Scene 14

Scene fourteen...Counseling
Time: 1:30 PM, Wednesday, January 30, 1946
Place: William's boat
Storyteller: William

Clip clop, clip clop, the sound of ladies high heels. Here she is. Right on time. I jump off the boat to greet Lois. She carefully steps aboard, with my guidance.

"Iced tea, Mrs. Robertson?"

"Yes, that would be nice. No sugar. And please call me Lois."

"I'll try, ma'am"

"You're probably wondering why I asked to see you at your boat-home instead of the hospital. It was Harry's idea."

"Are you feeling okay? You look wonderful. Maybe a few pounds lighter?"

"Thank you. Four pounds. But I need to speak with you about my head, not my diabetes."

"That bump?"

"No, something worse. For thirteen years I've been afraid to leave the house. Of course I have to go to the corner grocer and meat market. Thank heavens for the milk man and bread truck deliveries. I chauffeur Janet around Viridian, but new places and especially crowds are out of the question."

"You do know I'm not a psychiatrist?"

"Yes, but Harry thinks you have experience with fear...soldier's fear...and what happened to me is similar."

"Mrs. Robertson...Lois...tell me what happened."

"Okay. I'm a democrat. President-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt was scheduled to make an appearance in Miami's Bayfront Park on February 15, 1933. I begged Harry to take me. Being a republican, he didn't want to go, but to please me, he asked a neighbor to babysit. Thank God the children didn't come with us."

Let me think...something really terrible and news worthy happened that day...What was it? Then I remember...it makes me feel queasy in the stomach.

Lois says, "I can still hear their chanting...but that came later...let me back up to that night."

"The evening is unseasonably warm and beautiful, with red, white, and blue lights decorating the trees. We arrive early enough to find seats in the fourth row. By 7:00 PM there is standing room only in the amphitheater, which really surprises Harry. Thousands of people line Biscayne Boulevard. The motorcade eases by them and stops at the bandstand stage."

"Eventually FDR delivers his speech. Then a short man in the third row fires five shots. The bullets miss the President-elect, but kill Mayor Anton Cermak of Chicago and injure four other people. Mabel Gill is critical. Harry pushes forward to help. Several men apprehend the assassin. But. But. The chaos! The mob mentality. Some yell for a lynching. It doesn't happen, but I still hear their chanting in my mind.

"A week later, Harry bought me a radio to drown out the noise in my head. I got in the habit of baking while listening to soothing music...Bing Crosby, Duke Ellington..."

"Lois, I am so very sorry. Can you stay longer? I'd like to get to know you better."

"Sure. What would you like to know?"

"When you first moved to Miami, did you like it?"

"Oh, yes! Miami boomed. So did Harry's business. The three of us went to the shore...whoops, they call it the beach down here...anyway, we went to the ocean every weekend."

"You didn't work, outside of the home, did you?" I ask

 "Villa Vizcaya, Mr. Deering's estate on the bay. I worked for the project designer. Paul Chalfin hired me to help procure Mediterranean Revival art and antiquities. Betty was such a well behaved little girl, he allowed me to take her along to galleries and shops. One day we were roaming the Villa gardens when a pair of rainbow colored Macaw parrots landed on a statue. They must have escaped from Parrot Jungle.

Goodness. This woman was happy as a clam. I don't dare interrupt her.

"Times were perfect. Paul was born. Harry bought him a professional football for his first birthday. The baby couldn't lift it, but tried. Daddy gave him a bath every night," she hesitates. "Then the '26 hurricane rolled in and ruined our lives. Did Betty tell you about it?"

"Yes."

"My father Paul Allen died a month before our son was born. We lived with my mother for two years
while Harry helped rebuild Miami. Whenever Mama noticed I was about to go crazy...this happened at least once per month...she would offer to watch Paul and pick up Betty after school. I'd ride the train into Philly and dream the day away in the Art Institute."

Mrs. Robertson certainly loves art. Wonder why she gave it up?

"Finally the long separation was over. I enjoyed decorating our new home in Coral Gables. It was ranch style, white stucco, with barrel tile roof...near the college. We sold it for a big profit after Janet was born. Moved into our two story in Viridian. Paul started kindergarten."

"So, you're now living a few miles farther south. What did you and Janet do while the older kids were at school?" 

"A couple of days a week, I'd take the baby up to Miami Beach to explore the Art Deco district. Stylish hotels were springing up everywhere. Also, we'd build sand castles. Janet would clap and laugh when the waves washed them away."

"I'm a terrible mother! Haven't taken her to the beach since February 15, 1933. I didn't go to any of Paul's football games. He was the star, but I missed it all. Betty's a better mom than me. Can you help?"

I hand her a hanky. "Every time you talk about art, you light up like a Christmas tree. Why did you quit?"

"Because every time I got involved in the art world, I got pregnant and had to quit."

"It's understandable why you might see life that way. We need to get you back into art, but first we must address another issue. I'll be direct."

"Alcoholics shouldn't be bartenders. Right?"

She nods in agreement.

"Likewise, diabetics shouldn't be bakers. I'll make up a story to illustrate my point. Let's say you take fresh baked cookies out of the oven. When you see and smell them, your body starts preparing to eat by releasing a small amount of insulin. Your mouth begins to water. You decide to eat just one, reasoning that they taste best warm. Then you eat three. Next you rationalize, 'nothing is better with warm cookies than vanilla ice cream.' You dish out a bowl. Lois, this is why you need to stop baking."

"Baking is the only nice thing I do for my family."

"Boloney. You probably eat over half of what you bake. You're addicted to sugar and wheat. But you can't stop baking and do nothing. You need to substitute a fun activity. Why not stop baking and start painting again?"

"I've forgotten how to paint."

"Take lessons," I reply.

"I'm afraid of crowds."

"Take private lessons, one on one."

"After that, what?" she asks

"Work your way up to group lessons. Brainstorm with other artists. Enter your paintings in local exhibitions. Find a gallery in Miami to represent your art. Drive there all by yourself."

She laughs out loud. I see a change in Mrs. Robertson. Could she be taller, more confident?

"William, please write that prescription down for me. Janet's been begging for rides outside of Viridian."