Maggie Now

  She smiled back. He's trying to place me she thought. He

  doesn't remember he saw me ifs the store.

  "I'll fetch you a chair," he said to .~1aggie-Now.

  [ '73 ]

 

  "She gets personal service yet," whispered one girl to

  another. He went into the dentist's lavatory and brought

  out a threelegged stool. They stood a second, the stool

  between them, and looked steadily at each other.

  She sat apart from the rest on the low stool. Claude's

  eyes roved over the others but alv,~a~7s came back to

  rest on her. She wore a plainly made, russet-colored dress.

  It was high in the neck and had long sleeves and a full

  skirt. Her thick, straight, dark brown hair was in two

  braids wound around her head. He thought her mouth

  was too wide but then he realized it was not

  foreshortened by lipstick. In fact, she wore no makeup

  and no ornaments.

  She's as wholesome, he thou kit, as an apple on an

  India'~-s?'mmer afternoon.

  She felt his interest. Oh, why, she moaned, didn't 1 wear

  my blue dress with the lace collar and cuffs and my

  rhinestone neck1dee and a hat, and I moist plot lipstick on

  hereafter so my mouth don't look so big.

  He stood up and tapped the edge of the table with his

  pencil. The jingle-jangle of the bracelets stopped suddenly

  and the waves of scent seemed to settle in the room like

  a fog.

  "This is a course in salesmanship. Salesmanship is the

  art of using friendly persuasion to induce people to buy

  merchandise that they are quite certain they do not

  Avant." He paused. The "class" looked stunned. This

  unnerved him. He didn't know it was their way of paying

  absolute attention. He continued. "To sell, one must have

  a product and," he paused, "personality." He looked at

  Maggie-Novv.

  "This is our product." He picked up one of the small

  books. "This is The Book of Everything."

  There was a rustle among the girls and a perfumed

  murmur of "Everything?'

  "Everything," he said fimlly.

  From somewhere, he got a stack of matted colored

  litho,,raphs. He held one up. "It tells you how to set a

  table for guests." The picture showed a table with a lace

  cloth and candles and American beauty roses and silver

  and crystal with a turkey on a platter and champagne in

  a cooler. "How to fix a stopped-up sink." He showed a

  picture of a naked sink. "How to dress a

  [ /-f 1

 

  baby." They saw a pink and blue and golden chernh in a

  lacebedecked bassinette. "How to clean wallpaper . . ."

  Then he showed them the pictures as transferred to the

  book. There was some disappointment. In the book, the

  illustrations were two by four inches and in black and

  white.

  After extolling the book and illustrations, he went into

  the sales approach. "The best time to approach the

  prospect is after dinner when he is relaxed and in a

  mellow mood." One of the men raised his hand.

  "(question?" asked Claltde Bassett.

  "I work in the afternoon," said the man.

  "He means after supper," explained one of the other men.

  "Of course," said Claude "Thank you." He continued.

  "After supper, then. You hold the book in the crook of

  your arm . . . so. You ring the bell or knock on the door

  and greet the prospect with a pleasant smile. Your

  approach is: 'I am . . .'" He looked at Maggie-Now.

  "What's your name`" he asked.

  "Me?" she said.

  "Please."

  "Margaret Moore."

  Now, he thought, I know how, she books. 1 knave the

  so~`n`1 of her voice and I know her name.

  "You smile, then, and say: 'I am Margaret Moore. I live

  down the block a way and I came over to see how you

  folks are getting along.' Allow the prospect to talk, and

  then, as if by the way, mention the book...."

  The hour dragged on. I^1ATO of the men sitting on

  the floor played a surreptitious game of odds-and-evens

  with their fingers. The old man was sound asleep, legs

  spread out, back against the wall and snoring in rhythm to

  the rise and fall of Claude's voice. The fourth man sat

  with his chin in his hand staring moodily at the pattern of

  the oilcloth covering the floor. Maggie-Now sat with her

  hands loosely clasped in her lap with a serene half smile

  on her lips. The other girls leaned forward tensely, staring

  at Claude, not hearing a word he said, but trying

  subconsciously to project themselves as desirable females

  to the attractive male.

