Katie's Way

in memory of Marie, Lil, Eleanor, and Martha,

and, of course, Aunt Katie

KATIE'S WAY

CHAPTER ONE

THE PORTRAIT IN THE PARLOR

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Twelve-year-old Katie Brant stood in front of her mother's portrait. No one was anywhere near. Katie always checked and double-checked before she spoke to the large, ornately framed photograph that hung in the place of honor over the horsehair sofa in the parlor. It had been taken when Katie's mother was seventeen.

Good morning, Mama, Katie whispered.

Mary Houghtaling Brant stared silently down at her, frozen forever as she had been in January of 1906. That it was now June of 1922 meant nothing to her.

Will I look like you someday? Katie wondered. Her mother had died a few days after giving birth to her only child. This likeness and other pictures were all Katie had of her to go by, but everyone said Mary had been beautiful. Blond and blue eyed. The portrait was blurry from being enlarged and showed no colors. 

In the glass protecting the photographic print, Katie could see her own shimmery reflection. The morning sun behind her filtered through Grandmother Houghtaling's lace curtains, leaving her face in darkness and making a halo of her fine, pale hair. 

Katie stared hard at the picture, although she already knew every detail by heart. Her mother's hair was high in the front in the Gibson Girl style that had been popular when she posed for the camera. It was caught up by an enormous bow at the back. My hair is lighter, Katie thought. Her father called it corn-silk yellow. Her eyes were paler than her mother's, and her face was not as round.

She sighed. It was no use. No amount of primping and posing could make her look like Mama. Katie had lately begun to realize that she didn't take after her mother when it came to personality either.

I'm me, Mama. Is that so bad?

Grandmother Houghtaling thought so. 

Katie didn't want to dwell on her grandmother's opinions. She stared at the four strands of pearls circling her mother's throat above the lace collar of a frilly white blouse and wondered instead what kind of skirt Mama had worn on that long ago day when she went to Mr. Wood's studio to be immortalized.

If I have to have only a portrait for a mother, Katie thought, I should at least have one with hands and feet! The picture above the sofa showed only Mary's head and shoulders. 

The corners of Katie's mouth quirked, then lifted into a true smile. She already knew she didn't have her mother's feet. Katie's were long and narrow—Brant feet like Dad's. Katie wiggled her toes on the soft carpet. Maybe that was why Grandmother constantly nagged her to keep her shoes on when being barefoot was so much more comfortable.

Aunt Mattie can tell me what Mama liked to wear, Katie thought.

Her smile abruptly faded. Aunt Mattie might not remember. Katie subtracted in her head. Aunt Mattie was twenty-five.  She'd been Katie's age when her sister died.

Katie's lips slipped sulkily downward. Sometimes Aunt Mattie got very quiet when Mary's name was mentioned, almost as if she was afraid she'd speak ill of the dead. That's silly, Katie thought. Aunt Mattie never says anything bad about anybody. She pushed the disturbing idea out of her mind and spoke again to her mother's portrait.

It's the last day of school, Mama, she whispered. No one is graduating this year so we aren't having any special ceremonies, but we only have to go a half day. She glanced over her shoulder and then added, as if they were conspirators, I've made a decision, Mama. I hope you approve, because it's going to make Grandmother Houghtaling very angry.

There was a narrow gap between the curtains. Through it a single glittering shaft of undiffused sunlight had been slowly advancing across the flowered ingrain carpet. As Katie spoke it reached the gilt vase on the low table next to Grandfather Houghtaling's easy chair and shot a reflected beam directly onto the glass over the photograph. For an instant, Mary Brant appeared to wink at her daughter.

Katie grinned, taking the trick of the light for approval. Grandmother Houghtaling's anger didn't worry her. There was no pleasing Grandmother Houghtaling, even when she tried, and Katie was tired of trying. Still smiling, she blew a kiss in the direction of the portrait and hurried along to breakfast. 

After they had eaten, Katie's grandfather and two uncles left the kitchen and Aunt Mattie began the morning ritual of braiding Katie's hair. Katie sat up straight in the wooden kitchen chair while her aunt's deft fingers separated and twisted the strands, pulling them gently into place.

Grandmother Houghtaling glanced up from kneading bread dough. She was short and dumpy and bespectacled and spoke with authority. Tighter, she said.

Aunt Mattie tugged harder on the ends of one of Katie's braids. 

Tighter, Grandmother repeated.

Under her critical gaze, Katie felt Aunt Mattie's fingers fumble nervously, then drop. 

If I pull any tighter her eyes will pop out. Aunt Mattie wiped her palms on the bright percale apron she wore over her dark blue cotton dress. She was a few inches taller than her mother, and not as round, but she wore identical rimless spectacles.

Nonsense, Grandmother said. Don't grimace, Katie. You have to suffer to be beautiful.

Aunt Mattie pulled.

Grandmother smiled in tight-lipped approval and went back to her kneading. She thwacked the dough down so hard on the board that flour rose in a cloud.

Katie's eyes started to water. She squirmed in the straight-backed chair, reminding herself that, if her plan worked, this would be the last time she'd have to suffer.

Finally Aunt Mattie stopped tugging. The worst is over, she said cheerfully. Where are your ribbons?

Katie slid off the chair and fetched them from atop the small table next to the platform rocker by the window. After a sidelong glance at her grandmother, who was too intent on her task to notice what Katie was doing, she also picked up the thick Sears, Roebuck catalog.

She had looked at page 199 so often that the heavy book fell open to the display of Quality Sweaters by itself. Silently, as Aunt Mattie fashioned the bright red ribbons into bows, Katie pointed to the model marked E and lovingly ran a finger over her short, curly, blonde bob. The sweater she was wearing cost $2.98.  The hairstyle wasn't priced.

Aunt Mattie peered at the catalog over Katie's shoulder. One rough, work-roughened hand reached up to tuck a loose strand of her own mouse-brown hair back under her dust cap. Katie saw the gesture and felt a twinge of pity.

I'm already pretty, she thought, but poor Aunt Mattie will never be beautiful. Not only was her face plain, it was also pockmarked, and although she did have nice brown eyes, they were hidden by the spectacles.

On a soft sigh Aunt Mattie took the wish book out of Katie's hands and closed it firmly. You know how your grandmother feels about short hair.

Katie knew. The subject had come up before. Grandmother Houghtaling had declared that Mary would never have considered such a thing.

No amount of pouting or pleading was likely to change her mind. Katie's mother was the standard by which Katie's grandmother weighed everyone else, especially her daughter's daughter.

Katie echoed her aunt's wistful sigh. People said her mother's hair had been so long she could sit on it, and that it had been shiny and thick, not fly-away like Katie's.

Leila will be here any minute, Aunt Mattie reminded her. You don't want to keep her waiting.

Her doe-like eyes were full of sympathy, but Katie knew it was no use asking Aunt Mattie to cut her hair. That would mean going against Grandmother's wishes. Aunt Mattie never did that, no matter how much she might want to.

I'm going.