O n a stifling August night in 1906, Karl Bauer fired two shots at his second

In Our Quiet Village

wife. His sixteen-year old daughter, Minna struggled to wrest the revolver
from his hands and the shots went wild. Her father, believing that he had
murdered, turned the gun on himself. The intended victim, the wicked step-mother,
survived. He died. This true event serves as the fulcrum for the story. At ninety, Minna
reveals this shameful secret to her own daughter, laying bare the mysterious pent-up
anger between them. The story traces the lives of three generations marked by the
impact of this violent act.

Set in a quiet village in New York’s Mohawk valley during the burgeoning late 19th
century, the personal dramas are played out against a backdrop of the rich political
and historic events of the time; the rise of the labor movement and struggle for
women’s rights.

As a child, the author romanticized her mother’s early life; imagining her orphaned, left
in the care of a wicked stepmother. However, when her mother, aged ninety, revealed
the entire shocking truth, the author’s powerful imaginings surrounding these events
became first a journal, then a memoir and eventually expanded into this novel. Ms.
Chayes holds a bachelor of music degree, a degree in Interior and Environmental
Design from UCLA and was writer and executive producer of a critically acclaimed
documentary film about her renowned teacher of piano, Karl Ulrich Schnabel.

After raising a large family and following several careers in the arts, she now writes
each day. She is eighty-two years old and lives with her husband in Los Angeles.

Mary Lou Chayes

$17.95 U.S.
In Our Quiet Village

Mary Lou Chayes

© 2009 Mary Lou Chayes
All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the
written permission of the author.

First published by Dog Ear Publishing

4010 W. 86th Street, Ste H
Indianapolis, IN 46268
www.dogearpublishing.net

ISBN: 978-160844-024-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 0000000000

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

For all of my children

In Memory of my mother
Bertha Minna Abendroth
1890-1985
Part One
 1980

Minna sits in a swivel armchair, gazing out the large window at the blurred
swipe of gray, the Charles River winding below. She marvels, what a wonderful view
Julie has here. Rain and gusts of wind slather the pane lavishly. For a surreal second
the room is brilliant with lightning. Thunder explodes like a threat. Minna feels insu-
lated, like a spectator at a horror show. She has seen this all before. When you are
ninety, nothing really upsets you. It is all so unimportant. What is important is that
she has made this journey.
Julie has lived here for a dozen years already and, until now, Minna has
resisted coming to visit. She reasoned that Boston was too long a trip. Julie had her
own demanding life and interests, and she didn’t need a mother on her hands. The
truth is I knew she didn’t want me, and she makes me feel uncomfortable. We have
never been close.
But in this year, her ninetieth, time has seemed to evaporate. Days spiral by,
each one more brief than the one before. The end to life looms. I have to talk to my
daughter. There are important things to decide, to talk over with her before I die.
“Mom, do you want some tea?” Julie calls from the kitchen. Minna watches
her daughter as she walks into the room, her movements languid and fluent, catlike.
She winds her long, auburn hair into a knot, fastening it with a comb as she crouches
lithely at the foot of her mother’s chair. She looks into her troubled face. “Hey, what
are you thinking? Tea?” She stands behind her mother and places her hands on the
bony shoulders.
Minna attends. “I was woolgathering, I guess. Sure, let’s have some tea.” She
pulls herself shakily to her feet. “I want to help.”
Minna looks around the apartment. Everything is beige and white, so straight
and clean-lined, so perfect; no knickknacks, nothing personal in sight. Not even any
plants. So sterile, she thinks. But she’s a journalist, a professional woman; she
doesn’t have the interest in a home. The place is functional and easy to keep.
Minna tries to rationalize her disappointment. She bites her lip, remembering
bitterly what a furious parent she was, so discontented with her husband and tough
with the boys. I never trusted men. She shrugs, asking herself; Why would Julie want
marriage, growing up with our family as a model?
Minna examines the one piece of wall decor—a framed certificate. It states
that Julie Bauer Anson received a master’s degree, cum laude, from Smith College,
 In Our Quiet Village

