Camp Upton any day now. I'd like to take in a good show
before I leave. Would you go with me, providing I can get
tickets for Saturday night? "
"Why I would love to, Mr. Pheid," she said.
"Look," he blurted out. "It's not my fault and I can't
help it, but everybody calls me Sonny."
She laughed and said: "And they call me Maggie-Now
and I can't help it either."
"So long for a while, Maggie-Now."
"So long, Sonny."
He kissed her and, to her surprise, she liked it.
After the show he asked her if she'd care for some chop
suey. She thought of Claude and felt a pang. She said she
didn't care for chop suey, so they had butter cakes and
coffee at Child's. Going home on the B.M.T., he told her
he had been going with a girl but she liked a feller who
could spend a lot of money on her, and the way it was
with him, he was partners with his father and he got room
and board and pocket money, but all the profits went back
in the business. And Sonny said he thought that was all
right seeing that he would get the business after his father
died, but the girl found another feller who had more
money to spend on her and that was that, he said.
t249]
"Are you going with anyone?" he asked.
"Not any more," she said.
"We're both in the clear, then," he said.
He told her he was going to camp Tuesday and he had
to spend Monday night with his family but couldn't they
do something together on Sunday? She told him she had
to go and see her godmother but it would be a short visit.
He suggested picking her up there and they could have a
soda or something. Arrangements were made. She
received his good-night kiss, which she had looked forward
to, with a sensation of pleasure.
Lottie, her conscience bothering her a little because she
had been so outspoken in her dislike of Claude, treated
Sonny most cordially and insisted that he stay a while. She
made him sit in Timrmy's chair.
He sat down, leaned back and looked around. "My, it's
nice here, isn't it, Maggie-Now?"
"I love this room," said Maggie-Now.
"Timmy always liked it so," said Lottie.
"Your son?" he asked.
"My husband. He passed away some years ago."
"God rest his soul," said Sonny.
"I'll show you his picture."
The album tinkled out its little tune when she opened it.
"Say! Do that again," he said. She opened and closed it
several times. "That's a dandy picture album."
"Timmy gave it to me on our anniversary. Here's a
picture of the two of us taken just before we was married."
He looked at the picture and looked at her. "You
haven't changed," he said. An old-rose flush came to her
faded cheeks. She showed him a picture of Tim in his
uniform. "Your husband must have been quite a man," he
said.
"Oh, he was! Didn't Maggie-Now tell you about my
Timmy?"
"I haven't known Mr. Pheid very long," said
Maggie-Now. Sonny looked around the room.
"Looking for an ashtray?" asked Lottie.
"I'm looking for this Mister Pheid."
Maggie-Now laughed. "I mean Sonny," she said.
"Well, I'll tell you about Timmy," said Lottie.
To Maggie-Now, the story seemed interminable. She
had heard
[ So ]
it a hundred times, it seemed. Also she was a little
annoyed with Lottie, who had been so cool toward Claude
and now was so warm toward Sonny.
Eventually, Lottie concluded her story with the
inevitable: "And we was sweethearts until the end."
Sonny was moved by the story. "You were a lucky
woman, Mrs. Shawn," he said.
"Don't I know it! "
He touched her hand briefly and said: "And he was a
very lucky man."
Quick tears came to Lottie's tired eyes. She rubbed the
tears out with her fingers. "Thank you, Sonny," she said.
She turned to Maggie-l`;ow. "Come in the kitchen with
me. I want to show you something. Excuse us?" she asked
Sonny.
"Certainly." He didn't get up. He was looking through
the album.
In the kitchen, Lottie whispered: "Where'd you meet
him?"
"Church social. But I knew who he was, though. He and
his father have a plumbing shop together."
"Will he get the business when his father dies?"
"I guess so."
"He's just the right man for you, Maggie-Now."
Maggie-Now thought of Claude and sighed.
"You're still thinking of that other one, ain't you?"
"Always," said Maggie-Now.
"Listen. He was all right for one springtime of your
life the way he looked at you and the things he must-a
said to you. He gave you something nice to remember
from time to time as you grow old. And that's all he
should be: a memory.
"But for the long haul . . . marriage, a home, children,
being supported . . . someone to get old with, Sonny's the
one."
"What makes you think he'd want me?"
"He does. Or he will. Don't be foolish. Hang on to him."
When they got back into the living room, Sonny was
standing at the mantelpiece. He grinned and said: "Well,
ladies, will I do?"
Maggie-Nc,w couldn't help but laugh. But she was
embarrassed when Lottie went to him, put her hands on
his arms, looked up at him and said: "You'll do."
Maybe Solmy was embarrassed, too. He looked away from
[2Si ~
Maggie-Now and pointed to the china pug dog on the
mantelpiece. "I was looking at this," he said. "Can I see
it?" (He meant, could he pick it up.)
