“What’s the matter?” I asked.
Don said, “I was shaving and suddenly my shoes were full of water and the pipe came apart and dropped down below the floor and water was spurting up. I finally found the pipe and put my finger in it but for God’s sake hurry and shut the water off.”
“Where is the shutoff?” I asked reasonably.
“How in hell should I know,” Don shouted. “Curtis put it in.”
Then, Joanie who was home from school with a sore throat and/or history test, said, “I think it is outside my window. I’ll go and see.”
In a few minutes she announced that it was the shutoff and she had turned the water off. Don took his finger out of the dike and stormed down to call Curtis. Mrs. Curtis answered the phone and apparently told Don that Mr. Curtis was lying down. Don yelled, “Get him up. Get him to the phone.” Apparently she told Don it was Mr. Curtis’ back because Don yelled, “His back’ll hurt a lot worse after I get hold of him.” So Mrs. Curtis finally said she’d have him come right up.
Don and I explained to Mother, who was visiting us but had as yet not experienced all of the pleasures of island living, about Mr. Curtis, his weak back, need for brandy, loose connections, and so on. I actually believed that Mother thought we were exaggerating, but she promised to see to everything. That night when we got home Mother said, “Well, Mr. Curtis came. He limped in, introduced himself and asked me if I had any brandy. I said no so he said he’d have to go to Vashon and get some as his back was hurting. He came back after a while with a strong breath and two pints. I took him upstairs, pointed out the trouble in both bathrooms and went downstairs. In about three minutes he came down and told me everything was fixed. I said, ‘How about that pipe in Betty and Don’s bathroom?’ He said, ‘All fixed. But say, Mrs. Bard, tell them not to brush against it.’”
Mother asked him if he had fixed the shower in the girls’ bathroom and he said yes and so Mother asked him to test it. He said sure so he and Mother went into the girls’ bathroom and he pointed at the bathtub and said, “See, everything’s okay here now.”
Mother said, “Turn on the faucets, I want to see if they work.”
“Well, sure,” said Mr. Curtis, sitting down on the edge of the tub in his polo coat and Fedora. “But it’s not necessary. I put in bell top crossers and street elbows.” (I think those are the terms, but of course it might have been California trap crosses or flow flanges.)
Mother said, “Turn on the faucets.”
“Well, okay,” said Mr. Curtis reaching over and turning on both the hot and cold water full force, “but it’s not necessary.” Just then the shower, on fine spray, went sssssssssssss all over Mr. Curtis’ polo coat and Fedora.
Mother said Mr. Curtis looked very hurt. “I can’t understand it,” he said. “Everything is tight as a drum. Maybe it’s the sissom joints.” He took a drink of brandy out of the bottle he had in his right coat pocket.
Mother said, “I’m going to stay right here in this bathroom while you fix those faucets.”
Mr. Curtis said, “My coat’s all wet, I might catch cold and I’ve got a bad back.”
Mother said, “It must be the valve that releases the shower.”
“Say, you got something, Mother,” Mr. Curtis said, taking another drink of brandy for his bad back.
Mother said, “Fix it,” and he did finally so that anybody equipped with a wrench could have a shower or a tub as they wished.
Then came the trouble with the septic tank. We were made aware of the fact that there was trouble in rather a harsh fashion. It was on a weekend with eight houseguests, two of them under two. Saturday afternoon we (that is all of us who weren’t chained to the sink) were lounging around in the living room watching the fire and listening to (it was nap time) a Brahms symphony, Toscanini conducting. The record player was turned to full volume so every instrument came through very clearly. Especially one that made a strange gurgling sound, like an oboe filled with spit.
After a while I noticed that the gurgling sound was accompanied by a distinct splatting noise. Then both noises were supplemented by the remarkably penetrating sound of a toilet running over.
I yelled for Don who came unhurriedly upstairs, lifted the copper ball in the back of the toilet and stopped the water. Then everybody was upstairs and somebody confessed to flushing a didy down the toilet.
Several people said, “Call a plumber.”
Don said, “Don’t call Curtis. Look in the phone book.”
