Seriously. They put a little disclaimer up at the top, but it’s one of his own people giving Billy all this front-page coverage.”
“Oh, I know, it’s awful,” Mattie agreed. “We’re such hayseeds out here.”
“Listen to this headline,” Mamah said incredulously. “‘The dance is a sexual love-feast!’ Now I’ve got to read the thing. Let’s see…seems the Reverend Sunday met a woman at one of his revivals in New Jersey. Oh, it gets good here.
“‘She had hair like a raven’s wing,’ said Reverend Sunday, ‘a Grecian nose and great big, brown eyes, oval face and olive complexion, and long tapering fingers—a girl that anyone would turn to look at a second time, the prettiest girl that I ever saw, except my wife.’”
“He calls his wife ‘Ma.’ Isn’t that sweet?” Mattie interjected.
“Ma Sunday’s no fool.” Mamah laughed. “She travels with him. Makes sure he keeps the old tallywhacker tucked in.”
“She must know he has a weakness for tapered fingers.”
“‘She loved to do it,’” Mamah read on, injecting a lascivious tone. “‘I found her on her knees crying and I said to her: “What is the matter?” She said, “I love to do these things that you preach against.” “You mean adultery?” “Oh, no, no!” “You don’t drink whiskey, do you?” “Oh, no!” “What is the matter, then?” “Well,” she sighed, and said, “I love to dance.” ’”
Mattie laughed helplessly. “You know this isn’t going to end well.”
Mamah’s eyes skimmed down to the bottom of the column. “And sure enough, here it is. Seems she went to a dance, went home with a married fellow whose wife was away, and died in his house because he had spliced together the gas stove’s rubber hose with a garden hose.”
“Not a very bright fella, I’d say.”
“It’s all that ‘Sinners in the hands of an angry God’ business I can’t bear,” Mamah said. “We laugh, but some people read this newspaper and actually believe it.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Hand me that paper.”
Mamah passed the newspaper over to Mattie.
“Two rolls of White Rose toilet paper cost fifteen cents on sale at Crittenden’s. I choose to believe that. Wilson Hardware is having a little puzzle contest just for girls.” Mattie turned a page. “Hmmm…the program at Chautauqua tonight has your name written all over it. They’ll be playing opera songs on the Victrola and showing stereopticon pictures of the singers. Sounds wonderful.”
“I don’t know.”
“Ah, here we are. ‘Michigan University alumni will swim and feast at Eldorado Springs Saturday. It will be a joint outing of the Rocky Mountain Association and the Woman’s U. of M. Club.’” Mattie put down the paper and looked at Mamah. “There. You have no excuses to mope around.”
“I haven’t been moping, have I?”
“Well, given the circumstances, you could be worse. What I mean is that you’re doing what you’ve always done, darlin’. You ruminate too much. Just go out and do something new. You can leave the children here anytime.”
“All right,” Mamah said. “All right.”
CHAPTER 13
I n July, Edwin’s letters began to arrive at the boardinghouse. Written on Wagner Electric stationery, they all said the same thing.
I love you. I forgive you. We can overcome anything.
Mattie’s husband Alden arrived home just after the Fourth with fireworks from San Francisco. He held his own independence celebration on July 6, setting off Roman candles and blazing yellow stars that chirped like orioles in the middle of the street. The children hopped up and down on the lawn, squealing while the neighbors cheered wildly. Mamah realized Alden was something of a romantic figure in Boulder, a “dashing” gold miner, if such a type existed.
During the week he was home, Mamah took dinner with him and Mattie. One night when Mattie trundled off to bed early, Alden offered Mamah wine in the den.
“Just a touch,” she
“Oh, I know, it’s awful,” Mattie agreed. “We’re such hayseeds out here.”
“Listen to this headline,” Mamah said incredulously. “‘The dance is a sexual love-feast!’ Now I’ve got to read the thing. Let’s see…seems the Reverend Sunday met a woman at one of his revivals in New Jersey. Oh, it gets good here.
“‘She had hair like a raven’s wing,’ said Reverend Sunday, ‘a Grecian nose and great big, brown eyes, oval face and olive complexion, and long tapering fingers—a girl that anyone would turn to look at a second time, the prettiest girl that I ever saw, except my wife.’”
“He calls his wife ‘Ma.’ Isn’t that sweet?” Mattie interjected.
“Ma Sunday’s no fool.” Mamah laughed. “She travels with him. Makes sure he keeps the old tallywhacker tucked in.”
“She must know he has a weakness for tapered fingers.”
“‘She loved to do it,’” Mamah read on, injecting a lascivious tone. “‘I found her on her knees crying and I said to her: “What is the matter?” She said, “I love to do these things that you preach against.” “You mean adultery?” “Oh, no, no!” “You don’t drink whiskey, do you?” “Oh, no!” “What is the matter, then?” “Well,” she sighed, and said, “I love to dance.” ’”
Mattie laughed helplessly. “You know this isn’t going to end well.”
Mamah’s eyes skimmed down to the bottom of the column. “And sure enough, here it is. Seems she went to a dance, went home with a married fellow whose wife was away, and died in his house because he had spliced together the gas stove’s rubber hose with a garden hose.”
“Not a very bright fella, I’d say.”
“It’s all that ‘Sinners in the hands of an angry God’ business I can’t bear,” Mamah said. “We laugh, but some people read this newspaper and actually believe it.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Hand me that paper.”
Mamah passed the newspaper over to Mattie.
“Two rolls of White Rose toilet paper cost fifteen cents on sale at Crittenden’s. I choose to believe that. Wilson Hardware is having a little puzzle contest just for girls.” Mattie turned a page. “Hmmm…the program at Chautauqua tonight has your name written all over it. They’ll be playing opera songs on the Victrola and showing stereopticon pictures of the singers. Sounds wonderful.”
“I don’t know.”
“Ah, here we are. ‘Michigan University alumni will swim and feast at Eldorado Springs Saturday. It will be a joint outing of the Rocky Mountain Association and the Woman’s U. of M. Club.’” Mattie put down the paper and looked at Mamah. “There. You have no excuses to mope around.”
“I haven’t been moping, have I?”
“Well, given the circumstances, you could be worse. What I mean is that you’re doing what you’ve always done, darlin’. You ruminate too much. Just go out and do something new. You can leave the children here anytime.”
“All right,” Mamah said. “All right.”
CHAPTER 13
I n July, Edwin’s letters began to arrive at the boardinghouse. Written on Wagner Electric stationery, they all said the same thing.
I love you. I forgive you. We can overcome anything.
Mattie’s husband Alden arrived home just after the Fourth with fireworks from San Francisco. He held his own independence celebration on July 6, setting off Roman candles and blazing yellow stars that chirped like orioles in the middle of the street. The children hopped up and down on the lawn, squealing while the neighbors cheered wildly. Mamah realized Alden was something of a romantic figure in Boulder, a “dashing” gold miner, if such a type existed.
During the week he was home, Mamah took dinner with him and Mattie. One night when Mattie trundled off to bed early, Alden offered Mamah wine in the den.
“Just a touch,” she
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