"Sure. Go 'head," said Lottie.
He examined it admiringly. "Say, it's a little dandy," he
said. "Just a little dandy."
"My Thnmy give it to me for a anniversary present. He
loved it, too. He used to stand there, just like you, and
hold it and say: 'Look at the little buggers getting theirs!'"
Sonny let out a roar of laughter. "Sh!" said Lottie.
"Mama's sleeping."
But Mama had awakened. She called out querulously
from the bedroom: "Timmy? That you, Timmy?"
"It's all right, Mama," called out Lottie. There was a
little silence. The old lady mumbled and evidently went
back to sleep.
With av.7ed voice, Lottie said to Maggie-Now, "Mama
thought it was Timmy laughing." She stared at Sonny.
"Yes," she said, "come to think of it, in many ways, he
reminds me of Timmy."
With a little shock, Ilaggie-Now told herself: Yes. He
does! But how? Why? She wondered. He doesn't look like
Uncle l immy.
"Anyhow," Lottie went on, "when Maggie-Now gets
married, I'm going to give her that little dog for a
wedding present."
"I better be careful then, not to break it." He replaced
> it carefully on the mantelpiece.
Sonny took Maggie-Now home. "I'd ask you in," she
said, "only...
"I know how it is," he said. "My pop's the same. My
sister used to go with Cholly. You know, the piano
player? She couldn't bring him in the house. Pop always
passed some remark. He had nothing against Cholly, but
he passed these remarks. She always had to meet Cholly
on the corner."
In a way, thought Maggie-Now, it's a relief to be with
someone of your own kind, who knows how things are and
who doesn't keep saying he'd like to meet your father.
"Look, Maggie-Now," he said, "if I write to you, will you
write back?"
"I'd be so glad to, Sonny."
1 2S2 J
"Good-by, then." He put his arms about her tightly and
kissed
her urgently.
"Don't," she murmured.
"Just a long good-by kiss, Maggie-Now?"
"Please don't," she said.
"It wouldn't go further than that. I'm not that kind of a
guy."
"I know, Sonny."
She submitted to the embrace, wishing Sonny were
Claude and
unhappy because she felt that she was disloyal to the one
she
loved and would always love, even though she never saw
him
again.
~ CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR ~
HE WROTE once a week. } lis first letter was a detailed
account of the weather of Camp Upton. Her answer was a
detailed account of the weather of Brooklyn. In his next
letter he gave her a detailed account of the meals served at
camp. She wrote back how dear everything was getting and
how, now, three people could hardly eat on a dollar a day.
Next he wrote, asking her for a picture of herself. All the
fellows here have pictures to hang up.... She had only a
picture of herself at six with veil and prayerbook when she
made her first communion and another when she was
twelve and was confirmed. She went down to Batterman's
and had a cabinet picture made of herself. She thought it
was a good picture. She inscribed it: "To Sonny, from
Margaret Rose." (She thought the fellers might laugh if she
wrote "Maggie-Now.") A few weeks later, he sent her a
snapshot of himself in his lima-bean pants and rolled
puttees and campaign hat straight over his eyes and
cradling his rifle in his arms. He was looking straight into
the camera. He looked like exactly what he was: a good,
honest, straightforward,
[253]
ordinary boy. She showed Lottie the snapshot when she
visited her.
"His face is a open book," said Lottie.
Yes, thought Maggie-Now, and his life is an open book.
She knew all about him: she knew his father, she knew
what their business was, what their background was. She
knew where he lived and where he had come from. She
knew of his sister and his brothers and the girl he used to
go with. She knew he had graduated from Boys' High and
that he was a Catholic.
She knew nothing about Claude.
Yet . . .
Sonny wrote, after he'd been in the army for two months,
that his next letter might come from a different address.
I can't tell you anymore than that, but if I come back all
in one piece, will you be my girl?
She was touched. Be my girl was tantamount to saying:
Become engaged to me and we'll marry . . .
She found it hard writing an answering letter. She was a
fairly direct person and it was always easier to say yes or
no rather than maybe. But now she couldn't say yes, and
she didn't want to say no.
Any girl would be proud to be your girl,
she wrote. (But she couldn't write: I'll be proud to be your
girl.
I'll see,
she wrote, meaning she'd think it over. (She couldn't write:
I've made up my mind.)
His answer came three weeks later.
I'm tickled to death you didn't say no. I'll wait and I'll
keep my fingers crossed.
The letter came from overseas.
She looked forward to getting Sonny's letters and she
enjoyed answering them. He kept pressing her for a
decision.
