3320 words (13 minute read)

Chapter One:  Mrs. Henderson

Monday, May 19, 1941

Mrs. Henderson

Louie barks three times. I glance up from my son’s letter and note the hour on the desk clock. Mr. Davis is five minutes early for his interview. Louie jumps off the settee and trots into the foyer. I set the letter on the side table and follow him. Five minutes early is on time, on time is late, and five minutes late is inexcusable. The memory of one of my mother’s favorite maxims floats through the entryway on the back of the afternoon sun. Whenever I pause to reflect on my own life as a parent, my late mother manages to wheedle her way into the conversation somehow.

“Oh, Louie, on time or not, is it wrong to interview a new lodger today? Perhaps room number one should remain empty until I make up my mind?” Louie answers by swishing his tail impatiently on the marble floor. “Yes, but if I’m seriously considering—” The bell rings. No time for debate. I smooth out my dress and open the door to the kind face of Frank Davis.

Mr. Davis appears to be in his mid to late forties. He’s not as tall as I am, but he’s well proportioned—a complete man in a small package. A delightful yellow glow surrounds his cheerful smile and wire-rimmed glasses. It’s not a sunshine yellow. I’d say it’s more the shade of a ripe yellow summer squash. I often need more time with a person before their color reveals itself. An immediate connection such as this could be the sign of a humble man who wears his heart on his sleeve. Then again, it might indicate an overconfident man, working to impress. My gut tells me it’s the former.

When I was a little girl, I thought everyone saw people and colors the way I do. I never mentioned it to anyone, because to me it was normal. A shimmer of color around someone’s head and shoulders was part of their personality and how they were feeling. When my mother found out about my special ability, she made me promise I would never tell another living soul. She worried it would tarnish our family’s good name and ruin my marriage prospects. In her opinion, my gift could cause nothing but trouble. But from where I stand, my intuition has helped me avoid trouble most of my life. An extra dose of insight is particularly useful when evaluating new lodgers.

     In the richness of Mr. Davis’ yellow, I sense joy and grief, tumbling over one another, wrestling to see who will wind up on top.

“Welcome, Mr. Davis. I’m Mildred Henderson. Please come in,” I say. “May I take your hat?” Mr. Davis looks dapper in a double-breasted gray suit with a freshly pressed white shirt, blue and maroon striped tie, and coordinating pocket square.

“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. I must say, this is a fine home.” Despite his big city attire, there’s an amiable mid-western lilt to his voice. I doubt he’s from San Francisco originally.

“And who do we have here?” he adds, looking down at the beagle.

“My second in command. Louie.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Louie.” Mr. Davis bends down to rub the top of the dog’s head. Louie presses his snout up into Mr. Davis’ hand and thumps the white tip of his tail on the floor.

The air in the foyer warms and buzzes, murmuring with possibilities. Rarely does Henderson House give a stranger such an enthusiastic greeting. Curious. The house’s ready acceptance of Mr. Davis reminds me of its response to my first lodger, Bessie Blackwell, some twelve years ago. The similarity in the welcome is startling—an open invitation combined with giddy anticipation.

My ability to sense houses didn’t emerge until I was a teenager. After my fourteenth birthday, Mother began asking me to accompany her to various committee meetings and afternoon teas—a thinly veiled attempt to strengthen my friendships with the daughters of each hostess. “Just think, you’ll be debutants together,” she would say, as if that was a selling point.

One autumn afternoon, we arrived at the home of Mrs. Edward Gould. When mother and I entered, I felt the inside of the house flutter like a bird’s wings. At first, I thought the sound and sensation might be an extension of Mrs. Gould’s peachy color, but then I realized it emanated from the structure of the building. The house was happy to see us. After that, I paid close attention to every home we visited. Of course, I never said a word about the houses to my mother. An only daughter with two special gifts might have caused her to take to her bed.

