Altadena, 1926 – By Alice Duncan #3
“Oh yes!” said Mrs. Bissel, making a surprising leap from the sofa. She wasn’t ordinarily a leaper, being quite hefty. “You shouldn’t walk, Daisy. If your husband drives us, we can all go, and I’ll be sure to take Lancelot’s lead with me. Keiji !” she hollered to her houseboy.
Keiji appeared in the doorway. “Yes ma’am?”
“Will you please get Lancelot’s leash? Mr. Rotondo is driving us to the fire station.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Keiji, and he took off in the direction of the kitchen.
“I’m happy to be driven to the station,” I said, not leaping from my chair, but glad to be out of it. My back had begun aching.
“Excellent idea,” honked Mrs. Hanratty.
Keiji soon returned with a leash already attached to a collar. The collar, I noticed, was red and had sparkly gems on it. I’m pretty sure they were rhinestones and not diamonds, but I’m not positive.
“Thank you so much, Keiji,” said Mrs. Bissel. To her credit, she was always kind and polite to her servants.
“Certainly,” said Keiji. “Do you need me to come along?”
The five of us exchanged a series of glances. Then Mrs. Bissel said, “That’s probably not necessary, but thank you for offering.”
“Not a problem,” said Keiji. “I feel responsible for not catching Lancelot before he darted out the door.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Keiji,” Mrs. Bissel assured him. “Lancelot can be a sly little devil.”
“Sounds like Spike,” Sam muttered.
We who were fire station bound walked through the sunroom, across the patio, and Sam politely opened the Hudson’s front door. As I believed my job was to cater to the paying customers, I gestured for Mrs. Bissel to get in. She surprised me.
“Good heavens, Daisy, you sit in the front next to your husband. You’re doing me a particular favor this evening. Pansy and I will gladly sit in back.”
“We will indeed,” confirmed Mrs. Hanratty.
“Thank you,” I told the two women.
Sam shut my door and, gentlemanly to the core, opened the back door and helped the two ladies take their seats.
Mrs. Hanratty, being tall and slender, got in first so Mrs. Bissel didn’t have to move her bulk much.
Being bulky myself at the moment, I silently applauded her decision.
Sam carefully backed out of the driveway and turned south on Maiden Lane.
The Altadena Fire Department sat on the south side of Foothill Boulevard.
There being no other cars on the road, Sam made a U-turn at the intersection of Foothill and Lake Avenue and drove east on Foothill.
Lights shone in the station and the roll-up door was open.
Guess the fire truck had returned without a siren announcing its arrival.
Sam pulled up to the curb, parked, and opened first the back door and then the front door.
We females exited the Hudson, I with some difficulty.
Fortunately, Sam managed to haul me out and get me upright.
Very helpful man, my Sam. He led the way to the big opening, and we saw sooty firemen scurrying here and there, doing whatever it was firemen did when they came back to the station after putting out a fire.
One of them noticed Sam and walked over to us.
“May I help you?” he asked politely.
Graciously stepping aside, Sam said, “This lady, Mrs. Bissel, has a question for you.” He gestured for Mrs. Bissel to come forward. She did so with alacrity.
“Frank!” Mrs. Bissel said, surprised. “I didn’t realize you worked at this station.”
“I do, Mrs. Bissel. It’s good to see you,” said the fireman. Frank Somebody-or-other.
“Frank and my Dennis went to school together,” Mrs. Bissel said to us.
“Sam Rotondo,” said Sam, holding out a hand for Frank to shake.
“Happy to meet you, Mr. Rotondo. I’m Frank Murphy.”
We all muttered greetings and then Mrs. Bissel got down to business.
“But Frank, my darling little Lancelot ran away when the fire truck was blaring its siren a couple of hours ago. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him here, have you?
” She clutched her folded hands to her ample bosom and stared pleadingly at Mr. Murphy.
“Lancelot? That’s his name?” said Mr. Murphy.
