Page 24 of Maggie Now


  "Where do you live?"

  "At the Bedford Y."

  "I'll walk you home.'

  "Good! Then I'll walk you home."

  He urged her to tell him more about the years of her

  growing up. She demurred at first, saying it wasn't

  interesting and that he was asking just to be polite.

  Besides, she said, she'd like to know something about his

  childhood.

  "No," he said. "I want to know all about you. I want to

  walk every step of the way with you through your

  childhood so that I'll know you from the beginning of your

  life."

  ~ 190]

 

  She told him all she could remember (excepting the boy

  upstairs who had kissed her). They walked to the Bedford

  Y.M.C.A. and back to her house and it was nearly

  midnight. She stood on the bottom step of her stoop and

  looked down at him and smiled.

  "So you see," she said, "my childhood wasn't much of

  anything. The beach once a year, the cemetery on

  Decoration Day, a trip to Boston, the few girl friends I

  had the few people I knew. Church, school, home and

  parents. And that's all."

  "Ah, my little Chinee," he said, "again belittling

  something that was quite wonderful. You don't know how

  wonderful.... Oh, how you take everything for granted.

  Why, one thing! Even the sewing of beads on slippers for

  pin money . . ."

  "I forgot 1 told you that," she interrupted. "That was

  kind of silly.7'

  "Stop it!'7 he said. "Nothing was silly. It was all part of

  the wonder of a girl growing up into a woman.7'

  He told her how moved he had been at her stories and

  hov.amused, too. He spoke ecstatically about the wonder

  of her childhood.

  What's so wo'~derf?'l, she thought. Wasn't he ever a child?

  After a while, she saw it a little through his eyes and

  she was strangely disturbed. It was as though he had lived

  her childhood but on a more wonderful plane than she

  had. She felt, vaguely, that she had given away her

  childhood that night. She had given it to him or he had

  taken it from her, and made it into something wonderful.

  In a way, her life was his now.

  A light came on in the window. "My father," she

  whispered, and trembled a little bit.

  He grasped her arms as she stood above him.

  "Tomorrow night," he whispered. "I'll come by for you.

  Eight o'clock. I want to meet your father."

  "Yes, yes," she whispered nervously. She scuttled into the

  house.

  "Out again," was her father's greeting.

  "Yes," she said.

  "You was out last night, too.'

  "I know."

  "1 suppose you're going out tomorrow night."

  L /9/ ]

 

  "Well, you ain't," he said flatly.

  "I'm over twenty-one...." she began.

  "Age's got nothing to do with it because I'm going out

  tomorrow night and somebody's got to stay with the boy."

  "I'll ask the tenant upstairs. Mrs. Heahly? She'll keep an

  eye on Denny while you slip out for a beer."

  "I ain't going out for no beer. I'm going out. I have a

  friend. For once I'd like to spend an evening with her."

  "Here You mean another woman?" Maggie-Now was

  shocked and indignant. "All these years you've gone out

  with some woman and enjoyed yourself w bile I . . ." her

  voice broke as though she were going to cry, ". . . while I,

  a young girl growing up, who should have been out with

  boys and girls my own age, stayed home and cooked and

  washed and cleaned and took care of the baby?" She

  paused. When she spoke again, her voice was steady.

  "Ah, no, Papa," she said gently. "You couldn't. You

  couldn't after having been married to Mama."

  "Your mother, God rest her soul, was a good woman.

  The best there ever was. But she's been gone from me

  these seven years or nearly, and, well, a man's a man."

  "Then a man should love and marry in love. Otherwise,

  a man is no better than an animal."

  "Where'd you hear that nonsense?"

  "Father Flynn said so. He had this special sermon for

  young people."

  "And what would he be knowing about it the way he

  prays and fasts all the time?" Suddenly he had one of his

  rages. "How cast he!" he shouted. "Talk about such things

  to them what is innocent or should be? I'll get him

  fired...."

  "Priests can't be fired."

