Page 19 of Maggie Now

like as not Mr. Van Clees was on his feet, opened hymn

  book in hand, head thrown back and silently mouthing a

  galloping hymn of joy everlasting.

  He had a habit of leaving,, bt~mping past people's

  knees, at the exact time the collection plates were being

  passed. People thought he was a cheapskate. He wasn't. It

  was that his own private services usually came to a logical

  end at the time of the collection.

  He had tried going in i-he afternoon and liked it much

  better. The church, tln]ess there was a wedding or a

  christening, was almost empty then and llr. Van Clees

  could sit, stand or kneel as he chose. He could even sleep

  if he vdshed.

  Father Flyml knew Ma. Van Clees wasn't a Catholic but

  he urged him to use the churl h as often as he vished. Mr.

  Van Clees accepted the offer with tile pr`Jviso that Father

  Flynn make no attempt to convert him.

  "Oh, you'll be a Catholic sol of d as, by osmosis, if

  nothing else," said Father 1~ lynx.

  They liked each other; they vere friends, Father Flynn

  and the Lutheran. Or. Van Clees kept the priest's

  humidor full of good pipe tobacco. Father Flynil

  appreciated this because it ~ as indeed a poor living in

  that poor parislZ.

  ~ ('1~131'ER l 11~1N1 Y-TTI'O ~

  IIR. VA;S Gl.t.s vas instri~r,~cntil in bIin:,irlg

  .~laggie-lN'ow and the Vernachts together.

  August Ve r~nacht had heed a ` i~odcuttcr back in

  Germanv. When he cone to' An1el,ca, there was no trade

  in Brooklyn knOV~7O as VC30dCtittL1g. (OHS,

  h~wecr, divas handy and had an aptitude for working

  with Nvf,`>cl. Isle called himself a carpenter but really he

  w is a free-iance repair marl. Whell he married Annie

  (American born fif German in~inigrants), he got a steady

  job in a furniture factor,, that spec ialized in making

  rocking chairs.

  1 Iffy 1

 

  Gus supported Annie, his wife, and their children on his

  small but steady salary. They didn't have everything they

  wanted or even that they needed for that matter. But

  they were never in actual want. They were contented.

  Gus's hobby was woodcarving. For years, now, he'd

  been working on a chess set. He kept his bits of wood,

  ebony, ash, oak and any other No cod that came his way,

  in Van Clees's store. When he had a spare hour, he'd

  drop in the store and whittle away while he and Van

  Clees engaged in endless, friendly debate on the ways of

  the world.

  They were pals: Gus Vernacht and Jan Van Clees. They

  talked, played checkers and tried to teach each other

  chess. Sometimes on a holiday, they went to Glendale

  Schutzen Park and shot at targets with rented rifles and

  had a few seidels of beer afterward.

  Gus knew all about llaggie-Now before he met her. He

  knew about the baby. Van Clees made a moving story of

  it when he told Gus about hi r. The sentimental German's

  heart was touched. Gus happened to be in the store one

  Saturday afternoon when Maggie-Now came in with

  Dennis to get two clay pipes for her father. After the

  introductions, Gus said:

  "You must come and be friends with my Ahn-nee. A

  little girl like you needs a big woman for a friend. So you

  come by my house and be friends."

  "Annie's a good lady, Miss Maggie," said Van Clees.

  "Ahl-zo a good mutter," said Gus. "We got the boy,

  Chamesee, and he has eight years. And the baby, T'ressa,

  she is z~vei months younger as your brother, Denn-ty

  here. And my Ahnnee, she will be good by you, and give

  you to eat cake and coffee, and put you in the bed to rest

  and cover you up. And you want to go down on the street

  and walk with the other girls? She will mind Denn-ty for

  you."

  "You go see Annie, Miss Maggie," advised Van Clees.

  "I'll ask my father."

  She asked him. Pat didn't like the idea. "HONV do I

  know who these: people are?"

  "They're well known in the neighborhood. And after all,

  Papa, I'm eighteen. I know what I'm doing."

