Unmentionables. Laurie Loewenstein
Deuce’s two-story house, with its cedar shakes painted forest green and a wide-columned porch was considered substantial by Emporia standards. Three hoary chestnuts shaded the front lawn and a narrow strip of concrete led from the porch to the sidewalk. To one side was an open lot, waiting for Emporia’s steady progress in the form of another solid middle-class manse.
On the other side, one step closer to town, was the Lakes’ boxy four-square with its coat of whitewash where the never-married Tula kept house for her brother Clay. Devoid of trim work and shutters, its shallow porch and four rooms per floor held a certain charm for townspeople who were nostalgic for the rural life. It brought to mind Emporia’s farming roots when this shady street, now grandly renamed Mount Vernon Boulevard, had been known simply as Route 7 and was used by farmers, like Deuce’s grandfather, to bring crops to town. Even now, a cornstalk sometimes sprang up between the brick paving stones as long-dormant kernels, dropped from wagons, made up their minds to germinate.
Deuce’s father had left the farm but not gone far, just six miles into town, to clerk for the railroad. But every summer he sent Deuce’s older sisters out to Grandpa’s. Deuce was the youngest of six, the only boy. He was still a toddler when the two oldest caught typhoid out at the homestead. The undertaker’s wagon carried them back into town, along this very street.
He gazed abstractly down the embowered boulevard. Maybe I’ll telegram the Springfield editor today and get permission to reprint that piece on adulterated milk. But his courage wavered when he thought of angering his advertisers and his father-in-law.
At the fork, where Mount Vernon slanted eastward, Deuce veered onto State, with its closely packed row of storefronts. A stranger in gray pinstripes, aggressively employing a toothpick to his molars, was lounging in the doorway leading to the second-floor photography studio owned by Tula’s brother Clay. There was something unsavory about the man’s stubbled cheeks. Deuce considered questioning the fellow about what his business was, when a voice from behind broke through his thoughts and the stranger was forgotten.
“Sure looks fine,” Alvin Harp, the garage owner, was saying, pointing to the canvas banner slung across the street, shouting, Chautauqua Week, August 12-19, in a fancy font.
Deuce grinned. “Surely does. Emporia has done herself proud.”
“Those too.” Alvin gestured with his chin toward the red and yellow placards in the window of Fitzer’s Market.
A wagon bumped down the street pulled by two mules. A lanky farmer with shirtsleeves rolled up held the reins beside his straight-backed wife in her best Sunday dress. In the back, four youngsters gripped the sides, ogling the store windows.
Deuce said, “I’d say Chautauqua is just about the best thing to ever happen here. First of all, it brings the farm and town folk together, and then there’s the educational . . .”
His voice continued, but Alvin’s gaze drifted past Deuce’s shoulder to a lanky Negro in overalls walking toward them. Everyone called the man, who was a janitor at the depot, Smitty. As Smitty approached, Deuce’s editorializing ran out of steam. He pulled a watch out of his vest saying, “Better get to the typewriter.” Alvin smirked, anticipating what was to come. Deuce was turning toward the Clarion when he caught sight of the colored man.
“Oh, uh, think I’ll go over to the post office first, though, and make sure Helen picked up the mail. See you tonight in the tent,” Deuce called over his shoulder. He hurried across the street, scarlet staining his cheeks. Alvin and everyone in town knew the rumors of Deuce’s family history and those who were mean-spirited got a laugh over the excuses Deuce came up with to avoid crossing paths with the town’s colored population. Alvin ambled off to the garage with a grin.
The newspaper building was owned by Father Knapp who believed in maximizing his investments whenever possible. Its exposed north wall faced a busy cross street. Over the years, Knapp had leased the wall to a succession of national concerns—Tiger Head Malt Syrup, Sweetheart Bread, and Coca-Cola—to use as a sign board. This went against the grain for Deuce, who believed that local products should command the town’s allegiance. But asking Father Knapp to take a smaller profit was out of the question.
The painted Coca-Cola advertisement had been shucking off the building’s raw bricks for a couple of months. Turning the corner, Deuce saw that was about to change. A sign painter and his helper were noisily hoisting a plank and themselves up the side of the building with rusted pulleys. Upon learning from the men that the new ad would be for U-Needa Biscuits, another big-time outfit, he threw the front door open with a bang.
“Morning, fellas,” he called gruffly to the two young salesmen hunched at desks behind the counter. He took the iron stairs two at a time up to the newsroom. By the time he reached the top, he’d cooled down a little. The room was already thick with cigar smoke that clung like bacon grease to the rows of desks and stacks of old editions. Helen was at her place in the far corner. A potted geranium occupied her side-facing window that was now festooned with scaffolding ropes. The first time he’d laid eyes on Helen, Deuce was working at the print shop. Winnie Richards, as she was known then, came in to order calling cards. She’d recently moved to Emporia from Chicago with her father, George Knapp, the town’s local-boy-made-good, and her young daughter, Helen. Her father let it be known that Winnie had been married to an up-and-coming banker who died of yellow fever when Helen was only three months old. The alternate version, passed around the town’s watering holes and sewing clubs, was that the baby’s father was the son of a prominent family, but had a drinking problem and was crushed to death by a train when he’d passed out on some railroad tracks. Deuce was behind the print shop counter when Winnie entered with Helen, a toddler wearing a frilly cap and a serious expression. Something about the little girl’s grave brows contrasted with the silly bonnet had captivated him.
Smiling at this long-ago memory, Deuce approached her desk. “You’re an early bird.”
She lifted her head from the open accounts book. “Remember? I’m leaving at three to set up the women’s booth at Chautauqua?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
Jupiter, the office dog, emerged stiffly from under Helen’s desk. He made a show of rearing back to stretch his front legs before shoving his narrow snout into Deuce’s palm.
“Any word on Mrs. Elliot Adams? Did she break anything?” Helen asked.
Deuce shrugged. “Things were still buttoned up tight when I passed Tula’s just now.”
Helen frowned at the ledger and erased an offending entry. “You should check on her. Include it in the article.” She brushed crumbs of rubber onto the floor.
He pointed at her and snapped his fingers. “Good idea.” He turned on his heel.
Helen nodded approvingly. One of the positives, the only positive, about remaining in town, was her role in nudging Deuce toward making the Clarion a real newspaper.
A volley of clattering sounded outside her window and she saw a pair of muscular hands pulling hard on a scaffolding rope. The rope was threaded through two pulleys that squealed in protest as they were set into jerky motion. A shock of black hair appeared above the sill—with another screech, the head and upper torso of a young man in white painter’s coveralls. His thick hair needed trimming and his eyes were squinty—like one of N.C. Wyeth’s sunburned pirates on the plates in Treasure Island. From the other end of the plank, a voice shouted, “That’s it!” and the young man tied off the rope. Helen was staring when he suddenly turned and grinned, displaying brilliant white teeth against tan skin.
“Hello there,” he said. “Admiring the view?”
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Helen answered, her words clipped.
“Well, I’m enjoying the scenery, and I’m not talking about out there,” the painter said, poking his thumb toward the buildings in back of him. He grinned again and his ears rose slightly. “Guess we’re going to be neighbors for a day or two. I’m Louie Ivey.”
Helen