  "Well then, defrocked . . . unfrocked. Something. At

  least transferred. I'll talk to the bishop."

  "Now, Papa, you stop it. He said nothing out of the way.

  He is a good man and you l~now it. Look how good he

  was to Mama You forget."

  "It is true," he said. "He was good to your mother."

  "And he is to everybody. Oh, Papa," she sighed, "when

  I was sixteen, you never thought of me as a child. You let

  me handle a grown-up woman's job. And now that I am

  a grown-up woman, ~ 792 ]

  you're trying to pretend I'm a child. Papa, you must face

  it. I'm going to live my own life from now on."

  He had to think out an answer to that. This man she just

  met: He's putting her up to it. I bet he's been giving her a lot

  of blarney and making her feel like she's somebody. Now I

  must watch me step, he planned craftily. Be nice to her like

  l know how everything is. 'Twould be the same like throwing

  her in his waiting arms was I strict flu ith her now.

  "You are right, girl dear. You're a child no longer.

  You're a fine figger of a woman and you can thank the

  good food I worked me life away to get the money to buy

  for you that made you the fine woman what you are."

  "No. It wasn't the food." She turned her wide smile on

  him. "Because you're a fine rigger of a man yourself,

  Papa, and to hear you tell it, you were brought up on

  hard, little potatoes and chicken only once a year on

  Christmas and that tough, too, back in Kilkenny."

  That's me girl, he thought with pride. Smart as a whip.

  Like meself.

  He said: "Don't be changing the subject on me. Sure

  and you're a grown woman and it's right and healthy that

  you want a man of your own. And do I not want

  grandchilthren round me knees in me old days?"

  And so l do! he thought with surprise. Or am I talking

  meself into it?

  "'Tisn't that I'm not willing to give you up but I don't

  want you to throw yourself away on the first man what

  says, 'Ah there,' to you. Remember, he's not the only

  pebble on the beach."

  "Who wants a pebble?"

  "You know what I mean. There's always another

  streetcar coming along."

  "You'd never let me look for a pebble on the beach or

  stand on a corner to wait for the next car and you know

  it."

  "You know what I mean, i~laggie dear. Me thoughts

  don't always come out in the right words. But I have only

  your good in me mind." Then
very offhand, in order to

  conceal his craftiness, he said: "Now here's what we'll do:

  You bring the young man . . .

  "What young man?"

  ~ ~931

 

  "Now, now," he said roguishly, "I know. Bring him

  around to meet your father, like the decent girl what you

  are, and I'll size him up and tell you whether he's good

  enough for you."

  "Oh, Papa! Even if he was the Sheik of Araby, you still

  would say he wasn't good enough."

  "Listen!" he yelled, forgetting to be diplomatic. "Child,

  girl, woman whatever you are, don't give your father

  none of your sass.

  She didn't answer. She went out to the kitchen and

  noisily filled the kettle with water. I le followed her.

  "Hear me?"

  "Oh, Papa, stop annoying me, do," she said. Whenever

  her speech sounded Irishy, he knew it was a sign that she

  was going to lose her temper.

  "I'll say no more," he said with quiet dignity. But he did.

  And he said it loudly. "But you're not going out tomorrow

  night!" He hurried out and into his own bedroom before

  she could answer. He wanted the last word.

  The long walk had made her hungry. She thought of

  Claude as she made coffee and cut some of the supper's

  pot roast for a sandwich. She thought of the way he

  talked to her the way he listened, with that quick turn of

  his head when she spoke, and how it made everything she

  said seem so wonderful and important. She thought how

  different her father was from Claude.

  She wondered where people got the idea that girls were

  inclined to marry men who were like their father. Sure,

  she loved her father and she'd feel bad if anything ever

  happened to him. But she was in love with Claude

  because he was so very different from her f ether.

  She poured a cup of coffee and poured heated gravy

  over her sandwich and thought briefly of Annie Vernacht,

  spending the best years of her life, as Van Clees put it,

  making open sandwiches. And she felt a little grateful that

  her life was easier than poor Annie's.