June 1, 1954. I always pushed her to achieve. She would do what I never could. I
know she resents me for it.
Minna carries the teapot to the living room, where Julie has set up two TV
tables in front of the couch. The two women sit side by side in the gray light, sipping
their tea; one tiny, ancient, and frail, the other in the full flush of life, lustrous and
healthy.
Minna regards her beautiful daughter, tall and graceful, even as she is curled
into the corner of the couch. Minna thinks, she holds her head so high, looking down
upon the world with those wide-open gray-blue eyes. She is impressive; so cool, so
collected. Minna has a moment of pride. She is my accomplishment. The moment
passes, replaced by another thought. She’s like a total stranger to me. She has been
that way ever since she was a kid. After we sent her to boarding school, sometimes
months went by when we had only a postcard or a snippy phone message. I got used
to it.
She feels a surprising surge of resentment. Look at her. So superior, so cold, so
polite.
Julie’s head is turned. She is staring out the window at the storm, immersed in
her own thoughts. A prickle of awareness, a sense of tension seems to alert her. She
looks at her mother curiously. “Mom, what’s up?”
Minna clears her throat and purses her lips. “I am getting old, Julie. There are
some things we have to attend to, you and I.” Her voice is tremulous despite her
effort to sound business- like. “You know, I never hear from your brother since dad
died. I doubt he would care about anything I have to say.” She holds her handker-
chief to her lips for a moment, summoning her control.
“I’ve been drawing up my will and I have questions, like, do you want the
house?” She looks at Julie through blurred tears. “After all, it is where you grew up.
It was our home for more than thirty years.” She waits hopefully. “If you don’t, then
I suppose you and your brother share the proceeds.”
Julie’s face is impassive. Coolly, she says, “I don’t really give a damn about the
house. I’d rather have the money.”
Minna blanches. She straightens her shoulders and continues. “Then, there’s
the piano. It’s in fine shape. I don’t touch it any more, but you used to play so well,
I thought…” Minna sees that Julie is looking out the window. She’s not even listen-
ing to me. Minna raises her voice irritably, “And your flute, your silver flute.”
Julie leans suddenly toward her mother. “The truth is, I don’t want any of that
stuff. I don’t want to be reminded of those times, growing up. I don’t care what you
do with it. Throw it all away, for all I care.”
Minna raises her hand to her cheek as though she were struck. She collapses
back onto the cushions, trembling with anger. She whispers, “You are cruel.” Then,
in a burst, she explodes, “You’re just like my stepmother.”
Julie’s eyes narrow with a calculated interest. “Oh, yes? So I’m like her. Tell
me about her.” Julie’s voice is laden with sarcasm. “Did she also have a lovely
upbringing? Did your father adore her?” There is a pause, as Julie slowly turns to
Minna. She is suddenly curious. “Why did he marry her if she was so awful? You

3
 Mary Lou Chayes

never told me a thing about them, about him, only that he died from melancholia.
What does that mean, melancholia? What really went on, anyway?”
Minna does not reply. Her head is bent; her lips are working silently. Julie
watches her mother intently, waiting. Minna looks up, and her eyes lock with Julie’s.
She inhales sharply. Her breathing has become rapid and shallow; the frantic heart-
beat pulses in the hollow of her throat. “Yes, my poor father, he did die of melan-
cholia. He couldn’t stand it any more and …” Her voice is a whisper. “He shot
himself, killed himself. I tried to grab his hand, but he did it. First he shot at Herta,
and then he shot himself.” She gasps in relief at this momentous unburdening.
“Shot himself? But you’re saying he tried to murder his wife?” Julie’s tone is
shocked, edged with hostility. “You were there? You watched him do that?” She
turns her face away, trying to imagine such a scenario. “But, you never told us.” She
scowls. “Why?” She looks into her mother’s face as if she were meeting her for the
first time. “How could you keep such a secret all these years? Didn’t that bother
you?”
Minna flushes with fury. She struggles to her feet, swaying, holding to the arm
of the couch. “Bother me? Bother me?” Her voice is stiff and reedy with passion.
“You. You, so spoiled, so privileged your whole life, how would you even know what
bother means?”
Julie’s body unwinds like a swift whip. Stiff-backed, she bends toward her
mother. She spits out her words. “Spoiled and privileged. That’s me? You sent me
away to school when I was twelve years old, discarding me like an annoying nui-
sance, that’s spoiled and privileged?” She mutters, “But of course you didn’t tell me
your history. You never talked to me, period.” Her mouth curls in bitterness.
Minna crumples onto the couch, holding to the arm, trembling visibly. “So
that’s what you think. How would I know? You never wrote or called, only for
money. You hated us. That’s what I thought.” They sit in a pulsating silence, fury
simmering between them.
Finally, Minna raises her eyes to her daughter and speaks. “You have no idea
what it was like. Her voice quavers. “There it was in the newspaper in big black let-
ters: ‘Tragedy in Our Quiet Village.’ The whole town knew. It was a tragedy, but the
way people talked, it was a scandal, and we were criminals. You don’t know.” Her
voice is thick with disgust. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
Julie stares into nothingness, strangely angry and at the same time, struggling
to assimilate this devastating intelligence.
Minna places her dry hand lightly on Julie’s arm. Her voice is bitter. “My
father was a gentle, good man. He had a difficult life, disappointing and sad. Still, I
know it is hard to understand why he would do such a thing.” She rises awkwardly,
rattling the cups, spilling a little tea. “I am really very tired. I want to rest now.”
Julie’s voice is level. “Okay. You take a nap.” She offers her hand to help Minna
to her feet. “I need to take a shower.” She exhales and makes a tense face. “To relax.
Then I have to finish my article on Margaret Thatcher and drop it off at the agency.
I should be back in a couple of hours.” She takes Minna’s arm to guide her toward
the bedroom, but Minna shakes her off.

