Mary, Mrs. John Falconer, Grandma’s youngest child, had always been
a bit her favourite. Mary still lived in St. Louis, where she had
gone after her marriage. The Falconers had four children, two sons
of eighteen and fourteen, two daughters, sixteen and eleven. John
Falconer, a lawyer of moderate means, was quite stingy in family
matters. Although he had a great deal more money than Fred, the
family occupied a much smaller house, though it was modern and in
a good neighbourhood, and Grandma had to share the bedroom of the
two daughters. Mary’s family had an advantage over Fred’s in having
one maid, who did all of the cooking and washing and some of the
cleaning, so there was not so much for Grandma to do. Grandma felt
that she should have been very happy with the Falconers. But they were
disagreeable people to live with. Grandma tried not to see their faults
but it was not easy for her to be contented during her visits there.
The Falconers had the habit of criticism. Nothing was ever just
right with them. Mary always told Grandma that if it hadn’t been for
Grandma’s encouragement she would never have married John Falconer—if
she had waited she probably could have done much better. John Falconer
was a former Lexington boy whom Mary had met when he was visiting
his old home. Grandma didn’t remember that she had encouraged the
match except to tell Mary that John was a nice boy and would probably
make a good husband—Mary had been the one who seemed enthusiastic.
But, somehow, Grandma was blamed whenever John showed disagreeable
characteristics.
Mary was dissatisfied with her social position, with the amount of
money John gave her to spend, with her children. She spoke slurringly
of Albert and “his rich family who are in society.” Mary would ask
Grandma innumerable questions about the way the Albert Cunninghams
lived, copy them when circumstances permitted and later bring the
unused bits of information into the conversation, with disagreeable
slurs.
“I guess Albert wouldn’t call this dinner good enough for him, would
he? It’s a wonder you are satisfied here, Mamma, without a butler to
answer the door or a maid to bring breakfast to your room,” or “It’s a
wonder Albert and Florence wouldn’t do something for Irene. I bet she’s
a lot smarter and better looking than their stuck-up daughter. But not
a thing does he do for her, except send a little box on Christmas—gave
Irene a cheap wrist watch last year—you could buy the same kind right
here in St. Louis. He could keep it for all I’d care.”
The four Falconer children were badly brought up and noisy. They
interrupted each other or all talked at once. At meals they reached
across the table for dishes of food. The one maid had had no training
and, as she did the cooking, her waitress duties consisted of putting
bowls and platters of food on the table. Then John Falconer made a
pretence of serving, always, after one or two plates, he’d “pass the
things around so you can all help yourselves.”
As there was no attempt to show Grandma any special favour—she was
never served first, the first plate going to the person in the greatest
hurry to get away, frequently Tom the eldest son—usually when the bowl
or platter reached Grandma there was little left for her. Grandma
didn’t mind this, unless the food happened to be a favourite—she had
become accustomed to little sacrifices while raising her family. There
was always enough bread and butter.
What Grandma did object to at Mary’s was the spirit of unrest, the
unkindness, the disagreeable taunts of the family, the noise and
disorder. Every one criticized Grandma, calling her attention to
the way she held her fork, though their own manners were frequently
insufferable. They criticized, too, Grandma’s pronunciation of words,
idioms of Lexington, and errors in grammar. These were made much of and
repeated, with laughter. Then, too, if Grandma showed ignorance of any
modern appliance or invention, this was thought to be a great joke and
was introduced as a titbit in the table conversation.
Grandma darned all of the stockings at Mary’s—there always seemed to be
a basketful—and took care of the bedroom in which she slept, relieving
the two girls of an unwelcome duty. She straightened the living-room,
for Mary hated housework and grumbled about it and the overworked maid
never quite got through her round of duties. But Grandma was not too
busy at Mary’s. She liked having something to do. It was the taunts
that made her unhappy, the little barbed things the family said. John
Falconer made Grandma feel that she was an actual expense, that the
amount of food she ate was a real item in the household budget. Mary
came to her with little whines about the relatives—though they lived in
other cities and paid little attention to her—about her husband, how
stingy he was, how much better she could have done, had she not taken
her mother’s advice in her marriage, about the children, how much money
they spent, how they quarrelled with each other, how disobedient they
were. Grandma always went from Mary’s home to Fred’s, and though she
knew the work that awaited her, the tired hours in store, she actually
looked forward to the next visit.