“Yes. He’s a…dachshund.”
“Oh, one of those little sausage dogs?” said Mr. Murphy, grinning.
“Um. Yes,” said Mrs. Bissel. I could tell she’d love to give him a lecture about the many virtues of dachshunds. But she wanted Lancelot a whole lot more than she wanted to educate Frank Murphy.
By the way, in those days not even ten years after the Great War ended, we folks in the U.S.A.
were apt to look askance at anything the least bit Teutonic.
Some people went so far as to call sauerkraut “liberty cabbage.” Actually, I did that for a while.
And you might have noticed that I at first called Spike a liberty hound.
When folks began shooting German Shepherds, Doberman pinschers and yes, even dachshunds, I changed my tune.
Well…about German dogs. Not sure about German people.
That’s not true, either. A couple of years back, I had an enlightening experience and realized it wasn’t the German people who started the war.
No, the rich guys who ran things, including Kaiser Bill, were responsible for that disaster.
At any rate, I think that’s the reason Mrs. Bissel hesitated before telling Mr. Murphy Lancelot’s breed.
Which is stupid to begin with! Both Lancelot and my Spike were born in Altadena, California, which is about as far away from Germany as a person or dog could get. But enough of that.
“Is your dog a little black-and-brown guy?” Mr. Murphy asked Mrs. Bissel.
“Yes!” cried Mrs. Bissel, her fists clenching at her chest. “Oh, have you seen him?”
“We sure have,” said Mr. Murphy. He turned around and bellowed, “Bill! Please bring that little black dog up here! I think his owner is here.” To Mrs. Bissel he said, “If this little fellow is yours, he’s been hanging around with Dolly, Bill’s Dalmatian.
Bill brought her to work today, just to see if she’d like to become our station’s mascot. ”
“And did she?” I asked, curious.
Mr. Murphy smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Rotondo. As soon as Dolly saw that little guy zoom into the street, darned if she didn’t jump down off the engine. The last we saw was the two of them racing toward the station together.”
“My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Bissel
“Oh,” I said faintly. My “Oh” had nothing to do with dogs.
“Here he is, the little rascal,” said a fireman, carrying Lancelot in his arms.
“Thanks, Bill,” said Mr. Murphy.
“Oh,” I said again.
“ Thank you!” said Mrs. Bissel, reaching out for Lancelot, who leaped into her arms. After kissing her once, he struggled to get away. Guess he wanted to go back to Dolly.
I said, “Um…”
“Stop that, you little wiggle-worm,” said Mrs. Bissel, laughing.
With help from Mrs. Hanratty and Sam, Mrs. Bissel managed to get the collar and leash on Lancelot. Sam lifted him out of Mrs. Bissel’s arms and set him gently on the paved floor of the fire station.
He stood again abruptly and turned to look at me. He grabbed one of my arms, and I took a step backward.
“Daisy!” he said, sounding—and looking—panic-stricken. “Is that puddle what I think it is?”
“What puddle?” honked Mrs. Hanratty. She glanced at the floor near my feet and said, “Oh my gracious, your water just broke!”
Talk about embarrassing! I could feel heat creep up my chest to my neck and invade my cheeks. I felt as though I were glowing.
“Daisy!” said Mrs. Bissel. “Oh, Detective, you must get her to the hospital!”
“Good God,” said Mr. Murphy. “You need us to drive you? We can use the siren.”
“No thank you,” I said, attempting to sound normal. “Let’s just take Mrs. Bissel, Lancelot and Mrs. Hanratty home. Then we can go home and pick up my bag. I’ve got it all packed and in the downstairs closet near the front door.”
“Are you sure?” Sam now held both of my arms and looked down upon me—he was much taller than I—as if he feared I was on my deathbed. Poor fellow was frightened for me. How sweet.
“I’m sure.” I nodded.
