tell you so many things."
He spoke fast and breathlessly. "I want to tell you about
the way you smell of good soap and fresh-washed,
dried-in-the-sun clothes, and . . ."
"Oh, that's only castile soap," she said. "it's cheap. They
have blocks of it in the drugstore and you ask for a
nickel's worth and they cut off a slice."
"Your good healthy hair smell. And I wanted to tell you
hoN`much I like your beautifully simple dress."
"I know it's plain but I made it myself. I make all my
dresses the same way because it's the only pattern I can
figure out."
"And the classic simplicity of your hair style."
She started to feel uncomfortable. She thought he was
making fun of her.
"I know it's old-fashioned. At my hair's so thick and
stubborn, I can't make it curl like other girls do."
"If you don't stop belittling yourself, I'm going tO call
N'OU my little Chinee."
"Chinee? Why?"
"Because, in China, vhen you complhllent someone on.
say. a lovely jewel, he'll say it has a flaw in it. Admire a
Ming vase and you'll be told it has a crack in it."
"Why do they do that?''
"It's their way of beings modest."
She was about to ask v~dletller he'd been in China.
She decided against it, fearing he'd start talking of far-off
places and she would lose him again.
I'm silly, she thought. Here 1' afraid of losing him. When
did I ever have him? Ile's just someone / met only a few
ho?lrs ago.
"Who's modest? I just happen to know that m!- dress is
not in style. That's all."
"It is always in style. A girl in a P`irn~gai village wore
one like it a hundred years ago. Tonigllt in l ondon, a
duchess is wearing one like yours. Only of white satin.
1: /8'21
"And those shining braids wound around your head: So
Ruth wore her hair, perhaps, when she stood in the alien
corn.... And Narcissa Whitman . . ."
"Who? "
"They opened up the Oregon Trail she and her
husband, Marcus. The Oregon trail . . ." He waited, his
head turned as though straining to hear something from
far away.
"You say nice things," she said. "But I know I'm behind
the times. I can tell by the way the other girls look at me."
"You are not of any time, past, present or time to come.
You are of all time. You are forever."
Maggie-Now squirmed a bit. She felt uncomfortable. She
thought his talk was sort of fancy. Did he mean all those
things Or did he just like to talk to fill in time?
She was a combination of child and woman. At sixteen,
she had been a mature woman with a woman's grave
responsibilities. At twenty-two, she was yet a child waiting
to come into her maturity. She waited for the new thing
which was just around the corner; she clung to a few
modest dreams. The woman and c hild in her walked side
by side. In a way, she knew, as the saying goes, all about
life. Conversely, she knew nothing about it. But she
believed in so much. She didn't love all the people she
knew but she believed implicitly that they were as they
seemed to be. Her father presented himself as unkind and
unloving. She believed he was unkind and unloving. That's
the way it was and she accepted him and loved him as a
child should love a parent.
She believed that Mr. Van Clees tried to put his hand
on the life of everyone he knev. Sure, that made him
intrusive and tiresome sometimes. But it teas in the open.
He did not try to be otherwise than he was. She liked him
and believed what he said.
She believed that Lottie and Timmy had been
sweethearts all their life because Lottie told her so. She
believed Annie was kind and good because Gus and Van
Clees had told her so. She took it all on faith.
Now came the first intimations of maturity. This
man holding her arms and looking up at her: Was he to
be believed? Was he speaking true? Did he mean all he
said? Or did he talk one
[ /83 1
way and think another. He spoke as people spoke in
books. Was that natural with him? Was that natural with
him or was it something he put on like a coat? How could
she know? In her characteristic way, she decided the only
way to know was to ask him.
"Mr. Bassett . . ."
"My name is Claude and I hereby serve notice," he said
severely, "that I will not be called 'Claudia.' "
"You want me to call you by your first name?"
"I do."
Why, she thought, didn't he just say, Call me Claude?
"I couldn't," she said. "Not yet. I don't know you long
and Mr. Bassett is strange to me. Claude would be even
more strange." She paused. "What I started to say: Do you
mean everything you say to me?"
"Why not?"
"I could understand better," she said a bit timidly, "if
you'd say yes or no."
"Margaret," he said sincerely. "I do. Oh, I use too many
words, perhaps. I talk too much. But you see, it's so long
since I had someone to really talk to. But I mean what I
say. Believe me, please."
"I'm glad you do," she said, "because the way you talk to
me you make me feel like a princess or something. And
it's a wonderful feeling."
"Thank you."
"Good night.'
"Where you been?" asked her father.
"Now, Papa," she said patiently, "after all, I'm over
twentyone."
"I know how old you are. But 1 don't know where you
been."
"Good night, Papa." She moved toward her bedroom door.
"Listen," he said to hold her, "did you use up all the
house money yet?"
"I don't know," she said. She went into her bedroom.
