The Money Lady

Mama displayed her figurine collection on glass shelves in the mirrored alcove on the right of our living room fireplace, balancing the window on the left. People who have collections love organization. Daddy designed and built our house in the 12th year of their 40-year marriage which ended with his death in 1968. He also gave Mama 16 closets she could organize. His closet was the smallest, he reminded us time and again.

Three paired figurines, favors from Daddy’s Executive Club’s Christmas dinner dances, stand on the top shelf. Each wigged gentlemen in knee britches, with a sword under his long coat, holds a flower awarded him by his elegantly gowned lady. Each elaborately coiffured lady waits beside her partner with flowers cradled in her arm. Holding a half-opened fan poised near her pouting mouth, each lady tilts her china face demurely away from her courtier. These richly dressed couples seem frozen in a reflected moment, listening for the music before they bow and curtsy to begin their effortless waltz across Mama’s top glass shelf.

The figurines on the glass shelves make a charming display, but my favorite figurine is not among them. She is in my parents’ downstairs bedroom. Sitting alone, on the right side of Mama’s dresser, she wears a low pink china ball gown with puffed sleeves and a billowing gathered skirt that balloons out the sides and back in a plethora of pink ceramic. She sits on a pink cushioned stool that can be seen from the back beneath her ample skirt.

A large yellow woven basket beside her crossed legs abounds with an assortment of colored flowers. Was she gathering these flowers to select her bouquet for the ball? Did she sit down a moment to daydream about her sweetheart’s love for her?

With unconscious seductiveness she leans forward. In her left hand she holds what remains of a flower with red petals around a yellow center. A petal falls down her skirt. Only two petals still cling to the flower. Her wavy, brown hair reminds me of Mama’s.

It is fashioned up off her neck for the sake of coolness. The memory of a kiss lingers on her slightly parted red lips, which almost curve into a smile. Her eyes have ascertained the message of her remaining two petals, “He loves me.”

Mama called her the Money Lady. Since Daddy never allowed money to be in sight, every Friday for forty years he placed Mama’s household allowance under the Money Lady’s bounteous skirt. When Wilson, our laundry man, whistled his arrival, Mama calls while she goes to the door, “Get five dollars from the Money Lady, Lois.” Money for John, our yardman, hides there as well as my own weekly allowance

Today the Money Lady picks her petals into the proliferation of her pink ceramic skirt in my bookcase. Charge cards I have restricted myself from using reside beneath her. Money for my maid, when I had a maid, was there for safekeeping. The Money Lady’s right hand is glued on, but she is just as confident “He loves me” as when she received a regular weekly remittance.

When my sons were home and their craving for pizza great, my pleas of poverty were met with, “Check under the Money Lady, Mama.” Often, a $20.00 bill was hiding under this solitary lady, impatiently waiting to be spent.

Now that the boys are married, months pass without my even glancing towards the Money Lady. Yet, last week my checkbook was low. I chanced to look under the Money Lady and discovered thirty dollars from a more profitable time. As I turned away with my found wealth, the Money Lady’s smile seemed strangely warm and knowing.