No. 3 Mrs. Lafayette to Detective Quinn

Detective Quinn

312 W Jefferson

Louisville, KY

March 15, 1940

Detective Quinn,

Thank you for letting me know what became of Julien. I pray for your care in the final stages of this horrible life on earth. May you cross over and, if I can forgive Julien, me, also, so that I may find you in Heaven with those who love our Savior Lord Jesus Christ and not just sing about it in theaters and churches, as I did for years, until my heart went to stone.

Your kindness and, more so, loyalty to your craft, has started a short twisting in my backside, an interest again in the climb up the stairs, even if only to mail this.

That nudge was prompted, I think, by a strange kinship for your wife—I am curious if I might remember her and so staying on the line with you for her.

That time at Camp Taylor for me, during the flu epidemic, was something I had forgotten about until now, but is piece of information that explains why my heart wasn’t working and I pretty much know that only your wife would care to know about all that, my progress.

I read your report. Right away it stirred up a whirlwind of the furies and I threw up my life for the packing of bare essentials for a little, just over the night and just a few counties south of Chicago, just a little scrimmage, just a little show tune staring up in me.

With plans to drive to meet his other family and tell them the awful truth, I pulled out my suitcase from the closet, which knocked down one of my scrapbooks from my days as a professional singer, which I quit when Julien abandoned us.

I stomped on that scrapbook. Kicked it under the bed.

Nevertheless, memories came out of the book of rags—what some would call ribbons from my early performances—and the lies chased me all the way on the drive down to Julien’ farm, even buckling up in the passenger seat with an overdose of caffeine to vent and fly off, never once breaking for a commercial.

As I drove, this jerking and vocalizing in me, well, I was upset, sure, but here again all by myself, reminding myself of what I did, what decisions I made, all by myself, left to deal with it all by myself, after I visited you at the station, in 1917, that day I told my kids their father was only an actor or maker of scenes, well, I sent them to bed that night with truth and tears. Next, I stood over the bathroom sink and cut off my long hair, giving myself bangs. I forced upon myself a whole new identity to cut him out. It was a horror to my children and brought on a depression as I was mortified by my bad look. I could not bear to go outside. Thank goodness for my many hats.

Born in 1877, I was two years older than Julien, and you’d think I would know better to see darkness coming, but at first, you see, I was so happy to know to drop his just his name in certain musical circles and see how the newspapers formatted success with their advertisements for his shows, and finally, in awe, I met him in person. Julien was good looking. And his endorsement, and hand-holding, could help me, and it did, and we made an impression, they said. We moved hearts.

My father was an attorney for a newspaper in New Albany and a lithographer, who had assignments for The Courier-Journal, where we easily added notices to print and stylize our musical careers for elite audiences.

Even though my father was a leader in the community, he knew it was unwise with the businessmen to be too flashy about his money. This disappointed my mother, his frugality and his wanting to be with the up and coming politicians, apparently those who didn’t win because they acted as if they could not afford pomp and pulp. Well, my mother was tired of the austerity. But I understood that in order for him to provide for the long career that he was aiming for, he needed to be stoic, and I spotted this trait in other newspaper men. He was never a fan of drama or the arts outside of the home but let us do our plays and spend money on ornamentals, costumes, and props because it kept Mother busy.

My mother wanted only to perform. All she ever wanted to do was perform. To tell stories, she said. When the children came, though she never said it, she felt robbed, and I could pick up on it, and here she decided to push me on the stage….

Copyright 2025 Christine Friesel