Arthur’s funeral was held on a gray January day. There were so many deaths from the theater disaster that his memorial service at St. James was in line behind three other victims of the fire. The church was full, Grandpapa’s name and stature being enough the fill the church even though there was beginning to be a certain amount of compassion fatigue in that one could almost attend a funeral a day for members of Chicago Society stricken by the fire. Arthur’s service was followed by burial at Graceland Cemetery, the funeral cortege winding its way through this elaborate city of death, still and frozen in the cold of winter.
We had turned in through the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, and headed down Center Avenue, the five of us in the carriage silent in our own islands of grief, the only human contact Trixie’s hand, which held fast to mine. Mamma and Papa sat as far from each other on the carriage seat as possible. There was no touching, no eye contact. They had no comfort to give each other, and they seemed to have forgotten about their remaining children. James had detached himself from Trixie and me after the fire, blaming us for taking Arthur to his death. I did not hold that against him, for I blamed myself, my hand continually reaching down in my dreams to pull Arthur out the door to safety When Arthur had been with us, James at fourteen had seemed on the verge of manhood, following Arthur into that masculine world. Now he seemed younger, and smaller, turned in on himself with eyes that no longer met the world.
Outside I could hear the clopping of the horses’ hooves and could imagine the puffs of smoke their breath made in the January air. Out the window I watched as we passed tomb after tomb, the large notable ones standing out from amongst the smaller stone monuments. I concentrated on the history of this place as a way to keep our final destination at bay. These were just historical markers I told myself, not a final destination. This was not where our beloved Arthur would spend eternity. No matter what had been said at the church service We passed a large memorial with Pinkerton inscribed at the top, the huge stone column standing out against the bare, black branches of the surrounding trees. I knew that Mr. Pinkerton had died after retiring from his detective agency from a fall on the winter ice. Bizarrely, the fall had lacerated his tongue causing him to die of gangrene. The next large column we passed had an even stranger story. It seemed that even here in this city of death, it was the human foibles and pride that were memorialized no matter what the dead might have wished. This too was a huge stone column with a Corinthian top, which sat on a stone base flanked by curved stone benches. The name Pullman could be made out in the stone. But why I remembered this grave was the fact that Pullman had been so hated by his railroad employees, whom even Grandpapa had finally agreed he treated badly, that his heirs had covered the coffin in tar paper and asphalt then enclosed it in a room size block of concrete reinforced with railroad ties. The fear was that his body would be stolen by his aggrieved employees and held for ransom.
Now just ahead on the left I could see the small lake, frozen over with the winter cold and dominated by the largest monument in the cemetery. This was a huge temple like structure with two stone sarcophagi under its towering roof. One held Mr. Palmer, one of the premier businessmen of Chicago, and a neighbor of my grandparents on Lake Shore Drive. The other was waiting for Mrs. Palmer who was still alive, and the undisputed queen of Chicago society. I remembered how pleased Mamma had been when she had been invited to accompany Grandmamma to the Palmer’s grey Gothic castle for afternoon tea. She had spent days deciding what to wear, and Trixie had been an enthralled participant in all the sartorial discussions.
The horses began to slow, and my wandering mind came back to the present as Trixie’s grasp on my hand tightened. On the right, just up from the Palmer memorial, was the Winthrop crypt. In the neighborhood of greatness, but not quite there, our location in death reflecting our position in life. There was no soaring grandeur with this tomb. It was a heavy, squat stone building made out of huge blocks of granite, grey, bulky and crouching as if unable to rise from the ground. It proclaimed the importance of the family that owned it by the fact that it stood alone on a sizeable piece of ground. No one would be crowding in on the Winthrops. The name was deeply etched in the lintel above an ornate iron gate that led into the crypt. The building was crowned with an ornate cross, and at the front corners were snarling lion’s heads, their ferocity unable to keep away the terrible thing that had already happened to us.
Trixie leaned in and whispered to me in the confusion of Mamma and Papa getting out of the carriage. “We’re not going to have to go in there are we?” Her face was anxious and pinched.
“I don’t know,” I whispered back, hoping too that we would not be asked to follow Arthur into that cold forbidding building. I looked over at James, but any question I might have had died on my lips he looked so remote and stricken.