I looked in the Vashon phone book, but the yellow section under P produced only Paint Dealers, Painting Contractors, Photographers, Physicians, Plasterers, Plastics, Printers and Pumps.
I called a neighbor. She gave me the number of her plumber. I called him but his wife said he was at church and wouldn’t work on weekends anyway. I asked her if she knew the name of any plumber who would work on weekends. She said, “Yes, call Mrs. Grisert at 3478 and ask her if Henry has came home from war.”
I did and he hadn’t, but Mrs. Grisert gave me the number of her plumber. I called him. His number didn’t answer. I asked the operator if she knew where he was. She said yes, he was in Mexico, but she gave me the number of her plumber. I called him. He said he would come Monday if he could squeeze me in. I told him that this was Saturday and water was running down the front stairs but he said he couldn’t come until Monday, adding cheerfully, “Don’t use the toilet until I get there.”
Mr. Olsen came at seven-thirty Monday morning and by six-thirty Monday night he had chipped away all Mr. Curtis’ wife’s cement and exposed the sewer pipe clear to the septic tank. Tuesday he lifted the blocks in the patio and exposed the septic tank. He removed the blocking didy—then recovered the septic tank and pipe to the accompaniment of constant admiring demands that Don and I “yust look at dem tees, yust look at dem yoints, yust look at dem nipples—I never seen so many,” but that was the last we ever saw of him. Moved away I guess.
Now when we want plumbing we call the television man who relays the information to a friend of his who is reputed to do odd jobs including plumbing, but I wouldn’t vouch for this as I have left him at least a hundred calls which he hasn’t answered and anyway Don gave me my own plumber’s snake for a valentine.
Next we had the sprinkler system installed. Up to the time we got ours (unconsciously apt expression), my conception of a sprinkler system was a lady in a lavender voile dress lying on a chaise longue on the cover of The Small Home Owner’s Weekly. The lady’s left hand was wrapped around a glass of lemonade and/or gin—her right around a small brass handle protruding shyly from the floor beside her. Surrounding the lady’s chaise longue in every direction was a Kelly green mohair lawn, roughly about thirty acres of it. At about three-foot intervals all over the lawn, sprinkler heads were tossing crystal showers of water into the sunshine.
We got Bubby Hadlock of North Beach to install our sprinkler system. I showed him the picture of the lady but he said, as we had hardly any lawn and lived on a hill besides, our problem had to be handled differently. It certainly did. Bubby put copper pipe and sprinklers all over the place but arranged for each one to be operated independently if you are able to find them. Also the little handles are very close to the ground, well really in the ground, so you cannot take hold of them, and they must be hammered on and off. Also so located that when the lady in the lavender dress has crawled up the hillside, scrambled under the lilac, pushed aside the azaleas and found the —— —— valve, she is in for a surprise because good old Bubby placed all the sprinkler heads just above the valves and when they are turned on they soak first the operator, then the wisteria tree, the arborvitae, etc.
It is really not fair to lump Warner Yamamoto in with the island handymen because he was not really an islander nor handy. We got hold of him through the United States Relocation Center, a sort of clearing house for the Japanese who had been interned. This was just before we left for our trip to New York. Don and I felt very sorry for the returning Japanese who coul
d not find places to stay and so we offered our house for the six months we would be gone. We offered the house and a dollar an hour for any work Warner did while we were gone.
As I remember time was very short, as Warner did not show up until half an hour before we were to leave, but I did manage to give him a few instructions such as: “You might divide this enormous clump of Siberian iris and clear off that hillside.” Of course I meant clear off the weeds.
We were in New Mexico when we got a rather frantic letter from Mother saying, “Are you planning to cement the bank in front of the house? Warner has cleared off every living thing and is smoothing the dirt with a trowel.” The next report was received in Dallas, Texas. “No need to cement the bank,” Mother wrote. “Warner has divided the iris and is setting it out, spear by spear in neat rows over the entire bank. The place is beginning to look like a rice paddy.”
Our first card from Warner came in Los Angeles. It said,
Am thanking God for opportunity to stay in this beautiful place. Earthquake did not do too much damage.
