Love & Mrs. Sargent (9 page)

“Oh, it was hardly that—any more than this is. About eighteen
rooms. There were much bigger houses in Evanston. Still are.”

“Lots of jolly sisters and brothers?”

“Nary a one, I’m sorry to say. Both my parents were quite well along when I was born. I suppose I must have come as quite a shock.”

“Ah yes, the change of life babies are always the smartest.”

“Are they? I wouldn’t know. Can I give you a brandy?”

“If you please.”

“Good. I’d like one too. I’m new at this sort of thing.”

“Go right ahead. You’re doing fine. Then you were the lonely only child?”

“Not a bit of it Hinman Avenue was full of kids. All the streets in Evanston are. It’s worth your life to drive there.”

“No terrible childhood fears, no traumatic experiences, neuroses?”

“None that I can think of. Oh, once I was nearly knocked down by a Woods Electric and another time I got lost from my
nurse in the toy department at Lord’s. But it was always my own
fault and I knew it. You see, Mr. Johnson, I don’t believe very much in all this psychiatric mumbo-jumbo. Oh, I’m sure there’s
some validity to it for people who have had really
terrible
things
happen to them. But I also find that quite a lot of women—and men, too—with just a smattering of the jargon will go probing and prodding around inside themselves and finally decide that
the reason they’re nymphomaniacs or alcoholics is that they once
saw their governess taking a sitz bath and that’s to blame for the awful messes they’ve made of their lives.”

“What about the people who didn’t have governesses?”

“Hardly anyone does nowadays. It was just a random example.
But I’ve based my work on. . . .”

“Your
work?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to dignify a column for people in trouble by calling it My Work. No, I take that back. Yes, Mr. Johnson, my
work—
a
syndicated column in a few hundred newspapers. I offer help to millions of readers every day. And I . . .”

“Don’t you think that some of them may read it just for laughs?”

Sheila was not too pleased, but she was objective enough to
consider the question. “I have no doubt of it. I get letters every
day that are obviously gags. I get letters from cranks of all per
suasions. But ninety-five per cent of my daily mail is from people
who really want help. And I try my level best with each and
every one. But I don’t do it through Freud or prayer or faith-healing or anything else. I have one formula and that is Common Sense for Common People.”

“Just wait till I write that down,” Peter said, scribbling at his pad. “Common Sense for Common People. But just who is to say who is common?”

“Oh come, Mr. Johnson. Everybody’s common. At least the people who write to me are all pretty common. Here,” she said, rising in a whisper of skirts, “I’ll show you.” Not unaware of how extremely handsome she was looking, Sheila strode to her desk. “This is today’s batch I’ve got to sign them. As for you, you can be useful as well as inquisitive. I’ll do the signing and then you can blot, read, fold, insert and lick the envelopes. Be careful not to mix the carbons. We file those. . .”

“My God,” Peter said, seating himself beside her at the desk. “Do you really answer all this stuff every day?” He liked the way she smelled. Whatever it was she was wearing, it had a
crisp clean lady-like odor without any of the obvious I-am-a-
dangerous-woman undercurrents of musk or civet.

“Certainly. Only the most interesting letters are printed, but I answer every piece of mail I get. And I never let the sun set on a letter. If these poor people think enough of me to. . .”

“Well now, here’s an odd letter.”

“Let’s see.”

“No. Let me test you. I want to see if you’ll give the same answer to the same question on the second time around.”

“Very well, Dick Tracy, fire away.”

“Well, a Miss Rosalie Green of the Bronx writes to say—among other things—quote ‘My boy friend and I have been going steady for two years. Now he wants to become engaged.
But, as he is still in dental school, he says he cannot afford to buy me an engagement ring. My mother says. . .”

“Oh, that Rosalie! I remember her.”

“And what did you advise?”

“Why naturally, I told her—in polite language—that lots of old maids had rings but that diamonds made pretty chilly bedfellows. I suspect that Rosalie’s
class
has something to do with her attitude.”

“Let’s see,” Peter said, studying the carbon copy of Sheila’s reply. “Hmmm. Oh yes, If you only knew how many thousands of women would be happy to trade their rings for the love of a good man.’ Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Yes, I guess you’ve covered that one. Let’s try another.”