In the end it was only Mamma and Papa and Grandpapa who accompanied Arthur into that building of death while we sat silent and waiting in the carriage. And then suddenly it was over, and John was calling up the horses. We were on the way to my grandparents’ house which was just a short carriage ride away. The funeral reception would be held there, and we, the horses, and John on the box at the front of the carriage would be able to warm up before heading the forty minutes home.
We returned home that night to the familiar yellow brick house in which nothing was familiar any more. The first change dawned on me slowly. The next morning after a silent breakfast Papa headed for his study where he remained for the day, Josie bringing him his lunch on a tray. Then I realized one day that a month had gone by, and Papa was still entombed in his study. At the end of the month Grandpapa stopped by on his way home from the mill one afternoon, brushing by me in the hall without even the smallest notice, marching into the study where Papa was secluded as usual. Even through the heavily paneled doors I could hear Grandpapa’s raised voice and Papa’s monotone, although I could not make out the words. I slipped into the neighboring music room as the study door suddenly swung violently open, and I heard Papa’s voice clearly for a moment “You know that was never my first choice, not ever” and then Grandpapa slammed the door behind him heading for the front door.
The next day when I got home from school I could hear John’s voice in the back of the house, an unfamiliar sound as he never came further than the kitchen. I could hear Papa’s voice as well, and the scraping of moving furniture. I went down the hall and saw that Papa was directing that certain items be moved from his study into the music room. I was puzzled. This room had always been Mamma’s purview as she was the only one in the house who really played an instrument. She had given piano lessons to all of us, and even Arthur, who had been good at everything, was as hopeless as the rest of us at the piano. Mamma finally gave up, and the only musical sounds to emanate from that room had been from Mamma, although the frequency of her playing had diminished over the years.
I caught Papa’s eye, “What is happening?” I asked as he walked out of his study with a load of books. He set the books down on a nearby table and looked at me for a long moment. “I am going to write an opera,” he announced. I could not have been more surprised if he had announced he was going to build an igloo.
“An opera…..?” I knew I sounded incredulous. “Don’t you have to play the piano or something to do that?”
“You have to have a background in music, which I have.” He turned around to pick up the books again. “I minored in music at college, although that is not a fact anyone ever wanted to acknowledge.” The bitterness in his voice was marked. “But now I guess they will have to.” And he marched into the music room, putting an end to our conversation.
Before the fire it would have been to Arthur I would have turned with questions about this latest development. He always granted me the courtesy of listening to me, even when he had given me evasive answers, calling me “Little Miss Why,” In his place I tried James, who simply turned angry eyes on me and shrugged elaborately saying cryptically, “Now Papa has the excuse to do what he has always wanted to do. And I get to pay the price.” He then walked off, his back stiff and unyielding.
That night, after Nanny had kissed us goodnight and turned out the lights, I got out of bed and climbed in beside Trixie. I knew Trixie was surprised, as it was usually she who climbed out of her bed into mine to discuss events of the day. She pushed her pillow over so that we each had half as we snuggled down under the covers. “Val, what is it?” Trixie’s voice was tinged with anxiety.
“I don’t know,” I replied recounting the events of the afternoon. “I don’t know what is happening.”
“They don’t go out any more you know,” said Trixie. “Mamma gets dressed for dinner, but they never go out.” I knew Trixie loved seeing Mamma all dressed up, picturing herself in lace and furs and silks in that long awaited day when she would be part of that grownup world. “Maybe they just need more time since…….” my voice trailed off. Trixie snuggled down closer to me, and that is how Nanny found us the next morning, curled up together in Trixie’s bed. And unlike Nanny, we were not scolded.
I waited a few more days before trying Mamma. I picked the hour before dinner when I knew she would be alone in her room getting ready for the evening meal. I knocked hesitantly at her door, and then pushed it open. Mamma was seated at her dressing table with her jewelry box open before her. She looked up in surprise, “Why, Val….”
