (23 page)

Until last night, I had no hope of being able to do more than go through the motions of Christmas merrymaking, and I was planning a multitude of holiday activities—stringing popcorn and cranberries, baking sugar cookies, making fudge and divinity—to compensate for the lack of presents under the tree on Christmas morning. Then Arthur Fineman appeared on my horizon, as welcome as a wise man from the east, bearing treasure greater than gold, frankincense, or myrrh. What irony that someone who does not believe in Christ has made it possible for us to celebrate Christmas this year.

When I tried to thank him, he said he had been in my debt for a long time now—and nothing he could do for me on a financial level would ever repay the kindness and consideration I had shown him after Eleanor's accident. He has not seen Eleanor since that fateful day, so I have invited him to come to tea next Sunday and meet the children.

He was rather hesitant about accepting the invitation. He has no children of his own, and suddenly I realized he was terrified at the thought of spending the afternoon with my trio. I suppose there are any number of men—and even unmarried women—who look upon children as an alien race, not seeing in them anything of themselves, but I never cease to be astonished by this reaction. I have never treated a child as anything less than my equal and I am invariably accorded the same consideration.

This letter will have to serve as my holiday greeting to you and Dwight and the baby—though now that he is walking, he can hardly be considered a baby any more. We wish you joy and prosperity for the coming year—and today for the first time dare hope it for ourselves.

Je t'embrasse,
Bess

December 18, 1919
Dallas

Dear Papa and Mavis,

The closer we get to Christmas, the harder it is for me to live in the present. I am besieged by memories of last Christmas. The war was over and Rob was home again. Never was a holiday so filled with joy. Though I will never know such happiness again, at least I knew it once, and only some mind-shattering illness can keep it from being mine forever. Children fortunately approach each holiday as if it were happening for the first time, and they are eagerly looking forward to all that Christmas will bring.

Annie's husband, Hans, has secured by means we decided not to question a pine tree from the woods of East Texas and we have decorated it with iced sugar cookies and candy canes (the advantage of edible ornaments is that they do not have to be stored).

Today Hans presented the children with a charming wooden crèche he carved by hand, devoting every lonely hour to it since his return. Though he is too proud to admit it, he clearly regrets his impulsive departure last summer, and I am ready to forgive him even if Annie is not.

Annie and I are planning a traditional German dinner for Christmas Eve—roast goose, red cabbage, and an array of pastries that will take her a week to bake. The children are learning some Christmas carols in German. To hear them sing “Stille Nacht” is almost to forget that terrible war.

We hope you will join us for the holidays. I have invited Lydia and Manning and little Marian to come for Christmas Eve dinner and bring Mother Steed but so far they have not given me a definite answer.

My love to you both,
Bess

December 20, 1919
Dallas

Miss Abigail Saunders
Director
Riverview Convalescent Home
Syracuse, New York

 

Dear Miss Saunders,

Enclosed please find a check covering past-due charges for room and board for my cousin Josephine Farrow. I apologize for the delay in making the payment, but the death of my husband last February left me in difficult circumstances, which I have only recently begun to surmount.

I am very sorry to hear of my cousin's illness. I have not received a letter from her since last summer and I was beginning to wonder what reason I had given her for such a long silence. When she regains consciousness, please tell her I wrote to express my concern.

If she does not regain consciousness, may I remind you that I am the legal owner of the four-poster bed she now occupies, and in the event of her death, it is to be shipped C.O.D. to me here in Texas.

Cordially,
Bess Alcott Steed

December 31, 1919
Dallas

Dearest Totsie,

It is New Year's Eve—and I bid 1919 adieu without regret. Last year at this time I was a child in my knowledge of the pain life is capable of inflicting upon us. In the space of a year I watched my life come to an end—and then slowly begin again.

I went out of my way to make sure we would have a large crowd on hand for the holidays. My father and his wife drove down from Honey Grove. They were only planning to stay overnight but the children clamored and cajoled until they finally agreed to spend the week with us.

