House of the Dying Sons
A Tale
1917
Madge sighed and pushed the few strands of hair that had managed to escape her plait out of her face. It had been a long day and it was not over yet. She was hot, and sweaty, and the cough she’d developed seemed to have gotten worse over the last week. The factory air had a way of wreaking havoc on her lungs that no amount of treatment could make it better. At least tomorrow was Sunday, she would enjoy the day off.
The walk home was quiet, and she took the time to enjoy it; her sisters would be all over her like ink on a newspaper as soon as she was home, and her mother would be grateful for the distraction.
Sure enough as soon as she walked through the door Luella was next to her talking way too fast about Jimmy Turner and the other neighborhood children, but mostly about Jimmy and how much she despised him. The twelve year old had a penchant for speaking and given the opportunity she would rarely stop long enough to breathe.
“Then he pulled my braid! Can you simply believe it? I know I cannot, and I told him just like that. How could a boy of his size possibly think it okay to be pulling on a girl’s hair like that? He is lucky he didn’t pull me over, that’s the truth. And I told him, Madgey, I told him that if he wanted to do it again he better think twice because I’d kick him right in the shin.”
Madge hung up her jacket and feigned a smile for her youngest sister’s benefit before interrupting the still continuing speech with a kiss to the forehead and ruffling her dark hair. “Take a breath, I’ll be here all night. Where’s mama?”
“She’s in the kitchen, but Madge I’m not done. So much happened today that you simply will not believe.”
“I believe it,” she replied with a wry smile before twirling the girl around and heading into the kitchen to wash up and help Mama with dinner.
“How was work at the factory?” Mama, a stout woman in her forties with greying hair and smiling blue eyes called out over her shoulder.
“Tonight went well. They say they may have to increase our hours because of the demand, but I’m not sure I can work much more. I don’t know what they’re expecting from us.”
“They’re expecting you to do your duty for your country. We need the young girls like you to take up the jobs the young men can no longer hold because they’re off fighting in the war. You know better than to question your duty, girl. Now, come help me with these potatoes.” Mama’s accent grew thicker whenever she talked about the patriotic duty of being an American, the irony of which only made Madge grin.
Nonetheless, it wasn’t worth quarreling over, and after scrubbing her hands in the sink, she picked up a knife and got to peeling.
Grace was already helping. At sixteen she had taken over most of Madge’s household duties once she’d started work at the factory, but she was still very young and most of her work was accompanied by silent attitude and cold looks shot across the room. She was a pretty thing though. Her brunette hair hung clear to her waist, and shone like firelight in the distance when the light caught her just right. She was delicate and bright, and everything her name said she would be. Madge had always been slightly jealous of Grace’s femininity, but that was neither here nor there. She loved her sister dearly, and wished desperately that her attitude would turn around.
“How was school today, Grace?” she prompted, hoping to ease the tension in the room.
Mama scoffed and wiped her hands on her apron. “Don’t you get her started again. That Miss Pritchett down at the schoolhouse has been filling our Gracie’s head here with ideas and thoughts of leaving us to go to a normal school. She thinks she wants to shirk her duties to this family and this country to become a school teacher.”
“Mama, if you would please just listen…”
“Grace Jennings, I have heard enough. Watch the pot now it’s about boiling over.”
“Mama, I don’t think you’re being fair,” Madge was careful to keep her personal feelings out of her tone. She was used to, by now, being a mediator of sorts between the younger girls and their mama. “If she was to be a teacher who is to say that she won’t come back. We sure could use the extra income, and if it keeps her out of the factory…”
“I said I’d heard enough. When your Da gets home we can talk about it as a family, but no more of this foolishness now. Come on, now. We need to get dinner on the table. The younger two should be about done with their home lessons now.”
“I’m finished, Mama.” Winifred peeked around the corner with a sheepish grin on her face. She was a sneak, that one. Had been listening to the whole conversation and everybody knew it.
Mama turned her around and scooted her toward the sink. “Get yourself washed up, girl. It’s about supper time, and you can set the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She stuck her hands in the water and got the front of her dress thoroughly wet in the process, but she didn’t seem to pay it no mind. “I wouldn’t mind going to a normal school and then coming back to teach. But really, I want to travel. See the world. Learn to paint.”
“Bah,” was Mama’s only response.
Madge laughed. “Keep dreaming, Winnie. Don’t you let anyone stop you.”
Winnie had the unfortunate design of having red hair, that looked like it might eventually turn auburn, but at the moment she was all legs and freckles and bright red hair and it had her the laughing stock of every event. The children loved to point out her faults, especially when comparing her to Gracie, but she had a spirit that just could not be pushed down. She was loud, and nosey, and Madge loved her the most out of all three of her sisters--she’d never admit to such a thing out loud though.
“Oh, I will not! One day, I don’t know when, but I will travel and I will see everything there is to see.”
The click of Da’s cane on the floor announced his arrival into the kitchen. They’d all been so distracted by Winnie’s speech that they hadn’t heard him come in the house. “Is that so now? Tell me girl, who will be financin’ your travels?”
“Oh, I haven’t figured that part out yet, Da. But maybe my husband, or my art will develop so well that I can make money painting portraits for well-to-do folk and pay for my own travels.”
“You’ll be the death of me, girlie, I tell ya that.”
It was then that Mama filled the plates on the table and called them for supper.