yolk slightly runny. “Don’t you need me here?” she said.
“We can manage,” Celia said brightly. She smiled at Daisy and Harriette. “These little hands are ready to help me now, aren’t they, girls?”
The girls nodded enthusiastically; they loved to help like big girls, playing house, playing their future lives.
“Rose, do you need a job?” Hugh asked.
“I didn’t know I did,” Rose said. She sipped her coffee. She hardly ate lately, and was too thin, Celia thought.
“I think you could be a teacher,” Hugh suggested. “You’re lovely with children.”
“She would need a teacher’s certificate,” Celia said. She looked at William. “You could send her to school for that.”
“Teaching is good,” William said. “A good career for a woman to fall back on when she’s older and everyone in her family is gone.”
Rose glared at him.
“I won’t be gone,” Hugh said cheerfully. “I’ll take care of you, Rose.”
“Oh, of course,” Celia said sarcastically. “Drawing sketches of ladies’ dresses and hats all day. What kind of living will you make?”
“He’ll be a designer,” Rose said, coming to Hugh’s defense, as she always did.
“A seamstress?” Celia asked, and laughed.
“No, a haberdasher,” William said, and laughed too. He always defended Hugh too, his only son, playing along with Celia because he wanted to keep peace in the house, but getting his own way in the end.
“Maybe I’ll be an artist and draw Gibson girls,” Hugh said.
“I don’t think you’ll replace Charles Dana Gibson,” Celia said. It was true, Hugh’s drawings were nothing special, and he really didn’t care.
“Of course I won’t. They’ll be called Smith girls,” Hugh said with a smile.
“Enough nonsense,” William said. “We all know Hugh is going to go to college in two years, to Brown University, and he won’t be in trade, or an artist; he’ll be a doctor or a lawyer or a banker. It’s important for a son to do better than his father.”
“You do perfectly well, Papa,” Hugh said.
“But I never went to college. Wouldn’t you like to learn how to be a secretary, Rose?”
“No.”
“Typing and shorthand?”
“No, thank you, Papa. If you want me out of the house I can get a job helping in a shop.”
“I think you’ll go to school and learn to be a teacher,” William said. “That’s settled. Celia will find out how to go about it.” He held out his cup. “More of your delicious coffee, please.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back, enjoying it, content that he had solved their problem.
So, despite her objections, Rose began to teach first grade. Actually, she liked it, and the children liked her. Celia felt Rose made an appealing picture there in the schoolroom, surrounded by nice little faces: an advertisement for a future wife and mother, should any young man care to look. Unfortunately, most female teachers didn’t marry, either unwanted or too independent, Celia didn’t know, but she still kept up hope for Rose. She was an attractive young woman—fresh-faced, well-groomed and neat despite her depression—and it was a shame, Celia thought, that Rose still believed she was living
Romeo and Juliet.
What if the boy had lived, for goodness’ sake? Did Rose think that life was so perfect they would never have fights, never lose their radiant good looks, not have money troubles, not get sick and old and fat, not lose children? Did she actually think they would still be holding hands and kissing when they were fifty? She could tell Rose a thing or two about the stupidity of love and the practicality of companionship, but what was the point? Celia had never thought Rose liked her very much. Oh, Rose was polite and did all the right things, never forgot a birthday, even gave her a card on Mother’s Day, but Celia felt that no matter how many of the right things she did to ensnare Rose’s affections, Rose’s dead mother was still there, keeping her ghostly
“We can manage,” Celia said brightly. She smiled at Daisy and Harriette. “These little hands are ready to help me now, aren’t they, girls?”
The girls nodded enthusiastically; they loved to help like big girls, playing house, playing their future lives.
“Rose, do you need a job?” Hugh asked.
“I didn’t know I did,” Rose said. She sipped her coffee. She hardly ate lately, and was too thin, Celia thought.
“I think you could be a teacher,” Hugh suggested. “You’re lovely with children.”
“She would need a teacher’s certificate,” Celia said. She looked at William. “You could send her to school for that.”
“Teaching is good,” William said. “A good career for a woman to fall back on when she’s older and everyone in her family is gone.”
Rose glared at him.
“I won’t be gone,” Hugh said cheerfully. “I’ll take care of you, Rose.”
“Oh, of course,” Celia said sarcastically. “Drawing sketches of ladies’ dresses and hats all day. What kind of living will you make?”
“He’ll be a designer,” Rose said, coming to Hugh’s defense, as she always did.
“A seamstress?” Celia asked, and laughed.
“No, a haberdasher,” William said, and laughed too. He always defended Hugh too, his only son, playing along with Celia because he wanted to keep peace in the house, but getting his own way in the end.
“Maybe I’ll be an artist and draw Gibson girls,” Hugh said.
“I don’t think you’ll replace Charles Dana Gibson,” Celia said. It was true, Hugh’s drawings were nothing special, and he really didn’t care.
“Of course I won’t. They’ll be called Smith girls,” Hugh said with a smile.
“Enough nonsense,” William said. “We all know Hugh is going to go to college in two years, to Brown University, and he won’t be in trade, or an artist; he’ll be a doctor or a lawyer or a banker. It’s important for a son to do better than his father.”
“You do perfectly well, Papa,” Hugh said.
“But I never went to college. Wouldn’t you like to learn how to be a secretary, Rose?”
“No.”
“Typing and shorthand?”
“No, thank you, Papa. If you want me out of the house I can get a job helping in a shop.”
“I think you’ll go to school and learn to be a teacher,” William said. “That’s settled. Celia will find out how to go about it.” He held out his cup. “More of your delicious coffee, please.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back, enjoying it, content that he had solved their problem.
So, despite her objections, Rose began to teach first grade. Actually, she liked it, and the children liked her. Celia felt Rose made an appealing picture there in the schoolroom, surrounded by nice little faces: an advertisement for a future wife and mother, should any young man care to look. Unfortunately, most female teachers didn’t marry, either unwanted or too independent, Celia didn’t know, but she still kept up hope for Rose. She was an attractive young woman—fresh-faced, well-groomed and neat despite her depression—and it was a shame, Celia thought, that Rose still believed she was living
Romeo and Juliet.
What if the boy had lived, for goodness’ sake? Did Rose think that life was so perfect they would never have fights, never lose their radiant good looks, not have money troubles, not get sick and old and fat, not lose children? Did she actually think they would still be holding hands and kissing when they were fifty? She could tell Rose a thing or two about the stupidity of love and the practicality of companionship, but what was the point? Celia had never thought Rose liked her very much. Oh, Rose was polite and did all the right things, never forgot a birthday, even gave her a card on Mother’s Day, but Celia felt that no matter how many of the right things she did to ensnare Rose’s affections, Rose’s dead mother was still there, keeping her ghostly