There would have been no surprise had it been Trixie, as she often came down at this hour to watch in fascination as Mamma got ready for the evening, Trixie taking great interest in what jewelry went with what dress, and occasionally being allowed to try on a necklace or ring. Trixie often begged me to join them, but I had no interest in gowns and jewels. But it was more than that. On a deeper level I felt that my presence would spoil that time for Mamma. It was beautiful, sparkling Trixie she wanted. Her hopes for the future dashed, she put her hopes on her beautiful daughter.
I stood hesitantly by the door, the expanse of carpet seeming a desert that I could not cross. Finally I blurted out, “Has Papa stopped going to the mill?”
Mamma turned back to the mirror and was silent for a few minutes, trying on first once pair of earrings and then another. “I guess he has,” she finally said. There was another long pause while she rummaged around in the jewelry box. “Your grandfather is not happy.” There was another pause as she pulled a string of pearls from its green lined drawer. “And I cannot say I am particularly happy with his choice either.” Then with a brisk motion she clasped the pearls around her neck and said “We’ll be late for dinner.” Before I had time to ask more questions she stood up ending our conversation.
But it was at the dinner table that I really noticed the change, most probably because it was the only time that our family assembled together in one room. I now realized that James, Trixie and I had never really talked to Papa. We had spoken at meals and at other times when family activities had brought us together. But the speaking had not been for the exchanging of ideas, not even for the passing of warmth between parent and child. It was another occasion for us Winthrop children to demonstrate our good manners and our good training – to give the illusion of the perfect family. And when Arthur had been there to chat in his warm and engaging manner with Papa, including us all in the warmth, the illusion had seemed a reality for all of us.
Now it was different, but it took James’ fifteenth birthday to bring the difference home with jolt. This was the first family festivity that had been held since Arthur’s death. The day before the party the dinner table had been set for five, Papa at one end facing Mamma, with James on one side by himself, and Trixie and me, sitting on the other. The extra chair that used to be on James’ side had been pushed against the wall, but the space left still seemed to resonate in the dining room.
Papa cleared his throat. I looked at the clock. “This Sunday, if the weather holds, we will be going to Grandpapa and Grandmamma’s house for dinner. We will be celebrating James’s birthday there.”
The weather had been so cold for the last five weeks, that John and the horses had not been able to take us to our usual Sunday dinner with our grandparents. Now with the clearing of the weather and the standing invitation, it looked as if everything was working against James. He had wished fervently for a party with his friends. In a break from his detached demeanor, he had described it in detail to Trixie and me.
“I will not have a birthday cake. That’s too babyish. I will have steak and fried potatoes and,” he hesitated for a moment, “I would like to lock all of you up for the day.” I knew exactly the kind of party he was describing. It was what Arthur had done for his last birthday, the sound of young male laughter echoing up from the dining room, and filling the house.
We must have looked crestfallen at our exclusion for he quickly added with the first smile I had seen in a while. “You know what I mean – just be on my own for the day.”
Trixie had made a face. “Anyway you won’t lock me up. I’d want to see the boys.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry,” James had said, sharp and bitter once more. “The boys will not be coming. Not here. Not for me.” And he had been right.
On Sunday, as the clock struck two, Papa had ushered us through the door and into the closed carriage that stood waiting. I wanted to pat Prince’s nose, but there was no time for things like that with Papa around. He sat beside Mamma on the big forward facing seat, putting Trixie between them, because she was the youngest. James and I as usual, had the smaller backward facing seat, the space between us still filled with the ghost of our fourth sibling.
John cracked his whip, and the horses set off at a brisk pace. Papa cleared his throat, “If the horses maintain this speed, the trip will be made in fifty-one minutes.” He leaned back looking satisfied. Mamma looked out the window, and James looked cross. Nobody said anything else until John pulled into the porte-cochere in front of Grandpapa’s house. The house was even larger than ours, although not as large of some of the homes that surrounded it. The gray stone of which it was made presented a huge towered and crenulated front matching the winter waves from Lake Michigan beating against the rocks across the street. In warmer weather Trixie and I would be allowed to walk on the promenade along the lake if one of the maids could be spared to accompany us. Today was too cold, however, and we hurried from the carriage into the house. John clucked at Prince and Blackie, and the carriage rounded the house heading for the stables in the rear. There the horses would be kept out of the winter weather, while John would find equal warmth and welcome in the kitchen.