4
 In Our Quiet Village

Her tone is defiant. “Never mind. I can still walk.”

***
The front door slams. “I’m back.” Julie breezes into the room, fresh-faced and
cheerful. “I feel better. It’s amazing how some work and a shower can lift your spir-
its.” She observes her mother’s drooping shoulders and sad mien. ”Why don’t we go
out for some Chinese? You must be worn out and famished.” She touches Minna’s
arm tentatively. “Besides, I want to talk.”
Hung Li’s is a neighborhood favorite, nearby on Kneeland Street. Despite the
worn linoleum floor and the glare of overhead lights, it is popular and noisy at this
time of day. Julie leads the way to a booth at the very back of the room, next to the
swinging doors to the kitchen. She gives Minna her arm for support, easing her onto
the seat, and takes her place opposite. “This will be as quiet as it gets.”
Minna does not open her menu. “I always get the Kung Pao Chicken with tea.”
Julie also ignores the menu. “That will work for me.”
Minna notes the relaxed and mellow tenor of her words. Not bossy, not criti-
cal…I wonder what’s on her mind.
The waiter appears. He delivers the silverware, chopsticks, and cups with a
clatter and stands poised with pad and pencil, waiting for their order, his face
inscrutable. Julie says, “Two Kung Pao Chicken and two teas. Thanks very much.”
She smiles at him. Without acknowledgment, he vanishes.
Julie takes a deep breath. Her face has become relaxed. “You know, Mom, just
awhile ago, standing under the shower, I had this epiphany—I always do my best
thinking in the shower—I realized that we each have kept secrets from the other.
Somehow, growing up, I guess I learned ‘secretive’ from you, by osmosis or some-
thing like that.”
Julie takes a deep breath and looks into her mother’s face. “You know, I have
secrets too.” She waits, scrutinizing her mother’s face. Julie stares at her mother, and
the expression on her face suddenly alters shockingly. She is cold-eyed and dispas-
sionate.
Minna shrinks from this abrupt confrontation. She is afraid of Julie. What is
she going to accuse me of?
Julie begins. “You remember when you and Dad sent me off to Timberlake
Academy in Arizona when I was twelve? You couldn’t stand it that I was bumming
out in school with all my Ds and Fs.” Julie’s eyes roll to the ceiling. “I was really an
unhappy camper. I hated school, and I was mad at you all the time for whatever rea-
son.”
She covers her eyes with her hand, embarrassed at the memory. “Remember
the day Miss Watts, the principal, phoned to tell you I was flunking two subjects? I
had hidden my report card, and you didn’t know. And you screamed at me and tried
to grab me and I punched you?” She laughs edgily at the memory. “I was out of con-
trol. What to do? You wanted an achiever. You wanted me gone, too. I knew that.”
Minna interrupts, “We never...”
Julie ignores her. “The place was a pushover. They gave me grades just to
make you parents happy. That’s where I learned about drinking. My dorm mate,

