As Lambs to His Fold

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Let The Little Ones Come Unto Me...

  Our mothers, and Grandma, and Aunt Francie had been invited up to Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis’s ugly mansion on Gillis Hill. Daddy called it “Added Upon” from the scripture that said, “And they who keep their first estate shall be added upon...and they who keep their second estate shall have glory added upon their heads forever and ever.”

  It really had been added upon. Great-Uncle Gideon Golden Rule Gillis had it built when he began to grow rich; and every time his railroad stock took a turn for the better, he’d added more to the house.

  He had drawn up the plans himself and then told an architect to go at it. Great-Uncle Gideon Golden Rule Gillis knew nothing about architecture or aesthetic harmony, but he knew what he liked — the more, the better.

  Added Upon, by the time we clapped eyes on it, was a mad and joyous jumble of arches, bay windows, fireplaces, balconies, and wings going off in all directions. It had been built of the finest materials — nothing cheap for Great-Uncle Gideon Golden Rule Gillis.

  Daddy said, “That monument to poor taste will probably last through the Millennium.”

  When Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis heard the name Daddy had given her house, she laughed heartily and thumped the Brigham Young Temple cane on the ground. “Added Upon! Yes! That’s exactly right! Oh, I know it’s ugly as Aunt Fanny’s steel corset; but Gillis built it out of love for me, and that’s good enough in my estimation.”

  __________

  When Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis had extended her invitation to the adults to come and visit her she had ordered, “Bring those two little rapscallions with you. I want to see them.”

  This had surprised our mothers a great deal. Why would any clear-thinking adult want to see us? But, Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis had insisted. And so, scrubbed, shod, and dressed in our best, we were now going up the walk to the ugliest house in Mormondom.

  The old lady met us at the door.

  She grabbed my chin and Leatrice’s and, staring at us, said, “I wonder if your faces will be your fortunes? Probably not.” She gave a bark of laughter. “Mine certainly wasn’t. But Gillis loved me, and that was enough.”

  Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis next turned her attention to Aunt Francie, examining her closely from head to toe.

  “Well,” she said, “you’re carrying it high. Probably be a girl.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping for,” said Aunt Francie with a smile.

  “I hope,” said the old lady, “you have better luck with yours than I did with mine. Not worth sikkum. Spoiled ‘em, that’s what Gillis did. Well, I’m too old to worry about it.”

  With her stork-like stride, she led us into the parlor, which contained quite a lot of furniture, all arranged rigidly against the walls, like children told to stay there and be quiet. Chairs and sofas were fringed, and they bulged strangely, reminding me of our Sunday school teacher, Sister Tattersall. Tables were of that peculiar yellowish oak veneer found on furniture of the 1890’s.

  Leatrice and I found seats on a puffy, red velvet sofa. We noticed some animals cavorting about — two cats and a small dog. They leaped up on the sofa where we were sitting, ran across our laps, and soared onto a small table, almost upsetting an ornate lamp as they leaped once more to the floor.

  If Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis seemed like a rigid old lady in many ways, she was certainly indulgent toward her pets. Even ol’ Titty-Poo, I said to myself, wasn’t allowed to jump on tables.

  Our elderly relative called to her pets and patted her knees, an invitation for them to bound onto her lap and lick her face. We were told that the cats were named Samson and Delilah; the dog was called Goliath — a sort of backwards joke, since he was quite a small dog.

  Mamma was not having a happy time of it. She was holding her handkerchief to her face and was going through all sorts of facial contortions to keep from sneezing. I could tell that her asthma was acting up. Apparently oblivious to this, Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis announced, “Now, we’ll have some refreshments.” She rang a little bell.

  Leatrice and I brightened considerably at the word “refreshments.”

  A hired girl appeared carrying a loaded tray, which she set on a table near our hostess. While her pets cavorted around her, Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis picked up a silver teapot and poured a liquid into cups for us. One sip, and I choked. Wild horses foaming at the mouth couldn’t have forced me to take another. Leatrice was shuddering beside me. The grownups were being polite, taking little sips. But Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis was obviously enjoying hers, smacking her lips, seeming not to notice that we weren’t touching ours.

  “Know what this is?” she addressed us. “Brigham tea! Yes! Brigham Young used to drink it every morning. Kept a pitcher of it beside him when he was speaking in the tabernacle. Claimed it kept him healthy. Know what’s in it? Lots and lots of herbs and then some cayenne pepper! Yes! A good spoonful of cayenne to a cup. And Brigham was right! It’s what has kept me alive and full of zip and ginger to the age of seventy-eight.”

  “And,” she said, addressing Mamma, “a good cup of this every morning will help that cold of yours.”

  She poured a saucer for her pets and set it on the floor. They sniffed at it, stuck their noses disdainfully in the air, and trotted away, indicating to me that they were smart animals.

  There was a large, potted fern right behind the sofa where Leatrice and I were sitting. We both turned around quietly and poured the Brigham tea on the fern. I’m not sure what health-giving properties that tea imparted to the fern, but it flourished for years.

  The tray also held a plate of sliced cake. We found it was safe, ordinary pound cake, so we each had two slices — to make up for the tea being so rotten.

  After the refreshments, Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis got out her genealogy records. She was the keeper of the family history. Her mother had been a Dodson, and she was proud of how far back she could trace the family name.

  “Know who our family goes back to? Not William the Conqueror — anybody can be related to him, and probably is! Nope — we go back to Baldur the Bloodthirsty! 825! A Viking pirate — raided all up and down the North Sea and even invaded parts of Europe.”

  “Why was he called ‘the bloodthirsty’?” I asked.

