be. And now it was too late for any of those other things. “Elvira Nolan is one of the loveliest human beings I have ever known,” Mother said. “But let’s face facts. Who would want to wake up next to that nose?”
Grandmother never said, “That’s what you get for flying too high,” but the words were always there, floating above her head like a little thought-balloon. She didn’t want anybody to have anything and I thought she was the nastiestwoman in the world, but Daddy said I had to be understanding. “She’s had a hard life, Boo,” he said but I didn’t care, I didn’t think that entitled her to begrudge other people their lives.
Grandmother’s life was hard because her husband died when Mother was only two. Great-grandmother MacPherson took care of Grandmother and Mother, even though she hated Grandmother, giving them money and a place to live, but Grandmother never got remarried and she said it was Mother’s fault, that nobody wanted to marry her because she had a child clinging to her skirts. I felt more sorry for Mother than Grandmother—it was bad enough, having Grandmother around at all, but it would be terrible if I didn’t have my family to act as buffers sometimes. Poor Mother had had to be alone with her, with no father to protect her, and that must have been awful.
Mother never sang any more, except at Christmas when she’d get a little tipsy and all nostalgic; we’d be singing Christmas carols and she’d open up the seat of the piano bench and pull out her old sheet music and sing the songs she sang with the band and it was wonderful, she had such a sweet, high voice, and I thought she should make a comeback, but she wouldn’t even try.
She wanted me to be a singer, like her, but fat chance. First of all, I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, as Grandmother pointed out every time she heard me singing. Last year, when I sang in the Talent Show, I could see Grandmother in the audience, with her nose all scrunched up like she was sitting on a pile of turds, leaning over and whispering to Mother, probably saying “Get the hook” or something. Poor Mother was sitting there, white as a picket fence, looking like she was dying of shame, and I wanted to run off the stage and flush my head down the toilet, but what could I do? Iwas already up there, with my head full of lather and the music playing “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair,” so instead of trying to sound like Mary Martin, I just concentrated on the motions, doing a goofy take-off and turning it into a comedy, deliberately missing the notes and acting like I’d got soap in my eyes. Everybody was laughing like crazy and when I finished Miss Hildegarde told me it was the best number in the show and everybody congratulated me, except Grandmother, who wanted to know how I could get up there and make a moron of myself. And Mother, who was so stunned all she could say was, “But Maggie, you have such a sweet voice when you want to, why did you do that?”
But I didn’t have a sweet voice. She did. My voice, even at its best, was loud and rough. I used to be a first soprano, but after I had my tonsils out my voice changed and I got demoted to the altos.
Thank God Daddy wasn’t there. He said he had to work, but we all knew he was taking the opportunity to stay home and play with his soldiers. It would have hurt my feelings if I’d thought I was any good, but since I already knew I was a charlatan, it was just as well he wasn’t there to see me, just in case I fell on my face.
That was the last time I appeared in the Talent Show. I didn’t even audition this year because I was in disgrace and anyway, I would have been booed off the stage before I even got started because everybody would say, “There’s that Pitts-field girl, the one who started all the trouble,” and they’d all get up out of their seats and walk out, not wanting to be in the same gymnasium as me.
I heard the sunroom door open and then
Grandmother never said, “That’s what you get for flying too high,” but the words were always there, floating above her head like a little thought-balloon. She didn’t want anybody to have anything and I thought she was the nastiestwoman in the world, but Daddy said I had to be understanding. “She’s had a hard life, Boo,” he said but I didn’t care, I didn’t think that entitled her to begrudge other people their lives.
Grandmother’s life was hard because her husband died when Mother was only two. Great-grandmother MacPherson took care of Grandmother and Mother, even though she hated Grandmother, giving them money and a place to live, but Grandmother never got remarried and she said it was Mother’s fault, that nobody wanted to marry her because she had a child clinging to her skirts. I felt more sorry for Mother than Grandmother—it was bad enough, having Grandmother around at all, but it would be terrible if I didn’t have my family to act as buffers sometimes. Poor Mother had had to be alone with her, with no father to protect her, and that must have been awful.
Mother never sang any more, except at Christmas when she’d get a little tipsy and all nostalgic; we’d be singing Christmas carols and she’d open up the seat of the piano bench and pull out her old sheet music and sing the songs she sang with the band and it was wonderful, she had such a sweet, high voice, and I thought she should make a comeback, but she wouldn’t even try.
She wanted me to be a singer, like her, but fat chance. First of all, I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, as Grandmother pointed out every time she heard me singing. Last year, when I sang in the Talent Show, I could see Grandmother in the audience, with her nose all scrunched up like she was sitting on a pile of turds, leaning over and whispering to Mother, probably saying “Get the hook” or something. Poor Mother was sitting there, white as a picket fence, looking like she was dying of shame, and I wanted to run off the stage and flush my head down the toilet, but what could I do? Iwas already up there, with my head full of lather and the music playing “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair,” so instead of trying to sound like Mary Martin, I just concentrated on the motions, doing a goofy take-off and turning it into a comedy, deliberately missing the notes and acting like I’d got soap in my eyes. Everybody was laughing like crazy and when I finished Miss Hildegarde told me it was the best number in the show and everybody congratulated me, except Grandmother, who wanted to know how I could get up there and make a moron of myself. And Mother, who was so stunned all she could say was, “But Maggie, you have such a sweet voice when you want to, why did you do that?”
But I didn’t have a sweet voice. She did. My voice, even at its best, was loud and rough. I used to be a first soprano, but after I had my tonsils out my voice changed and I got demoted to the altos.
Thank God Daddy wasn’t there. He said he had to work, but we all knew he was taking the opportunity to stay home and play with his soldiers. It would have hurt my feelings if I’d thought I was any good, but since I already knew I was a charlatan, it was just as well he wasn’t there to see me, just in case I fell on my face.
That was the last time I appeared in the Talent Show. I didn’t even audition this year because I was in disgrace and anyway, I would have been booed off the stage before I even got started because everybody would say, “There’s that Pitts-field girl, the one who started all the trouble,” and they’d all get up out of their seats and walk out, not wanting to be in the same gymnasium as me.
I heard the sunroom door open and then
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