Rob's sister, Lydia, along with her mother, her daughter, and her husband, joined us for a gala dinner on Christmas Eve. We have seen them only a few times since our return to Dallas so there were some awkward moments at first among the adults. The children of course were as comfortable with each other as if they had been living next door all this time. The tension caused by my estrangement from my husband's family was compounded by Annie's nervousness at appearing as an equal in front of people who had known her previously as my employee. She had prepared a superb dinner, but, instead of taking her place at the table, insisted on running back and forth to the kitchen to serve everybody. I finally resolved the problem by appointing Robin butler, a role he relished.

After dinner we gathered around the fire to sing Christmas carols. Suddenly to my amazement my stepmother pulled a harmonica from her pocket and began to play a rousing accompaniment to “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” It was hardly heavenly music, but surely even the angels would have applauded our spirit. Tonight I am having dinner with my friend Arthur Fineman at his downtown club. He warned me that we would probably be the only ones there, but the thought of a quiet New Year's Eve appeals to both of us. It is a comment on our society that the only club a man of his faith is allowed to join is a downtown business club, where membership is based on earning power rather than religious affiliation. I suppose either criterion is equally discriminatory, but at least the former seems more in keeping with the spirit of free enterprise on which this country was founded.

Darling Totsie, your friendship was the greatest gift the old year had to offer—and I hope every New Year will reaffirm it.

Bonne Année,
Bess

January 10, 1920

To The Stockholders
Midwestern Life Insurance Company

Last year we shared a tragedy in the death of my husband. My personal loss was great—but no greater than the loss to the company of a bold and imaginative president. The severe influenza epidemic which took the life of my husband threatened the existence of life insurance companies across the country, and there were many casualties. Fortunately Midwestern Life Insurance was not among them. Thanks to stringent economic measures and great personal sacrifice on the part of its employees, the company was able not only to survive the crisis but to emerge in a strong competitive position at the beginning of this New Year.

The Board of Directors hopes to show its faith in the future by reinstating dividends next quarter.

Happy New Year!

Sincerely,
Elizabeth Alcott Steed

February 14, 1920
Dallas

Darling Totsie,

It is 5 A.M. I have not been able to sleep all night.

It was a year ago this morning that I awoke for the last time in the arms of my beloved husband. At this moment, with the children still asleep, the emptiness of my life is almost unbearable. If it were not for them, I wonder how I would have survived. I am grateful every day for the unceasing demands they make upon my time and energy. I know I should cherish their growing independence but every new step they take on their own seems to lead them further from my reach.

I had my heart set on having another child when Rob became ill last winter—another girl, I hoped. Sometimes in the still hours of the night just before I fall asleep, I can almost see her. Though never conceived in my womb, she is perfectly formed in my mind—an enchanting little creature, with a smile so radiant it could only exist in a dream. The dream is so real to me that I awake doubly deprived.

At times like this I take great comfort in the presence of Annie's two small children and sometimes in the early morning hours, when I am the only one in the house awake, I tiptoe into the nursery and take the baby in my arms. Her warm presence does more than any word of comfort to fill the aching void in my heart.

Yesterday my friend Arthur Fineman invited me to accompany him to a production of
Aïda
at the Opera House here. Impulsively I asked if I could buy three more tickets and take the children with us. The only available seats were in the balcony, so Arthur gallantly insisted on giving Eleanor and me his pair of orchestra seats while he joined Robin and Drew in the balcony. Eleanor sat enthralled through the triumphal march but fell asleep before Aïda was entombed, which was probably just as well since she has a horror of being trapped in dark places.

I am afraid Arthur was prevented from enjoying the opera by the presence of an active young boy at either elbow. I was unable to leave my seat at intermission as Eleanor had fallen asleep against my shoulder, so I did not see my three escorts again until the curtain came down for the final time. When I told Arthur good night, he said he had not fully realized until today how much he and his wife had missed by not having children —but he said it without any visible sign of regret. I know he thought the afternoon had been wasted on the children, but when I tucked Robin in bed tonight, he put his arms around me and said, “Good night, Celeste Mama.” I was amazed and asked him how he knew what that word meant. He answered, “Mr. Fineman told me the man was singing about a beautiful woman like my mother.” So I cannot agree that the afternoon was wasted—on any of us.