  "The I [Ouse of the Good Shepherd is full-a girls,

  eighteen,

  ~ ISIS ~1

 

  what knew what they were doing,'' he said darkly.

  "What house?"

  "Where they put wayward girls."

  "I'm not wayward."

  "Things happen before you know it," he said mysteriously.

  He had a clutch of fear. She Divas growing up. She

  looked mature for her age. Why, he had started courting

  Maggie Rose when she had been a year younger than

  Maggie-Now. It had been the girl's virtue and her

  mother's nosiness and not his inclination that had kept

  Maggie Rose virginal.

  But that was nearly twenty-five years ago, he consoled

  himself. Things is differed' roods. Girls that y OUMg don't

  keep steady company nowadays.

  Still there is things she Would boom. ,llary, why did you

  have to die ~vLen the girl Penis a another so bad to tell her

  things? I can't tell her.

  No, he couldn't. As levity many fathers, the thought of

  sex in his daughter's life -was abhorrent to him. He

  couldn't stand the thought of any male lusting after her.

  For the first time, he worried about his daughter. He

  knew that in some ways the congested neighborhood was

  a jungle where men preyed on girls: innocent girls,

  susceptible girls and willing girls. He knew of the narrow,

  trash~filled back alleys, the dark cellars, tenement

  rooftops cluttered with chimney pots, vacant stores where

  doors could be forced . . . he knew all of these places

  where men took young girls for their purposes.

  He had thought his daughter was safe in the home and

  where else did she go? To the store and sometimes to

  Lottie's house. But was she safe? This m in who invited

  her to his home to meet his wife: Maybe he didn't have a

  wife; maybe that was a comeon. Something else came to

  his mind.

  A month before, the upstairs had been rented to a

  mother and father who worked and their son, about

  twenty, who didn't have a job and loafed around the house

  all day. After they had examined the empty rooms and

  had announced when they'd move in, the woman Ad

  commented Otl the fact that Pat's daughter was young to

  be married and have a two-year-old baby.

  "She ain't married,' said lilac.

  1 151 1

 

  The woman exchanged a surprised look with her

  husband and their son grinned.

  "That's why the baby has her maiden name for his last

  name."

  "He has Sty name. He's my son. His mother died in

  childbirth."

  "I see. Well, that's all right." She exchanged another

  look with her husband.

  Pat wondered how many men, strangers to the

  neighborhood newcomers believed that Maggie-Now

  had an illegit
imate son. Did those kind of men think she

  was available? He recalled the fellow upstairs how he

  had been standing on the stoop one time when

  Maggie-Now had gone out to the store and how the young

  man had looked after her as she walked down the block.

  He was angry with his daughter because she made him

  concerned about her and spoiled the even tenor of his

  days. So he shouted at her, not realising that she couldn't

  know what he had been thinking: "And I don't want you

  making free with that loafer upstairs, either."

  "Papa! Where'd you ever get the idea . . ." She stopped

  abruptly. She had had some contact with the boy upstairs.

  A week ago, he'd come to the door and asked politely

  if the upstairs tenants had the privilege of the yard. She

  said they did and she let him go through her rooms

  because there vvas no other way to reach the yard. He

  explained that he wanted to get a little tan. He pulled his

  shirt off in the yard and bounced a ball against the

  wooden fence. She watched him through the kitchen

  window, admiring his manly torso and wishing she could

  go out and play handball with him.

  She decided he must never walk through their rooms

  again. Suppose her father came back during the day for

  some reason or other and he found the young man in the

  kitchen! He wouldn't accept any explanation she could

  make. Thereafter, she kept her door locked when she was

  in the house alone w ith Denny and didn't answer when

  he knocked.

  One evening in the time between after supper and dark,

  she was sitting on the stoop with Denny. She was restless.

  She dreaded the evening ahead. She'd put Denny to bed

  and then what? She'd ovals about the house looking for

  something to do

  ~ 1521

 

  to kill the long evening. She and her father seldom

  conversed with each other at any length. She was not an

  avid reader and what was there to do but go to bed?

  She didn't want to go to bed. She wanted to be out

  walking these summer nights with some girls her own age.

