The Little Girl with Red Hair
Catherine Austin Alexander
My father married into a family of Swedish whores. My grandmother raised two daughters to be whores and one of these daughters turned out to be my mother, Ursula, a hefty, plain-looking, moon-faced brunette.
Ursula was my grandmother’s younger daughter. By the age of 33, she had become devoted to Pall Mall cigarettes, bottles of clear Jamaican rum and brown dresses. Sometimes she added a jade brooch to the collar of one of her brown dresses. But she owned no other jewelry except a pearl necklace. She looked more like a fat Mary Poppins than a whore and she put on brown large-rimmed hats-picture hats she called them.
Her older sister Sophia usually wore fake dome rings on her pinkie finger, a large Navaho bracelet on her left wrist to cover a birthmark, smoked Tarrytons through a black and gold cigarette holder, boasted a tan from Florida and natural blonde curls from Walter, her hairdresser. On the side, she sold a brand of cosmetics and colognes called Beauty Counselor and used an ample supply on her face and body. Her favorite lipstick was “Jungle Orchid” which she applied with a brush, blotted several times and reapplied with vigor.
My mother the whore actually married someone she met at a flower shop. To be exact, her sister Sophia owned the shop. My aunt the whore flitted around the store in Florida print wraparound dresses, rearranging displays and freshening up her rouge. She did a good business despite the depression. The store was downtown next to the city’s biggest newspaper, the Tribune. Copy editors would pop in at lunch time, get laid in the back of the shop and return to work with a bouquet for their favorite elevator operator.Besides being a whore, Grannie was a tough and tall Swede. She had a square, severe face accentuated by steel blue eyes and a tense straight mouth. During her middle fifties, Grandma had gotten into a Ford coupe when somebody slammed the door before she had time to pull in her arm. Despite several surgeries, her arm was paralyzed. But at the same time, her hand had frozen into an exquisite pose. Each finger curled ever so slightly as if she were carrying a delicate bird. Her arm, however, condensed into a weapon as yielding as a tire iron. Rumor had it that once she knocked out a guy who called her family the “Swedish Sweet Potatoes.” After all, as far as motherhood went, Grandma did what she could and in some strange way, the girls were close. Grannie’s main worry was Ursula, who, despite the harshness of whoring, possessed a tender and vulnerable heart. Grandma thought Ursula could easily develop into a dutiful wife and mother. But who would marry a whore? That was the problem.
The man who would become my father worked at the Tribune and sold classified advertising. He mostly sold ads for supermarkets and jewelers. He came in the flower shop one day to pick up a rose for a lady jeweler whom he was trying to get to advertise in the Tribune. My Aunt Sophia greeted him in her usual flamboyant breezy fashion. He didn’t much like her. She looked like a whore, he thought, with all that orchid lipstick, black mascara and bleached curly hair. Being the prudish man he was, he bought a half dozen yellow roses and passed up the offer to visit the back of the shop. My aunt figured he was a lost cause.
The next week Fritzi came for more yellow roses and this time a moon-faced woman greeted him, wearing a big hat. She showed him a healthy smile and he said, “Excuse, me, but I bought some yellow roses here last week. Do you have any more?” My mother got a little flustered but managed to explain that she didn’t exactly work there, not selling flowers at least, because her sister Sophia ran the shop, but she could show him the fresh roses in the back case. He worried a minute about Ursula’s invitation but she went straight to the display and helped him select some peach tea roses. Now she was just the kind of woman he was looking for, he thought. None of this gaudy stuff, a real lady in a brown dress with a round collar, a brooch pinned to the middle of the collar and no makeup. In fact, he thought her plain except that her hat with the big brim made her look stylish. He said to himself, this is the woman I am going to marry. And being a man of his word, he set about to do that.
By this time, my father was 39 years old. He could hardly have been called handsome or charming or particularly intelligent. His hair grew like a batch of red frizz which could not be persuaded to straighten. Despite this, he never gave up hope and wore a nylon stocking on his head each night. Without lenses as thick as Coke bottles, he couldn’t see much of anything. Even when he wore his glasses, his faded green-blue eyes squinted. His lashes were so light that he looked like he didn’t have any. He was forever saying “excuse me” or “I’m sorry” when it was up to the other party to apologize.
At the Tribune, there were 30 advertising salesmen. My father was the last to be hired in 1938. The other salesmen called him “Junior,” which of course he hated, because he was many years their senior. But then he didn’t like his real name either, which was Fritzi.
Fritzi barely got through high school. It wasn’t that he was dumb, just not particularly smart. He didn’t excel at anything, really, and grew insanely jealous of his kid brother Nick who was associate editor of Sporting News. Until Fritzi was hired on at the Trib, as it was called, he was a gofer for his brother at Sporting News. Whether he came to work or not, he received a small salary. He spent a lot of his time walking around the city by himself, never forgetting his rubbers in bad weather. After nearly twenty years of being an errand boy for his brother, he gathered up the courage to apply as an advertising solicitor for the Trib. Despite Nick’s disdain for selling classifieds (“a petty job,” he said), Fritzi was proud to be on his own at last. All he needed now was a woman, the kind he could marry.
