Ruth Sears Bacon (1887), by Mia Pandey Gordon

Ruth Sears Bacon, by John Singer Sargent (USA) 1887

Ruth Sears Bacon (1887)
 
Ruth was not happy this morning. The curtains did not rustle their morning rhymes; the sun did not stripe the window frames. Cook was baking, and whatever it was, it made the house smell like tea biscuits. Then it made the house smell like burnt tea biscuits. Ruth was not happy this morning.

This morning, the mailman forgot to leave any mail, and Cook wanted Ruth to eat oats. Ruth did not like oats. Ruth wanted bacon. Cook said Ruth couldn’t have bacon until Saturday when the family had breakfast together, and today was only Tuesday. Ruth would have to wait until Saturday, Cook said. “And while you’re waiting eat your oats.” Ruth was not happy this morning. 

Late this morning a gentleman was coming to visit. Mother said Ruth was to wear her white frilly frock and her chestnut parlour boots, and then she tied Ruth’s hair with a baby-blue bow. Ruth could feel its weight on the back top of her head. Ruth shook her head and shook her head and shook her head, when no one was looking of course, but the bow held fast, and Ruth knew if she tugged it off, Cook would be cross. So, the bow would have to stay, but the oats, no, that was something else. Ruth did not want oats; Ruth wanted bacon. Twosday, Satday, fooey. Ruth was going to have bacon — today.

Today, the gentleman coming to visit was going to paint Ruth in honour of her fourth birthday, which was two weeks away, so her Mother said. Ruth was happy to turn four, though three had been fine enough. Ruth was going to have a party. She had picked out a cake. The frosting was butter yellow and the roses were candy pink. Cook said Ruth was too young to choose her cake trimmings, but Mother said, “No, let her, besides you know how tiresome she gets when she doesn’t have her own way.” So Ruth would get to have butter on her cake, and candy, and at her party, she would get to eat her cake too. But for right now, what Ruth wanted was bacon.

The gentleman painter’s name was John, but Mother said Ruth was not to call him John. Ruth was to call him Mr. Sargent. “But if his name’s ‘John’, why can’t I call him John?”

“Ruthy honey, it’s not polite to call grown people by their first names. Ladies don’t do that.”

“Will he wear a uniform?”

“No, why would he wear a uniform?"

“People called ‘sergeant’ wear uniforms.”

“He’s not that type of sergeant. He’s a painter. That’s why we’ve asked him to paint you.”

“If he’s a painter why do I have to call him Mister? Why can’t I call him Painter?”

“Ruth, do be a sweetheart and go play. Mother has a headache right now.”

Ruth didn’t get headaches, but she did get unhappy, like now. So Ruth went to play.

Ruth liked to play, mostly. Ruth liked to play with Boxer, who was a teddy bear given to her by Uncle Laurie. Uncle Laurie’s face was as round and white as the dinner plates Cook used at fancy parties, and he was as noisy as a party too. He trumpeted his arrival with a bellow when he stepped out of the carriage and he bellowed again on the third step of the front door footsteps. On his second bellow, he would throw his hat up in the air, catch it, and then hand it to Cook waiting at the front door. “Oh my, Mr. Inglewood,” she would giggle, and blink, blink, blink. Then Uncle Laurie would blow through the front doors and if Ruth was about, scoop her up and swing her round. Ruth didn’t mind being swept around because Uncle Laurie smelt like spring flowers and his jacket felt like hair ribbons and he brought Ruth presents, like Boxer Teddy, who was so sturdy you could swing him upside down by one foot on the edge of the first floor landing, and his head never fell off, which is more than you could say for any of the dolls. Ruth liked swinging and shaking Boxer, ‘til she tired of it. Like now. Right now, Ruth had had enough of Boxer. The lingering smell of burnt biscuits reminded her of something, what was it? That’s right — Ruth wanted bacon.

Cook kept the bacon in an icebox on the bottom shelf in the pantry. Ruth didn’t need Cook; she could get her own bacon. So she did. When Cook was outside on the backdoor steps, chat, chat, chatting, and blink, blink, blinking at the milkman, Ruth went into the pantry, opened the icebox and peeked inside. The box held blocks of butter that looked a lighter yellow than the frosting Ruth was going have on her cake. They were stacked on one side like a yellow brick wall. The other side of the icebox held lumps of red speckled with white, and strips of pink – bacon. Ruth picked the top strip, held it between her thumb and first finger, and toddled out of Cook’s kitchen. She got to the entrance parlour and was about to climb the stairs to her room, but decided she could eat her bacon downstairs. Besides, Mother was upstairs, and she might not be pleased to see Ruth carrying a strip of bacon. Father’s study door was open and Ruth knew he had left by carriage in the early morning because that’s what he did every morning.

