Free Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir by Doris Kearns Goodwin Page B

showed it to me. On the contrary, she took great pride in being a housewife and seemed to enjoy her inviolable routine. On Mondays and Wednesdays, Frank, the Dugan’s Bakery man, came with fresh bread, coffee cake, and cupcakes; on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the milkman, whose name was Ray, arrived at the back door with glass bottles of Evans’ milk, which came with a layer of cream on the top that had to be scooped out with a special spoon. On Fridays, the chime of a bell signaled the arrival of the iceman, with large rectangular chunks of ice held between sharp metal tongs; a second bell heralded the man who sharpened knives and scissors, the sparks flying from the grindstone against which he held the blade. We had a Monitor refrigerator in our pantry, a Bendix washer in the basement, and a pentagonal clothesline in the backyard where our clothes were hung out to dry. My mother presided over the myriaddetails of life, deftly orchestrating the well-being of our household to the rhythm of the seasons: storm windows went up and down, slipcovers were put on and taken off, winter clothes were stored with mothballs, summer rugs replaced winter rugs, and the awnings were put up and removed.
    Because she was such a methodical housekeeper, my mother had plenty of time to read her beloved books, walk to the corner stores, or visit with neighbors. I never sensed that she was bored or lonely. She always took special pains to put on fresh lipstick and to comb her hair when she knew that my father was on his way home. As soon as she saw him coming down the street, she began preparing the Manhattan cocktails which they shared every single night of their married life as they sat together on our porch and talked about their day. She seemed to grow more vibrant as they talked, asking him questions about work, and listening with unwavering interest and sympathetic understanding. He in turn asked her what she had done, whom she had talked with, and what she had read. When, occasionally, I listened to them talk, I could sense their love for one another, which made me happy, though I felt jealously excluded from their conversation. Indeed, so special was their ritual cocktail hour that my father never drank another Manhattan after my mother’s death.
    These repetitive days seemed fulfilling for my mother. But I could never be sure. I was unable to share her interior life as she shared mine, a barrier strengthened, I suspect, by her illness. She must have known that her heart was growing weaker each year and worried about how much longer she would live. Not wanting me to know her fears, she rarely talked about her illness, never revealing to me what must have been a continual preoccupation. Yet, despite the weakness and fragility of her body, my motherstamped her personality in every alcove and corner of every room.
    For as far back as I can remember, she was the overseer of some project in our house: a change of wallpaper in the bedroom, new paint in the kitchen, a new slipcover for the couch in the living room. My father was the work force for all these projects: painting the walls, hanging the wallpaper, and building the rock garden that my mother planted. After working with figures all week long, he relaxed on the weekends by working with his hands, and took pride in the tools he had assembled over the years. We used to tease our parents that when they both got to heaven we could expect that the sky would be a different color each day, with Mother giving orders and Dad doing the painting.
    For the most part, I was little more than an eager witness and cheerleader for these activities. One summer, however, when I was about six, my father rented a steamer to take the old wallpaper off the dining-room wall. Intrigued by this strange machine, I volunteered my services, and then, when my suggestion met little enthusiasm, I pleaded for a chance to try it. Reluctantly, my father gave me the steamer, and with a little yelp of enthusiasm, I proceeded