Page 29 of Maggie Now


  "What can I do with you, the both of you?" said

  Maggie-Now in pretended despair.

  "Nothing. Just smile and put up with us."

  She gave him her big smile. "You make everything seem

  so special," she told him.

  "Ah, no, Margaret. You do. You're the one. You make

  the simple ordinary things of life seem good and new and

  wonderful. You put a shine on life."

  Denny couldn't stand any more. "When you go," he said

  to Claude, "don't forget your package. It's on the lounge

  in the front room."

  "Denny!" she said, horrified at the broad hint.

  "What's the matter with me?" exclaimed Claude. "I

  forgot to give you the little present I got for you." He got

  up from the table. "Come on, Denny." To Maggie-Now, he

  said: "I hereby give notice that I'm not the type of man

  who helps with the dishes."

  "And I give notice," she said, "that I can't stand a man

  fussing around my kitchen."

  The package contained an Easter gift for Denny, a beau-

  tiful little kite made of paper-thin red silk as transparent

  as a bubble, with a dragon design picked out in gold

  thread. The sticks were thin bamboo, lacquered black, and

  the tail was of jade-green and turquoise-blue strips of

  paper. Maggie-Now said it was too beautiful to fly and

  that it ought to be framed and hung on the wall. Of

  course Denny had to go right out and fly it.

  Left alone in the house with Claude, Maggie-Now

  worried. Suppose her father came home and found her

  alone in the house with Claude! She suggested that they

  take a walk. But he begged to be allowed to sit and talk

  with her for a while.

  He told her how much he'd enjoyed the dinner how

  much it had meant to him that she'd let him share for a

  while a part of her family life. He spoke of Denny with

  fondness and understanding and seemed genuinely

  disappointed that her father hadn't been

  ~ 233 ]

 

  with thern. After that, he fell silent. She stole a look at

  him and saw a muscle twitching in his cheek.

  She thought: He 5 It yi??g to figure out a Fly to ask ?Z?e

  SOlMethi?zg important.

  "Margaret," he said. "About religion."

  "Yes?" There was a faint warning bell in her mind.

  "The services this morning . . ."

  "Yes? You mean the Mass?"

  "The .Iass, then. It was wonderfully beautiful with the

  pageantry and the chancing and the glorious Latin. A

  revealing experience to me. The stately progress of the

  ritual . . ."

  "High Mass is always like that," she said, uncomfortable

  because he used words like "pageantry" and "chanting" and

  "ritual" words that nice outsiders used when they spoke

  of a Class.

  "Do you understand it?" he asked.

  "Not all of it."

  "Aren't you curious about the things you don't

  understand'" "Why, no. I believe. I don't have to

  understand."

  "How can you believe without understanding? "

  "Oh, I believe that my heart beats and that I breathe,

  but I don't understand a thing about how those things

  happen. Well, let me say it this way: I believe without

  understanding it but I k~zoqv, that when the priest

  elevates the Host, the wine changes into the blood of

  Christ and the bread into His body."

  "But you can't explain it."

  "No. A convert might be able to explain it. They're the

  ones vho understand every small thing about the Catholic

  religion. I don't know why."

  "Do you know any converts?"

  "No. Yes, I do. She never said she was a convert, hut I

  kilos. she is."

  "How do you know "

  "By the way she talks."

  "How does she talk?"

  "Well, she lives down the block and sometimes I walk

  home from church with her and this lady will tell me how

  she went to confession the night before and what penance

  she got and how she went to bed early so that she

  wouldn't forget and take a drink of water after midnight.

  Then she'll say she took communion.

  ~ 2]4 1

 

  (I always say, I received.) And she'll talk a long time about

  hoNv wonderful she feels after confession and

  communion."

  "Don't you feel wonderful afterward?"

  "I've been going to confession and communion ever

  since I was six; before I could read. It's . . . it's always

  been there the feeling about it. I never think that I have

  to talk about my penance or my receiving."