  “Well!” said our hostess. “He was something fierce, you can bet your left kidney! He and his men used to paint themselves blue, and worship oak trees, and dance around, and shake their war axes, and yell something awful!

  “Terrible wild men!” she said proudly. “Just seeing their long-boats would strike fear into anybody!”

  She seemed almost to be bragging that our ancestor was so fierce. I wondered if Baldur would go to heaven, seeing that he was so bloodthirsty.

  The adults got into a lively discussion about the family tree. Leatrice and I began to fidget. So far, the afternoon hadn’t been much fun. Nothing much got past our hostess’s sharp eyes. Now she observed that we were getting restless. She ordered us outside to play, and we obeyed her quickly.

  The landscaping around Added Upon contained some odd-shaped trees, pruned to resemble a chicken, a rabbit, a dog, and other creatures of the topiary art. It had been Great-Uncle Gideon Golden Rule Gillis’s fancy to hire a gardener to clip the trees in that fashion; and after his death, his devoted wife continued the custom. We walked around the trees, staring in fascination. We wondered if Heavenly Father approved of people clipping His trees like that, or if it upset Him. From there, we walked around the corner of the house.

  I said, “I don’t b’lieve Brigham Young ever drank that awful stuff she gave us.”

  Leatrice agreed with considerable vehemence. “If he knew she was calling it ‘Brigham Tea’, I bet he’d be spitting in his grave!”

  We strolled back to the stable, now a garage for Beelzebub and a shelter for an aged donkey that Great-Aunt Salina May R
oundtree Gillis called “Ancient Of Days.” In former times, before Beelzebub, Ancient Of Days had pulled a cart that his mistress rode around in. Now, he lived a life of ease either out on Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis’s back lawn, or contentedly chewing hay in the stable.

  We petted Ancient Of Days and fed him some hay. We spent some time walking around Beelzebub, climbing up on the red, plush seats, turning the steering wheel, trying the horn.

  Coming out, we found ourselves on the far side of the house. And there, to our delight, was a staircase going up to the roof. We were up it in ten seconds and standing beside the enchanting, little, glass house that had been Great-Uncle Gideon Golden Rule Gillis’s observatory where he studied the stars. He had been earnestly searching for Kolob, said to be the star closest to the throne of God, when a heart attack took him away.

  To our disappointment, the door was locked. We peered in and saw that the telescope was gone. It would have made a lovely playhouse, though. We sat down on the roof with our backs to the little house and began one of the serious discussions we liked to indulge in.

  “D’you think Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis is really, really rich?” I wondered.

  Leatrice shrugged.

  “I dunno. Her clothes are pretty old-fangled, but she does have a hired girl.”

  That settled it, for us. Anyone who had a hired girl who came every day — not just once in a while, the way Lillian Humphrey came to help Grandma at parties — was definitely of the moneyed class.

  “I wonder if she’s ever been to Paris France.”

  That was a place we wanted to go — right after Hollywood and before heaven, we had decided. I let out a chortle of laughter. The idea of Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis in Paris France totally frazzled my mind. I could imagine our eccentric relative doing a lot of things, but never appearing in a backless gown, drinking from a fancy, long-stemmed glass, or smoking a cigarette, which is what, as everybody knew, they did in Paris France.

  It was impossible to imagine her as anything but what she was, an elderly, opinionated woman with a laugh that came out of her in a tremendous whoop. It was hard to imagine her as ever having been young — except for the streak of mischief in her and her surprising rapport with children. No, Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis would still be the same, we were sure, for ever and ever, worlds without end, amen.

  Our mothers came around the corner of the house.

  “Oh, there you are. Come down. We’re ready to go.”

  We descended and followed them around to the front porch, where Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis was saying to Aunt Francie, “I’m going to give you a nice check for the baby.”

  Aunt Francie gave her a grateful hug.

  “Oh, Aunt Salina, you’re so good to me.”

  “Monkey feathers! You don’t have to thank me. You don’t even have to name the baby after me.” She let out her tremendous whoop of laughter. “What’s money for if not to enjoy?”

  Her cats were frolicking about her feet. She picked them up, held them to her wrinkled cheek, stroked them. And at that moment, inspiration burst upon me. I thought of the cats, and the dogs, and Ancient of Days. I was looking at a genuine animal lover. Could I get some deeply-needed answers from her?

  As our mothers, Aunt Francie, Grandma, and Leatrice went toward the car, I gathered my courage and crept close to the forthright, old lady.

  “Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis,” I whispered.

  She peered down at me. “Yes? Speak up, child.”

  I swallowed nervously. Now that I was about to ask the critical question, I felt panicky. What if I got “No” for an answer? And so I moved up on the subject gradually.

  “Do you think that — that animals go to heaven?”

  She didn’t laugh. She stood there thoughtfully and in all earnestness replied, “Some of ‘em, I guess.”

  “How about — horses?”

  I was thinking of Brother Nickelbee’s faithful mount, Betsey.

  “Horses? Why, certainly horses will go to heaven. Don’t you remember in the Book of Revelation where it talks about all those angels riding horses?”

  O. K. so far. Now, this was it.

  “How about — rabbits?”

  “Well, let me see.” She tapped the Brigham Young Temple Cane on the porch as she considered. “Rabbits, hmm.” Her face brightened. “Why, of course rabbits will be there. Didn’t Jesus say, ‘Let the little ones come unto me?’ And what are rabbits if not His little ones?”

  And to emphasize the point, she thumped with the cane and nodded her head emphatically. Relief flooded through me. Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis was my kind of person!