lavender. Her white hair wound in a bun on the back of her head. She looked me over slowly and silently. Her face was like a plaster death mask. I could read nothing from it. Had I passed her inspection?
“Do come into the parlor, Jessie. Ruth will take your things upstairs.”
“Will I have the usual room?” I asked, eager to prove myself.
She looked puzzled. “Which room is that?”
“The blue room in the back. Where I used to stay when I came with Mother and Father.”
“Oh, did you? Yes, that’s right … the blue room … No, dear, Oliver is in that room. You may have the guest room on the third floor. Your young legs will manage the stairs. Ruth, take Jessie’s things up and then ask Delia to bring tea into the parlor. Be sure she includes some of those scones that Oliver likes.”
“Is there any of Delia’s queen’s cake? It was always my favorite!”
“Don’t try so hard, Jessie. I would not mistake my own granddaughter, even after seven years. We believe you. Ah, here’s Oliver.”
At last! I desperately needed some time alone with Oliver to tell him about the hotel fire, but Grandmother showed no sign of leaving us alone, even for a minute. We had a touching reunion where he exclaimed over the lovely young lady I had grown into, and I remarked how the years hadn’t changed him at all. We retired to the parlor where I blinked in surprise to see several of the photos I had studied only last week displayed on tables draped with Irish lace. There were so many framed photographs, I understood how Oliver had managed to borrow some of them without his mother noticing. I vowed to examine them all carefully as soon as I had some time to myself. I wanted to learn everything I could about Jessie, and the simplest way seemed to be through her photographs.
Warmed by a cheerful fire, I covered up my impatience with a calm outward manner. We spoke of the weather and the approaching elections. Coolidge had received the Republican nomination for president last month. The Democrats had chosen an obscure West Virginian. “No one I have talked to has heard anything about John Davis,” said Oliver, who expressed his assurance that President Coolidge would win a second term. “You will be twenty-one by the time of the November election,” he added. “I trust your first ballot will be cast for a Republican?”
I said I hadn’t given it much thought. “Politics is not a game vaudeville plays. Performers are constantly on the move, and without a permanent legal residence, they can’t register to vote.”
“Now that you have a permanent home, you’ll want to break that tradition,” Oliver said. “Decent people need to cast their ballots, or the democratic process will be overwhelmed by the self-serving votes of the ignorant rabble.”
I assured him that I would vote as he did himself, putting the welfare of the country before personal, selfish interests. His eyes narrowed in warning.
Grandmother made clear her disapproval of female suffrage, granted only four years ago. It was not ladylike to vote, and she would not demean herself by pushing into an election hall crowd to cast a ballot for some man she hadn’t even been introduced to socially. Oddly enough, she encouraged me to do that very thing. “Voting is for young people who have a stake in the future.”
It seemed like hours passed before Grandmother retired for her afternoon nap. Finally, I could tell Oliver about events in Sacramento!
“How did it go?” he asked as soon as his mother was out of earshot.
“I killed ’em,” I said smugly.
“Don’t get overconfident. Tomorrow I’m going to suggest that Mother go with you to Dexter and stay a week with Victoria and the children. I think she’ll agree if I accompany her, and I’ll allow myself to be persuaded after a little arm-twisting. With the trustees’ backing, and Mother’s and mine, you’ll walk into that house with a presumption of legitimacy.”
“There’s been …
“Do come into the parlor, Jessie. Ruth will take your things upstairs.”
“Will I have the usual room?” I asked, eager to prove myself.
She looked puzzled. “Which room is that?”
“The blue room in the back. Where I used to stay when I came with Mother and Father.”
“Oh, did you? Yes, that’s right … the blue room … No, dear, Oliver is in that room. You may have the guest room on the third floor. Your young legs will manage the stairs. Ruth, take Jessie’s things up and then ask Delia to bring tea into the parlor. Be sure she includes some of those scones that Oliver likes.”
“Is there any of Delia’s queen’s cake? It was always my favorite!”
“Don’t try so hard, Jessie. I would not mistake my own granddaughter, even after seven years. We believe you. Ah, here’s Oliver.”
At last! I desperately needed some time alone with Oliver to tell him about the hotel fire, but Grandmother showed no sign of leaving us alone, even for a minute. We had a touching reunion where he exclaimed over the lovely young lady I had grown into, and I remarked how the years hadn’t changed him at all. We retired to the parlor where I blinked in surprise to see several of the photos I had studied only last week displayed on tables draped with Irish lace. There were so many framed photographs, I understood how Oliver had managed to borrow some of them without his mother noticing. I vowed to examine them all carefully as soon as I had some time to myself. I wanted to learn everything I could about Jessie, and the simplest way seemed to be through her photographs.
Warmed by a cheerful fire, I covered up my impatience with a calm outward manner. We spoke of the weather and the approaching elections. Coolidge had received the Republican nomination for president last month. The Democrats had chosen an obscure West Virginian. “No one I have talked to has heard anything about John Davis,” said Oliver, who expressed his assurance that President Coolidge would win a second term. “You will be twenty-one by the time of the November election,” he added. “I trust your first ballot will be cast for a Republican?”
I said I hadn’t given it much thought. “Politics is not a game vaudeville plays. Performers are constantly on the move, and without a permanent legal residence, they can’t register to vote.”
“Now that you have a permanent home, you’ll want to break that tradition,” Oliver said. “Decent people need to cast their ballots, or the democratic process will be overwhelmed by the self-serving votes of the ignorant rabble.”
I assured him that I would vote as he did himself, putting the welfare of the country before personal, selfish interests. His eyes narrowed in warning.
Grandmother made clear her disapproval of female suffrage, granted only four years ago. It was not ladylike to vote, and she would not demean herself by pushing into an election hall crowd to cast a ballot for some man she hadn’t even been introduced to socially. Oddly enough, she encouraged me to do that very thing. “Voting is for young people who have a stake in the future.”
It seemed like hours passed before Grandmother retired for her afternoon nap. Finally, I could tell Oliver about events in Sacramento!
“How did it go?” he asked as soon as his mother was out of earshot.
“I killed ’em,” I said smugly.
“Don’t get overconfident. Tomorrow I’m going to suggest that Mother go with you to Dexter and stay a week with Victoria and the children. I think she’ll agree if I accompany her, and I’ll allow myself to be persuaded after a little arm-twisting. With the trustees’ backing, and Mother’s and mine, you’ll walk into that house with a presumption of legitimacy.”
“There’s been …
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