5
 Mary Lou Chayes

Melissa, lived in Phoenix and went home every other weekend, and she’d bring back
a couple of bottles of vodka. Her parents both worked and didn’t pay any attention.”
Julie cocks her head and gazes significantly at her mother. She waits to see the effect
of her words.
Satisfied with Minna’s pained expression, she continues. “Practically every
day, after classes, we’d sneak out in the woods and get bombed. Even though vodka
doesn’t smell, I’m sure the teachers knew what was going on with all those droopy,
druggy eyes looking at them. How could they not know? I was out of my mind half
the time.” Julie chews her cheek, recalling. “You phoned every Saturday morning. I
was braced for that and tried to be coherent.”
Minna sits, stunned and silent.
Julie’s tone becomes accusatory. “What you didn’t care to know was that I got
pregnant that second winter. No one had ever thought to educate me about birth con-
trol or even the risks of fooling around. I was scared to death.”
Minna clasps her hand to her mouth, wincing. Just like me. No one ever told
me, either.
“So you know what I did? I knew damned well I couldn’t go home. You would
have kicked me out. I went home with Nancy, my roommate, for spring break. You’ll
remember that. They lived in Tucson. Her parents were decent and kind.”
Julie stops and places her hands over her face, still angry, trying not to cry at
the memory. In a choked voice, she goes on. “Her father was a doctor, and he per-
formed an abortion for me in a private hospital in the middle of the night, and for no
money. It was illegal then, you know. Four days later, I went back to school. Let’s
see, I was fourteen.” She pulls a Kleenex from her purse and wipes her eyes. She
does not look at her mother.
Minna’s face crumples. Tears roll down her cheeks.
Julie takes a deep breath, and her face softens. “I graduated. You did come over
for that. And when I told you I wanted to be a journalist, Dad wangled me an admis-
sion to Bread Loaf. You liked that idea.” Julie’s fleeting smile is sardonic. “That was
a great place, inspiring and motivating for me. I mean, Carl Sandburg was still alive,
and he visited and talked to us. I’ll never forget him. I learned how to put my heart
into words that summer.”
For a second Julie’s face is transformed, open and without guile. Then she
exhales. “Ah yes, back to that summer. That’s when I met Drake. He was brilliant, a
poet, a heroin addict; he was covered in curly, black hair, and he was cruel. I was
insane about him. We lived together that summer in someone’s garage in Middle-
bury. No running water, no toilet, just a bed and an orange-and-purple bedspread we
hung over the door for privacy. Who cared, anyway? That summer, I got hooked on
heroin.” She looks down at her mother, merciless. With a renewed wave of bitter-
ness, her voice escalates. “Didn’t know that, did you, Mom?”
Minnna has tipped her head back against the chair.
Julie’s voice is hard. “I learned a lot that summer. Drake used to sneer at what
he called my bourgeois values, my attachments. His attachment was SM. He liked
me strung up and strung out. I think I liked the beatings. I must have, because I

6
 In Our Quiet Village

stayed.” Julie closes her eyes; her mouth is downturned, twisted in bitterness. She
waits, opens her eyes, and fixes her attention on her mother’s face.
“I stayed until the morning I came to, half-conscious, and looked for some
change to get coffee. My wallet, with the postal order for a thousand dollars—my
tuition down payment from you—was gone. Drake was gone. The summer was
over.”
Minna sniffles. “Dad was so upset when you told him you lost the money. You
never explained anything.” She sits straight in her chair, defensive, angry. “We were
fed up with your antics, and we couldn’t understand.”
Ignoring Minna’s words, Julie resumes. “There isn’t a lot more to tell. I hitch-
hiked down to Cambridge where Nancy lived with her new husband. He was a fresh-
man at Harvard. His daddy had money, and they had a house. I stayed in their
basement rec room. They got me into a free clinic there, and over the next year and
a half, I sobered up.”
Minna’s face is contorted in anguish. “But why didn’t you tell us? You just
wrote that you were working, that you…”
Julie ignores her question. “Yep, I did two jobs. I worked part-time at Rexall
Drugs, selling cosmetics, and three nights a week I was a hostess at the Cuddly Cat
in South Boston.” Julie looks at Minna, wondering if she gets the picture, but Minna
has turned her head away.
“I hated it. It was disgusting, but the money was good. It paid for food and my
counseling with a guy, a therapist who was a recovering addict.”
Minna’s thoughts are reeling. My daughter, a drug addict. Julie, a drug addict?
Julie’s rant goes on. “During that awful time, I was trying to figure out who I
was and what I wanted. I even joined a church. I was looking for a quick fix. I
finally got sick of the situation and made up my mind to get back to school. I had
been writing all this time, a kind of journal. That’s when I applied to Smith and
asked for your help.” Julie looks to Minna for confirmation. “Remember?”
She resumes. “In those years at Smith, I had a couple of affairs; in the end, they
were just frustrating and went nowhere. I guess I didn’t want them to go anywhere.”
Her mouth twists cynically. “I’ve given up trying with men. I never trusted them.”
She looks at Minna significantly. “And I can surely see why you never did.”
Minna recoils from this truth, as from a blow.
“My story sounds awful to you, doesn’t it? But secrets are toxic. I can see it. I
can feel it.” Her voice is passionate. “They lock up a part of you, they make you
careful and reluctant, make you want to try to control every scary thing that might
expose you.” Julie passes her hand over her forehead, calming herself. Her expres-
sion softens; she reaches for Minna’s hand. “Don’t cry, Mom. It isn’t all bad. Look
at me. I am a woman who loves what she does, who does it well, who finds life
meaningful.” Julie smiles sadly. “I guess I’ve never told you about the good things
that have happened to me.” She studies her fingernails. A hint of pride lights her
face.
“I got a Pen Award last year for my article on the effect of the ‘78 revolution
on Iranian women. It came out in Harper’s.” She continues in a small voice. “That