  At last, Claude got to the heart of the matter: making

  money. He told them that the first lesson was free. There

  would be four more at a quarter a lesson. At the end of

  that time, each would be given a certificate and a copy of

  The Book of Everything,

  ~ 17s:1

 

  free. They would then go forth and sell the book for two

  dollars. With that money, they'd get two books from him

  at the salesman's price of one dollar per copy. They'd sell

  these and buy four; sell those, buy eight . . . sixteen . . .

  thirty-two . . . s~xtyfour . . . And so on into infinity, it

  seethed. And all for an initial investment of one dollar

  and a little spare time!

  Maggie-Now recalleci the time in her childhood when

  she had tried pyramiding her capital. She had a weekly

  allowance of five cents. Wishing merely to double her

  money, she bought ten pretzels from the cellar pretzel

  baker at the wholesale price of two for a cent. She

  borrowed her mother's market basket, stuck a stick in the

  end, put the pretzels on the stick and sold the ten that

  afternoon in Cooper's Park.

  It seemed easy to double her money again. The next day

  after school, she bought twenty pretzels and managed to

  sell them although she had to stay out longer. The next

  day v. as Saturday. She debated whether to take her profit

  and quit or go on. She bought fony pretzels. She sold two.

  Then the rains came. It rained three days. The pretzels

  got soggy and MaggieNow lost not only her profit but her

  initial investment of five cents. In addition, her father had

  been angry and made her eat most of the pretzels in lieu

  of bread, for almost a week. Remembering, she laughed

  aloud.

  Claude looked up Prickly. "You are amused, Iliss

  Moore-' he asked.

  "No. I was just remembering the pretzels."

  "The zvEat-" he asked, astonished. He tilted his head

  sharply to hear better.

  "The pretzels." (Only she pronounced it the Brooklyn

  wav Pretzels.)

  He threw his head hack and burst into laughter. The

  men laughed. The girls stirred and the room was full of

  jingle-jangle and disturbed layers of perfume.

  One of the men said "She's full of life."

  Another answered. 'Yeah. I
wish my wife . . ." He put

  away the disloyal thought. 'Anyway, my wife's a hard

  worker."

  The other girls relaxed their tense attitude of sweet

  attentivencss. They knew they had lost. This Miss

  Margaret Moore had captured the handsome teacher's

  interest and attention. They

  ~ 17
 

  whispered to each other under the laughter of the men.

  "I wouldn't be found dead in a tacky dress like hers."

  "I bet she made it herself."

  "Yeah. Without a pattrin, too."

  "And that old-time hair comb she's got!"

  "I couldn't be forward like her. I'd sooner die a old maid."

  Claude tapped for silence. "All who wish to continue,

  please remain to register."

  It seemed that everyone tried to get out of the door at

  once. When the smoke had settled that is, when the

  waves of scent stopped swirling and the jingle-jangle died

  away there were five people left behind: three women,

  the old man and MaggieNow.

  Oh, well, thought one of the women, maybe the old man

  has a nice son I can get to meet.

  Another, about thirty with graying hair, thought: He

  might have a brother . . . a little younger.

  The third one wiped her glasses and thought: It's hard

  for a decent girl to get a chance to meet a decent man any

  man. Just the same, though, it's better to sit here nights than

  to sit alone in that hall room of mine.

  Maggie-Now registered last, after the others had left.

  She wrote her name slowly and carefully because she

  knew he was watching her and she wanted to write nicely.

  Watching, he thought: Beautiful hands. Strong, shapely,

  capable and thank God she doesn't file her nails to a point

  like so many wom:erl do.

  Why, oh ~why, she thought, didn't I take time to file my

  nails and buff then? My hands must look just awful to him.

  "Thank you," he said, when she returned his leaky

  fountain pen, the point toward herself, as the nuns had

  taught her to do.