“Merciful heaven!” said Mrs. Bissel. “Oh Daisy! I’m so sorry!”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” I said. “Ladies have been having babies forever and ever.”
The truth of the matter was that I was not merely scared to death, embarrassed almost beyond bearing, and wished the ground would open up and swallow me; I also wanted my mother!
How pathetic, huh? But my mother was so wonderful.
She never panicked. She was the most down-to-earth, sensible person I’d ever known.
I wanted her with me right now. My mother and Sam.
My aunt, Vi, could join us too. And my father, who was the world’s kindest person.
I’d love to have Spike with me during the upcoming ordeal, but I knew the Pasadena Women’s Hospital didn’t allow dogs to sully their corridors.
Silly rule, if you ask me. But nobody ever asks me about things like this.
“All right,” said Mr. Murphy, sounding official. “Mr. Rotondo, will you please take these ladies back to Mrs. Bissel’s house?”
“Will I what?” Sam still stared down at me, looking thunderstruck. Thunderstricken? I don’t suppose it matters.
“Sam,” I said.
He still stared, speechless.
“ Sam !” I bellowed.
Sam jerked to attention. I shook off his hands and grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket.
“Sam, drive Mrs. Bissel and Mrs. Hanratty to Mrs. Bissel’s house. With Lancelot,” I added, having just then recalled why we were having this conversation in the firehouse.
“Me? Drive?” Sam shook himself not unlike Spike did after he had a bath. “Yes! Yes. I’ll drive!”
“Let’s go,” said Mrs. Hanratty, taking charge, something at which she excelled. “Which hospital?”
“Pasadena Women’s Hospital,” I told her.
“Ma’am,” said Mr. Murphy. “Maybe you should stay here until your husband deposits the ladies and the dog. He can pick you up on his way back.”
“No!” said Sam.
“I’d rather go with my husband,” I told Mr. Murphy. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Why should I mind?” asked Mr. Murphy. “Whatever you think is best.”
So I went with Sam. Because he was in such a pitiably nervous condition, he didn’t drive fast. He carefully negotiated a U-turn and drove back to Mrs. Bissel’s house, again going to the back entrance.
Most people who knew Mrs. Bissel well used the back door.
The front lawn was terraced, and a person had to walk a mile to get to the front door if he or she parked on Foothill. The back way was much easier.
As soon as he parked on the circular drive, Mrs. Hanratty said, “Don’t get out, Detective. Griselda and I can manage on our own.”
“And Lancelot,” said Mrs. Bissel.
“Thank you,” said Sam. He sounded as if he didn’t aim to faint anymore, which was moderately encouraging.
“Thank you for coming, Daisy!” said Mrs. Bissel as she and Lancelot left the motor.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Oh, my Ouija board is still in your living room.”
“I’ll bring it to you tomorrow,” said Mrs. Bissel. “Please drive carefully, Mr. Rotondo.”
“I will,” Sam promised. Then he backed out of the driveway, crossed the bridge over the gutter, turned south on Maiden Lane, took a right on Foothill, and drove like a snail to Lake Avenue. There he turned left.
Then by golly, the Altadena Fire Department’s siren almost gave me a heart attack.
One fire engine pulled in front of the Hudson to lead the way, and another one followed us.
We arrived at the Pasadena Women’s Hospital about five minutes later, and Sam and the firemen surrounded me until we’d made it to the registration desk.
“Good heavens,” said the lady behind the registration desk, astonishment writ large on her features.
“Ow!” I said, having just experienced my first contraction. Those things hurt , darn it!
Eight hours later, Joseph Louis Rotondo was born. He entered into this life on Tuesday, November 30, 1926, and was perfect in every detail.
Nine weeks after Joey was born, Dolly, the firehouse Dalmatian, gave birth to a litter of five short-legged, long-backed, spotted puppies. Mrs. Bissel told me Mr. Murphy found good homes for all of the pups. I told her I thought Lancelot should be ashamed of himself.