Part III: What Happens a Cappella? (Chapter 59)


M
an, I haven’t eaten a thing for five days, just orange juice and Tab, I just gotta lose that last 20 pounds. God, I hate January. It’s so hard to lose weight when it’s so cold, you can’t walk to your friends’ houses, stuck at home all day. Yuk. I’m so clambed (a new word I learned in English class today – we had to read Alan Sillitoe’s “The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner.” Ugh. I hate school).

Clambed. I just love that word. It describes my hunger exactly: a hunger so enormous, a big, black gaping hole in my gut, so vast it can suck in an entire universe. It’s the kind of hunger that makes your eyes feel big and buggy and your cheeks sunken. That’s how I feel. Except for dizziness and weakness, it’s a good feeling because your body feels light and airy, but I know I’m about to pass out if I don’t eat something solid soon. I’m so glad Nana’s not here to fuss over me. She’s such a busybody, asking me this and asking me that. I’m damned if I eat, I’m damned if I don’t.

Why can’t she just leave me alone?

All her talk about food makes me want to scream bloody murder.

Still, I’m thinking it’s maybe time to find something to nibble, but I’m so scared I won’t be able to stop, I’ve been here before, and it can get ugly. I don’t want to go out of control, but I find myself here, standing on a kitchen chair, rooting through the top shelf of the cupboard, trying to find something healthy and not too fattening, but this dump’s like a landmine filled with booby traps, ready to explode: Jolly Time popcorn, Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup, Kitty Clover potato chips, Oreos – I even find three Double Bing candy bars shoved into Nana’s spice box.

God, can’t I even find a shriveled-up apple?

What does it take to stay on a diet around here, anyway?

I’m about to grab the Bings, when I notice a corner of an envelope sticking out from under the spice box. I tug at the corner, and a yellowed envelope slides out.

The handwriting is absolutely stunning, a fancy French-style cursive:

 

From: Miss Veronica LaRue

C/O Mr. Henry F. Bacon

Otoe Street

Sioux City, Iowa

 

To: Miss Kat O’Toole

New Hampton, Iowa

Postmarked “Jan. 4, 1917.”

 

Who is Kat O’Toole, anyway?

As I try to figure out the meaning of the date, a flash:

Kat is Nana.

My hair stands on end; I never heard anybody call her Kat before. She’s always been Nana to me and all my cousins.

Kat. An alien name, so fantastic and unlikely that it would hang like a size 18 dress on Nana’s size 10 body.

It all comes together: Kat was only 16 back in 1917.

Sixteen! My age now! God, the reality of it seems so impossible; Nana’s been old as long as I can remember, and the idea of her youth burns like a sepia image engraved in my mind. She makes such a big deal of my foolish ways; she says I’m a frivolous creature, given to impulsive acts, dark moods, laziness, gluttony, immorality, the list probably goes on to include the other four capital sins (their names I can’t remember right now because my brain is starved, but I’m sure she’s seen me commit them at some point in my pointless life).

Was Nana ever frivolous? Did she like boys and worry about teenage stuff?

Did she dream about doing “it” with boys in dark closets or behind the altar in church?

I never thought about it before; I always assumed life on the farm was too harsh and busy for such thoughts: drag yourself out of bed at dawn, fire up the wood stove, feed the chickens, milk the cows, make bread, wash clothes by hand, sew clothes, make breakfast from scratch, weed corn rows – a relentless list of chores that would squash any possibility for cultivating any lustful teenage feelings, guaranteed to send your soul packing to Hell.

In the old days, even if no one didn’t have any fun, everyone was probably skinny as rails, what with all that back-breaking work.

But, now, I hold power in my hands: a letter from a “Miss Veronica LaRue, Otoe St., Sioux City, Iowa,” promising, perhaps, some juicy secrets from Nana’s past.

I tap the edge of the envelope in my palm.

Guilty pleasures, more compelling than those Double Bings.

It’s probably against the law to read someone else’s mail, even if it’s almost 50 years old. But I’m weak minded –

Besides, I have a vast history of reading secrets not my own.

I climb down from the kitchen chair.

Not the time to experience a moral dilemma.

This letter is a gift, if not from that Catholic God, then from a God of serendipity, or maybe from “Deus ex machina” (another one of those English literary terms), the God who’s determined to save me from yet another bout of gluttony.

Whatever.

Nana’s not due home for about two hours, so there’s absolutely nothing standing between me and enlightenment.

I take the letter to my room, just in case.

As I slide the letter out of the envelope, some yellowed clippings fall to the floor, but I concentrate on the letter, written in not only the most beautiful cursive I have ever seen, also the most perfect:

 

January 1st, 1917

C/O Mr. Henry F. Bacon

Otoe Street

Sioux City, Iowa

 

My Dearest Kat,

How I have missed you this New Year holiday!

I can barely stand being without you, but Mother said I had to spend this holiday with our Bacon cousins.

Whilst I am being treated well, I yearn for the ones I love, even young Jonathan, that errant sibling of mine. The Bacons send their Love & Sincere greetings (Did you receive their Christmas letter?) And your Gertie sends her big sisterly love and says she is doing well at Davidson’s, having sold much perfume and jewelry during the Christmas season.

Even as I miss you, I am enamored of the big city. Sioux City is so much alive; I have even gone riding in a flivver, officially called a “Ford Model T.”

The Bacons are very well connected; the flivver belongs to the Connolly’s, owners of a commercial bakery, Connolly’s and Sons.

They are involved in every aspect of Sioux City society. I do not like the smell of the stockyards, but I have been told by a certain young man (more on him later) that one adjusts to it.

