Maude (18 page)

In 1923, I got a letter from George’s sister Bessie
telling me she’d given birth to a fine little girl and
named her Maxine. Bessie was beside herself, she was
so happy. She’d been wanting a baby all these years
and finally had one. That same year, when I was thirtytwo years old, I gave birth to another little girl. After
having Gene come breech like he did, we’d planned to
call the doctor, but the baby came so fast, there was no
time. I woke George in the middle of the night, and he
ran for Clara. It was an easy delivery. When the baby
was cleaned up, and I was taken care of, Clara placed
the little bundle in my arms, and I was relieved when
the surge of love ran through me, the same way it did
when Gene and Lulu were born.

It was his turn, so George named the pretty baby
Elizabeth Susan, after his sister, and we agreed not to
call her Bessie, but Betty Sue. I’d picked out other
names, but since George hadn’t objected to me naming
Gene after my father, I didn’t argue with him. Besides,
I loved Bessie, and I had always liked the name
Elizabeth. I wrote it in the Bible, Elizabeth Susan
Foley. When I’d finished, I blotted the ink and couldn’t
help but cry a little when I looked at Lulu’s name on
the top line. She would have loved the boys, but she
would have been so happy to have a little sister.

Not long after Betty Sue was born, everyone in
the church had a family picture taken. The town’s
undertaker had traveled to St. Louis and learned how
to use a special camera. He set up a little studio in one
of the rooms in his house. One of the ladies from the
church with a gift for painting had done a mural on the
wall as a background.

When Betty Sue was a few months old, we all
rode into town and had our picture taken. I sat in a
straight-back chair and held Betty Sue in my arms.
Gene stood to my right side, leaning against me.
George stood next to my chair with his right hand on
my shoulder and his left hand holding tight to the
squirming Bud. When the picture was ready, I bought
a hinged, double frame. I put the family picture on one
side with the only picture I had of Lulu on the other.
Lulu was eleven when it was taken. She was wearing
a white dress and had a wide ribbon in her hair. Her
pretty curls fell over one shoulder, down almost to her
waist.

When Bud was old enough to go to school, he
began riding into town behind his father on Pawnee’s
back. Bud was a miniature George. He looked just like
his father, walked and talked just like him, and shared
the same easy way of making people laugh. Everybody
liked George, and everybody liked Bud.

At school, he mocked the teacher when her back
was turned, and even she laughed at him. At church,
he pretended to fall asleep and faked a loud snore until
I poked him in the ribs with my elbow. The preacher
would smile at him at the door, pat me on the hand,
and tell me patience was a virtue. Bud had his father’s
charm. Everybody liked Bud.

Life was pleasant enough for me. George didn’t ask as
often for the painful relations. I enjoyed cooking and
cleaning the house. It was a more comfortable place,
now that his mother wasn’t in it. I’d painted and
papered the downstairs rooms without help from
George.

Since his mother died, I finally came to think of
the place as my home, and I was sometimes able to
coax George into spending some of his money for a
new piece of furniture. I made curtains for all the
downstairs windows and changed the paper and
curtains in the old woman’s bedroom to make it more
of a boy’s room for Bud.

Bud grew taller and lankier, and Gene thrived. A
happy, sturdy boy, he preferred my company to
George’s and Bud’s, and would sit at the kitchen table
and play with his toys, chatting away while I cooked.

Betty Sue got prettier every day, with plump, full
features, and dimples on her cheeks, knees and elbows.
She was another one who was going to look like her
father, with thick black hair that grew quickly and had
a soft wave to it. She was a pleasant child, smiling and
gurgling as an infant, later, sitting happily, singing and
playing on her blanket in the corner of the kitchen. I
had my precious children, my home, my best friend,
Clara, and my church. My life was happy, and my
heart was full.

I realized in March of 1928, at the age of thirtysix, that I was expecting again. I wasn’t thrilled with
the idea. I was satisfied with the way things were and
didn’t want them changed. I didn’t even tell George for
a long time. I’d had what I assumed were miscarriages
twice since Betty Sue was born and preferred to keep
it to myself, except, of course, for Clara.

I could see George looking at my growing
stomach, but it was well into half-way through the time
before he finally asked me about it. “Are you in a
family way again, Maude?”

“I guess so, George. It’ll come in the fall, if I
figure right.” No more was said about it, and I couldn’t
tell if George was happy with the news or not.