After dispensing with hats and coats, Trixie asked, “Mamma, may we go upstairs and play?”
“Yes, dear, but be very quiet and don’t touch anything.”
“Won’t you come, James?” I asked, wishing very hard that he would, that he would come back to Trixie and me from wherever he had gone since Arthur’s death.
James shook his head slowly. “Not any more Val,” he said his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. At fifteen he had entered the adult world, and must now follow Mamma and Papa to the drawing room. Luckily, Trixie and I at ten and eleven could still play before dinner.
The butler had finished with the coats, and was ready to escort Mamma and Papa, “Mr. and Mrs. Trumbell are in the drawing room, and the two young gentlemen are upstairs.”
Trixie and I looked at each other in dismay. That made going upstairs no fun at all. It turned out James was not missing anything. In fact he was lucky. On the first landing under the stained glass window, Trixie and I of one accord sat down in the big gold chair that nearly swallowed the two of us.
“I hate Sonny,” said Trixie not bothering to lower her voice, “and I double-hate Buddy. Even if they are our cousins, I don’t see why we have to be nice to them. Why do you suppose Aunt Sophie and Uncle Will had them?”
“People can’t help what they have. I just wish they’d had them sooner so they’d be old like James, and then he would have to be with them, instead of us.”
We continued up the wide stairs, counting each step as we went. From the second floor we could hear voices.
“They’re up there,” Trixie whispered. “I’ll bet they’re snooping in Grandpapa’s room.”
We crept stealthily down the hall, passing the shut door of Aunt Elizabeth’s room. How I wished it were open as in the old days when she still lived at home. She was Papa’s very much younger sister, only about twelve years older than we were. She had made visits to Grandpapa and Grandmamma’s house such fun when she lived here, but she had gotten married and was now living with her husband. For some reason we saw very little of her now.
Her room had looked like no other room in the mansion, with drapes of bright colors and wall hangings that she said came from India. Sometimes we would spend the night on Lake Shore Drive when my grandparents were giving a particularly important dinner party to which my parents were invited. Nanny was given the night off and we were put, much to our delight, in the care of our aunt. She would sit on the landing of the stairs with us, where we could watch the arriving guests without being seen. She would point out one guest or another keeping us spellbound with made-up tales about their secret lives.
Turning my eyes away from Aunt Elizabeth’s door, I saw half way down the hall an open door, the door to Grandmamma’s bedroom. My eyes met Trixie’s. “We can look at the dog collection and be alone,” I whispered.
We tiptoed across the big bedroom into the dressing room in the tower beyond. Our shoes sank into the rug.
“It’s so soft, it’s like kittens,” said Trixie. “I’m going to have one just like this when I’m married -- just as pink and just as soft.”
“You could have a pink rug without being married.”
Trixie shook her head. “Pink rugs go in dressing rooms and you don’t have a dressing room unless you are married. Don’t you love the dogs?” she added, stroking the fat pug on the end of the dresser.
They were pretty. So many of them. So many shapes and sizes and colors, in china, porcelain, glass, bronze. Some were sitting, some were standing, some lying down. Grandmamma had bought them in all parts of the world, and put them in this tower room with windows facing in all directions. The dresser, the cabinet, even the tables were covered with them.
“What kind is that big black one?” Trixie asked.
There was a noise behind us. “She’s so stupid. She doesn’t know a lion dog when she sees one.”
We were discovered. In the doorway stood our cousins, their hands in the pockets of their tightly buttoned Sunday suits.
“Hello,” we chorused, Nanny’s training deeply imbedded, although I smothered an urge to stick out my tongue.
“That’s a Chinese lion dog,” said Sonny. “Grandmamma bought it in Peking, and it cost a thousand dollars. It’s heavy. Feel it.”
“Don’t touch it,” I said.
“Scaredy cat!” and with a quick movement Sonny seized the ornament and tossed it at Trixie’s hands.
Unprepared for his action or the weight of the flying dog, she let it fall through her fingers to the floor where it splintered noisily.
Buddy screamed and ran from the room. Trixie stood still, her small hands rigid in the position she had assumed to catch the dog. We were frozen with terror. Suddenly, Mamma and Aunt Sophie were in the room.