  "Mama? I mean, Maggie-NoNv?" The little boy, in

  pajamas, stood in the doorway.

  "I thought you were asleep this good while, Denny."

  "I was. But now I'm awake."

  I Ig} I

 

  "Hungry?" He nodded. "Come on then. Sit down. I'll get

  you ginger snaps and milk."

  His eyes strayed from his milk and crackers to her hot

  sandwich and rested there longingly.

  "Can I have some of that?"

  "No. It's too heavy to eat late at night."

  "You're eating it."

  "Never mind, now."

  "Just a taste?"

  "Just a taste, then. No more." She gave him a fork. He

  ate from one end of the sandwich, she from the other. "Do

  your crayon work?"

  "This afternoon. You saw me. You forgot," he said

  reproachfully.

  "That's right. You did. N'ell, what did you do tonight,

  then?" "Me and Papa played checkers."

  "Who won?"

  "Papa. I let him."

  "Now why did you do that?"

  "Because he won't play with me if he don't win."

  "If you are winning, you shouldn't back up like that."

  "Oh, I don't care if I don't win."

  "You should care. You shouldn't do anything if you don't

  care. Drink your milk.''

  "You drink half with mc.''

  "I've got coffee."

  "I helped you eat half your sandwich. Now you gotta

  help me drink my milk."

  "Oh, all right." She pour d half his milk into her coffee

  cup.

  "Maggie-Now, if you c ver get married, would he be my

  father? "

  "Your father?"

  "You know. Like you're my mother, only you're my sister?"

  "What's the matter with you, Denny?"

  "Would he?"

  "Let's see: If I was ever lucky enough to get married,

  why, my husband would be your brother-in-law. Whv did

  you ask?"

  "Because Papa told me you were going to get married,

  he

  1 9; ]

  guessed. He said he guessed you knew a man, now. But

  he said I shouldn't tell you what he said."

  "And you shouldn't tell, then, if he asked you not to."

  She paused. "What else did Papa say?"

  "He told me to tell you that you shouldn't get married

  and leave me here alone. And leave Papa alone, too."

  "Oh, he did, did he?" she said grimly.

  "But don't tell I told because he said not to tell you."

  "Do you know what a tattletale is?"

  "Sure. But you ain't going away like Papa said, are you?"

  "No." She put an arm around his shoulder. "I'll stay with

  you until you get old enough to find some nice girl to

  take my place. Okay?" He nodded. "And if I ever have to

  leave here before then, I'll take you with me."

  "And Papa, too?"

  "No. Papa's a big man and can look out for himself. But

  don't tell him I said that, hear?" She knew full well he

  would tell their father the next morning.

  "And now, bed! And don't beg because you can't stay

  up any longer."

  "I want more milk first. You drank half of mine."

  "Oh, no, you don't. You had your chance with the milk.

  Come on, now. I'll put you away for what's left of the

  night."

  She tucked him in. He tried to prolong her stay. "Do I

  hafta have a blanket?"

  "Yes."

  "But it's hot out."

  "It's warm now. But it will get cool towards morning."

  "What time will it get cool?"

  "Four o'clock."

  "How do you know?'

  "Now stop it! I'm not going to get tricked into a long

  conversation with you."

  "I want the light on, rhen."

  "No!"

  "Then I hafta have a drink of water."

  "No! Good gosh, Denny, it's one o'clock in the morning.

  Now shut up!" She smiled and kissed him.

  About to turn out the light, she gave her usual

  hotlsevife's

  ~ ~ 1

 

  last look around the room, trying to imagine what it would

  look like if she were a stranger seeing it for the first time.

  It wasn't a room, really. It was a corridor with a window.

  It was an oblong partitioned off Maggie-Now's room.

  There was space only for Denny's cot and a small dresser.

