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Authors: Lynn Austin
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asked after greeting her with an embrace.
“I took care of it.”
It surprised me that my grandmother, a good Christian woman, would be deceitful. Evidently I came from a long line of accomplished liars. I knew firsthand the pain and disillusionment of being lied to for years and years, so I gave the feather duster to Birdie and followed my grandmother into the kitchen.
“Why don’t you tell Aunt Birdie the truth about her husband and the war?” I asked in a hushed voice.
“We have told her, dear. Countless times. And every time, when she finally grasps it, she grieves inconsolably for days and days. Then, by God’s mercy, she wakes up one morning and has forgotten what year it is and she’s happy again—writing letters to Gilbert, awaiting his arrival. We don’t intentionally deceive her, and whenever she asks me for the truth I don’t lie to her. But it’s so much kinder for her this way, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure. My father might have thought he was being kind by sparing me the truth about my mother, but my shock upon learning the truth has been truly upsetting. It’s one of the reasons I needed to get away from home for a while.”
“I’m so sorry.” She rested a soothing hand on my shoulder. “I told John how displeased I was when he first invented his lie. That’s probably why he never allowed me to see much of you over the years. He knew I wouldn’t lie if you asked about your mother. But he made me promise not to talk about her. I may be John’s mother, but he made it clear that his marriage was none of my business.”
“Well, I would like to know the truth now.”
“What good can that possibly serve, Violet?” She slid her hand down my arm and took my hand in hers.
“I already know that Mother was never really sick, was she.”
“Not unless you count being sick at heart.”
“But what was she like? I barely remember her.”
Grandmother paused as she released my hand and picked up her apron, tying the strings behind her back. “In the beginning … ?Your mother was full of life. Vibrant. Vivacious. And very beautiful. You resemble her, you know.”
I shook my head. “I hardly remember what she looked like.Why aren’t there any pictures?”
But just as I was learning some useful information, Aunt Birdie interrupted us. She walked into the kitchen carrying Agnes’ calling card in the palm of her hand as if it were made of glass.
“We had a social call, Florence—and I couldn’t find the silver tray!”
“Was it Agnes? Let me see that.” She lifted the card from Birdie’s hand.
“Aunt Agnes is coming for me tomorrow at two o’clock,” I said.
“Oh, dear.” Grandmother’s shoulders sagged. “I was hoping she’d be too busy to subject you to her social rounds—unless you want to be subjected, that is. You’re a grown woman, so I suppose it’s your choice.”
“What’s wrong with making social calls with Aunt Agnes?”
“Nothing. It’s just that she hobnobs with people like the Palmers and the Pullmans and the Fieldses, drinking gallons of tea, and I see no point in all of that social folderol. There are so many more important things to do in this brief life.”
“Aunt Agnes said my father sent me here to find a husband.” Unfortunately, Aunt Matt picked that moment to march through the back door. She nearly dropped all of her parcels when she overheard me.
“Agnes said what ? Over my dead body she will!”
I felt like I was standing in the middle of one of those traffic snarls Mr. McClure had described, with vehicles colliding all around me.
“But where is the silver tray, Florence?” Aunt Birdie asked. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“I put the tray away in the buffet, dear. It was badly tarnished and I didn’t have the time or the patience to polish it—especially when Agnes is the only person who ever comes calling these days.”
“Now, Florence,” Aunt Matt said sternly. “Promise me that you won’t allow Agnes to
“I took care of it.”
It surprised me that my grandmother, a good Christian woman, would be deceitful. Evidently I came from a long line of accomplished liars. I knew firsthand the pain and disillusionment of being lied to for years and years, so I gave the feather duster to Birdie and followed my grandmother into the kitchen.
“Why don’t you tell Aunt Birdie the truth about her husband and the war?” I asked in a hushed voice.
“We have told her, dear. Countless times. And every time, when she finally grasps it, she grieves inconsolably for days and days. Then, by God’s mercy, she wakes up one morning and has forgotten what year it is and she’s happy again—writing letters to Gilbert, awaiting his arrival. We don’t intentionally deceive her, and whenever she asks me for the truth I don’t lie to her. But it’s so much kinder for her this way, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure. My father might have thought he was being kind by sparing me the truth about my mother, but my shock upon learning the truth has been truly upsetting. It’s one of the reasons I needed to get away from home for a while.”
“I’m so sorry.” She rested a soothing hand on my shoulder. “I told John how displeased I was when he first invented his lie. That’s probably why he never allowed me to see much of you over the years. He knew I wouldn’t lie if you asked about your mother. But he made me promise not to talk about her. I may be John’s mother, but he made it clear that his marriage was none of my business.”
“Well, I would like to know the truth now.”
“What good can that possibly serve, Violet?” She slid her hand down my arm and took my hand in hers.
“I already know that Mother was never really sick, was she.”
“Not unless you count being sick at heart.”
“But what was she like? I barely remember her.”
Grandmother paused as she released my hand and picked up her apron, tying the strings behind her back. “In the beginning … ?Your mother was full of life. Vibrant. Vivacious. And very beautiful. You resemble her, you know.”
I shook my head. “I hardly remember what she looked like.Why aren’t there any pictures?”
But just as I was learning some useful information, Aunt Birdie interrupted us. She walked into the kitchen carrying Agnes’ calling card in the palm of her hand as if it were made of glass.
“We had a social call, Florence—and I couldn’t find the silver tray!”
“Was it Agnes? Let me see that.” She lifted the card from Birdie’s hand.
“Aunt Agnes is coming for me tomorrow at two o’clock,” I said.
“Oh, dear.” Grandmother’s shoulders sagged. “I was hoping she’d be too busy to subject you to her social rounds—unless you want to be subjected, that is. You’re a grown woman, so I suppose it’s your choice.”
“What’s wrong with making social calls with Aunt Agnes?”
“Nothing. It’s just that she hobnobs with people like the Palmers and the Pullmans and the Fieldses, drinking gallons of tea, and I see no point in all of that social folderol. There are so many more important things to do in this brief life.”
“Aunt Agnes said my father sent me here to find a husband.” Unfortunately, Aunt Matt picked that moment to march through the back door. She nearly dropped all of her parcels when she overheard me.
“Agnes said what ? Over my dead body she will!”
I felt like I was standing in the middle of one of those traffic snarls Mr. McClure had described, with vehicles colliding all around me.
“But where is the silver tray, Florence?” Aunt Birdie asked. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“I put the tray away in the buffet, dear. It was badly tarnished and I didn’t have the time or the patience to polish it—especially when Agnes is the only person who ever comes calling these days.”
“Now, Florence,” Aunt Matt said sternly. “Promise me that you won’t allow Agnes to
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