“Valerie,” cried Mamma, “what happened?”
“She did it,” Sonny said, pointing at Trixie. “She dropped Grandmamma’s thousand dollar dog.”
Mutely, Trixie let her tell-tale hands fall to her sides. Mamma was on her knees, arms around her. “Why did you touch Grandmamma’s treasures?”
I knew the rules. I was to be quiet. Ladies did not speak up in disagreement, did not cause a scene of any kind. How often Nanny had said it, how often Mamma. Better for Trixie to be blamed, than for a little girl to raise her voice in front of grownups. I waited, and then into the silence I heard my voice say, “Trixie didn’t do it. Sonny’s telling a lie.”
“How dare you!” screamed Aunt Sophie in surprised anger.
“I dare because it’s true. Sonny took the dog and threw it at Trixie and it was heavy so she couldn’t hold it. It’s Sonny’s fault.”
I knew I was talking louder than I ever had in my whole life. My heart was racing as Mamma led Trixie and me out of the room and into the guest room, Trixie holding tightly to my hand. What would happen now? What dreadful thing? Yet Mamma said nothing. The three of us sat in the guest room, and Mamma held Trixie on her lap and said nothing. After a while she went downstairs, and told us to wait quietly where we were. Long minutes went by as we sat silent and motionless on the bed before the butler came to tell us that dinner was served. It was James’s birthday dinner and supposed to be a real party, but it was not working out like one. We dragged our feet going down. On the last landing we paused.
“Do you suppose,” said Trixie in a small voice, “that the back of Grandpapa’s neck will be red?”
Nanny always warned us that when that happened, little girls should be seen and not heard. Today, it might be better not even to be seen. But perhaps Grandpapa would not know about my loud voice and the broken dog, or perhaps being James’s birthday would make things better. Anyway, we had to go down.
At the dining room door, things started out as usual, everyone saying how pretty Trixie was and how tall I was getting. Sonny and Buddy were being little gentlemen. They pushed chairs in for us and then seated themselves, folding their hands. “Like little angels,” Grandmamma said and Trixie and I exchanged a quick glance.
Dinner was very fancy, but Sonny and Buddy did not eat very much. They had sensitive natures, at least that is what Aunt Sophie said, and they had lost their appetites on account of the dog. They could not eat anything but dessert, Sonny grabbing six tarts to go with his ice cream.
Finally, when it was time for the nuts and candy and raisins, the butler brought in a tremendous birthday cake with pink writing and flaming candles. Everyone clapped, and told James to blow out the candles. I knew he had not wanted a birthday cake or clapping relatives. He hesitated for only a moment, but under Papa’s stern gaze blew until the candles all went out.
“Just think,” Grandmamma said, “our eldest grandson is fifteen and almost a man. Now, James you are going to tell us what you want to be when you grow up.” She smiled very pleasantly and seemed interested, but I knew she expected a certain answer. It was assumed by the entire family that James, who was now the oldest grandson, would go into the family business and take his place in Chicago society. What would have been a pleasure for Arthur, I knew was a heavy burden for James. He was the boy with all the adventure books stacked up in his room, who had announced to Trixie and me that he was going to be a world famous explorer or go west and have a cattle ranch, plans changing with whatever book he was currently reading.
James looked trapped. Papa glowered at him and Mamma said very softly with a pleading note in her voice, “Yes, dear, let’s hear what you want to be.”
James took a deep breath. “All right,” he said and his voice was so sudden and loud that Sonny almost chocked on his sixth tart. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to be.”
“So you have it all decided!” Grandpapa said, being jovial but the back of his neck was growing pink.
“Yes, decided. I -----“ James put his head up high, looked around at each one and said each word as firmly and slowly as he could. “I don’t know exactly what I am going to do, but I am not going into the steel mill.”
Aunt Sophie sucked in her breath so hard she sounded as though she were sinking in the ocean. Grandpapa’s neck went from pink to red. Mamma shut her eyes, pain etched in her features.
“Well,” Grandmamma said, still smiling but in a wooden imitation of her real smile, “I knew a young man once who wanted to join the circus, but he changed his mind. He’s the head of a big business now.” She leaned forward and patted James’ arm, a slight pleading look in her eyes.