Your friend,
WARNER YAMAMOTO
Wildly we called home. What earthquake, they asked? We haven’t had any. Don said it must have been the wash from an aircraft carrier pounding the beach.
The next card was received in Tampa, Florida. It said,
Am thanking God for opportunity to be in this beautiful country. Still raining. Big slides not too near house yet.
Your friend,
WARNER YAMAMOTO
We called home. Mother said, “An old snag fell across the road. It brought down a little dirt but Cleve has cleared everything away. The place really looks like a rice paddy now. Warner has now taken everything out of all the rockeries, including those heathers from Scotland, and thrown them away. He has almost finished filling the crevices with iris spears.”
But Warner Yamamoto did have a green thumb and now we have more Siberian iris than Wayside Gardens. He also had a very pretty wife who spoke little English, had obviously never held a broom in her mothlike hands, but wished to help me with the housework, so Warner informed me, after we had come home and cleaned the house and they had settled elsewhere on the island.
As the female counterpart of the handyman is much more difficult to come by—island people being very proud and housework being considered menial, which it certainly is—take it from a menial who knows—I naturally snapped up Fumiko with no questions asked but several answered such as—How much pay an hour? Not do windows? Eight o’clock morning okay? Scrubbing floors too hard, yes? Not expect in rain? When important company come, Fumiko dahnse? She do both crassikar and moderne—take twenty minute, okay?
The first morning Fumiko staggered in with an armload of Japanese records and old photographs. For several hours we sat on the couch and looked at faded pictures of indistinct people who all looked exactly alike. Occasionally Fumiko would say, “Mama,” and point at one tiny figure in an enormous group of tiny figures in front of a temple. “Mama beautiful,” I would say politely, pronouncing each syllable loudly and clearly and pointing at what I thought was Mama. Fumiko would burst into giggles. “That Papa.” “Well,” I’d say, standing up, “I guess we had better get started.” “More picture,” Fumiko would say, quickly turning the page. “See, brozzer.”
When we finally finished that batch of photographs she took out the records and her fans. To “Oh Beautiful Hiroshima in Cherry Blossom Time” (I think) she performed a long long series of small steps and angular postures. Then it was lunchtime. While she watched, I set a place at the kitchen table, heated some soup, made a tuna fish sandwich and opened a can of peaches. While she was eating, I sneaked out the back door and went down to the beach. Japanese people are notably polite and I thought that Fumiko thought that as long as I was in the house she must entertain me. About two o’clock I looked up from the beach and saw all the living room rugs hanging over the railing of the porch. “Ah, that’s more like it,” I said to Tudor.
At five-thirty when I came up from the beach the rugs were still on the railing, the living room chairs were all lined up in rows as if we were expecting Billy Graham, the floor had not been swept, the lunch dishes were on the table, and from our bathroom upstairs I could hear a voice humming “Oh Beautiful Hiroshima in Cherry Blossom Time.”
At six-thirty, Warner came for Fumiko. She was still upstairs—the rugs were still on the railing. He called to her in Japanese and she came tripping down and began gathering up her photographs and records. Warner said to me, “Le’s see—eight o’clock to six-thirty—that ten dollah fifty cent plus one dollah cah fah.”
After they had gone I went upstairs—none of the beds had been touched, crumpled towels still littered the bathrooms, the mirrors were splattered with toothpaste, but the brass fixtures on our bathtub had been polished until they looked like gold.
That night I sat down at my typewriter and typed out a long list of things I expected Fumiko to do. The next morning I gave it to Warner and told him to read it to Fumiko in Japanese.
He did and all the time he was reading she giggled hysterically. I did not think that “Take ashes out of living room fireplace—Bring in the rugs—Wash and wax kitchen floor,” and so on, was very funny but perhaps it gained something in translation.
Fumiko worked for me for five months or rather I worked and she performed. I finally did teach her to make beds, wash dishes, mop floors and wash windows after a fashion, but I couldn’t make her bring in the rugs. I finally resigned myself to the fact that I was up against sort of an oriental superstition.
