Cheaper by the Dozen (10 page)

"Mama, dear," she'd say, "are you sure that shawl is warm enough? Let me run upstairs and get you another."

Since Mother seemed so concerned about Grosie and Papa, we held them in awe. We tiptoed in their presence and talked only in whispers.

The respect in which we held Grosie was heightened the day after our arrival, when she gave Mother a quiet reprimand which Mother accepted just as if she were a little girl again. Anybody who could have that effect on Mother, we thought, must be a very important person.

The reprimand came about after Grosie handed Mother a list of six close friends of the family, and suggested that Mother call to pay her respects that afternoon.

"Do you really think it's necessary, Mama, dear?" Mother asked.

"I think it would be nice, dear."

"What do you think I should wear?"

"I would think the dress you wore to dinner last night would be just right, dear."

Mother set out to make the calls, and returned about two hours later.

"There," she said, coming smiling into the living room. "Thank goodness that's out of the way. It didn't take me long, did it? Six calls in two hours! Wasn't I efficient?"

To be efficient, in the Gilbreth family, was a virtue on a par with veracity, honesty, generosity, philanthropy, and tooth-brushing. We agreed that Mother had, indeed, been exceptionally efficient. But Grosie looked disapproving.

"Don't you think I was efficient, Mama, dear?"

"Perhaps, Lillie, dear," Grosie said slowly, "perhaps you were a little—too—efficient."

Our grandparents became worried by our exemplary behavior. They told Mother they didn't think it was natural, and that it made them nervous the way we tiptoed and whispered.

"They don't act at all the way I pictured them," Papa said. "From your letters, I thought they whooped and hollered around. I don't believe they feel at home."

"They'll feel at home soon enough," Mother warned. "I'm scared that when they decide to feel at home they may decide all at once. If they do, it's Katey bar the door."

We decided to feel at home on the day that Grosie gave a formal tea in Mother's honor. Our godmothers had bathed us with sweet-smelling soap and were dressing us in new outfits that Grosie had approved. For the girls, it was dotted Swiss and matching hair ribbons and sashes; for the boys, blue serge suits and Buster Brown collars, with red, generous bow ties.

The boys' trousers were shorts, rather than knickers, and buttoned down the sides, instead of down the front. That was bad enough, Frank and Bill thought. But the crowning indignity was a little flap, like the tongue of a shoe sewed on sideways, that served as a fly at the front of the trousers.

"We're all going to be so proud of you today, dears," the aunts told us. "I know you're going to make such a lovely impression on all the guests."

"Not in these pants," Bill said. "I look sissy and I'm not going to wear them."

"Why, Billy, dear," said Aunt Mabel, his godmother. "You look lovely. You look just like Little Lord Fauntleroy."

"I don't want to look like him," Bill shouted. "I'm not going to wear these clothes."

"Of course you're going to wear them, Billy, dear. What do you think your father would say to hear you talk like that?"

"I think he'd say they were sissy, too," said Bill. "I think he'd laugh at the flap on the front of my pants."

"Be a good boy, now, dear. You don't want to worry your mother and Grosie and Papa."

"I do too," said Bill. "I'm sick of not worrying people. I say to heck with them."

The godmothers froze.

"Why, Billy Gilbreth," said Aunt Mabel. "Where did you learn such an
ugly
word?"

We thought for just a moment that we saw a trace of a grin pass over Aunt Mabel's face, and that Aunt Gertrude nudged Aunt Ernestine, but we dismissed the notion as highly improbable and extremely out-of-character.

Bill finally was prevailed upon to dress in his new outfit. But he was sullen, and so were the rest of us when we received our instructions about the party.

"First the grownups will have a little chat and visit by themselves, dears. Then we want you children to come in and meet the guests. Remember, some of these people are your mother's oldest friends, and she wants to be proud of you, so do be careful about your clothes. Now run along out into the garden, and we'll call you when it's time."

Left by ourselves, we walked out on the lawn, where we formed a starched, uncomfortable, and resentful group. We were tired of being on our best behavior, and we wished Daddy were there to stir up some excitement.

"At home," Martha whispered to the rest of us, "the children visit when the grownups visit. They don't have to go stand in the garden like darned lepers."