  "Perhaps she's more talk. rive than you, Margaret."

  "Oh, I talk enough," acknowledged Maggie-Now. "It's

  just that u e talk ciii jerent about our faith."

  "She may be different from you the kind of woman

  who likes to analyze everything."

  Maggie-Na,w thought that over. "No," she decided. "She

  only talks that way about the faith. Not about other

  things." She paused while she searched her mind for an

  illustration. "Like, well, she lives down the block and she

  washes her hair like I do; she sits in the yard on a nice

  day and lets the sun dry it and then she brushes it and

  braids it like I do. But all she says is, 'Well, I washed my

  hair today.' And I say, 'So did 1.' And that's all. She

  doesn't tell me how much the soap costs and what time it

  was and how she felt and how her hair felt and how it's a

  good thing to wash your hair once a week. Because she's

  used to washing her hair the way I'm used to 'teeing a

  Catholic."

  "Margaret, have you ever thought what it would be like

  to have another religion? A simple one where the minister

  doesn't wear robes, and lives like other men with a wife

  and children, and understands people's problems because

  he has the same problems, and who conducts the service

  in clear English and everything is clear and

  understandable?"

  "Why, no. I've never thought about how it would be to

  have a different faith."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, I vvas born white. I never sit around and think

  how it would be if I had been born a colored person. I'm

  a woman. I never think about how it would be to be a

  man."

  "You take your religion for granted, then."

  "I guess I can't explain. I can only krZow."

  "Tell me this, Margaret. No, don't tell me if you don't

  want to."

  "I don't mind. What?"

  1 -',, 1

 

  'Understand: I'm not asking you all these questions

  because I'm curious but because ['m very interested."

  "Oh, that's all right," she said.

  "Don't you think having to make confession is an

  invasion of privacy? "

  "Oh, no," she said with a half laugh. "Everybody has sins.

  Mine are no different from other people's. When Father

  Flynn asks me exactly how many times I told a lie in the

  week, I never think it's . . . what d
id you call it?"

  "Invasion of your privacy."

  "No. I never think that. He's supposed to ask."

  "Now, Margaret, you re a Catholic."

  "1 know." She smiled.

  "Now that's all right for you. But if you had a child,

  maybe he wouldn't want to be a ( atholic. Don't you think

  he ought to be allowed to choose his own religion when

  he's old enough?"

  She was so astonished for a moment that she couldn't

  answer. Then she said: "Before a child is born, is it

  allowed to decide whether it will be a boy or a girl? When

  it wants its first nourishment do you let it starve until it's

  old enough to decide whether it wants milk or beer? Do

  you keep him without a name until he's old enough to

  pick out one for himself? When he's six years old do you

  let him decide whether he wants to go to school or not?

  No. You give him milk, you give him a name, you send

  him to school and you give him a faith."

  "I see." He got up and walked to the window and stood

  there looking out.

  "Couldn't we talk about something else?" she asked

  timidly.

  "Just one thing more, Margaret, and then we'll never

  talk about it again as long as we both shall live." He

  asked the question very carefully "If you were in love with

  a Protestant, w ould you give up your religion to marry

  him?"

  "I wouldn't have to. We could . . . I mean, a person

  could marry a Protestant with a Catholic ceremony. But

  he'd have to say that he wouldn't interfere with her

  religion and that their children would be brought up in

  the Catholic faith."

  "But the next morning she'd expect him to go see the

  priest and be converted."

  "Oh, no," she said quickly. "It's not as easy as that. It takes

  a

  1 236 1

 

  long time. You have to have the faith."

  "How do you mean?"

  "I don't know words to explain it. If you have it, you just

  know it."

  "Margaret, look at me." She got up and went to him and

  looked clearly and truly into his eyes. "Do you love me?"

  "Yes," she said simply.

  "Could you, if we married, take my religion and bring

  up our children in my religion? Could you?" She shook

  her head dumbly. 'Couldn't you love me enough to do

  that?"