7
 Mary Lou Chayes

really opened doors for me. Since then, I write regularly for the Boston Globe and
even The Wall Street Journal. Guess what they want? Articles on powerful women,
repressed women, women who struggle, human interest.” She smiles ruefully at
Minna. “Where do you suppose my inspiration for that subject originated?”
Minna wipes her tears, her lips compressed, resisting a smile.
The two women sit quietly, absorbing this unveiled, disturbing new climate of
openness. Julie sighs pensively. “Imagine what it must be to live without this sim-
mering pissiness at everything and everyone, without the need to be so critical and
suspicious. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Don’t you think maybe it’s possible?”
Minna covers her mouth and nods, wide-eyed.
The waiter unceremoniously dumps two plates of food before them, whirls
away, returns with a steaming pot of tea, and is gone.
Julie pours the tea. Her voice has become controlled. “You held so much sad-
ness. I always felt that from you but never understood it. Weird, isn’t it, that anger
can persist through generations?” She adds, “And grief, too.”
Julie looks directly into her mother’s eyes. “I want to change. I mean, really
change.” She twirls her chopstick between her fingers nervously. “I had this idea just
now, just today.” She looks into her mother’s eyes. “What if I tried to write your
story? And maybe incorporate part of mine, too.”
Minna nods, biting her lip to keep tears away.
Julie says, “I have the sense that writing out, exposing this poisonous hidden
stuff, could help me.” Her eyes implore. “It might help you, too”
Minna is overcome. She whispers, “Maybe, if it’s not too late.” She reaches out
and clasps Julie’s hand.

8
The complete book may be
ordered from the author’s web
site
www.inourquietvillage.com
(also available from fine bookstores everywhere)

This edition published by

Dog Ear Publishing
4010 W. 86th Street, Ste H
Indianapolis, IN 46268

www.dogearpublishing.net

ISBN: 978-160844-024-5
O n a stifling August night in 1906, Karl Bauer fired two shots at his second

In Our Quiet Village

wife. His sixteen-year old daughter, Minna struggled to wrest the revolver
from his hands and the shots went wild. Her father, believing that he had
murdered, turned the gun on himself. The intended victim, the wicked step-mother,
survived. He died. This true event serves as the fulcrum for the story. At ninety, Minna
reveals this shameful secret to her own daughter, laying bare the mysterious pent-up
anger between them. The story traces the lives of three generations marked by the
impact of this violent act.

Set in a quiet village in New York’s Mohawk valley during the burgeoning late 19th
century, the personal dramas are played out against a backdrop of the rich political
and historic events of the time; the rise of the labor movement and struggle for
women’s rights.

As a child, the author romanticized her mother’s early life; imagining her orphaned, left
in the care of a wicked stepmother. However, when her mother, aged ninety, revealed
the entire shocking truth, the author’s powerful imaginings surrounding these events
became first a journal, then a memoir and eventually expanded into this novel. Ms.
Chayes holds a bachelor of music degree, a degree in Interior and Environmental
Design from UCLA and was writer and executive producer of a critically acclaimed
documentary film about her renowned teacher of piano, Karl Ulrich Schnabel.

After raising a large family and following several careers in the arts, she now writes
each day. She is eighty-two years old and lives with her husband in Los Angeles.

Mary Lou Chayes

$17.95 U.S.