Through playing chess with my father and, shortly, with Woodrow as well, Mr Bronson managed to see me, en passant, almost every day. He volunteered as assistant Scoutmaster for the troop at our church... then drove Brian Junior and George home after Scout meeting the next Friday night - which resulted in a date with Brian junior for the following afternoon to teach him to drive. (Mr Bronson owned a luxury model Ford automobile, a landaulet, always shining and beautiful.)
The following Saturday he took my five older children on a picnic; they were as charmed by him as I was. Carol confided to me afterwards: ‘Mama, if I ever get married, Mr Bronson is just the sort of man I want to marry.'
I did not tell her that I felt the same way.
The Saturday after that one Mr Bronson took Woodrow downtown to a Hippodrome Theatre matinee to see the magician Thurston the Great (I would have been delighted to have been invited along; stage magic fascinates me. But I didn't dare even hint with Father watching me.) When Mr Bronson returned the child, asleep in his arms, I was able to invite him inside as Father was with me, lending his sanction to the meeting. Never once during that strange romance did Mr Bronson enter our house without Father being there and then publicly present.
Once when Mr Bronson fetched Brian junior back from a driving lesson, I invited him in for tea. He enquired about Father. Learning that Father was not home, Mr Bronson discovered that he was already late for an appointment. Men are more timid than women... at least in my experience.
Brian arrived home on Sunday 1 April, and on the same day Father left on a short visit to St Louis - to see my mother I assume, but Father never discussed his reasons. I could have wished that Father had stayed at home, so that Brian and I could have taken a little journey to nowhere, while Father guarded the tepee and Nancy did the cooking.
But I said nothing about this to anyone, as the children were as anxious to see their father and visit with him as I was to get him alone and take him to bed. Besides... Well, we no longer had an automobile. Before leaving for Plattsburg this time Brian had sold El Reo Grande.
‘Mo,' he had said, last year, leaving in April, it made sense to drive to Plattsburg; I got lots of use out of the Reo there. But only a fool would attempt to drive from Kansas City to upstate New York in February. Last year in April I had to be pulled out of the mud three times; had it been February I simply would not have made it.
‘Besides,' Briney had added, with his best Teddy Roosevelt grin, I'm going to buy us a ten-passenger car. Or eleven. Shall we try for eleven?'
We tried for eleven but failed to ring the cash register that time. Briney went off to Plattsburg by train, with a promise to me that when he got back,' he intended to buy the biggest passenger car available - a seven-passenger, if that was the biggest - and what did I think of a closed car this time? A Lexington seven-passenger sedan, for example? Or a Marmon? Or a Pierce-Arrow? Think about it, dear one.
I gave it little thought as I knew that, when the time carne, Brian would make his own decision. But I was glad to know that we were going to have a bigger motor car. A five passenger car is a bit cramped for a family of ten. (Or eleven, when I managed to catch.)
So, when Brian got home on 1 April 1917, we stayed home and did our lovemaking in bed. After all, it isn't necessary to do it in the grass.
That night, when we were tired but not ready to go to sleep, I asked, ‘When must you return to Plattsburg, my love?'
He was so long in answering that I added, ‘Was that an improper question, Brian? It has been so long since ‘98 that I am unused to the notion of questions that may not be asked.'
‘My dearest, you may ask any question. Some I may not be able to answer because the answer is restricted but far more likely I won't be able to answer because a first lieutenant isn't told very much. But this one I can answer. I don't think I'll be going back to Plattsburg. I'm sufficiently sure of it that Ididn't leave anything there, not even a toothbrush:
I waited.
‘Don't you want to know why?'
‘My husband, you will tell me if it suits you. Or when you can.'
‘Maureen, you're too durned agreeable. Don't you ever have any female-type nosiness?'
(Of course I have, dear man - but I get more out of you if I am not nosy!) ‘I would like to know.'
‘Well... I don't know what the papers here have been saying but the so-called "Zimmerman telegram" is authentic. There is not a chance that we can stay out of the War more than another month. The question is: do we send more troops to the Mexican border? Or do we send troops to Europe? Or both? Do we wait for Mexico to attack us, or do we go ahead and declare war on Mexico? Or do we declare war first on the Kaiser? If we do, do we dare turn our backs on Mexico?'
‘Is it really that bad?'
‘A lot depends on President Carranza. Yes, it's that bad; I already have my mobilisation assignment. All it takes is a telegram and I'm on active duty and on my way to my point of mobilisation... and it's not Plattsburg.' He reached out and caressed me. ‘Now forget war and think about me, Mrs Mac Gillicuddy:
‘Yes, Clarence.'
Two choruses of ‘Old Riley's Daughter' - later Brian said, ‘Mrs Mac, that was acceptable. I think you've been practising.'
I shook my head. ‘Nary a bit, my love; Father has watched me unceasingly - he thinks I'm an immoral woman who sleeps with other men.'
‘What a canard! You never let them sleep. Never. I'll tell him.'
‘Don't bother; Father made up his mind about me before you and I ever met. How are the Plattsburg pussies? Tasty? Affectionate?'
‘Hepzibah, I hate to admit this but... Well, the fact is.... didn't get any. Not any.'
‘Why, Clarence!'
‘Honey, girl, they worked my tail off. Field instruction and drills and lectures in the daytime, six days a week - and surprise drills on Sundays. More lectures in the evenings and always more book work than we could possibly handle. Stagger to bed around midnight, reveille at six. Feel my ribs; I'm skinny. Hey! That's not a rib!'
‘So it isn't; it's not a bone of any sort. Hubert, I'm going to keep you in bed until we get you fatted up and stronger; your story has touched my heart.'
‘It's a tragic ore, I know. But what's your excuse? Justin would have offered you a little gentle exercise, I'm certain.'
‘Dearest man, I did have Justin and Eleanor over for dinner, yes. But with a house full of youngsters and Father a notorious night owl I didn't even get my bottom patted. Nothing but a few gallant indecencies whispered into my horrified ear.'
‘Your what? You should have gone over there.'
‘But they live so far away.' It was a far piece even by automobile, an interminable distance by streetcar. We had first met the Weatherals at our new church, the Linwood Methodist, when we moved into our home on Benton Boulevard. But that same year, after we got on friendly but not intimate terms with the Weatherals, they moved far out south into the new J.C. Nichols subdivision, the Country Club district, and there they switched to an Episcopalian church near their new Nome, which put them clear out of our orbit.
Briney and I had discussed them - they both smelled good - but they had moved too far away for much socialising, and they were older than we and clearly quite well to do. All these factors left me a bit intimidated, so I had moved the Weatherals to the inactive file.
Then Brian ran into them again when Justin tried to get accepted for Plattsburg; Justin had given Brian as a reference, which flattered him. Justin was turned down for officer candidate training - a damaged foot, an accident that had maimed him before he learned to walk. He limped but it was hardly noticeable. Brian wrote a letter, urging a waiver; it was not granted. But as a consequence Eleanor had invited us to dinner in January, a week before Brian left for Plattsburg.