It was early October and I was changing the
sheets on the bed one morning. I picked up the corner
of the mattress and a gush of warm water ran down my
legs. I cleaned myself from the mess, and made the bed
ready for the delivery. When Clara came home from
working at the store, I had Bud run over and fetch her.
Clara was there in only a few minutes.

“How is it, Maude? Should I get the doctor?”
“It’s not bad yet, Clara, just regular pains. Let’s
wait and see how it goes. I hate to spend money on a
doctor if I don’t have to. Betty Sue came so easy I
expect this one will do the same.”
That’s not how it happened. My labor went on
and on and got worse all the time. I suffered with it
through the night, with Clara sitting by my side.
George slept with Bud, undisturbed by the whole
process.
In the morning, the pain grew so bad that I didn’t
think I could stand it any longer. Clara lifted the covers
and looked for some sign that the baby was coming,
but couldn’t see anything. The water was still trickling
out, but there was no sign of blood or anything else.
I told her, “You better see if you can get a doctor
here, Clara. He may have to cut this one out. I think
there’s something wrong.”
Clara ran downstairs and to tell George to fetch
the doctor. He saddled up Pawnee and galloped off. He
came back alone an hour later.
“The doc said he’ll get here when he can. There
was an accident at the mill, and some of the boys were
hurt bad. Maude, you’ll have to hold on.”
I held on all day. If it hadn’t been for the children
in the house, I would have screamed from the agony. I
had Clara tell George to cut me a short piece of the
thick rope from the barn, and I clenched it between my
teeth so I could be quiet when the pains tore me apart.
The doctor finally got there just before sunset. Clara
lit several oil lamps to give him light, and he examined
me.
After a minute, he stood and huffed out his
cheeks, took off his glasses and shook his head. “I’m
afraid it’s going to be a dry birth, Maude. I’ll do the
best I can to make it easier for you.”
He handed a little glass bottle to Clara. “When
the pains come, hold this under her nose, it’ll make it
better.”
It was several more hours before the birth was
over. Finally, a screaming boy was delivered. He had
his father’s black hair and gangly body. When the
delivery was over, Clara put the baby in my arms, and
I held it to my breast. I looked at it and waited, but the
only thing I felt the same as when Bud was born. It
about broke my heart, and I asked God to forgive me
and help me love this new baby.
Clara was tidying up the room and gathering the
bedclothes that needed to be washed. The doctor
picked up his bag. “Well, I guess we made it all right,
Maude. I’m sorry it couldn’t have been it easier for
you, but all things considered, we did a pretty good job
of it.”
I reached out and grabbed his hand. “Can you do
something for me so I won’t have any more?”
He gasped and stepped back, jerking his hand
free of my grip. “Not have any more babies, Maude?”
“That’s right, I don’t want any more. I’ve got
four to see after now, and I know that I’ve lost others
through the years. Isn’t that enough?”
“Babies are a gift from God,
Sister
Foley, and I’ll
do nothing to interfere with His will. When you say
your prayers tonight, you give thanks you have this
family and ask His forgiveness for even thinking about
such a thing.” He slapped his hat on his head and
stormed out.
Clara shut the door behind him. “I’ve heard about
things you can buy so you don’t get more babies,
Maude, but I haven’t the faintest idea how to get
them.”
“I don’t know either, but I do know one thing.
I’m not going to have another baby. I’m going to nurse
this one as long I can.”
Clara giggled. “That’ll make it hard for him to
go to school.”
I shook my head and looked down at the ugly
baby. He was so red he was almost purple. His eyes
were swollen shut, and he had an angry expression on
his little face. “He doesn’t look like a college boy to
me, anyway,” and both of us laughed until we cried.
When the baby finished nursing and fell asleep,
Clara called in the rest of the family to see him. Bud
stood in the corner, looking embarrassed. Gene poked
at it with his finger and talked baby talk to it. Betty Sue
looked as if she had been given a new doll and was
allowed to sit on the bed and hold it in her arms.
George picked him up and rocked him a little in his
arms. “We’ll call him Paul, after my brother.”
I frowned at him. “I didn’t know you had a
brother.”
“He died a long time ago. It’s better not to talk
about it.”
I turned my head to the wall. “Call him what you
want, George. Paul Foley is as good a name as any.”
The next day, when I took my Bible out of the
drawer for my daily reading, I wrote Paul’s name on
the line under Betty Sue’s.
I had a good home, a husband that didn’t abuse
me, and four healthy children. A woman ought to be
satisfied with that, but I seldom fell asleep without
thinking about James and what we’d meant to one
another. I longed for George to touch me in a tender
way, to hold my hand or kiss the back of my neck, like
James had every single day we were together, but he
never did.
Out of pride, I wouldn’t ask him for what I
wanted. I suppose, since pride is a sin, I was sinful to
keep quiet and ache for something I maybe could have
had.

