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Or, “In the past twenty years, Egypt has been ruled by a khedive, a sultan, a king, and a constitutional monarch whose parliament has just been spanked and dismissed. Throughout all these, the British have maintained order, but they will receive no thanks for it. And if the radicals succeed in gaining Egypt for the Egyptians? It will be chaos. The Egyptians couldn’t organize a beer festival for themselves.”
Or, “Agnes, the war had nothing to do with the archduke! It was pla
Not everything was serious, for dear little Rosie was always with us, waddling along with a sailor’s rolling swagger. In stores or cafés that catered to Europeans, she was welcome; elsewhere Karl would bluff his way in with her or wait outside while I explored on my own.
With so much walking, you might have thought that dog would be as slim as six o’clock, but Karl persisted in feeding her from the table, and she got tubbier by the day! She’d stretch up and go pitty-pat on his knee. He’d lean down to put his ear close to her delicate muzzle. “Can you hear, Agnes?” Karl would ask me, his eyes sparkling. “She is saying, Baksheesh! Baksheesh!” And then he’d slip her another bit of pita or a shred of lamb. Once I returned from a museum visit to find Rosie fast asleep in Karl’s arms, flat on her back with her short legs twitching. “She is dreaming of ancient times,” Karl whispered with soft solemnity, “when sausage dogs were tall.” Then he added thoughtfully, “Foolish, isn’t it? Such love we squander on these little dogs …” By the end of the week, it was hard to tell whom the hussy loved better, Karl or me!
Whether by accident or design, neither of us mentioned our families. I had no interest in learning what I did not wish to know, and Karl did not speak of his daughter again. Then, one afternoon, we were sitting in an outdoor café when a rare pair of pariah dogs slunk by. Rosie tried to pick a fight with them, barking from the high ground of my knees. When the strays had been driven off by the waiters, I said, “She has no idea how small she is! My theory is that dogs believe they are the size of whomever they bark at, which is why small dogs are so fierce and big dogs are often gentle.”
“That could be true,” Karl replied. “When I was a boy, we had also a big sheepdog. He disliked my Tessa very much but was frightened of her. He would gobble her food but he was a very sloppy eater, and she was able to survive on his jowl droppings. It was a terrible flaw in his plan to starve her.”
We sipped our coffees, contented in the sunshine, and Karl turned thoughtful. “Dr. Freud observed that dogs love their friends and bite their enemies. In this, he said, they are quite unlike people, who always mix love and hate in their relationships. Tell me, Agnes, what were you like as a child?”
I tried, but my story turned into Mumma’s: her widowhood, her courage, her labor and generosity. Karl listened with great attention, smiling when I confessed the pride I felt in being the “little mother” who cared for Ernest and Lillian. “Tell me about them,” he urged.
“And what of your father?” he asked next.
“Have you noticed?” he asked a few minutes later. “No matter what I ask, the answer is always ‘Mumma.’ ”
I laughed and put my face in my hands. “I know, I know! Mumma always told me, ‘Agnes! Do try to keep to the point!’ But one thing always leads me to another, I’m afraid.” And off I went again, in my rattletrap way.
Karl’s face, ordinarily open, became quite unreadable until I got to the part where Mumma sold the factory so that we girls could go to college. To my surprise, he laughed, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Agnes, your mother did not sell the factory for you and your sister! She sold it because your brother refused to work for her.”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t that—”
“But, yes! Don’t you see? Your brother knew he would be under her rule forever, so? He ran from her to the army. When her plans were opposed, she threw the factory away in anger.”
“Karl, no! It wasn’t like that at all—”
“And your sister left, just as your brother did! Do you think it is only chance that she moved so far from home?”
“But that was missionary work! Her husband was—”
“A man who could take her far from Mumma, and for an irreproachable reason,” Karl said, rendering me speechless. “Your father did just the same. He worked hard because it was his duty, but it was also an honorable way to escape his wife. He could not bring himself to abandon his family. So? He chose to work himself to death.”
“Well! That was hardly a choice,” I said huffily. “Papa had debts, Karl. He had to make good—”
“It is remarkable what people choose to do, and then insist they had no choice. You had plans to leave as well, but your Mumma cried. Some tears and paf ! You gave up your dreams.”
I had no answer for him. I was stu
“Your mother believed she was harmed when your brother left,” Karl said, “but no! That was disappointment.” He sat back in his chair and waved his pipe in the direction of an imaginary vista. “If your home has a beautiful view of a forest on someone else’s land, you may enjoy the view, but you have no right to it. It does not belong to you. If one day the owner decides to cut down all his trees for lumber, you may be disappointed, but you are not harmed. It is his, not yours, to dispose of as he wishes. Your mother acted as though your lives were hers. When your plans differed from hers, she lost a view of the future that she imagined but had no right to.” He leaned over the table, his eyes as merrily compassionate as his words were harsh. “Agnes, your mother was a tyrant.”
“Karl!” I gasped. “You don’t— How can— You’re not being fair!”
He laid his pipe in the ashtray and reached across the table to take my hands in his. “Think!” he commanded with a curious kindly insistence. “Was there ever a time when your mother did not get exactly what she wanted?”
How often had I imagined that he would take my hands? But not like that, not after saying such awful things about Mumma—about my whole family!
“The only way to end her tyra
I pulled away, and when we parted a little while later, I felt lost in a fog of anger. Back in my hotel room, I wept and paced, furious and alone except for Rosie. Karl had no right to say all that. He didn’t know Mumma or Papa, or Ernest or Lillie. He didn’t know me! He had no right to call poor Mumma a tyrant. She never asked for anything for herself. She was good and generous and hardworking. He could ask anyone in Cedar Glen. They’d all tell him that!
But I’ll bet he’s right, Mildred whispered. Sooner or later, she always got what she wanted, didn’t she? And she had kind of a mean streak.
Mumma herself was strangely silent.
Any grade school teacher knows the demonstration. Lay a bar magnet on the table. Sprinkle iron filings evenly across the surface of ordinary white typing paper. Hold the paper taut between your fingers. Carefully move the paper above the magnet, then give it a slight shake to overcome friction’s resistance.
When you set the particles in motion, the children gasp and clap. As if alive, the iron filings rearrange themselves, fa