  He gave her a slow smile. She grinned back. He stood

  up and took a deep breath. "Tell fine about the pretzels,"

  he said.

  "I'll put the stool away first," she said.

  She carried it into the dentist's lavatory. She looked at

  herself in the mirror. She was surprised she looked the

  same as before because she felt that some great change

  had taken place in her during the evening.

  She searched her mirrored face and thought how queer it

  was

  [ ~7~?]

  that she didn't know him at all and yet had that feeling

  that she had known him always. And how natural and

  right it seemed that they were alone together in this

  place sort of like keeping house.

  She straightened the hanging mirror. She noticed some

  spilled face powder on the basin's ledge and wiped it off

  with a piece of toilet paper. She pulled the roller towel

  down until a clean place showed up. Lastly, she put the

  seat down on the toilet. The cubicle looked neater that

  way. She gave the place a last searching look before she

  left it.

  There! she told herself with satisfaction.

  She went back into the waiting room and told him

  about the pretzels. She straightened the room as she

  talked. He'd put the magazines back on the little table.

  (They had been put on the floor to make room f`,r his

  copies of The Book of l~verytinng.) The magazines were

  piled helter skelter. She interrupted her story to chick,

  "Tech! Tsch!" vhile she stacked the magazines neatly.

  I hope she's not a `'oily straightener, he thought. If she is,

  I'il break her of it

  "So I had twenty cents . . ." she went on with her story.

  She started to push the settee back to the wall.

  "No, no," he protested. "You stand there and look pale

  and helpless while I move it."

  "Helpless?" she asked, pu7.71ed.

  No sense of humor. 'he told himself.

  ". . . Then you bought fort pretzels."

  "And it rained . . ."

  Under the settee, she found an orange powder puff

  Iying in a little nimbus of face powder that had shaken off

  when the puff dropped to the floor. ',he threw it into the

  wastebasket. He fished it out and put it in his pocket.

  "Have to get rid of it," he said. "Compromising. Dr.

  Cohen may be married."

  So may you, she thought.

  As if divining her thought, he said: "lout I'm not;."

  First she looked startled, then relieved. She finished the

  pretzel stores He tucked his books and pictures under his

  arm. They stood

  ~ d'?8 1

 

  at the door ready to lease. She looked around the room

  lingeringly as some women are prone to do when they

  leave a room which belongs to them and which they had

  attended to.

  "Now 1'1] wind the cat and chuck out the clock," he said.

  "What?" she asked, puzzled.

  Serious minded. I warns you, Bassett, he admonished

  himself, she's not one to like joking.

  "Nothing," he replied. "A poor joke. Something out of

  my childhood."

  With her finger extends d toward the switch plate, she

  paused. She had seen the dentist's mezuzah higher up on

  the door frame. Something out of her childhood . . .

  Ida was a friend. Maggie-Now was in Ida's kitchen,

  visiting just before supper. There were the candles on the

  table and the kitchen smelled of chicken soup and baked

  fish. Ida's father came in from work. He closed the door,

  turned and touched the mezuzah with two fingers.

  "Why did he do that?" asked Maggie-Now in a whisper.

  The father overheard and answered.

  "So we shouldn't forget," he said. "This is a mezuzah. It

  holds the prayer." Then he intoned: "Hear, oh Israel! The

  Lord our God is one Lord . . .

  "The prayer is here. I touch it and I remember. In the

  old times the prayer was written on the posts of the house.

  It was the Hebrew law." He quoted: "And thou shall write

  them upon the posts of thy house."

  "But we move away all the time we Jews. We own no

  house posts to write the prayer on. The mezuzah is the

  post the house post that we carry with us when we

  move."

  If Mama were here now, she thought, she'd say, "And they

  touch the mezuzah the way we dip our fingers in holy water."

  He noticed her abstraction. "Tell me," he said.

  "As you said: It's something I remembered out of my

  childhood." Outside in the hall, she said: "It's funny, but

  tonight seems to be the night for remembering things of

  when I was a little child."