She acts funny, he thought. Like she's sick. Could it be
she met a man was out wits' him? And she, what don't
know
[ 184]
nothing about men~what bastids they are? I wonder does
she know what she should know' She must. Lottie or
somebody must-a told her. He was relieved, then
characteristically, he became angry. Sure and they told her.
They couldn't wait. Dam
married wimmen always blabbing. Always disthroyi~zg in-
nocence.
Suddenly he felt old. l his made him angry, too. He
didn't want to be old or feel old But if he had to be or
even feel old, he wasn't going to work any more.
By God, he vowed, I'll go out on pension. That's what I'll
do. The old man will stay home all day. I'll get in her way,
he thought with satisfaction. That'll fix her. That'll fix
everybody. He felt more cheerful.
He took down from the shelf the broken-spout teapot in
which Maggie-Now kept the household money. There was
only twenty-eight cents in it. EJe stuffed two dirty dollar
bil
ls in the teapot and put it back on the shelf. He
changed his mind, took it down again and brought it over
to the table. He removed the bills and smoothed them out
on the table. After a little hesitation, he took another bill
from his pocket. He put the three bills side by side on the
table where Maggie-Now would see them the first thing in
the morning. He put the teapot on top of them so they
wouldn't blow away.
After Maggie-Now went into her house, Claude walked
over to Lorimer Street to catch a streetcar. There was
none in sight so he went into a bakery and got two
doughnuts. He stood on the corner and ate them w bile he
waited for a car. A newsboy turned the corner calling:
"Extra! Extra! Read all about it. The President asks for
war!"
Claude beckoned to the boy. "Don't you know that
according to books and stories you should call lliuxtry and
not Extra?" he said
The boy said "Huh?" and backed off staring at Claude as
if he were a freak.
I thought she had no sense of humor, thought Claude.
But nobody seems to in Brooklyn.
He bought a paper. The extra announced that President
Wil
1 15~]
son had spoken before Congress that night at eight-thirty
and had asked for a declaration of war. Claude felt a
tingle of excitement.
War! he thought.
He looked at the books and posters he was carrying,
with revulsion. What am I doing with this r~oizser~se' he
asked himself.
~ CHAPTER TWENTY-SE VEN ~
ONLY l,Iaggie-Now, three women and the old man
showed up for class the next night. Maggie-Now wore her
blue dress with the lace collar and cuffs and the new hat
she had bought for the coming Easter Sunday. She smiled
widely at Claude when she came in. She put her quarter
on the table as the others had done. He looked up and
frowned. Her heart sank. She thought perhaps he was
offended that she had put a quarter down. He frowned,
however, because he lidn't like her to wear a hat. It made
her seem like a stranger.
The three girls were sitting on the settee, leaving the old
man sitting alone in the middle of the room. Maggie-Now
felt sorry for him. She took the chair next to him. Claude
Bassett arranged the five quarters in a row, then in a
circle. Finally, as if coming to a definite decision about
them, he piled them one on top of the other. He stood up.
"I appreciate more than I can say your willingness to
come here again but . . ."
He announced that the course would be discontinued.
The enrollment, while interested, was small and there was
the rent on the classroom and he smiled and said he didn't
believe anyone would be interested in The Book of
Everything. War was inevitable .. he had decided to enlist....
He spoke at length.
Maggie-Now thought: I'll clever see him again! She
envisioned him Iying on the field of battle; torn, bleeding
and dying. She shuddered.
"The money will be refunded, of course." [ lS6]
There was a chorus of objections.
"No.''
"I don't want my quarter back."
"You should get something for your time."
"You will have to pay the rent for these two nights," said
Maggie-Now.
Everyone was friendly now and they spoke back and
forth. The girl who lived alone in a hall bedroom took off
her glasses and wiped them and put them in her lap. She
had a suggestion. A sort of organization or club was badly
needed in the neighborhood a place where people could
get together and meet other people and just talk and
maybe serve refreshments . . .
"I mean," she said, "couldn't we just keep on meeting
here nights and just sit around and talk; read books, say,
and talk about them? I mean, it would be worth a quarter
a night to me," she said defiantly, "just to have someplace
to go to."
There was a hush. The other women looked away from
this girl, ashamed that one of them would display her
loneliness so nakedly.
"I don't see any haml in asking," she said. She put her
glasses back on.
"That is a fine suggestion," said Claude. "Nothing would
please me more, but. . ."
Again he spoke of America at war and the uncertainty
of war years. They sat around for the rest of the hour
discussing the war touching vaguely on the changes it
would make in th
community and so on.
At the end of the hour, he tried to give each his quarter
back. There was great indignation at the idea on the part
of the three girls. Maggie-Now and the old man did not
press the matter one way or the other. Finally Claude said
he'd keep the quarters if each would accept a copy of The
Book of Everything in return. The three girls accepted
enthusiastically. They wanted their copies autographed.
Claude obli~,red. His inscriptions were flowery, which
was the way the girls wanted them:
In memory of a brief encounter . . .