  "I could want to," she said, "and I could say I would and

  mean it w hen I said it. And I could try very hard. But

  inside, I couldn't change."

  "Like you couldn't change into a Negro or change into a

  man."

  "You wouldn't like me, would you," she asked

  beseechingly, "if I was any other way than the way I am?"

  "I don't suppose I woulcl," he said in an offhand way.

  She knew it: was all over. Slle had a feeling of numbness.

  "Would you like some coffee?" she asked timidly.

  "No, thank you." His tone was brusque.

  They talked a little while longer about the w ar and

  rising prices and the coming of prohibition, and his

  language was academic and strained the way it was when

  he spoke to strangers.

  After a while, he thanked her politely for the nice

  dinner and expressed regret that he hadn't met her father.

  He said good-by and left without making arrangements

  for another meeting. She stood at the window and witched

  him until he was out of sight. Only then did she notice

  that he had forgotten his book. It was lying on the lounge.

  She picked it up. It was The Book of Everythin~r,'. She

  opened it. On the flyleaf he had written:

  To AiLlargraret, with love, Claurie.

  She cried, then.

  1 ~,7 1

 

  a

  SHE knew he wouldn't collie back. ~ et, she thought that

  if sue admitted the fact and suffered over it she would,

  paradoxically, be rewarded by his return. So she bathed

  and dressed carefully each afternoon, and, after supper,

  she sat at the window and waited. Pat often sat with her

  and spoke enthusiastically of .71rs. O'Crawley, Mick

  Mack's landlady, who was trim and tidy and forty-two and

  owned property. He was lyrical about the Easter dinner

  she'd served: baked ham with pineapple slices and candied

  sweet potatoes and creamed onions and peach shortcake.

  "All home-cooked, you understand," he said. "No bakery

  stud and nothing out of a can. And why can't we have

  candied sweet potatoes sometime?"

  Maggie-Now said, yes, and, no, and that's nice, not

  really listening to him but making the sounds of interest

  and companionship. Evidently, Denny hadn't told him that

  Claude had been there for Easter dinner, for Pat made no

  comment.

  Although Maggie-Now had not forbidden Denny to tell

  of Claude's visit, he probably found it expedient to say

  nothing on account of the kite. It was broken the next day

  and Denny said his father had broken it, but under

  pressure Denov admitted that he himself had broken it.

  "Why did you lie, then?" she asked.

  "Because I didn't want to get scolded."

  "Oh, Denny," she sighed, "you mustn't lie. If it was

  broken by accident, I'd feel sorry along with you, but if

  you broke it on purpose, you deserve a scolding and

  should be man enough to take It."

  She worried a little bit about Dcnny. He was inclined to

  tale the easy way out of things. I-le never faced up to an!

  of his

  1 ENS 1

 

  small problems; he never made a protest when he was

  wronged and he was learning that a quick lie was the

  easiest way out of a tight spot.

  Maybe he needs more love and more understanding, she

  thought. I love him and I try to understand him. But maybe

  there are some things that only a man can understand about

  a boy. He can't look to Papa for much. Papa treats him like

  somebody that's visiting here. But Claude, now . . .

  Yes, Claude.

  The weeks passed and no word from him. She wrote a

  careful little letter, thanking him for The Book of

  Everything, and addressed it to the Y.M.C.A. and timidly

  wrote a small Please Forward on the envelope. It came

  back stamped Address Unknown.

  She tried to convince herself that he had enlisted or

  been drafted. (She knew he had been anxious to get into

  the war.) And maybe he had been shipped overseas right

  away and now was someplace where he couldn't write to

  her. But in her heart she knew that he'd find a way to get

  in touch with her if he wanted to.

  The hours of her knowing him, five evenings and two

  afternoons, had changed her whole life. She was no longer

  content to be her father', housekeeper and her brother's

  mother. She'd had a glimpse of another way of life; a full,

  rich, woman's life. She had known for a bit of time the

  wonder of unspoken understanding with another soul, the

/>   delight of perfect companionship and the happiness of

  exchanging thoughts (and no thought had been too trivial

  or silly to exchange) with a sympathetic being. And woven

  throughout all this had been the golden anticipation of

  physical love to come.

