Belles on their Toes

Some people even said it was chicken pox. But it turned out to be..."
    "Pleurisy," Dr. Burton nodded sagely.
    "That's the only disease that ever give me any trouble."

    The next day, when it became apparent that all of us had chicken pox, Anne had Tom move all the boys' beds into Frank's and Bill's room, and all the girls' beds into Mother's and Dad's room. The rooms were adjacent, and by leaving the door open Anne could supervise both wards from her bed.
    Anne had no intention of letting any mass epidemic interfere with the family routine. She had each of us get up long enough to wash, remake our beds, weigh ourselves, and make the notations on the process charts.
    We got the phonograph from the boys' bathroom— we usually listened to the language records while we were taking baths or otherwise occupied in what Dad called periods of unavoidable delay—and set it up in the doorway between the two wards. We played French and German records for fifteen minutes. Then Anne got up and looked at the charts, to make sure everyone had done what he was supposed to do.
    "That's fine," she sighed as she crawled back into bed. "Now we can enjoy our poor health. And a pox on the first person who gets me up again."
    None of us felt very sick. We sang for a while, with the boys' ward carrying the melody and the girls' ward an alto. Sometimes, to get the song just right, the boys would sing their part alone, and the girls would sing theirs alone, and then we'd try them together. We sang "Yes, We Have No Bandnas,"
    "Oh, Gee, Oh, Gosh, Oh, Golly, I'm in Love,"
    "Last Night on the Back Porch,"
    "You've Got to See Mama Every Night or You Can't See Mama at All."
    Then we played some of the new dance records and sang along with them. "What'll I Do?"
    "All Alone by the Telephone,"
    "Charlie My Boy,"
    "Limehouse Blues," and "The Prisoner's Song."
    We didn't mind being sick, and we hoped Mother wouldn't find out and worry about us.
    After a while we could hear the sound of a spoon clinking against a glass down in the kitchen, and we knew Tom was mixing castor oil with orange juice and sugar. All of the boys, from Frank on down the line, immediately feigned deep sleep.
    Tom brought the castor oil upstairs, one glass at a time. The stirring grew progressively louder as he mounted the back stairs and walked through the upstairs hall to the wards.
    When he arrived with the first dose, the boys were snoring. "You don't fool me none," Tom told them. "I can see them eyes winking. I'll be up with your medicine in a few minutes."
    He knocked noisily on the open door of the girls' ward, with his head modestly averted. Tom always made an elaborate ceremony of knocking before entering one of the girls' rooms. He thought that the knocking was a waste of time, and alleged that he had, at one time or another, changed all of their diapers. But Dad and Mother insisted on it. When Tom did, by mistake, happen on one of the girls who was not fully dressed, he never could understand—or made believe he couldn't understand—the ensuing commotion. "That's all right," he'd say, while the girl dived shrieking into a closet. "It don't embarrass me none. I don't mind. I don't mind."
    Now, after knocking, he asked:
    "All right if I come in, Anne?" He stirred the castor oil harder and louder than ever.
    "I guess so," Anne conceded.
    "Ain't nobody here," said Ernestine, "but us chicken poxers."
    Tom entered and bowed low to Ernestine, the Princess.
    "Here you are, Your Highness," he said. "I've brung you a present from the Grand Doochess."
    He held out the glass.
    "Anne first," Ernestine protested. "She's the oldest. Besides, you've probably spiked my drink."
    "Where'd you learn talk like that?" said Tom, genuinely shocked. "I'm going to tell your Mother on you when she gets home."
    "Here, hand me that glass and for goodness' sake be quiet, both of you," said Anne.
    "Oh, what's the use," Ernestine wailed. "All right, give it to me."
    Having reached the decision, she grabbed the glass before her will power deserted her, and drained it.
    "Good girl, Ernie," Tom beamed. "You're in the Club. How was it?"
    Remembering she was supposed to set a good example, she smiled bravely.
    "Delicious," she gulped. "Positively delicious."
    "See what I tole you?" Tom said. "The orange juice cuts the taste."
    "That's right," Ernestine lied. "Positively delicious."
    "Do you want some more?" Tom asked hopefully. "I wouldn't mind fixing you another glass."
    "No," Ernestine shouted. "I