With gratitude for pleasant hours . . .
With the hope that we shall meet again . . .
~ 1'9?1
When Maggie-Now held out her book for autographing,
he said: "Later." The old man said he didn't want a book.
"I'd sooner have my quarter back," he said. Claude gave
him his quarter and a copy of the book inscribed simply:
In friendship.
After Maggie-Now and Claude had straightened up the
room, turned out the lights and gone down the stairs, they
found the three girls standing on the sidewalk comparing
inscriptions.
"That was real swell of you, Mr. Bassett," said one.
"That's nice of you," he answered.
"It was a real pleasant evening," said another.
"The pleasure was surely mine," he said.
"I still think . . ." began the girl with the glasses.
"And I agree with you," he said.
"Good night, good r;ight," they said singly and in chorus.
They withdrew a little, waiting for Maggie-Now to join
them. Claude took Maggie-Now's hand and drew her arm
through his.
"Good night, ladies," he said.
"Good night, girls," said Maggie-Now.
The girls walked down the street discussing Maggie-Now.
"Ain't she got the luck?"
"It's not that she's classy or anything."
"Old-fashioned, if you ask me."
"Whatever he sees in her . . ."
"I know what he see s in her. She's got one of them big
busts and some men like that. You know. puts them in
mind of their mother? "
Going down the street, Maggie-Now turned to wave to
them. They waved back and made their smiles friendly.
"Take your hat off,' said Claude.
"My hat? Why?" asked Maggie-Now.
"Here." He removed it and handed it to her. "You
should never wear a hat."
"Where'll I put it?"
"Carry it."
"Like this?"
"In the hand away from me. You can swing it now and
again as we walk, if you like"
"I thought it was a pretty hat," she said sadly. She stared at
it. ~ IS8 ]
It was made of soft straw with a wide brim, flat crown and
a band of velvet.
"It is a pretty hat. Very pretty. And you rushed out
today and bought it to, wear tonight." She hung her head
because it was true. "It's a pretty thing to carry," he said.
"And nothing looks prettier than a woman with lovely hair
holding her pretty hat as she walks. Now don't hold it
between us. The outside hand I said." She changed. Again
he took her hand and drew her arm through his.
They walked slowly in step and she remembered to
swing her hat a little from time to time. They walked
without talking, savoring the warm night and the wind
from the west. (He broke the silence to tell her the wind
was from the west and she, having always taken the wind
for granted, was pleased to know it was from the west.)
They walked past a saloon with door open to the warm
night. The drinkers were discussing the impending war.
"I got nothing against the Germans theirselves," said a
man, "I figure they're yu-men like everybody else. It's the
Goddamned Kaiser...."
Claude and Maggie-Now smiled at each other. Children
played on the streets, calling to each other in muted
voices (because night-time street playing was a privilege
not to be abused), while their parents sat on the stoop or
in chairs lined up before closed stores. And there was
music. An opened tenement window, a Victrola playing a
recording of Lee Morse singing and her Blue Grass Boys
helping out. Oh, her husky voice . . .
This is me, thought Maggie-Now, walking so. With him
on such a night as this. I can't believe it's me that this is
really happening to me. This is something I'll remember all
my life.
After a while they talked. That is, she did all the talking
that night. He wanted to know everything about her life;
especially her childhood her mother, brother, father and
grandfather. He prodded her with questions and drew her
out and she spoke freely as if dictating an honest
autobiography. As she had everything else, she had taken
her childhood for granted. But as she noted his delighted
and interested reactions, her childhood seemed very
wonderful all of a sudden.
[ is9]
He laughed in delight when she told him how she had
always wanted cousins and how her mother had found
Sheila and her bouquet in Boston, and he grinned when
she told of her father spanking her publicly for dancing on
the street, and he pressed her arm very tight when she
told of how Sister Mary Joseph had to have the wedding
ring sawed off and how she, Maggie-Now, had felt about
it. He blew his nose very hard after she told how her
mother had told her to pick up the new-born baby....
She told how Gus Vernacht had said his Annie would be
her friend . . . and how he had forgotten to tell Annie.
And MaggieNow said she still felt sad when she thought
about it because she had wanted a friend so badly. And
then Gus had died....
After she had finished that story, he lifted her hand,
which was resting so lightly on his forearm, and kissed it.
Then she was much embarrassed, though pleased, and she
said she had talked too much and that they had walked
past her house and she'd really have to go in because her
father . . .
"You don't have to go in yet," he said. "It's only a little
after nine."
"No, I don't. But it's better that I do."
She knew her father would be waiting and he'd fuss and
scold and maybe take the extra dollar out of the teapot.
But, she decided, he'll complain Nether I come in at nirle or
at twelve. I might as~u~ell stay out.
"Please?" he asked.
"All right," she said. "After all, I'm almost twenty-three."
"And I'm thirty. Where shall we walk?"