  ('7Y]

 

  He was about to say that was because she was sorting

  out her past and putting it away because she had no need

  of it now that her future was starting. Instead, he said as

  they went down the stairs: "I don't believe you were e
ver

  a little girl."

  "Oh, yes. I was," she somberly. "And for a long time,

  too."

  I told you before, he reminded himself. She is a serious

  ~vo~na,~. And very literal, too.

  Down on the street, she held out her hand and said:

  "Good night, Mr. Bassett. I enjoyed the lesson."

  "I have to go past your house on my way home, and, if

  I may, I'd like to walk with you."

  "I would like you to walk with me," sue said frankly.

  "Thank you. Now v here do V U live?"

  "But you said . . ."

  I warned you, Bassett . . .

  "Anyhow, we turn at the next corner and then it's three

  blocks."

  "Thank you, Miss Floors. It is Bliss isn't it?' he asked

  suddenly.

  "It's 'bliss' all right,' she said.

  "All the men around here must be stupid or blind.''

  "Oh, no."

  "Yes. Else you would have been snatched up long ago

  by one of them and put away in cotton wool."

  "You mean, marry me?" she said in her frank way. "No.

  No one ever asked me. You see, I have a brother and

  some people think he's my son. (He's just started in

  school.) My mother died when he was born. I brought him

  up. I mean, new people coming to the neighborhood think

  he's my child and . . ." She thought briefly of the yard and

  the boy from upstairs. "Anyway, a man wouldn't want to

  marry a girl and take her brother, too." She sighed.

  "Another thing: My father's strict. He wouldn't let me go

  out with anyone."

  "I'd like to meet your father and shake his hand."

  ";lly father?" She was astonished. "But why?"

  "For heating oflf all the boys and men. For keeping

  N' U locked up. I mean for keeping you safe for me."

  He's kind of rip, she thought critically, pleased that she had

  1: I8'() 1

  found a flaw in him. I'm Clad I Jocund that out so I don't

  fall in love with him so quick.

  Again, as if reading her mind, he said: "You think I'm

  flippant, don't you? "

  "Flip . . . flippant . . .? '

  "I)on't you?" he persisted.

  "I don't know what to think," she said honestly. "I never

  knew anyone like you before. I don't know whether you're

  serious or making fun of me."

  "Of you? Never!" he said earnestly. "Really, I'm a

  serious person. Or so I like to believe. I say things lightly.

  I mean, I say light things. I've traveled around a lot, met

  many people, got to know none of them well and got into

  the way of saying things quickly and lightly . . . no time to

  really get to knov. anyone enough to be sincere . . . that

  takes a little time . . ."

  "You must have traveled a lot."

  He gave her a quick fool`. He decided she vasut being

  sarcastic. She wouldn't know how.

  "Quite a lot," he said. "And you?"

  "I've never been out of Brooklyn, except . . ."

  "San Francisco," he said dreamily. "Cincinnati . . .

  Chicago, Boston . . ."

  ". . . except once. When 1 went to Btlston. '

  "I'm crazy- about big cities. Denver . . . a mile nearer

  the sky than other cities . . ."

  Suddenly she knew they weren t in tune with each other.

  He w as in a world of his own. She shivered. Someo~e's

  Stalking offer my grave, she thought.

  She stopped walking and he, talking, walked on ahead,

  not knowing he was alone.

  "Good night," she called ahead to hiill.

  He whirled around and came back to her. "What

  happened?"

  "I'm home."

  "What's the matter with me? Could you overlook my

  rudeness? "

  "There is nothing to overlook. And it was interesting .

  . . about the cities."

  "But you weren't interested."

  "A person must say the`` are, anN-ll`3!. to be polite. lent I'm

  1 it'll

  not really. I like Brooklyn and . . . anyway, I have to go in

  now." "Not yet. Not yet," he said. He grasped her arms as

  she stood on the step above him and he spoke rapidly as

  though time was short. "I wanted to tell you I need to