James just stayed rigid in his seat and said, “Well, I’m not going to change my mind.” And then with a savage look at Papa, “And I don’t see why you get to sit at home …”
“Enough,” yelled Papa, his voice strained and rough.
But James was not to be stopped. “But why must it be me and not…”
“Enough,” Papa roared again standing so suddenly his chair toppled over behind him. He strode over to where James sat frozen in his seat, his footsteps muffled in the thick Turkey carpet.
The silence was stunning. Grandmamma slowly pulled her hand away from James’ arm, and I felt Trixie’s hand creep quietly into mine. Papa’s face was as red as Grandpapa’s neck, and my eyes slipped away from his face to Mamma. She was looking down at the tablecloth and as I looked at her, her eyes raised to mine and instead of the look of pain she had been wearing, there was a gleam of triumph as her gaze shifted to Papa. It was so fleeting I was not sure what I had seen. I knew only that I was sailing into uncharted adult waters, so I closed my eyes against all of them and tightening my grip on Trixie’s hand – two children together against an adult world neither one of us wanted to enter.
No one ate any birthday cake. Grandpapa and Papa marched James into the library, and then a few minutes later the butler brought the coats and hats and we got into the carriage without even having to say goodbye and what a nice time we had had. James got in last. His face was frozen, and his lips were tight shut. It was so quiet in the carriage that the horses’ hooves on the pavement sounded like cannon fire.
It was not the usual ride home with everyone sleepy and full. The carriage seemed full of unsaid things, and the reverberating silence of the two of us who had spoken so boldly on this day. Yet, I had the feeling that it was not over yet. I leaned against the side of the carriage and looked out at the light and shadows of the cold spring night. First it would be dark and you could not see anything, and then a street lamp would come racing by, and you could see the shadows of the trotting horses and the carriage and John on the box with his high fur collar. The horses, with the whip dangling above their backs, and John and the carriage came out of the darkness into the light and back again into the darkness as each street lamp flew past.
I snuggled under the lap robe. During the light intervals I could see that Trixie was asleep, her head on Mamma’s arm. Papa was staring straight ahead. I did not dare look at James. How desperate he must have been to speak to all of them that way. Shadow, light, shadow, light, hoofbeats, John, carriage wheels, darkness.
Nanny met us at the door, “Two tired children,” she said, taking off Trixie’s coat.
Nanny’s words sounded as though they were meant to end the day, but they did not. The most terribly important thing of all was just beginning. Papa shut the door and turned the bolt. Then he turned himself to face us standing in the little coatroom. He wore an expression that I had never seen before. His voice was rasping. He turned to James.
“Now I’ve got you home, I’ll show you what happens to an insolent puppy.” He reached toward the umbrella stand and took out a cane. “The rest of you get out of here”
Mamma cried out and put her hands over her face. Trixie screamed, seeking safety in Nanny’s arms. James stood against the wall, hat and overcoat still in hand. He stared at Papa not in fear, but in shocked surprise.
At that moment the world, which had been cracking all day, broke in half. The decorum, the manners that had prevailed over previous family crises, hiding them and their meanings, was swept away.
“You shan’t!” Propelled by a sudden rush of emotion I did not understand, I sprang between James and Papa. Snatching the cane, I threw it with all my might against the wall, where the sound of its impact was deadened by the neat row of coats hanging on hooks. I turned to Papa and gasped, “If you do that to James, I’ll hate you forever.”
Papa did not pick up the cane. No one did. A great trembling began in my legs. It made me feel like crying, like running, but I would do neither. It was Papa who finally left the room, walking quickly. After him, Mamma and Nanny vanished holding Trixie by the hand. My eyes met James’. He turned and hung up his coat and hat.
“Do you know what we are?” he asked. “We’re prisoners --- just as much as Napoleon was on St. Helena. There’s a difference though. Napoleon died there. I’m going to escape. I hope you do too.” He turned deliberately, and walked out of the room.
I would have to go now too, up to bed. The routine in the house was too strong to break even after such an evening. But first, because everyone else seemed to have forgotten it, I must put out the lights.