  She wanted to laugh and exchange confidences. She

  wanted some boy to call for her and take her for a walk;

  treat her to a soda. She wanted to ride on an open car to

  Coney Island with a bunch of boys and girls and laugh

  with the girls at the way the boys cut up. She wanted to

  ride side saddle on a merry-go-round horse with a nice

  young man standing at her side, his arm about her waist,

  pretending he had to hold her so's she wouldn't fall off.

  She closed her eyes and dreamed the scene: The blend of

  merry-goround music and the voices of barkers and the

  hum of talking voices and laughter and the sound of the

  sea. The smells mixed of hot corn and cotton candy and

  candied apples on a stick and over all the heavy salt smell

  of the sea. And the breeze and the motion of the

  merry-go-round making her hair blow back and the

  delicious reaching out for a grasp at the gold ring and the

  nice-looking young man looking up to smile at her and his

  arm tightening automatically about her waist when the

  horse went up . . .

  That was her sudden dream. She closed her eyes to see

  the reality. She got up at seven each morning to get

  breakfast for her father. She did the housework. The

  rooms were few and the furnishings sparse. She had it

  neat and shining in an hour. She drew out her shopping as

  long as she could. The storekeepers were her only social

  contacts. At ten, save for getting a simple lunch for herself

  and the baby and preparing a simple supper for the three

  of them, her work was done. The long day and evening

  stretched out interminably.

  She washed her hair and filed her nails and washed

  clothes that were already clean and pressed things that

  needed no pressing and did piecework when she could get

  it. On nice days she wheeled Denny to the park, first

  walking down the block and asking the neighbor wo nen

  if they would let her take a preschool child along as long

  as she had Denny anyhow. She usuall

  took three or four small children to the park with her.

  But all this wasn't enough. She was strong and healthy and

  vital

  ~ `'y3 1

 

  and full of energy. She wanted to work hard. She wanted

  to go to places. She wanted friends her own age. She

  wanted to talk and laugh with young people. She wanted

  to work in a factory; she Nvanted to work in a store

  measuring cloth or wrapping up dishes. Most of all, she

  wanted to "go out."

  She thought of Annie Vernacht. When Gus had told her

  about his Annie, Maggie-Now had thought how wonderful

  it vould be to be friends with Annie; to have someone

  pour her a cup of coffee, cut her a piece of cake. And

  Gus had said Annie would mind Denny.... Maggie-Now

  had planned that, for each hour Annie would mind Denny

  while she, Maggie-Now, went out, Maggie-Now would

  mind Annie's children three hours to pay back.

  But her father didn't v ant her to visit the Vernachts.

  And that was that.

  The young man from upstairs clattered down the stoop.

  He touched the brim of his hat and said it was a pleasant

  evening. She agreed, turning her head away as she spoke

  in case her father was watching from the window.

  As she put Denny to bed, she made up her mind. She

  would go and visit Annie Vernacht and she wouldn't tell

  her father.

  The following Sunday afternoon, she dressed Denny in

  his nicest rompers, slicked down his hair, dressed herself

  up and told her father she was going out and would be

  home in time to cook his supper. I le grunted without

  looking up from the paper he was reading.

  "Come in! Come in!!' boomed Gus. " I his is my

  Ahn-nee. ' He grabbed his hat. "I go now by Jan's cigar

  store and leave the ladies to talk lady talk." He left.

  Annie was hospitable but bewildered. Gus, like many

  another man before him, had forgotten to tell his wife he

  had invited Maggie-Now for a visit. In fact, he had

  forgotten to tell her anything at all about the girl.

  Annie smiled. Maggie-Now smiled. "Sit down," invited

  Annie.

  The room was neat, warm and peaceful. The boy,

  Jamesie, leaned against his mother's knee. The baby,

  Theresa, slept in her nrother's arms. Another baby, soon

  to come, lay quietly in the womb.

  [ 151

 

  Dennis struggled to get out of his sister's arms. "Can I

  put him down?" asked Maggie-Now.

  "Sure, sure."