Marlene wore striped mechanics coveralls and used water and ammonia on everything. Don complained because the couches and rugs were always damp and the girls said the house smelled like the bus-terminal toilet but I couldn’t let Marlene go because there wasn’t anybody else and, anyway, her two sons were in the service and her husband was in a mental hospital. As she put it, “Boris’s real sick in the head.” She finally left to work at Boeing and as soon as the house had dried out a little I got Margaret, who was very pretty but had a low I.Q.
Margaret demanded long handles on all tools and used a gallon of wax a week. One day I found her waxing around a slice of bread on the drainboard. What was worse she was using the floor applicator with the long handle. “Margaret,” I said sternly, “I’ve told you again and again that when you wax around a slice of bread you should use a cloth.”
Each Monday, Wednesday and Friday as Margaret ate her lunch, she told me about her boy friends. She had hundreds. One day she said, “Mrs. MacDonald, you wanta know why I got so many boy friends?”
I said, “I imagine it is because you’re so pretty.” (It certainly couldn’t have been her brain.)
“Uh-uh,” she said, taking a reflective bite of oatmeal cookie. “It’s because I like ’em to git fresh with me.”
I told her that with an attitude like that she was wasting her time on Vashon Island. She should go to Hollywood.
She laughed but she quit soon after that without notice or any reason, just failed to appear ever again. I heard that she had left the island. I am still checking the movie magazines’ new faces departments for a picture of Margaret captioned probably, “Cecile Lamont—fascinating new French import.” Cecile says, “I have leetle Eenglish but many many boy friends.” (Hollywood version of “I like ’em to git fresh with me.”)
CHAPTER XI
BRINGING IN THE SHEAVES
ACCORDING to tidbits I have picked up from my reading over the past twenty-five years, it seems to be an accepted fact that the happy woman is the woman who has some interest other than bearing children and the subsequent washing and ironing and cooking and sweeping. These back-breaking tasks, thrust upon her with her wedding ring, are her lot and she is expected to perform them with willingness, dispatch and quiet efficiency, but, we are told, the discussion of them is not interesting to the husband—that lucky pup who goes downtown every day to meet new people and eat in restaurants.
&nbs
p; If you want to keep your husband’s love, so say the instructions, you should always look pretty, be fun, keep your house immaculate, get up and cook your husband’s breakfast, and have outside interests. There is one thing to be said for this state of affairs—it offers a challenge—a challenge about as easy as getting along with Russia.
When we moved to Vashon Island my outside interest was working for that contractor.
It was an outside interest, though, and I could fill up the evenings telling my husband and children how tired I was, how incompetent everybody else in our organization was and how much cabbage was selling for in Alaska. Then in February my sister Mary decided that I should become a writer and introduced me to an editor who told me to bring him a five-thousand-word outline of my book. Never having dreamed of writing a book I was not as quick with the outline as I might have been. In fact, I had to stay home from work to write it and some pal in the office told the boss what I was doing and I was instantly fired and thus became rather unwittingly an author. The job of being a lady writer not substantiated by any regular salary has always been regarded by my family with the same tolerant amusement they accord my efforts toward making my own Christmas cards. “All I ask,” I tell them, “is one quiet spot where I can write.” (This is a lie, of course, and they know it. What I really want is a million dollars so I won’t ever have to write another word.)
When I am writing I itch and hate my family, especially during that painful period known as “getting into the book,” when I am trying to decide whether I shall be Marcella Proust or Thomasina Wolfe and know I shall end up being Betty MacDonald and sobbing over nasty reviews. Thank goodness, I am not alone in this, because I read The Cost of a Best Seller by Frances Parkinson Keyes and another book about writing by Kenneth Roberts and they had their feelings hurt—in Europe too. Apparently the only writer who is never sorry for himself is Ernest Hemingway and according to a recent article by his wife, he is not only well adjusted but usually stripped to the waist. I have tried writing in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, our bedroom, the guesthouse, the porch, the patio—it is always the same. I am first last and always a wife and mother and must stop whatever I am doing to—“try and remember where you left the big screwdriver”—“I am up in Vashon and I lost the list—what was it you wanted?”—“read the directions and see if Weevil Bait can be used for slugs”—“give me the recipe for chicken in olive oil and wine”—“I’m bringing the children over for the weekend.” . . .