Outside of my longing for tenderness in my marriage,
I was more or less happy with life. I settled back into
my routine. I went to church on Sunday, washed
laundry twice a week, cleaned and cooked. I said my
prayers, giving thanks for the good things in my life,
and always making prayer requests for others, not
myself, as I’d been taught.

Bud was a rascal, barely a teenager and already
drinking. His father was forever getting him out of one
scrape or the other. Gene was my precious boy, always
obeyed me, eager to help. Betty Sue grew prettier
every day. She was the image of her Aunt Bessie, and
I wished we could take her to visit so I could see Helen
and Faith. George always had some reason we couldn’t
go. Betty Sue seemed to be growing up faster than the
others. I hated the thought that soon she’d be going to
school.

One morning in 1929, George and Bud had
finished their breakfast and gone out to the barn to get
Pawnee ready for the trip to town. Gene liked to walk
to school with his friends and had already left. Too big
to ride behind his father, Bud should have been gone
already, but he never minded being late for classes. I
was mixing the dough for bread. I heard a terrible cry
from the barn. Afraid that Bud had hurt himself, I ran
out. Bud stood with his back pressed against the open
barn door, his eyes wide, and a panicked look on his
face. George sat on the stall floor, sobbing and wailing,
his arms held Pawnee’s head. His horse had died
during the night.

I froze. I didn’t know right away what I could do.
Then I took Bud’s hand and pulled him away with me,
closed the door behind us and left George to grieve in
private. I took Bud over to Clara’s, and Clara agreed
to drop him off at school when she took Maggie, and
to tell the deputy that George wouldn’t come to the
office that day.

I went back to the kitchen. Paul and Betty Sue
sat safely where I’d left them. I went about my day,
baked the bread and looked out the back window from
time to time. It was after noon when I saw George
come out of the barn, walk past the house, and head
into town. Late that afternoon, a large wagon came
with several men on it. One of them knocked at the
front door.

When I opened it, he stood there with his hat in
his hand, “Good afternoon, Miz Foley. George sent us
to fetch Pawnee.”