“Go right ahead.”

“’Dear Shelia’—misspelled—I am fifteen years of age and want to wear a black sateen formal to our class dance. My mother says. . . .’ “

“Oh, that silly goose of a girl,” Sheila said, interrupting him. “Rosebuds all over her letter paper and big fat circles dotting every I. That’s
one
case where mother does know best.”

“And your reply: ‘Dear Sandra Jane: At fifteen you have years ahead of you when you can wear black—including some years when you may
have
to wear black. Listen to your mother for a little while longer. You will look far prettier and fresher
in white, a delicate pastel or a gay, bright color. Sincerely yours,
Sheila Sargent.”

“I’m saving that one to run in the column around prom time. You’d be amazed at how many little girls want to turn up on the dance floor looking like streetwalkers.”

“So you resort to the old Mother Knows Best line?”

“Now don’t go putting words in my mouth. Rosalie’s mother
in the Bronx obviously does
not
know best when she insists on some silly, extravagant gesture like an engagement ring for her daughter. Lots of mothers are stupid, power-driven old bitches who never should have had children in the first place. They bully, they meddle, they try to force their sons and daughters into impossible patterns. And they often—through the best of intentions, perhaps—wreck the lives of their children. But this Sandra Jane child, who wants to flounce around in black satin
at fifteen, obviously comes from a nice, sensible family—where is
it, Pitchpipe, South Dakota; some place like that—and. . . .”

“Don’t you let Allison wear black to the Bicycle Club or wherever?”

“Certainly not. You saw her tonight. And Allison is eighteen, not fifteen. .But until she’s come out, she’ll dress appropriately. The same should apply to Sandra Jane.”

“Do you think there’s much of a debutante season in Pitchpipe, South Dakota?”

“It’s all relative. If your daughter in New York. . . .”

“I don’t happen to have a daughter in New York. I’m still single. It’s all pretty trivial anyhow.”

“Ah, there you’re wrong. Problems like Rosalie’s and Sandra Jane’s may seem silly to
us,
but to them they’re of the most vital importance. Otherwise they never would have written.”

“I guess you’re right,” Peter conceded. “Well, try this one. It’s a lot steamier. ‘I am employed in an office where I have held a position of trust for many years. But my employer has engaged a new secretary—a peroxide blonde only twenty years old that has already ruined one man’s life. Now she has set her cap for my boss and. . . .’”

“Oh, yes. I remember. The boss is married and has three children and this old tattletale feels it a moral obligation to tell
the wife. Never a day goes by that I don’t have to say ‘Mind your own business’ to some busybody.”

“But reading on, it looks to me like this dame is a little bit sweet on the boss-man herself.”

“Very astute of you, only that was no lady. That was a man. Look at the signature.”

“What do you know! Shreveport, Louisiana—down in the Tennessee Williams country. But didn’t you suggest to him that
he
might be a little queer around the edges?”

“Certainly not. To begin with, that’s just a guess. If I even hinted at such a thing I stand a chance of driving him to suicide or straight to some shyster lawyer. No, Mr. Johnson, I’m not a mail-order psychoanalyst. I answer the question at hand. He wants to know if he should make a man’s wife miserable by telling her that he suspects—only
suspects,
mind you—her husband of playing around. My answer was No.”

“I suppose you’re right again.”

“Of course I’m right. My, but you lick a mean envelope! If you’ll let me have those I’ll put them out so that Taylor can. . . . Thank you.” With speed and efficiency she stacked the envelopes on the desk and began arranging the original letters and the carbons of her replies in alphabetical order. “You’ll forgive me if I do this. Mrs. Flood isn’t at her best with the alphabet I’m sorry it’s been such a light day—only forty or fifty letters and most of them pretty run-of-the-mill. But there’ll be something much more interesting coming in while you’re here. Of course you won’t betray names or addresses? And if you’d like to go down to the cellar and look through the files. . . .”

“Hey,” Peter said, picking up a letter, “here’s one I overlooked.”

“Which one is that?” Sheila asked, leaning over his shoulder.

