Chapter II

Now it was the old lady’s birthday. She thought of it the first thing in the morning when she woke up. She dressed a bit hurriedly as if something were going to happen. She put on a clean morning dress of black and white percale, stiffly starched and, over this, a blue and white checked gingham apron.

She went to the kitchen to straighten things up. There were a lot of dishes for Lu and Phil had brought some boys home after the movies and Fanny had prepared a rarebit for them, using, as is the way of all amateur cooks, quite three times too many dishes.

The old lady had the oatmeal done and the table set, though, when the family came down, one at a time, for breakfast, first Minnie, then her husband, then the boys. Fanny didn’t often appear at breakfast.

No one congratulated the old lady on her birthday, though she made a great point of birthdays and they knew it. However, it is easy enough for a family to forget things like that. So, when they were all at the table, making sucking noises over their oatmeal—no one spoke much at meals at the Potters’—Grandma announced, primly,

“To-day’s my birthday.”

“So it is,” said Herman, and, with an appearance of great gallantry put his napkin on the table, arose and went around to the old lady’s place. He kissed her with quite a smack.

“Congratulations and good wishes,” he said, which the others echoed. Then,

“How old are you, Ma? Over eighty, I know. Quite an age. I’ll never live to see eighty.”

“I’m eighty-two,” said the old lady.

“Don’t think for one minute, Ma, that we forgot your birthday,” said Minnie. “You know that we ain’t. Only this morning, hurrying about breakfast and all, it slipped my mind. I got something for you two weeks ago at the Ladies’ Aid Bazaar. You’d rather have it at supper time, wouldn’t you?”

The old lady nodded.

“Yes, I would,” she said.

It was the custom of the family to have rather a birthday celebration at the evening meal. They were usually together then and gifts were heaped up at the celebrator’s plate and there was a cake.

“You’re all going to be home to dinner?” asked Minnie. The men nodded.

When the men left the table, Minnie followed them out into the hall and whispered little warnings to them about “not forgetting something for Grandma” and answering whispers of “can’t you do it for me, Ma?”

The day passed as the old lady’s days generally passed. In the morning she helped Minnie with the birthday cake. It was a chocolate cake, of which the old lady was not especially fond, but the boys all liked chocolate. There was a white icing on it and they stuck marshmallows on that. The old lady hoped not to get a marshmallow—they stick to your teeth so when you wear a plate. There were to be ten candles on the cake, for ten happened to be the number of candles left over from Elbert’s Christmas tree, and you can’t possibly put eighty-two candles on a cake, anyhow. The candles were of several colours.

Minnie commented on the beauty of the cake when it was finished. She let the old lady see how good the family was to her. It isn’t every old lady of eighty-two who has a birthday cake.

About ten o’clock Fanny and Elbert appeared. The old lady brought their breakfast into the dining-room. Fanny and Minnie were going calling and shopping and were going to take Elbert with them. Usually they left him at home with the old lady. He was rather a spoiled child.

Then Fanny and Minnie dressed. The old lady bathed Elbert, who cried because she got soap into his eyes. This annoyed Fanny.

“For Heaven’s sake, Gramma, don’t get him cross,” she scolded. “We’re going to meet Mrs. Herron and Grace for lunch, and I want him to act nice. He’ll be in an awful temper if he starts crying.”

The old lady didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything when Elbert pinched her as she was trying to button his suit. She put on his blue reefer and the cap like a sailor’s, and buttoned his leggins, though she did wish he’d sit still while she did the buttons.

At half-past eleven the others left and the old lady was alone. She peeled the potatoes for supper and put them in water, she straightened up her room, swept the dining-room, dusted a bit, threw away last night’s newspapers.

At half-past twelve she went into the kitchen for a bite to eat. She could always “feel when lunch-time came.” Minnie usually said, when she went out, “There’s always plenty in the ice-box for lunch,” and the old lady never contradicted her, though she always felt rather sure that Minnie had made a mistake.

Now, she found a dish of pickles—she did not care for pickles—some eggs and some blackberry jam. She was rather fond of eggs but she was afraid that if she did eat one or two of them, Minnie might say something about “never seem able to keep an egg in the house.” Eggs were high, just now. So the old lady buttered two slices of not especially fresh bread rather sparingly and spread a little jam on them. She made herself a cup of tea and ate her lunch sitting at the oilcloth-covered table.

She brushed the crumbs off the table, washed the few dishes, went up to her room for a nap. She liked to sleep, when she had a chance, afternoons.

She woke up, an hour later. A long afternoon stretched in front of her. Still, all of her afternoons were long—mornings—evenings, too. She had heard, years before, that time would seem to fly by when you get old. It didn’t. Still, there couldn’t be many more days now—eighty-two.

She put on her best dress of black silk, with cuffs and collar of lace that Helen had sent years before. Helen—she was some one to think about. Helen—Martha’s daughter. Helen was young and lovely and had everything. Twice the old lady had gone to visit Helen. She never felt at home with Helen at any time. Helen’s maids were trained automatons; Helen’s home was full of strange formalities. Helen’s days were full of unusual things. Helen herself, perfectly groomed, cool, impersonal, looked eighteen, though she’d been married six years, did not seem like a human being at all.

It was nice of Helen having her old grandmother visit her, the old lady knew that. She never talked much to Helen, never knew what to say, yet she loved her with a strange yearning that she never felt toward any one else—maybe because the others were so jealous of Helen, of everything she did. The old lady didn’t especially like to be at Helen’s—she was so afraid of doing the wrong things—yet, though she never figured it out, Helen seemed to belong to her, was more a part of her than any of the others could be. Maybe because she was Martha’s child. Martha had always been so much more to her than any of the others.

With fingers that trembled a little, the old lady fastened her dress, the dress that was new the last time she visited Helen. She smoothed her hair with the old brush one of the boys had given her. She looked at the things on her dresser, the cover she had embroidered in violets—they were her favourite flower—the daguerreotype of her and her husband, taken the year they were married, holding hands unashamed. It was coloured, the old lady’s cheeks pink and her brooch shining gold. There was a snapshot of Helen on horseback, a stiffly posed picture of little Elbert, a picture of Phil in sailor uniform—he had gone into the navy just before the draft law was put into effect.

The bell rang. The postman!

With quick little steps, the old lady hurried to the door, smiled at the postman as she always did when she took the mail from him and said something about “a cold day,” even while she was anxious to close the door so that she could look over the mail. A letter for Herman from an insurance company—a picture post-card—a letter in a lavender envelope for Fanny—a post-card from Roger—a letter from Kansas City—Morris’ wife’s writing—yes—she trembled a little—a letter from Helen. She recognized the pale grey envelope, the deeper grey seal. The women Minnie and Fanny went with didn’t use grey sealing wax with a crest stamped into it nor grey monogrammed paper—they didn’t live in Chicago nor wear lovely pale clothes—didn’t do anything the right way.

The old lady put the mail, excepting her post-card and two letters, on the hall table, took hers to her room. Morris meant all right—he and his wife—good people in their way—she was glad Morris was doing well—

Helen’s letter! She opened it carefully, tearing off the edge in little bits so as not to tear the contents. The old lady got few enough letters. She never knew you could take a letter-opener to them. She took out the letter. There was an inclosure, but the old lady let that lay in her lap while she read Helen’s rather smart writing.

She smiled, read it again, put the letter back into the envelope, looked at the bit of paper on her lap—a cheque—twenty-five dollars.

Helen!