Mrs. Shibley was the town gossip, and Mrs. Shibley was also a beef tongue dish that Joe made better than anyone else. I've often watched him prepare it.
In a deep pot put a clean six-pound ox tongue—a fresh one, not smoked. Also some beef bones, two sliced onions, two diced carrots, a leek, and a white turnip, and some bay leaf, parsley, a sprig of thyme (Joe cooked these in a small bag), a clove of garlic, and a whole package of the stuff sold as pickling spices. Boil and skim Mrs. Shibley, and add more water when needed. And when the skimming job is done, let it all simmer slowly for four hours. Cool and peel the tongue. Strain the liquid in which the tongue was cooked and add a pint of mixed chives, tarragon, chervil, and shallots, and season with salt, red pepper, and lemon salt. Dissolve some plain gelatin into this, using one package gelatin to a pint of liquid, and then pour over the tongue in a mold. Serve with hard-boiled eggs and lean ham. That is Mrs. Shibley!
But even big cuts of Mrs. Shibley didn't make Jed and Papa any happier.
The next week Mama was very busy. There was going to be a great art show of Paul's paintings, and Mama was arranging for space at the Quackenbush Undertaking Parlors. All shows were held in the Parlors. They were a large, waxed square of fumed oak, and the best people came there, dead or alive.
Papa said to Mama, “I hope Fran is not being foolish again.”
“Again?” said Mama, as if Papa had said Aunt Fran made moonshine whisky or traded in bad dollar bills.
“Well, you know she likes people … men … I mean, you know, she and Jed are being married soon.”
“You have a low mind,” said Mama. “Now get me sixteen old-fashioned picture frames and a gallon of white paint.”
“What for?”
“To paint the frames … for Paul's pictures. And Stevie and I want you to pass out posters in all the stores for the exhibit.”
“Can I see the show?” I asked.
“Well, I think so … don't you, Henry?”
Papa said, “Ye-es, Paul's NUDES aren't really very naked … just sort of sawed apart. …”
“Cubic,” said Mama. “What were you going to say about Fran?”
“Nothing,” said Papa. “I guess it's nothing important or you'd have seen about it.”
Mama went through her list of things needed, and recited to herself something that sounded like a poem …
“At six in the morning they swung him high
At seven the turf on his grave was dry
At eight she drank her wine
And sang with laughter. …”
“What's that?” asked Papa.
Mama said, “It's a poem Paul knows. … Oh, Henry, couldn't you speak to Mr. Quackenbush about not doing any embalming while the show is going on?”
Papa said to his vest very low, “I guess the painting don't want a contest with any other odors …” and he went out and I followed him to the railroad station.
We found Jed under a sixteen-coach special explaining something to two little Italians who knew no English, and who nodded they understood just what he wanted done to the connections.
Papa took Jed aside. “It's reached a stage where you must step in. Poetry.”
“I don't know any,” said Jed, “unless it's something like The Shooting of Dan McGrew. …”
Papa shook his head. “No, the girls are reciting it. That's bad.”
“It is?”
“Well, poetry acts on a woman. I don't mean anything foolish will happen.”
“Maybe we don't agree, what is and what ain't foolish,” said Jed.
“I think we ought to go to the private hanging tonight.”
Jed smiled. “Say, so the boys are taking care of things! I got a good length of rope I'm not in need of.”
“I mean of the paintings.”
“Oh … art, huh?”
“Art,” said Papa.
That night Aunt Fran was dressed early. She didn't look as if she forgot anything except the rose in her teeth. Mama was wearing her “Goya gown,” … something the local Singer sewing machine agent's wife had run up for Mama while looking at a bad reproduction of a painting.
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