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!