She felt a warmth emanating from him and she noticed, for the first time, what nice little waxen looking ears he had. She liked that. “Oh, yes. This one was
very
odd. In the first place it didn’t come with the rest of the letters from Famous Features, but
it
was addressed directly to the house. It’s from a girl up in Waukegan. A waitress. Some Polish name, A lot of people around this neck of the woods know I live here. Not that anyone ever bothers me. Very strange.”

“Strange? Her life sounds like an episode in. . . . Just listen
to this: ‘Dear Mrs. Sargent’—very respectful—’My mother reads
your column every day and I know she will do what you tell her to.’ The power of the press! ‘I am a girl eighteen years old and a high school graduate. Three months ago I moved to a place of my own because of my dad. He would get drunk and beat me up because he said I was playing around with fellows. This is not true. I am a good girl but he would not believe me.

“ ‘I got a job as a waitress and make good money. Every week I take my mom some money when I am sure my dad will be out of the house. At some tavern. Last week Mom was all bruised up with a big black eye. She told me she had fell down the front steps. This week she looked even worst and couldn’t hardly move her right arm. She said she slipped in the kitchen. But I know this is not so. My dad must of twisted her arm like he done mine before I moved out.

“ ‘Honest, Mrs. Sargent, he is real crazy. Mom says that he don’t beat her up, but I know he does because he is a no-good
mean crazy drunk. I make good money and have a car. If Mom
would only leave him and come with me we could go to Cal.’ Cal?”

“She doesn’t mean Coolidge. She means California—the land of milk and honey.”

“Oh, yes. I see . . . we could go to California. I could get a job and he would never find us. But Mom says my dad is a burden God gave her and she won’t leave him. Please Mrs.
Sargent write and tell her to come with me before that crazy man kills her. Sincerely, Pearl Pulaski. P.S. Please answer right away.’
Well!”

“The poor child.”

“And what did the Delphic Sybil say? Ah, here’s the reply. ‘Dear Miss Pulaski: I cannot tell your mother to leave your father if she doesn’t want to.
You
say he beats her. But how can you be sure? Your mother says that he does not. Why would she lie to you? Remember, you are only eighteen and not a qualified psychiatrist or a marriage counselor.’ Hmmmm.”

“Well,” Sheila said, “is she?”

“If she were she wouldn’t be writing to you. ‘Because of your dislike of your father, you could be breaking up your mother’s marriage. Perhaps she loves him. If God gave your mother this man as a burden, think of this old German proverb:
Gott giebt die Schultem noch der Burde. .
. .’”

“I hope Floodie spelled that right.”

“Translated, it means “God giveth the shoulder according to the burden.” Sincerely, Sheila Sargent.’ Very nice. You’ve disposed of Pearl with speed and. . . .”

“What do you mean I’ve ‘disposed’ of her?”

“Well, what have you done to help her except hand her some dubious half-truth about God and shoulders and burdens? Maybe she’s a Moslem. How have you helped the poor kid?”

“What would you have me do, Mr. Johnson—say to the mother, ‘Sure, leave your husband. Go out to California on a wild goose chase with an eighteen-year-old girl who. . . .’”

“Who claims her father is insane.”

“So the girl says. But how do I know that Pearl Pulaski isn’t
the crazy one? The world is full of lunatics who call everyone else mad.”

“And what about the beatings?”

“Again, that’s only hearsay. The mother claims she slipped
and fell.”

“A real accident prone. So your advice is to do nothing?”

“What else can I say? Stick my neck out and break up a marriage because a bitter child says her father’s a brute? After all, Mr. Johnson, I don’t
know
these people.”

“Then why do you presume to mess with their lives? Or
any
lives?”

“Because they
ask
me to!” Sheila shouted angrily. Then she got control of herself. “Oh, come, Mr. Johnson,” she said graciously. “This is just one letter in thousands. You can sit in on questions and answers all week—even add a few opinions of your own if you like and we’ll discuss them. But now let’s just file Pearl Pulaski away and get on with the interview. More brandy? I for one would. . . . Yes, Taylor?”

Taylor stood in the doorway. He was wearing street clothes. “Miz Sargent, Bertha and me’s going to the movies. You got any letters you like me to mail?”