  She put Denny on the floor. He staggered around

  frantically for a few seconds, then crawled under the table

  and composed himself for sleep. He slept during the entire

  visit.

  "What's her name?" asl~ed Jamesie.

  "Sh! " said Annie. Smiling a
t Maggie-Now, she said: "I

  ant Annie."

  The girl smiled back. '1 know."

  "And you?" Gus had forgotten to tell his wife the girl's

  name.

  "I'm Margaret Moore. ~ ou know. Maggie-Now?"

  Again they exchanged smiles. The girl sat with her hands

  in her lap waiting for the friendship to begin. Annie

  wished there was some tactful way in which she could ask

  the young girl what was the object of the visit. Annie

  cleared her throat.

  "You are young to be a mother."

  "Oh, he's my brother. Iffy mother died when he was born."

  "I think maybe I saw her on the street. Some ladies was

  telling me about her baby COlrling. Your father: He is the

  street sweeper? "

  "Yes. Street cleaner. He's home,'' she added.

  "He's got good work. Steady. My man, he makes tile

  rocking chairs."

  "I know. Mr. Van Clee. told me."

  "Ah, that Jan!" Annie smiled mysteriously.

  Maggie-Now, half child, half woman, wondered: lilill she

  ask me if I'd like her to mind DenrZy sometime, like Mr.

  I~eriZacht said, so I car go out by myself sometime?

  Annie thought: What must I say to her flow?

  Annie was good and kind but inarticulate and shy. If

  Gus had only thought to tell her about Maggie-Now! She

  would have been so happy to take the girl into her heart

  and her warmth. Gus would have denied that he had

  forgotten to tell his wife all about Maggie-Now. It was that

  they had so much wordless and perfect understanding

  together that he thought somehow Annie knew as much

  about Maggie-Now as he did. Annie sat there trying to

  draw on this unspoken understanding. The most she could

  get was that something was expected of her; that Gus

  ~ ~ i'; 1

 

  had prepared the girl for something and the girl now

  expected it. But what?

  "Did Gus say I should do something? 'she asllied gently.

  Maggie-Now's face flushed with embarrassment. So Gus

  had said nothing to his Annie and she, Maggie-Now, had

  come there so brash expecting . . .

  "No," she said. "Nothing."

  There was a little more forced conversation and then

  llaggieNow prepared to leave. The good-by-s were

  effusive because both were ill at ease and the good-bye

  were something they could get their teeth into.

  "You come again when you can stay longer,' said Amlie.

  "And you come to my house some afternoon," said

  MaggieNow. "I'll make coffee."

  Annie did not return the visit. Some weeks later,

  Maggie-Now saw Gus in the cigar store and told him she

  hoped Annie would come for a cup of coffee sometime.

  "Ahn-nee, she don't go out now," he explained. "The

  baby comes soon. But you come by our house."

  "I will," said Maggie-Now. I3ut she didn't. And Annie

  never did come to see her.

  Van Clees told Maggie-Nov when Annie's baby, a boy,

  was born. He had been named Albert August.

  Maggie-Nov.~ gave Mr. Van Clees a pair of booties to

  give to Gus to give Annie. She gave a verbal message: She

  would come to see Annie and the baby as soon as Annie

  got over the ordeal of birth. Annie sent a message by Gus,

  who gave it to Van Clees, who gave it to llaggie-Now:

  Annie would collie and visit ~Iaggie-Now as soon as she

  got on her feet.

  They never did get together. However, whenever Gus

  saw the girl he said: "Ahn-nee sends best regards."

  .Maggie-Nov always said: "Likewise."

  One day the cigar store was closed. There was a sign in

  the window: ('losed on Account of Death in the Faultily.

  Gus Vernacht had not been a relative of Van Clees but

  the cigar maker had borrowed the sign from the baker

  who had bought it two years ago when his wife's father

  died. Van Clees could not cross out In the Fancily and

  print in Of Friend because

  1 ii61

 

  the baker wanted it bacl. He thou,~,ht he might have to

  use it again. He had a lot of relatives.

  About Gus: It was nothing you could put your finger on;

  nothing you could anticipate. He went to bed one night as