  He had tacked a Dartmouth pennant to the wall. She

  smiled, remembering he had traded two of the flags he

  had taken from the cemetery for it. He had two flags left

  from the handful he'd swiped from the graves two years

  ago. They stood in an empty soda-water bottle next to his

  mother's picture. The photograph had been made soon

  after her marriage.

  To Denny, thought Maggie-Now, Mama will always be a

  young woman whom he's never seen.

  Then there was a dirty baseball with a strip of bicycle

  tape covering a tear in the horsehide and one of

  Maggie-Now's good sauce di
shes, holding a dozen blue

  clay marbles. His glass shooters were gone and she

  surmised that he'd played a bad game that day.

  There was the inevitable ball of tin foil. Like other kids,

  he garnered discarded cigarette packages and gum

  wrappers, the foil of which he added to the ball. When it

  got as big as a baseball and twice as heavy, it was believed

  that any junkman would give you a dollar for it. To make

  sure it would be heavy enough, Denny had placed an iron

  washer in the core of it.

  He was making a rubber ball, too. It started with a wad

  of paper and every rubber band he could get was

  stretched and wound tightly around it. It went slowly.

  He'd been working on it for months and it was only the

  size of a golf ball. He persisted because he knew if it ever

  got to be the size of a regular ball, it would be the

  bouncingest ball in the whole world.

  On an impulse, Maggie-Now picked it up and bounced

  it. It hit the ceiling on the rebound. She scrambled after

  it awkwardly, her hands cupped to catch it before it

  bounced again. She missed it and had to c base a couple

  of more bounces. Denny giggled into his pillow.

  "That's enough out of you," threatened Maggie-Now. "If

  you don't go to sleep . . ."

  A newly-made slingshot on the dresser caught her eye.

  The kids called it a beanshooter. It was made of a

  crotched twig which she suspected was broken Of a tree

  in the park when nobody

  [ '97 1

 

  was looking, two strips of rubber and a square of fine

  supple leather. She felt the leather.

  "Oh, no!" she moaned. "Oh, no!"

  She picked up his shoes and, as she had feared, the

  tongue of one of them had been cut off and used in the

  slingshot.

  "Oh, Denny," she said despairingly, "what did you do to

  your good shoes?"

  "Don't start no conversations with me," he said, afraid

  of a scolding, "because I'm sleeping like you told me."

  When she put his shoes away under his cot, she saw his

  sled there where he liked to keep it until it snowed again.

  But now it was spring. Soon it would be kite-flying time

  and he'd get sticks and tie them together into a sort of

  rhomboid and paste a sheet from the colored comics of

  the Journal over the frame and tease her for rags which

  he'd tear into strips and knot together for a tail, and hint

  for two cents to buy a ball of cord to fly it.

  Maybe I'll buy him a ready-made loon kite this year. It

  would he nice if we could afford to get him a two-wheel

  bike, but . . . Maybe there'll lee some money for a catcher's

  mitt. Oh, well, Papa can get him a new baseball, at least.

  Still and all, he seems content with what he has or makes or

  gets on his own. He has what the other boys have. If he had

  less, he'd be sad. If he had more, he wouldn't fit in with the

  other boys. Anyway, he seems satisfied.

  She smiled toward her mother's photograph and said

  aloud: "You know. It's relative?"

  "What-cha say?" asked Denny sleepily.

  "Nothing. I'm going to turn the light out now." She did so.

  "Don't close the door all the way, Mama."

  "Afraid? "

  "Naw."

  "I'll leave it open anyway. For air," she added tactfully.

  Preparing for bed, she thought: Funny that something

  that makes me so very happy makes Denny so sad and

  worried and Papa so mad and worried. Papa, she thought

  scornfully, who makes believe he's got another woman! As

  if he could've kept it a secret all these years if he did have

  one! Still and all . . .

  Gratefully she settled into bed and started to recall

  dreamily her whole wonderful evening with Claude; what

  he said, what she said how he had looked when he spoke

  to her and the won

  1 ~98]

 

  derful nuances of the silences made by the pauses in the

  conversation.

  But she was so tired from the long walk so used up