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THE CHECK
- University of Iowa Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
The Check We always met in some small brightly lit café on the south side of Ottumwa, not far from the Des Moines River, Morrell’s packinghouse, the John Deere plant, Barker’s Implement Company, and other factories with names I never learned. The dinnerware was heavy and indestructible. Paper napkins bulged from metal dispensers. No one bothered with tablecloths. Aunt Thelma always joined us, along with Uncle Kenny and Aunt Lily, my mother, my sister, and assorted cousins. My father usually couldn’t attend, being off in some little Iowa depot — selling tickets, decoding the mysteries of the telegraph, and writing train orders for the Rock Island Lines. These gatherings normally took place on the weekends, though occasionally we met during the week. For some reason, I retain the illusion that these events always happened in the fall, although I know that that could not have been the case. The ostensible purpose was to eat dinner together, but by the time I was six years old, I knew the real purpose. Every session allowed the adults to do something they truly loved —fight over the bill. I never understood why this gave them so much pleasure, but they ended every meal with the same routine. After the beef and potatoes and green beans, Uncle Kenny — tall, masculine, self-confident — would begin with a firm “Give me that” to the approaching waitress, who normally complied. Aunt Thelma, usually soft-spoken and reserved, suddenly became aggressive. Quick with her hands, she tried, sometimes successfully, to snatch the check from him. If she failed, she invariably said, “By goshens, Kenny, I’m going to pay that.” My aunt Thelma was the only person I ever heard use the expression “by goshens.” My mother made feeble attempts to compete, with lines such as “Let me pay that” or “Kenny, I’ll take that.” But she was no match for her older sister and younger brother. Aunt Thelma’s blue eyes were flashing by then. Because she had never married and had no husband and children of her own, she had concluded that the huge salary she earned as a grade-school teacher obligated her to feed the entire Hunter family . Uncle Kenny, although the youngest sibling, was also the only boy. In some families, this fact would have automatically made him the recognized leader, but in this family his sisters had never mastered the habit of following. If Aunt Dottla, my mother’s oldest sister, had attended these ritual events, the contest would have grown even more intense; for my aunt Dottla was a formidable woman, a woman with a commanding presence . But she and her family had moved to northern California in 1947, depriving her of the rewards of these periodic battles. So the struggle continued. With the check still in Uncle Kenny’s possession , Aunt Thelma grew increasingly vocal and Uncle Kenny became increasingly resolute, sometimes gazing out the window at the elms and maples, pretending not to hear. My mother continued her futile protests, clearing her throat indignantly. Beautiful Aunt Lily, a placid Swede among these volatile Scots-Irish, sat quietly and smiled at the children, for whom this battle was the day’s best entertainment. Even after the victor had pocketed the change, the dispute continued , with the parking lot providing the setting for final arguments and promises of future reprisals. Finally, we piled into our Fords and Chevys and drove off down the brick streets through the autumn haze, content that the routine would soon be repeated, that it would never end. Into this standard mix came an occasional variable, my father, Pete Irelan, home for the day from endless travel on the main line. With his black mustache, colorful tie, countless Pall Malls, and skillful telegrapher ’s hands, he brought new life to the contest. He was flexible and resourceful. He was courageous and daring. He did something no one else thought of. He bribed the waitress. His technique was as impeccable as his dark-blue suit. I’m sure I’m the only one who ever noticed, and I knew enough not to tell anyone else and spoil the fun. My mother and her innocent siblings never saw what happened, and my father would never tell. Seventy-five cents or a dollar went a long way in the late forties and early fifties. My father, who seemed to know everyone, would say, 4 [ t h e c h e c k ] [ t h e c...