“Not DeLord?” The major frowned in surprise.
“Yeah, DeLord,” Turtle confirmed sourly. “I never figgered he’d suck up to Warren after the colonel was buried.”
Turtle looked stricken. He swallowed furiously, glancing nervously at the major. The major stared back at him angrily, his eyes snapping, and awkward silence settled on the room. I still wasn’t up to discussing Dad’s death, particularly with Turtle. And obviously the subject was as painful to the sergeant as it was to me.
“Is that
Dad’s footlocker upstairs?” I asked.
Both men turned sharply around to glare at me. The major recovered first.
“Yes, it is, Carlysle,” he said quietly. “I spotted it at Division HQ and had it sent on with mine. Some idiot painted my name over it. The key should have been sent back with the other personal effects.”
“Yes. I have it with me,” I admitted before I realized this was exactly the information he wanted.
“You’ll want to go through it, to make sure everything’s accounted for.”
“Yes, I will. When it warms up upstairs.”
“Sure,” the major agreed easily. I didn’t miss the looks they exchanged as I rose to clear the dishes.
“I need some sacktime, Major,” Turtle announced, kicking back his chair. He caught it with an experienced hand before it clattered to the floor.
“Colder’n a cold upstairs,” the major corrected himself.
“Oh, Turtle can use my room for a while,” I suggested “It’s warm in there and this kitchen is a positive disgrace even for a KP-less major.”
“Good,” exclaimed the major, rising purposefully. “I’ll build a fire now in the back bedroom. Take the chill off.”
They stomped away, glad to be out of my company. Merlin trotted off with them, infected by my irritation with the male sex. He gave me a backward look, chastened and reproachful. I didn’t call him back but I wasn’t angry with him.
CHAPTER FOUR
My female Scotch forebears probably regarded my day’s work with as much satisfaction as I did. I literally peeled accumulated scum off cabinets, walls, floors, pots, pans, cans, bottles, glasses. I cursed unknown predecessors for slovenly habits even as I ignored the plain fact that probably the house had been untenanted for several years. I knew that Regan Laird had not been back from Europe for very long but even he must have been aware the kitchen was incredibly dirty.
Mother Bailey, Turtle’s mother, had always scrubbed, caroling a lusty revival hymn in time with her strokes. It had been part of her philosophy that singing hymns was prayerful and being prayerful made work go faster, combining two virtues at one and the same time, rewarding doubly. I had spent two years with her in West Roxbury just after Mother’s death, until I was school age. I know those few years were my happiest although I missed Dad sorely. However, I had uncles and aunts and cousins and grandparents galore. Ma Bailey’s favorite for floor scrubbing was “Rock of Ages” which could set the crockery rattling as her volume increased in direct proportion to the amount of mud and dirt on the floor. She had a fine resonant contralto and her one criticism of her religion was that the Catholics had few decent “tunes” for scrubbing. As a matter of fact, she confided in me shortly after I came to her that she had felt it on her conscience to be singing Protestant hymns and had taken the matter up with her parish priest. Looking back, I can see the humor of the situation and wonder how the priest had managed to control his mirth at such a question. Ma Bailey did receive the dispensation although she was scrupulous about choosing “nondenominational” anthems and avoiding any which mentioned the Trinity or the Virgin Mary. I might have turned Catholic in that household had I not heard how Turtle got his voice. Or rather, got the one he now used.
Despite all latrine gossip to the contrary, Master Sergeant Edward Bailey’s voice was not the product of years of parade ground drilling nor was his undammable flow of blasphemy the result of frustration with “stupid squads.” Born in Boston just before the turn of the century, of poor but honest folk, young Edward Bailey had been a handsome lad, a devout Catholic and, as soon as he was old enough, an altar boy. The parish priest had noticed the lovely quality of young Ed’s voice in the repetition of the responses. It became apparent by the time he was ten that he was possessed of a naturally sweet, true soprano. He was quickly exploited and became known throughout the Boston metropolitan area, singing at high masses, weddings, funerals, association meetings, and such, billed as Boston’s McCormack, a true Irishman. A brilliant career was projected for him, including entrance to a fine Catholic high school and college.
One evening, on his way home from a music lesson, a bunch of roughs, out on the prowl for any Irishman they could “put in his place” (for those were the days of the terrible Irish pogroms in Boston) attacked him, beating him so severely about the face and throat that his voice box was smashed and his face so brutally mutilated he bore no resemblance to the old tintype his mother cherished of her Eddie.
For months after the incident he could barely talk. But his early vocal training gave him one advantage, he could force air from his diaphragm for a semblance of speech. Gradually he was able to use his vocal cords again but the glorious voice was gone. The Church, without noticeable regret, canceled the scholarships. At sixteen, a battered-faced, embittered boy had lied about his age and enlisted in time to fight in the first World War. He had wanted to die but fate had assigned him to my father’s first command. A comradeship was established at that Plattsburg training camp which had lasted my father’s lifetime and seemed to spill over to include me.
Child though I was when I heard that story, I knew who had hurt my Turtle Bailey the most and the Catholics lost me. Turtle was even then my special haven. As a matter of fact, I was responsible for the nickname. Somewhere, somewhen, a biblical phrase had been repeated in my hearing, the one about “And lo, the voice of the turtle was heard in the land.” I’m told that I asked Sergeant Bailey if he had a turtle’s voice and once the notion stuck in my mind, I never got rid of it.
Ma Bailey always claimed that one of the fringe benefits of floor scrubbing was solving problems. It only solved one of mine today, cleaning the floor. But I did cast the problems up and down, around and sideways, which could be considered the first step towards solving them. If you happened to be of an optimistic nature.
My first problem was staying on in this house. Then finding out what was going on between the major and the sergeant. Did it have to do with my father? And why? Did it have something to with the burglar? The footlocker?
The floor was drying. The walls and the cabinets were sparklingly clean and everything within them. The rest of the house was too cold to assault with mop and pail except for the bathroom. So I launched a major offensive against it, whipping it into a sanitary state in next to no time. I came back to the nice clean kitchen and slumped down in a chair, to revive myself with coffee and mull over dinner. In Ma Bailey’s lexicon, cleanliness was next to godliness but food was what a man wanted next to him. At least, that was the version I learned at six.
I brought the chickens in from the back porch, the poor things. I must tell the major, war or not, he was not to patronize again whoever sold him those birds. They’d obviously been running around since the last war. The only decent thing to be done with them was stew. As I recalled it, Turtle was partial to my dumplings. At the moment I had no desire to satisfy my guardian’s preferences. Then, too, there was nothing like a full stomach to tempt a man to lose his discretion.
My years of boardinghouse living had had several hazards. One was that if the proprietress was widowed or single, she made a play for my father. This usually began with intense concern for the well-being of his daughter, with much discussion about my lack of feminine skills such as housekeeping, cooking, and sewing. I don’t know whether I learned to cook in my self-defense or Father’s but I also don’t remember not knowing how to cook. Once each new aspirant discovered me versed in fundamentals, she would undertake to instruct me in fine points so I had acquired culinary arts above the ordinary. In fact, I earned all my spending money now cooking, with two regular dinner jobs a week and two lunchtime positions.