No. 9

Mrs. Lafayette to Mrs. Quinn (Illustrated Songs)

Mrs. Quinn

908 E Jefferson

Louisville, Kentucky

July 2, 1940

 Dear Mrs. Quinn,

I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Quinn, of the Detective. I pray for your family and for your cleaning out his belongings, which can be lonely work.

Yes, I will provide you with some distraction. Here is more about me finding Julien’s other family at the farm in Indiana.

Like you, I was surprised that Julien ended up living on a farm. Julien was now using another name. He was comfortable there, because he was not in charge. He had a car so that he could drive to Lafayette, Indiana, which is a university town in a neighboring county. He only lived on the farm because that is where his wife’s uncle allowed them to stay rent free. Julien’s job covered gas and groceries for the uncle, so this was the extent of his living rural. Minnie told me so.

The only mechanical thing that Julien could handle was the organ, painting scenes, and opening an umbrella. But he could design one; he could design nearly anything. He just didn’t want to risk injuring his hands and we didn’t want him to do manual labor.

Thinking of the umbrella reminded me that it was in the Presbyterian Church where Julien heard me sing. Julien was in front of me at church. I selected the spot right behind him. As we were gathering our coats and gloves after the final hymn, he turned around and lit a fire into my eyes immediately.

After the service, he followed me outdoors. He had an umbrella ready when mine, ever so conveniently, was not.

He encouraged me to go with him later that afternoon, with his mother, to a performance by the Majestic Theater company. He was an illustrator with his organ. The show was spectacular, natural for Julien. The crowd was transported with Julien. And when his organ work resolved the tension, on his own or perhaps with a prayer, for by then some of us were reminded of prayer, even though we forget—how we forget or Lord!—and after a wiping of his brow, he returned to us and the actors, smiling, looking at each other to help remember their lines, but loving the interruption for the audience was supportive and calm, some weeping, until the lift of the final movement, which was always pure resolution and victory. He delivered late. He answered late, but he handed over the keys like a true friend.

The applause sealed my attachment to Julien. I turned to his mother and could only nod. She said, “You must assist me, dear,” touching my arm, “in finding the ideal wife. Please tell me: do you have a sister?”

Julien assured me that my voice could help him, but he would not let me see any of the business-side. My job was to attend to his clothes and keep our look bright and crisp. As a director and composer, sparks flew from him as he managed the marketing, scheduling, and inventory of the props, posters, and correspondences.

But he cracked under any pressure from his mother. His mother’s failing health meant trouble. All this was too dramatic, or realistic, probably, yes, real is the right word here—maybe even, too effeminate, and about real power. The real engine in the business; how she reminded us, was her suggestions, her breaking, and her asking questions about his motivations.

After the announcement of our engagement, in 1904, Julien’ mother took to her bed, with her bell.

One day, not long after her decline, Julien shocked us by leaving her bedside and finally coming back to church, though he had been absent for weeks as we thought she was dying every day. As he opened the organ, he said that his mother begged him to go to church to pray for her soul. How could I not obey my dying mother? He looked into my eyes as he said that. I felt a chill and a thrill, for I knew it was close, her end, and I felt closer to him, for we could fly away finally.

After the sermon, an usher pulled Julien’s sleeve, and Julie flew out mid-bridge. She died that morning.

Both my father and Julien had many friends with The Courier-Journal. We published a creative obituary. A prop she was to us. It was recorded that Julien “Played with the angels yet without knowledge of her death.” And while she died of lung trouble, it suited us to frame more of this illustrated song-making. That she “suffered from a complicated death.” That she was only 48 years old. That we would be sure to take care of his loyal grandmother, Edna, who said to me, “Use this money not for a wedding, not for one more dress, Laura, not a one, but for his shows.”

Edna gave us, without complaint, domestic services and took care of our three children, all remarkably beautiful and well-behaved, due to Edna, who later had to be placed in an insane asylum when Julien left me. I had no means or wits to keep her. By then she didn’t know me.

Julien had run off with an actress. I turned Edna over to the counter, sat her on a bench with a note, and rang the bell. Making my exit, my script said she was better off.

This was when we were in Memphis. We kept our house in Louisville as a base, renting it out to other theater and teacher types while we headed to the theaters in the south. If I could get back to Kentucky, I planned to push the tenants out. We worked out a deal, so I could maintain what was left of my reputation as a nice person.

I really did prefer nice and beauty over truth. You don’t even want to know how long I stood in that belief, even repeating it when, soon after the divorce, I just had to go and make my next bold move: another husband.

Bill was taller than Julien and wider at the top and trunk, in the grin and in the jaw, in his back, and his swing, but younger.  I met him at the sick ward at Camp Taylor. He didn’t think he would survive, nor did I, but we agreed that we both had no one else to turn to and both needed some stability to get over our last shock. As he became stronger, he, well, there is no other way to put it, he became stronger. He didn’t care for my style of doing things. He started to trip over the children. Hated how they interrupted him. We moved to Chicago for a fresh start, where he could get a job from an old Army pal. The kind of job that required a big and tall driver for the liquor bosses out of Detroit. He disappeared on a run, but first he had me stay with an old lady for a night, he said. “Just do this as a favor and keep your mouth shut.”

As if he knew he might not come back, Bill rushed me over to this lady’s house, a very nice house—and found me an arrangement with the grandmother there. She was tied to one of his bosses, the favor was my labor. This boss only visited on an occasional Sunday, sometimes only to hide something under her bed, after she had some of his brandy. This was a dangerous job, if I slipped, but I was grateful, and kept up. She let me bring the kids if they didn’t make noise. I trained them well.

Now I was answering the bell at her bedside. She wanted more books from the library, or for me to turn the radio stories on, and I got those things for her, and her meals. And I had access to an automobile for errands.

About a year later, when Bill didn’t come back, I heard the bell ring from her bedside, and this lady, handing me the telephone handset to return, asked me about my surname. She told me that her phone call was that there was a problem with my Bill. He had been detained. Worried that I might lose my job, I asked her if she was going to let me go. She said no. “It seems to be working out as it is.”

Then I asked her if she minded if, for my protection, I reverted to using the surname Lafayette. You would never have found me if I had not of heard that ring to switch back.

Mrs. Laura Lafayette

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel