Vaguely, Judith remembered scattered anecdotes
about the autocratic old girl and her savage tongue.
“Well . . . okay. But I never heard the part about the
primary-school revolution.”
“I’ve been ashamed,” Gertrude admitted. “But this
Wade or Dade or whoever told me to let it all come out.
I was in third grade, and those girls at St. Walburga’s
grade school never flushed the toilets. It disgusted me.
So I told my friends—Agnes and Rosemarie and Maria
Regina—to stop using the bathroom and piddle on the
playground. Protesting, you know, just like all those
goofy people in the sixties and seventies who didn’t
know half the time what they were protesting against.
Or for. Silly, if you ask me, burning brassieres and
smoking funny stuff. What kind of a revolution was
that?”
As she often did, Gertrude seemed to be getting derailed. “What about the bathroom protest?”
The old lady looked blank. “What bathroom? What
protest?”
“At St. Walburga’s,” Judith said patiently.
“Oh.” Gertrude gave a nod. “Well, we all got into
trouble, and the principal, Sister Ursula, sent for our
parents. We were suspended for two days, but by the
time we got back, those toilets were flushed, believe
me. In fact, the school’s water bill went up so much
they had to raise tuition three dollars a month.”
“You were ashamed to talk about this?” Judith
asked.
“That’s right,” Gertrude said. “Nice little girls didn’t
piddle in public. In those days, nice little girls didn’t
even admit they piddled at all. But I feel good about it
now. We won a victory for hygiene.”
“You did indeed,” Judith declared, patting her
mother’s arm. “That was very brave.”
“I hope that writer fella will like it,” Gertrude said,
preening a bit. “He told me he could use a good script
about now. I guess he’s in some kind of a pickle.”
“Like what?” Judith asked.
Gertrude frowned. “I don’t rightly know, except it
had something to do with an ax.”
“An ax?” Judith looked puzzled. “Or . . . acts?”
Gertrude waved a hand. “No, it was an ax. A
hatchet—that’s what he said. Some kind of a job he
was supposed to do with a hatchet. Maybe he’s got a
part-time job as a logger. What kind of money do
scriptwriters get? I’d like to charge him at least fifty
dollars for my story.”
“At least,” Judith said vaguely. “Did Dade say anything else about this hatchet job?”