At first, my mother the whore wasn’t impressed by Fritzi with the red frizzles and a petty job at the Trib. On the other hand, she had thought about marrying someday and having a family. She wanted her children to have a father because she and Sophia grew up without one. Besides, she wasn’t getting any younger and it was about time to stop whoring around. But seeing Fritzi that day in the shop didn’t stir any yearnings for a husband and children.
Nick and Fritzi came from a Hungarian family, the Vargas. Two and a half weeks after Nick finished high school, he changed his name from Antal Varga to Nick Taylor and headed to Sporting News where he signed on as a copy boy. He did very well and worked his way to associate editor. Women loved this six-foot Hungarian, who, in spite of a slightly bulbous nose and prominent ears, was perfectly handsome. Unlike Fritzi, he could comb his hair in a wave, parted on the side, the sun bringing out the red highlights. Appearing strong and confident, he treated women like the fragile gardenias in my aunt’s shop.
Most everyone in town knew the young blade, Nick Taylor, including my grandmother. Nick was one of the city’s most famous bachelors. Grandma was interested in getting to know him better. He might be just the man, she thought, to liberate Ursula from eternal whoredom. Grandmother had given up on the older daughter, who had definitely become a career-type. Not that Grandma minded her daughters earning a living just like she had, but early retirement in that particular profession became pretty much mandatory. Nobody wanted to hire an old whore. And no one knew that better than Grandma. So she would visit the handsome Nick Taylor, as soon as she felt it prudent.
In the meantime, Fritzi Varga embarked on a plan to make Ursula his wife. First he reviewed his assets. This didn’t take long because he barely had any. On the positive side, however, he owned a little house in a suburb west of the city. It was one of those manufactured houses-one exactly like the other-but it had an orange awning on the porch. So it stood out from the others and the lawn was nice because in the summer he mowed and watered it every week. Fritzi never told anyone, especially his brother, about the house. His mother had loaned him the money nineteen years earlier. And now the loan was nearly paid off. He was waiting for the right woman. While he was trying to find her, he lived in a rooming house downtown.
The day after he met Ursula, Fritzi went to Nick’s office As he sat down across the desk from his brother, he couldn’t help picturing his little house with Ursula in it.
“So”, said Nick, sprawled out with his wingtip oxfords on the mahogany desk, “how’s my big brother doing?”
“Okay, I guess,” said Fritz, examining a ragged cuticle.
Nick took his shoes off the desk and studied his brother’s face “Something bothering you, Fritzi?”
“Not really,” he stammered. “Just thinking.”
“Sounds a little dangerous. You wanna tell me what about?”
“Oh . . . nothing, really.”
“C’mon, Fritzi, let’s have it.”
“Well, it’s just. . . it’s just. . . well, if you want to know, I’m thinking about getting married.”
Nick pulled himself upright in his maroon leather swivel chair . “You’re thinking about what?”
“Yeah,” Fritz nodded, almost to himself, “I think I’d like to get married.”
“Fritzi, I heard what you said, but what did you mean?”
“What do you mean ‘what did I mean?’ I want to get married, that’s all.”
Nick pushed page proofs aside on his desk, crossed his legs and stared at Fritzi’s thick lenses. “And may I ask if you’ve someone in mind?”
“I suppose you could,” said Fritzi, tearing off part of his cuticle. “I don’t really think you know her. You might know her sister. She owns the flower shop next to the Trib.”
“Jesus, You’ve got to be kidding! You mean . . . Sophia Larsen . . . the whore?”
Fritz winced. “Well, that’s a little strong don’t you think? After all she sells flowers mostly. Once in a while, she . . . “
“What do you mean, once in a while? I’m afraid to go in there. She’s got my trousers unzipped before I get in the door.”
Fritzi crossed his arms over his chest and bit his lip. “Don’t be vulgar, Nick. Besides, Ursula’s different. She’s the homey type.”
“Oh, she is, is she? And how would you know that, big brother? Have you known her long?”
“Actually I just met her yesterday. But you know how these things go. I could tell from the moment I saw her.”
“Sure, brother, sure. Two little love birds. C’mon, be serious.”
“I am. In fact, I’ve never been more serious.”
Nick twirled around in the chair, propelling it with his right foot. He smiled at Fritzi. “Listen, kid. Take some advice from your little brother. If you’re looking for a wife, stay away from that florist shop.”
“I’m hardly a kid,” answered Fritzi, placing both elbows on the arms of his chair. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Nick stood up, walked to the window and turned around. “Admit it, Fritzi. You don’t know the first thing about women. Or am I wrong? You been hiding something from me?”
“Not really, said, Fritz, smoothing the back of his red head. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s right.”
“You know what’s right like I know toe dancing. But women, they’re something I do know a little about. Take advantage of my experience. In fact, I could introduce you to a dozen . . .”
Fritzi rolled his eyes and set his chin on his fist. “Look, I’ve made up my mind. I know I’ve met the right woman. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. And she’s pure. I can tell.”