"Why, Martha, dear," Ern mimicked, in shocked tones, "where did you learn such an
ugly
word?"

"At home," said Martha, "they think the children have enough sense to fix their own hair. And they don't have to wear hair ribbons tied so tight that they can't wiggle their eyebrows."

"Look at the flap in the front of the pants," said Bill, pointing.

A sprinkler was watering in the lawn nearby. Martha jerked off her hair ribbon, threw it on the ground, walked deliberately to the sprinkler, and stood under it.

Anne and Ernestine were horrified. "Martha," they shouted. "Are you crazy? Come out of there."

Martha put her head back and laughed. She opened her mouth and caught water in it. She wiggled her now free eyebrows in ecstasy. The starch went out of her clothes, and her hair streamed over her face.

Frank and Bill joined Martha under the sprinkler. Then Ernestine came in, thus leaving Anne, the oldest, in what for her was a fairly familiar dilemma: whether to cast her lot with us or with the adults. She knew that being the oldest, she'd be held responsible, whichever course she took.

"Come in and get wet," we shouted. "Don't be a traitor. The water's fine."

Anne sighed, untied her hair ribbon, and came in.

"All right, dears," one of the aunts called from the house. "It's time to meet the guests now."

We filed into the living room, where our dripping clothes made puddles on Grosie's Persian rug.

"I think they feel at home now," Mother said a little ruefully. "You children listen to me. Go upstairs and change your clothes. No nonsense, now. I want you down here, dry, in ten minutes. Do you understand?"

We understood. That was the kind of talk we understood.

Everybody liked it better now that we went shouting through the house, playing hide-and-go-seek, and sliding down the banisters. Only during the afternoons, when Grosie was taking a nap, Papa asked us to be quiet.

"Try to keep it down to a dull roar for just two hours, dears," he told us. "Your grandmother really needs her rest."

Our godmothers waited on us hand and foot, and we began to enjoy and even revel in the attention. They were willing to drop anything to amuse us, to play games with us, to help us plant a flower garden, to paste in our scrap books, to collect California seeds which we intended to plant in our yard when we returned home. They took us to the movies, on sightseeing tours to Chinatown in San Francisco, and away for weekends at their summer cottage at Inverness. It seemed natural now for them to call us "dears," and we began to return the salutation without sarcasm or affectation. When dear Aunt Gertrude had herself hospitalized because she was afraid she was coming down with whooping cough and didn't want to infect us, we mourned her departure almost as if she had been Mother herself.

Bill, meanwhile, had found a devoted friend and ally in the kitchen, where Chew Wong's word was law. Chew Wong was set in his ways and unamenable to suggestion. He was sinister looking and uncommunicative, and had a terrible temper. He understood English fairly well, except when someone tried to criticize him or tell him what to do. In such cases he launched into hissing Chinese, brandished skillets, and then turned his back and walked away. He was a wonderful cook. It was tacitly understood in the Moller family that the less one knew about his cooking methods and what he put into the food, the better for all concerned.

Of the Mollers, only Aunt Elinor, who planned the menus, ventured into the kitchen. We children were advised to keep out of it unless we wished to invoke Oriental wrath, die in agony from some exotic poison, touch off a tong war, or go through life with the responsibility of hara-kiri hanging over our heads.

Although aware of the possible consequences, Bill couldn't resist the smell of cakes and pies, and began to spend a good deal of his time in the kitchen. At first Aunt Elinor would hustle him out. But Chew Wong had taken a liking to him, and sulked when Bill was removed. Whenever Chew Wong sulked, his cooking suffered, and it finally was decided to allow Bill the run of the kitchen.

Chew Wong outdid himself then with the meals that he served up, and the kitchen rang with pidgin English and cackling laughter.

"Pleez now, Bleely, open mouth. Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi. Good boy, Bleely."

We questioned Bill about what he opened his mouth for. He told us that when Chew Wong iced a cake he put the frosting in a cornucopia made of newspaper, bit off the end, and squeezed the frosting onto the cake. At intervals, Bill would open his mouth and the cornucopia would be inserted. When the rest of us dropped into the kitchen to get a turn at the business end of the cornucopia, Chew Wong drove us out with a skillet, while he and Bill screamed with laughter. Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi.