He says, “Think of it as the smell of money.”

Oh, Kat, you would absolutely love it here. Auntie June says that jobs for young women are plentiful. One needs only a 10th grade education to find an excellent secretarial position in a good firm. Jobs go begging because young men are seeking factory jobs in Detroit and back East, doing hard labor, and earning much “mazuma” (new word for your vocabulary = money, in case you could not figure it out). Young women take the office jobs and then leave after six months to get married.

My love, you will be 16 in less than a year! Let’s think about moving here and getting an apartment together. We can find jobs at the same firm, perhaps, or at least ones close to each other.

We can earn much mazuma and be special sisters for the rest of our lives – or at least until we meet that someone special. I look so forward to our cuddling under the covers at night. How I yearn for your warmth on these cold winter nights.

Speaking of young men, I met one Chas. M. (same as previous page) at a party; he is somewhat shy but very handsome. He could be the one...but I am being foolish and very brash; I have only known him three days. You would like him. Maybe he has a brother or friend.

But, dearest, before you can think about young men, you must do something about your weight. Please do not misunderstand, my sweet cousin, you are not, by any definition, corpulent, but at the Christmas Eve Party, I noticed that you are tending toward plumpness. Whilst it is somewhat charming on a sweet 15-year-old girl who is yet to be interested in young men, a young eligible woman needs to care for her “temple.” Gertie has discovered a new diet, and she has lost over 20 pounds on it. She looks wonderful! I will tell you all about it when I see you next week.

Do not hide your great beauty under rolls of corpulence! You are so fortunate to have inherited that lovely thick red O’Toole hair, stunning cheekbones, and those wonderful green eyes. I know not where I have inherited my dark complexion, hair, and eyes – Mother says my strange characteristics come from my father’s French side (oh, those LaRues), but that rogue brother of mine has been of late calling me “Jigger,” in reference to a rather cruel word having to do with the Negro race.

I must close now; Chas. is taking me out for a carriage ride, and I must get ready.

I will be home soon, probably by the time you receive this!

 

With Much Affection & Love,

Your Veronica  

I’m so dizzy. I don’t know if it’s from lack of food or shock from what I have just read. It doesn’t matter. I drop the letter and envelope to the floor, lay flat on my bed, and close my eyes. So many questions, yet I know I can never ask Nana about Veronica without revealing I have read her mail without her permission. All kinds of thoughts race through my head, crashing into one another. It’s just too unreal to think about.

Nana on a diet?

I can’t believe she ever saw a fat day in her life. I can’t believe Veronica (whoever she is) was so mean. Pretending to love my Nana and then stabbing her in the back. Just like those catty in-crowd girls at school: sweet to your face and calling you names and spreading rumors about you behind your back. And who is “Chas. M.”? I wonder if Veronica ever married him? At least I know how Nana got to Sioux City all the way from New Hampton.

Nana’s always been a bit vague about the old days.

I rise slowly from the bed; I’d better return this letter where I got it and get something to eat. I grab the letter and envelope from the floor.

As I refold the letter and begin putting it back into the envelope, I notice something else: two yellowing clippings.

First, a news story and then an obituary from The Sioux City Journal, both dated February 15, 1929:

 

Local Woman Killed in Automobile Accident

Sioux City–A local woman died late last night in an automobile accident at W. 7th and Otoe Streets.

Veronica A. LaRue, 30, died of severe burns, after her Ford flipped several times and exploded into flames.

“I never saw anything like it,” said George Steiner, an Otoe St. resident. “It was almost as if someone had poured gasoline on that automobile.”

Steiner said he had not witnessed the actual incident.

“We don’t know why the car flipped,” said James McClelland, the investigating officer. “No ice on the road, and no fog.”

Police are continuing their investigation.

____________________

Veronica Anne LaRue

Sioux City Resident

Woman Suffrage Activist

Red Cross volunteer

Doll Collector

Sioux City – Veronica A. LaRue, 30, of Sioux City, died Wednesday at St. Joseph’s Hospital, after an automobile accident. She was the daughter of Vernon W. LaRue and Christina (O’Toole) LaRue.

Miss LaRue was born Jan.6, 1899, in New Hampton, Iowa. She worked for Connolly’s & Sons, a commercial bakery, for three years, as a secretary, retiring in Oct. 1923 because of ill health. In Dec. 1923, she moved into the Home of the Good Shepherd, where she performed light housekeeping for the Sisters.

In her later years, she amassed a collection of porcelain dolls, many of them dressed in Revolutionary War costumes.

During the Great War, she worked as a Red Cross volunteer, rolling bandages for the Medical Corps.

After Armistice Day, she began working toward passage of the 19th Amendment, guaranteeing women the right to vote. She met President Warren G. Harding twice, once in 1921 at his Inaugural, and in 1923, shortly before his death, at a White House ceremony to honor prominent Iowa women activists.

The service will be held Saturday at St. Boniface Catholic Church, at 10 a.m. Chas. and Katherine Mallory, a cousin, will sing the “Dies Irae” during the Mass for the Dead. On Friday evening, at 7 p.m., visitation will take place at Manning Funeral Home. There will be no viewing.

In addition to her parents, survivors include one brother, Jonathan R. LaRue, and five nephews and nieces.

Officiating at the service will be her pastor, the Rev. Thomas Hoolihan.

Memorial contributions may be made to the Home of the Good Shepherd, a home for unwed mothers.

 

Now I’m really confused. What happened to Nana’s cousin? Why hasn’t she ever talked about Veronica LaRue?

At least I know who Chas. is now: Pappa. But why did my grandfather marry Nana instead of Veronica?

Was Veronica skinny?

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