So far, Mr. Davis has met the first three requirements on my interview checklist: He has a nice color, Louie trusts him right off the bat, and the house welcomes him like an old friend. We move as a threesome into the living room. The silver tea service glimmers on the coffee table. A tiny plate of shortbread cookies rests between the teapot and two cups and saucers. The final test. I’m hesitant to rent a room to anyone who won’t accept a cookie over tea.

“I’m very interested in the history of this beautiful home,” Mr. Davis says, taking a seat on the sofa as I settle into my favorite chair across from him. “How long have you lived here?”

“My husband, Dr. Charles Henderson, and I moved to Bartlesville from St. Louis in 1922, when he accepted the Chief Surgeon position at Memorial Hospital,” I say.

Charles brought home a dozen red roses the night he told me he wanted to move the family to Oklahoma. He was hoping to soften the blow. Little did he know the move was the answer to my prayers. Finally, a life of our own—free from the demands of my mother and high society. I remember the surprise in my husband’s eyes when I cheered, threw my arms around him, and smothered his ruddy cheeks with kisses.

“I’m a Missouri boy myself. Born and raised in Joplin,” Mr. Davis responds, confirming the source of his accent.

“My husband and I completed the construction of the house in 1923.” I pause to swallow. “He died unexpectedly six years later.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mr. Davis says and I believe him. “Was it an accident?”

“No. Charles went out for a walk, had a heart attack, and dropped dead.” I sigh out loud and the house sighs in sympathy. “All four of my boys traveled home for their father’s funeral. Robert, the oldest, began nudging me to sell the house and move to New Jersey where he was opening a law practice.” I don’t normally dish out personal information during a lodging interview, but I’m comfortable sharing with this man. The same way I was comfortable sharing with Bessie during her interview all those years ago.

“Every night during my sons’ visit, Robert and his brothers gently made their case for me to move on and move closer to them,” I continue. “The funny thing was, the more they sold me on a new life back East, the more I realized how much I loved living in Bartlesville. My life was here in this town, with or without Charles. I wasn’t ready to leave, however I couldn’t imagine staying if Henderson House was empty. So, I told my boys I wanted to turn their grand family home into a boarding house.”

“And what did your children think of your plan?” Mr. Davis asks, one eyebrow raised.

“To say they were not receptive to the idea would be an understatement.” I chuckle as I remember. “My youngest, Artie, turned purple at the dinner table trying to keep his voice calm while speaking to me. Overall, I think their reluctance was a mix of concern and embarrassment. I made my case to them point by point, with the alternative being that if it did not work out, I could always sell Henderson House and move to New Jersey.” My thoughts turn to Robert’s letter. His latest offer is the strongest yet. But I’m still waiting for a sign to help me decide.

“I’m fairly sure in the end, my sons agreed to let me try my hand at being a lowly landlady because they were tired of trying to convince me otherwise,” I say. “They were ready to return to their work and studies. As I waved goodbye to their train at the station, I dried my tears and began planning the reinvention of Henderson House.”

“Did you make many modifications to the building?” he asks.

“A few. When we tour the house, I’ll be sure to point out the changes to the original floor plan,” I offer. “Now, Mr. Davis, I’ve monopolized the conversation long enough. Please, tell me what brings you to Bartlesville?”

“I’m sure it’s a story you’ve heard a hundred times—a job at Phillips Petroleum.” Mr. Davis shrugs. “I’ve wanted to work for Phillips for as long as I can remember. Finally, the right position opened up.”

He is humble. My friend who referred Mr. Davis for the open room said he’s a top petroleum engineer and recently started as a high level executive in the Phillips’ research facility. She told me Boots Adams, the president of the company, personally recruited Mr. Davis away from Shell Oil.

“Yes, we’ve hosted many Phillips employees over the years, but none as dedicated as Bessie Blackwell. She was my first lodger when I opened the house in August of ‘29,” I say.

Sweet Bessie, she’s always so uncomfortable around a new male lodger. When Mr. Clark moved in, she barely spoke for a week. Perhaps she won’t be as nervous with Mr. Davis. He’s quite companionable.