A few days later at three o’clock, my grandmother, unknowing that Fritzi had even existed, appeared at Sporting News wearing an orange felt coat with rolled mouton sleeves. Over the coat she draped a fox wrap, the kind where the critter’s head fastens to its body and the legs dangle down. Grandma, veiled to her chin, wore a pill box hat rather down on her forehead, apparently unaware that fuchsia clashed with orange. Nick’s secretary, frozen by the vision that strolled by her desk and into Nick’s office, failed to prevent the intrusion.
Nick looked up at Grandma. His mouth fell open.
Grannie pushed the veil over her pill box. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, she began, “I know what a busy man you are. I’m Vilma Larsen,” she said, in her captivating Scandinavian accent. She pronounced a “W” like a “V,” as it was intended in Swedish.
Holding gloves and a purse in her good hand, she sat down. “Mr. Taylor,” she began, “I’ve come to see you on behalf of my daughter, Ursula. I realize, of course, that you haven’t met her and she, of course, has no idea I’m here.”
“Ursula?” Nick repeated, his eyes widening,
“Yes,” said Wilma, stiffening up a little. “You know her?”
“Not exactly. Let’s just say a distant relative of mine met her recently.”
“Oh, I wonder who . . . But I’m not surprised, Ursula is well thought of by her many suitors.”
“I bet she is.”
Grandma glared at Nick, pressing her lips.
“Mr. Taylor, forgive me for being so bold. I would like to ask you a personal question, if I may. Why isn’t a man like you, with a good job, good looks, good connections married?”
“I don’t know. But I think you’re gonna tell me.”
“Why, an eligible bachelor like you-so handsome and successful-could marry just about anybody. Most probably, you haven’t settled down because you haven’t met the right woman.”
It was then that Grandma landed her finest pitch on the ethereal qualities of her marriageable daughter, Ursula. Nick listened quietly and was quite taken with Grandma, sitting bosom-forward in her chair, displaying an aging cleavage. The absurdity of the entire matter delighted him. After all, only a few days before, Fritzi had pledged himself to Ursula, while occupying the same chair Wilma Larsen now shifted in, getting ready to leave.
“Now, you won’t speak of this to anyone, Mr. Taylor, will you?”
“You have my word.”
* * *
Preparing the marriage plea took Fritzi no time. He used the same method he did for making a pitch for advertising in the Trib. He set up his tripod with flip chart and listed his attributes as follows:
1. Unmarried.
2. Employed.
3. Mostly honest.
4. Practical.
5. Humble.
6. Mostly kind.
7. House on Detroit Ave.
He tore the paper off the tripod, folded it ten times and put it in his coat pocket. Grabbing his overshoes, he headed for Sophia’s florist shop.
“Looking for more roses?” asked Sophia.
“Actually, no. I. . . I. . . I was hoping to speak to Ursula if I might.”
“She’s not here just now. May I help you?”
“Well, I don’t think so. This is something I need to talk to Ursula about.”
“I see. “Well, in that case, you might trying coming back around 11:30. She and Mother are coming for lunch.”
Fritz returned at 11:32 with seven attributes in his coat pocket. The whole family received him. Grandma and Sophia smiled. Ursula looked suspicious.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ve come to speak to Ursula.”
“Sophia told me you had something to talk about,” answered Ursula, looking worried.
“Could we speak outside, perhaps?”
While they walked out to the street, Ursula prayed she was not in trouble.
Fritzi came straight to the point. “Would you be interested in taking a streetcar ride with me?”
At this request, Ursula was absolutely dumbfounded. “A streetcar ride?”
“Yes, to Lakeview.”
“What on earth for?”
“You might call it a surprise.”
Ursula wondered just what kind of surprise. But for some reason she agreed to accompany him.
Getting to Lakeview took 45 minutes by streetcar. As it rattled, Fritz talked tediously, to which my mother responded by a nod now and then. But she said very little.
They got off at Detroit Avenue. “Let’s walk down this street a little ways,” said Fritz. “I want to show you something.”
“You want to show me someone’s house?”
“Yes,” he said proudly, “my house.”
The came upon one with an orange awning.
“Look,” she pointed, “this is the only house on the street that looks different. It’s the cute awning that makes it stand out.”
“So it does,” said Fritzi. “What if this were your house?”
“My house? What do you mean, ‘my house?’ You want to sell me this house?”
“Not really. I want to give it to you.”
“This is ridiculous. Whatever for?”
“Because I want to marry you.”
My mother laughed out loud. “You can’t be serious. You don’t even know me.”
“I know all I need to know. I have my attributes in my pocket. Would you like to see them?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
The following month Fritzi and Ursula met at the courthouse for a little ceremony. Sophia and Nick served as maid of honor and best man respectively. Grandmother felt satisfied but still believed Nick was by far the handsomer and better choice. Perhaps Nick might have been the better man, because my father didn’t stick around for long. The following June he left my mother with a house, seven attributes and a little girl with red hair.