Miz Foley. You know how he loved that animal.”
“I know. You go do what you have to do, and-
thank you.”
He nodded, turned, and put his hat back on. They
drove the wagon out back. I didn’t look out again until
after I heard the wagon drive away.
Bud walked home from school with Gene and
Maggie. There was no sign of George. I stayed up later
than usual waiting for him, but finally left a lamp
burning by the front window and went to bed. When I
woke the next morning, the lamp was out of oil, and
he wasn’t there. I dressed myself and the children.
After they were fed I got out the little wagon and set
Paul in the back of it, with Betty Sue in front of him.
With Bud and Gene walking beside me, we went into
town. I stopped at the schoolhouse and left Bud and
Gene there, and then I went to the jail.
Deputy Graham sat at the desk. He jumped to his
feet. “Good morning, Maude. Did you come to see
after George? I was going to wake him when I came
in, but then I thought better of it.”
“Where is he?”
Doug pointed with his thumb to the back room.
“He’s sleeping back in the cell. He’ll be all right after
a while. It’s just hard for him. You know.”
“Yes, I know.” I opened the door to the back of
the building. George lay on the bench in the cell. The
door was open. He slept soundly. The stale aromas of
whiskey and tobacco hung in the room. “I’ll leave him
be. Thank you, Doug. Say hello to Sarah for me.”
“I will, Maude. George will be all right. It’ll just
take him a while.”
I nodded and left. I thought about stopping at the
store but changed my mind. I pulled the wagon with
Betty Sue and Paul riding in it behind me, and by the
time I got home, it was time for their naps. I settled
them down and went back to the routine of my
afternoon. George didn’t come home again that night,
but I didn’t go look for him the following morning. I
figured he would come home when he was able.
After four nights of sleeping alone, I was fixing
breakfast when I heard the front door open. I walked
into the front hall. George stood there, hat in hand,
with a sheepish expression on his face. I just looked at
him. “How are you, George?”
He blushed. “I’m all right, I guess. I need a bath
and some clean clothes.”
I could smell him from where I stood. “There’s
hot water on the stove.”
I went back to my work. After he cleaned up, he
came back to the kitchen. “I’m sorry about being gone
like that, Maude. I know I worried you.”
I hadn’t really worried about his welfare all that
much. I understood his grieving and knew that the
people in town would take care of him. “It’s all right,
George. I know how much you cared for Pawnee.”
He sat at the table and hung his head. “I was
always going to stand him to stud, but I thought I had
plenty of time.”
“There are a lot of his father’s stock in town.
Maybe you can buy one of them.”
George shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the
same.”
“Well, you have to get something.”
“I know, I’ll think on it.”
I didn’t say anything else.
George spent time in the barn every night for
weeks. Sometimes, when he came to the house, I could
tell by his red face and puffy eyes that he’d been
crying. He hadn’t grieved that much when his mother
died.
For the next few days, George left early to walk
to work. Bud went back to his old habit of staying with
his father at the jail after school. When they came
home, George went out to the barn and stayed there
working on something. Sometimes Bud would go out
to join him and watch, but he wasn’t accustomed to his
father being so quiet, and, as often as not, would stay
for only a short while.
A few weeks later, I sat at my bedroom window
to catch the afternoon light while I sewed. A car drove
up to the house and around the back. There’d been
more and more automobiles and trucks appearing in
town over the years, but they were still scarce enough
that I was surprised. I put my sewing aside and rushed
down the stairs. The barn doors were both open.
Inside, George was climbing down from a Model ‘T’
Ford. I was dumbfounded. I’d always felt that only
wealthy people had cars. George had taken out the
boarding that made up the stall and parked the car in
the area that used to belong to Pawnee.
He shrugged when he saw me standing there.
“Had to have something,” he said.
I found my voice. “How are we going to pay for
this, George?”
“I bought it off of Doc Hennings. He gets a new
one every few years. He gave me a good price on it,
two hundred dollars.”
“Where are we going to get two hundred
dollars?”
“I took it out of the bank.”
I stared at him. He’d always been a little tightfisted, complaining when I spent money on a piece of
furniture or when he thought I’d bought a little pricey
fabric, but I thought it was because he didn’t have
money and had to be careful about what he spent.
“How much do we have in the bank?”
“Not as much as I did have.” He had that grin on
his face like he’d told a funny joke and was waiting for
me to laugh. “I’ll save up more. I like to have
something to fall back on. You never know.”
“I was wondering. This is a big house. How did
your dad get enough money to pay for it?”
“He didn’t. My mother had money her father left
her from some sort of government settlement with the
tribe. When they would fight, she’d remind him he
lived in her home, not the other way around.”
I wanted to press him for an amount, but decided
not to for the time being. It comforted me to know he
had something saved. I was well aware of the value of
money. “Dinner will be ready in about a half-hour.
You’re early.”
George nodded and waved his hand at the car.
“That’s all right. I got things to do here.”
I went back to the kitchen and my cooking. As I
stirred the stew, I realized that after living with him all
these years and bearing him four children, there were
still too many things I didn’t know about this man.
I resented that George wouldn’t tell me how
much money he had. That made it his, not ours. I
decided I would somehow get more of my own. The
question was how to do it. My eyes weren’t as good as
they once were, and I’d just about given up sewing for
friends, only doing the work for a few of them and for
my family.
I usually charged things at the stores, and George
would pay the bill at the end of the month, so I didn’t
handle cash. It was ridiculous. I was a grown woman,
and except for the small amount still in the bureau
drawer that I brought with me from Tennessee, I didn’t
have money to call my own.
I talked it over with Clara, who had a ready
solution. “Sister Thompson down the road quit
keeping chickens when her husband passed. She’s
probably been buying eggs from the store. I bet if you
asked her, she’d buy them from you. You’ve got more
than you need for your family. If you explained things
to her, she’d keep quiet so George wouldn’t need to
know about it.”
“I don’t care if he knows about it or not. He
didn’t care about my making money from sewing. I
think he liked it when I could bring in my own cash.”
The next day, I talked to the Thompson widow
and made the deal. Then she thought of someone else
who would do the same thing. It didn’t amount to
much, two dozen eggs a week, but those few cents
were my money, and it had nothing to do with George.
What I made from sewing before mostly went into
decorating the house and pretty fabric for clothes for
Betty Sue and me. The egg money was different. Every
week, I slipped the coins into a pasteboard box and put
it under my step-ins in the bottom drawer of the
bureau. Every time I added a few cents I felt a warm
satisfaction. It wasn’t the amount I had so much as it
was the fact that I had it, and George didn’t know
about it.