Ruth took her strip of bacon and laid it down on the rug in front of Father’s tree trunk of a desk. Against the blue-green plush of the rug, the bacon looked very pink. Too pink. When Cook gave her bacon, Ruth couldn’t remember it looking so pink. Cook’s bacon had bits of black and stripes of brown. Cook must do something to make the bacon black and brown. Ruth would have to brown her bacon. But how? And with what? Ruth sat with her legs tucked under her dress, her elbows resting on the rug, her chin cradled in both hands, and considered her unbrown bacon. A breeze fanned the chiffon curtains in the study, making a sheet of paper curl, lift, and slide to the floor. Ruth looked up and spotted Father’s fountain pen. The black feather was leaning with its pointy end in an inkpot that sat at the back corner of Father’s desk — the corner closest to her. Ruth remembered Father writing; his fountain pen splotched black, and dried to brown.

Ruth stood, walked to her Father’s desk, and seized the feathered inkpot. This time she crossed her legs when she sat on the rug, inkpot on one side, pink strip in front. Ruth picked up the feather, pointed it at the strip, and shook it (the same way she liked to shake Boxer). Splotches landed on the rug, on Ruth’s stockings, and a few splats even caught her boots — but none reached the bacon. On her second try, she did better. The ink splat the tail end of the bacon and made a few specks higher on the strip. The specks spread ever so slightly like eyes caught by surprise. Ruth held up her blackened bacon — that’s when the front door bell rang.

Someone was coming down the stairs. The swish against the bannisters suggested Mother’s skirts. Hushed fussing sounded from the entrance parlor. Followed by a few moments of quiet during which Ruth mulled over her next move. 

“Rooo-Theee,” calls Mother.

Cook thump, thump, thumps up the stairs. “Ma’am, she’s not in her room,” heard from above.

Ruth looks at the ink: on the rug, on her stockings, on her boots, decorating her bacon.

Ruth is not happy. Ruth starts to cry.

“Ruthy, what are you doing? You know you’re not supposed to be in Father’s study.” Mother stands at the door, the cloudy puffs of her skirt blocking all light from the corridor.

Ruth turns and stands, and in so doing stains the back of her white frilly frock.

Mother looks at Ruth. Mother looks at the feather in Ruth’s hand. Mother looks at the inked stockings, the rug, the bacon. Mother is not happy. Ruth cries harder. Cook comes to the doorway and sees Mother, unblinking, straight-lipped, still as a stone. An unknown man comes to the doorway and lurks behind Cook. Cook takes charge, so the fussing moves from demure to reproving rather quickly. The three big people encircle Ruth, so that the room looks dark. Ruth wails louder.

“No, no, it’s fine,” says the man. He leans down. The whiskers on his chin are the same chestnut as Ruth’s boots. “Really, she’ll be fine.”

“Look at the back of her dress! And her stockings! And what am I going to tell my husband about the rug?” Ruth has never seen Mother look at her for so long. Ruth stops crying.

“We’ll sit her in a chair so we won’t see the black on her dress, and I’ll paint her stockings a charcoal hue. That will probably work better against the ivory of the chair and her dress anyway. She’ll be fine, Mrs. Bacon. Really, she will be fine.”

Cook, Mother, and the man, who Ruth decides to call “Painter John,” place Ruth in an armchair so that the ink on her frock doesn’t show from the front. Cook finds a doll with a head, Ruth’s not sure from where, and sits it next to Ruth. Ruth is not happy, though she did sear her bacon.

Mia Pandey Gordon

Mia Pandey Gordon was born in India and raised in many places around the globe, including Australia, Greece, Hong Kong, Switzerland, and the United Kingdom. She has now returned to the sunny shores of Sydney where one of her essays, "Walking the Wire," has just been released in a book titled Growing Up Indian in Australia. She received a Master of Arts in Writing from Johns Hopkins University in Washington D.C., where she was awarded Outstanding Graduate in Fiction. Further, she just finished teaching a poetry course titled, "Seasons of Verse" through Odyssey, the continuing education arm of Johns Hopkins University.