“And what did Bessie Blackwell do for the company?”

“Oh, she still works at Phillips. She’s the queen of the office machine room. Handles the duplication needs of every department. Goodness, here we are chatting away and I haven’t offered you a cup of tea. Milk and sugar?” I ask, filling his cup.

“Just a little milk, thank you.”

“Would you like a cookie before we take our tour?” The final hurdle for Mr. Davis to clear.

“Yes, please. I can’t remember the last time I had homemade shortbread. Thank you.” Mr. Davis adds two shortbread cookies to his saucer—a perfect score.

We eat our cookies and finish our tea while Mr. Davis tells me about his drive from California and his sister, Helen, and her family in Joplin. His mother still lives in Joplin, as well. He’s looking forward to planning a visit to Missouri soon.

“Are you ready to see the available room, Mr. Davis?” I ask once he finishes a third piece of shortbread.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, rising from the sofa. “Lead the way, Louie.” The dog springs to attention at the sound of his name and struts back into the foyer as our guide.

“As luck would have it, when I was ready to begin making modifications to the building, my housekeeper, Edna, married an excellent handyman. We began by converting the downstairs parlor into my private suite.”

I swing the door to my quarters wide open to reveal my sitting area. I moved one of my favorite oriental rugs from upstairs to define the space. The striped damask settee looks out across the deep covered front porch through two large windows. My slant top desk fits perfectly between them. I deliberately avoid glancing in the direction of the letter on the side table. I’m not ready to let go of this place. Not today. But I do sense change in the air. Change always smells like the roses Charles brought me that evening long ago—the moving roses.

“We constructed two doorways,” I continue. “I can enter and exit my quarters through the foyer or the kitchen. My sleeping area and a new private bath are around the corner.”

“Was there already plumbing on this side of the house?” Mr. Davis asks, sounding like an engineer for the first time today.

“Yes. My bath is located directly underneath what used to be the master bath upstairs. The pipes were right where they needed to be.” We turn back toward the staircase. “When Charles and I designed Henderson House, we longed to have an open staircase reminiscent of the historic homes of St. Louis. It’s still one of my favorite features of the house.”

“It’s spectacular,” Mr. Davis says.

“We serve breakfast daily and supper is at seven pm every weeknight except Wednesday,” I say as we climb. “On Wednesday evenings you are welcome to join us for the Wednesday Night Supper at the Baptist church, or Edna can leave a cold plate for you in the kitchen. Supper is served one hour earlier, at six pm, on Saturday evening, which leaves time to attend the cinema. Sunday dinner is around two or three, depending on the length of Pastor Harper’s sermon.”

We turn left at the top of the landing and left again to walk back along the open hallway—bedrooms on our right, an ornate wrought iron balustrade on our left. Mr. Davis pauses to peer over the railing down to the foyer below. I open the door to the corner bedroom on the front of the house. The room is cozy but not overcrowded with a full-sized brass bed, bookcases, a small desk with a lamp, a black and white checked reading chair, and lace curtains in the windows.

Mr. Davis walks in and takes stock. “What a finely appointed room,” he says.

“Thank you. Corner rooms always bring in the best light, don’t they? When it belonged to my son, Walter, it was filled to the brim with trophies, awards, and books.” I removed every trace of Walter’s personality years ago and yet, as light flickers through the window, I can almost see him scrunched up in the overstuffed chair devouring Doctor Doolittle. Walter has two boys of his own now. I don’t know what books they are reading. I see my grandchildren once a year. Louie and I travel to Spring Lake, New Jersey, every August. Robert rents a house big enough for the whole family to enjoy a month by the sea.

“I’ll take it!” Mr. Davis declares.

“It’s yours,” I respond without a second thought. Frank Davis belongs here. Even if I do decide to move to New Jersey this August and never come back, Mr. Davis is supposed to be here now. A rustling of the curtains confirms my assessment. “Before we get to the paperwork, I’ll show you the rest of the house and fill you in on your fellow residents.” We exit room number one and start back down the hallway. “Mrs. Stanton rents room number two. She’s a widow and is currently in Oklahoma City helping her daughter, who just had twins.”

The air in front of Mrs. Stanton[1] [c2] ’s door presses heavy and damp against my skin. The house doesn’t like having empty rooms. This side of the house was as cool and musty as a root cellar once all the boys left for college.

“I think Mrs. Stanton is hoping her daughter will ask her to move in with them. But for now, it gives her peace of mind to know her room will be ready and waiting if she returns,” I explain, as much to the house as to Mr. Davis.

At first, I thought Mrs. Stanton leaving to be with her children was the sign I’ve been waiting for—a sign that it was time for me to leave and live closer to my children and grandchildren. But her departure hasn’t made my vision of the future any clearer.

I lower my voice as we walk, “Professor Albert Rutledge lives in room number three. He’s a poetry professor by vocation, but currently works as a night-time security guard at First National Bank. He leaves for work about the time we sit down to supper. You may not have an opportunity to chat with him until Saturday.” Louie plops down in front of the Professor’s door and sniffs along the threshold. “Sorry, Louie, you might not see him until Saturday, either,” I whisper.

“Is the Professor Louie’s favorite?” Mr. Davis whispers in return.

“Oh, Louie loves all the lodgers, but lately we’ve been enjoying spending our Saturday afternoons with the Professor,” I say.

My growing fondness for Professor Albert Rutledge isn’t making my vision of the future any clearer, either. Recent variations in his color make me wonder if the Professor will play a part in my decision. But I’m not sure what his role might be. Mr. Davis and I turn the corner and head along the backside of the house.

“Eddie Blackwell lives in room number four,” I say. “He’s a taxi cab driver. Eddie is the younger brother of Florence Fuller and Bessie Blackwell who live in rooms five and six.”

“Wait, the same Bessie Blackwell who’s the queen of duplication at Phillips?” Mr. Davis asks.

“One and the same. Here is the first shared bathroom.” I open the door to the black and white tiled room. “Typically, this bath is shared by the residents of rooms one, two, and three. So you’ll practically have it all to yourself given Mrs. Stanton’s absence and the Professor’s odd schedule. We converted the original master suite into rooms five and six with a shared bath,” I say, pointing toward the other wing of the upstairs. “We call it the Blackwell family bath now.”

“So, Bessie Blackwell and her brother and sister all live here with you?”

 “Yes. Miss Blackwell’s sister, Florence Fuller, and her thirteen-year-old son, Johnny, live in room number five. Mrs. Fuller is also a widow and works at Linn Brothers, the men’s department store downtown. Johnny is a charming young man, very athletic. Florence and Johnny moved in about nine years ago… yes, that’s right, because we had Johnny’s fourth birthday party here. Eddie joined them more recently.”

If change is coming, what will it mean for the Blackwell family? Where will they go if I sell the house and move? Henderson House is the only home Johnny’s ever known. Making this decision is like trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle. If only I could put a few important pieces into place, I’m sure the rest would come together quickly.

Mr. Davis cocks his head to one side. “I want to make sure I’ve got this right, Mrs. Henderson,” he says, “Miss Blackwell’s family has lived here with her for nine years and Miss Blackwell has lived here ever since you opened the boarding house twelve years ago?”

“Precisely.”

“Isn’t that a little out of the ordinary?”

“Oh, Mr. Davis, there’s nothing ordinary about Henderson House. You’ll see what I mean when you meet the Blackwell family at supper this evening.”

“Mrs. Henderson, I can hardly wait,” he says with a laugh. The air in the hallway pops and crackles. The house is looking forward to supper as well.

Don’t remember her in previous drafts. Has she been integrated into this one? [c2]It was always the name of the woman in room number two. She was only mentioned briefly in Chapter 3 in the last version.      

Next Chapter: Chapter Two: Bessie