  He seemed to like everything about me, she told herself,

  but not enough to want me for all of his life. He thought my

  religion was beautiful at first, but not beautiful enough to let

  it be. Should I have gone against it f or him? Love is so

  scarce and so hard to find, especially the love I have for him.

  Wouldn't it have been better to give up my church for the

  sake of love, marriage and children? After all, Protestants are

  Christians, too. I told him I couldn't do it. But if I had

  tried tried hard! Maybe . . .

  She sighed because now she had another sin to confess

  to Father Flynn the sin of thinking of giving up her faith.

  ~ 239 ]

 

  Now Father Flynn still know, she thought. And he won't

  like him. Au?lt Lottie doesn't like him; Mr. Vail Clees

  doesn't like him. clod Papa. He doesn't I now qvLat

  Claude's religio7? is arid he netter spoke to him blat he

  doesn't like him a~7y1~0~v.

  If they only flew him the way I k7?0w him, they mould

  lo:,e 07?' too.

  She needed so much to have someone to talk to some

  understanding woman. Oh, if Ald7~7a there only still here,

  she grieved. She =~07ui'd urlderstand /10~, it is with me.

  Mild she'd say so7llethi

  to make me feel better.

  About this time, she had a card from Lottie, asking why

  she'd stayed away so long and saying that Llama was

  failing and asked for her, .'/laggie-Now, a lot.

  Maggie-Novv brought a jar of jellied chicken broth over

  for 1,ottie's mother. Lottie was touched and greeted

  I1agg7ie-Now tenderly. She asked about Claude.

  Maggie-Now told her that Claude was gone and had not

  written. Lottie's face showed satisfaction at tlZe news and

  concern for lIaggie-Now's sadness.

  "It's all for the best. Maggie-Now, dear," said Lottie.

  "Not the best for me," said ilaggie-Now. 'But I guess it

  couldn't be. He was a l'rotestant...."

  i'Oh, I had nothing against his religion," said Lottie

  quickly. "I just thought he wasn't good enough for y out"

  "But you said that as my godmother you couldn't let me

  m.ZrrN a Protestant."

  "I thought it over after. Sure y ou could, if he got

  converted. And sometimes converts are more religious

  than these born in the faith. "

  "I don't think he'd ever have turned. '

  "He would if you went about it right. I ike some night,

  if you was alone with him, all you'd have to do is put your

  arms around him and kiss him hard. Yo't1 know. And you

  could ask him while he was under the influence if he'd

  turn for you. And he u70llld.'

  "No, he's not that kind. Anyhow, I wouldn't w ant to

  trick anybody.... Aunt Lottie, tel] me. Would you have

  married Uncle I imply if he hadn't been a Catholic?"

  "Oh, that reminds me of something funny," said Lottie.

  "when I immy and me was keeping company, he knew I

  was a Catholic but I didn't knew vh3t he was. I thought

  he wriest he being s

  1 24 1

 

  he was Irisll and a cop but I wasn't sure and I didn't like

  to ask. So I asked Mama, yO'JI know, just to find out how

  she fen about it. I said, 'Mama, should I marry Timmy

  even if he ain't Catholic?' And you know what Mama

  said?"

  "What did she say?"

  "She said I shouldn't let religion interfere with love,

  being's I was thirty years old already. So Timmy gave me

  the ring and we set the day. So I asked him what church he

  wanted to be married in and he said St. Thomas-iss. And

  I said right out, 'That's a Catholic church,' and he said,

  'Sure.' So I came right out with it. I said:

  " 'Are you a Catholic?'

  " 'Sure,' he said.

  "So I got all choked ul, and started to cry and 1 said:

  'Oh, Timmy, why didn't you tell me before?' You know