Sometimes, when Bill got into mischief in the kitchen, Chew Wong scolded him, picked him up, and threatened to put him in the oven. The cook opened the oven door and put Bill part way in it, where he could feel the heat on his face.

"Blad boy, Bleely. Putee in oven and cookee brown and eatee. Hi-hi-hi."

Bill knew it was a game, but it used to scare him, and he struggled and kicked.

One afternoon Chew Wong opened the oven door and was leaning in, on tiptoe, to see whether a cake was browning on all sides. Bill crept up behind him, placed a shoulder against his rear, and hunched. Then he held him there.

"Blad boy, Wong," he said in a sing-song imitation of the cook. "Bleely putee in oven and cookee brown and eatee. Hi-hi-hi-hi."

Aunt Elinor was in the pantry and heard the conversation and Chew Wong's screams. By the time she rushed into the kitchen, the cook had extricated himself, had both hands under the cold water faucet, and was squealing with rage. Other Mollers and Gilbreths converged on the kitchen from various parts of the house.

Since she was responsible for the kitchen, Aunt Elinor decided it was up to her to take Bill to task.

"Billy Gilbreth," she said almost sternly. "You haven't behaved like a gentleman."

The visit came to an end, and we put on our traveling clothes and climbed again into the limousines. We were accustomed to them now, and we didn't hesitate to roll down the windows, put out our hands, and tell road hogs what we thought of them. The Mollers didn't seem to mind; they seemed to enjoy it. Even Henriette, still at rigid attention, grinned when hands popped out as he wheeled his car sedately around the corners.

We said goodbye on the station platform. It didn't seem sissy to Bill to be kissed now. He returned the kisses.

We got on the train and pressed our noses against the glass.

"One thing I can't get over," Anne said. "They really hate to see us go. Imagine! They're crying just as hard as we are."

The train pulled out of the station, and Mother did her best to cheer us up.

"I didn't bring a single Sterno can with me," she said. "Things will be much better going home than they were coming out. Lill's foot is all better, and I don't think Freddy's going to be sick any more. We can go into the diner and—"

"Whoop," Martha coughed. "Whoop. Whoop."

"You don't suppose that child's caught whooping cough, do you?" Mother asked. "Let me feel your forehead."

By the time we reached Salt Lake City, all seven of us had whooping cough. Our berths couldn't be made up, and no one in the same car with us got much sleep.

Dad had managed to obtain leave from Fort Sill, and surprised us by boarding the train at Chicago. He helped with a bucket and mop Mother had borrowed from the porter, and brought us soup heated over recently acquired Sterno cans.

"Thank you, Daddy, dear," we told him.

"Daddy, dear?" he said. "Daddy, dear? Well! I guess I ought to send you kids to California every summer."

"Not with me, you don't," Mother put in. "I can't tell you how much I enjoyed seeing the dear folks. But the next time, you take the children out West, and I'll go to war."

Dad thought the best way to deal with sickness in the family was simply to ignore it.

"We don't have time for such nonsense," he said. "There are too many of us. A sick person drags down the performance of the entire group.You children come from sound pioneer stock. You've been given health, and it's your job to keep it. I don't want any excuses. I want you to stay well."

Except for measles and whooping cough, we obeyed orders. Doctors' visits were so infrequent we learned to identify them with Mother's having a baby.

Dad's mother, who lived with us for awhile, had her own secret for warding off disease. Grandma Gilbreth was born in Maine, where she said the seasons were Winter, July, and August. She claimed to be an expert in combatting cold weather and in avoiding head colds.

Her secret prophylaxis was a white bag, filled and saturated with camphor, which she kept hidden in her bosom. Grandma's bosom offered ample hiding space not only for the camphor but for her eyeglasses, her handkerchief, and, if need be, for the bedspread she was crocheting.

Each year, as soon as the first frost appeared, she made twelve identical white, camphor-filled bags for each of us.

"Mind what Grandma says and wear these all the time," she told us. "Now if you bring home a cold it will be your own blessed fault, and I'll skin you alive."

Grandma always was threatening to skin someone alive, or draw and quarter him, or scalp him like a red Indian, or spank him till his bottom blistered.