Maggie Now

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?"