. . . we'll be moving up soon and it would mean a lot to
me if I knew . . . [And] P.S. If you run into Father Flynn,
tell him our chaplain, Father Newsome, said he went to
college with him and I forgot to say, don't worry if you
don't hear from me in some time.
t254]
She started to worry immediately. As soon as she'd
finished reading the letter, she went to church and lit a
candle and prayed for his safety. She saw Father Flynn
outside the church and told him about the chaplain.
A longing, faraway look came to Father Flynn's face as
he said: "Oh, yes. Freddy! The best end the school ever
had. It seems so long ago."
He told her how pleased he was with the
Thursday-night socials in the church basement. Sometimes
there were as many as twenty yotmg people attending. He
told her he had ten new player rolls for the pianola.
"I went from door to door begging for rolls old and
new," he said.
"But, Father, we were going to appoint a committee to
go out and get donations...."
"I couldn't wait that long. I got so sick and tired of
hearing 'The Oceana Roll.'" He paused. "I've heard there
was some criticism about using the church basement for
the socials. I've heard that some of our parishioners are
against them."
"There are always a few people against things," she said.
"But I heard that people think they're a good thing. They
bring young people together."
He looked at the letter in her hand. "Yes, they do, don't
they, Margaret?" There was a twinkle in his eye. He put
two fingers on the letter as though blessing the sender.
"He's a good boy, Margaret."
"Yes, he is, Father. But . . ."
He remembered the way she had looked at Claude that
Easter morning when they came out of the church.
"He is a good man," he said firmly. "Pray to our Holy
Mother for guidance."
"Yes, Father."
She prayed long and hard and sincerely and then wrote
to Sonny. She wrote: Maybe . . .
It was some weeks before she got his answer.
[ENS]
~ CHAPTER THIRTY-FT VE ~
WAR IS a terrible thing, people kept telling each other,
but just the same, they admitted, it sure made things
exciting for the people at home. There was w ork for all
and salaries were high and luxuries were available to all.
The conservative haberdashery on Grand Street was
forced to stock men's silk shirts for the first time in its
long history. Workmen bought them.
Before the war, wom
en had worked as factory hands,
store clerks, waitresses, telephone operators, typists,
cashiers, housemaids and so forth. Those with more
specialised training could put their names on waiting lists
for teachers, librarians, nurses, private secretaries, and
wait around for an opening.
Now, most all jobs were open to them. They worked as
trolleycar conductors, operated elevators, drew beer,
worked milk delivery routes, replaced men in the post
offices, wore cute uniforms and worked down at the
Brooklyn Navy Yard and were called ycomanettes. Men
stopped giving them their seats in the subways.
They wore pants. Since pants made expressly for women
were not available, they wore their brothers' pants. They
discarded high shoes and wore oxfords with spats. They
invaded barbershops and had their hair cut short. They
stopped pinching their cheelcs to make them red. They
used rouge. They took to smoking cigarettes. Like men,
they argued over politics. The time was drawing near
when they'd be allowed to go to the polls to vote.
In short, they were freed at last and they had a hell of a
time.
The war was good for real estate, too. The "Rooms for
Rent" signs disappeared from the windows and
prospective tenants gave landlords a "bonus" for first
chance on a vacant flat. People sA:ho lived in hall
bedrooms now could afford a flat; flat renters [ 2S6 1
moved to apartments and apartment dwellers moved to
little houses out on the Island that they could buy for so
little down and so much time to pay, small additional
charge for built-in breakfast nooks.
Landlady Maggie-Now Moore profited. The contentious
Heahlys had moved away, owing thirty dollars back rent,
leaving a broken-back chair and a gentleman roomer in
the hall bedroom. Maggie-Now had believed the woman's
story that the man was a brother-in-law who was "staying"
with them for a while because his wife had just "passed
away."
The gentleman didn't move away with the Heahlys
because he had paid two months' advance rent on the hall
room. No, he wasn't a relative of theirs, he told
Maggie-Now, but it was true that his wife had died
recently. She left a two-year-old son, he said, who had
been placed in a "home," and he paid the home five
dollars a week, until he remarried. Yes, there was a
widow, he confided to Maggie-Now; they'd marry after the
decent interval of a year from his wife's death. He was
marrying again so his child could have a home and
mother.
Oh, if he'd only let me keep the baby here, instead of that
place, ?mtil he married. I'd be so happy to have that baby,
she thought.
I wish l had the nerve, he thought, to ask her to board the
boy for five dollars a week. I could have him every night and
she's so nice....
But he didn't ask and she didn't ask.
He continued renting the room for ten dollars a month
and Maggie-Now rented the rest of the place to an eager
family who paid twent`TT-five dollars a month rent for it.
Now she collected thirty-five dollars a month in rent,
instead of fifteen. Taxes remained the same and the
surplus in the bank account grew.
She used some of the money for herself. She bought a
sheer georgette crepe blouse and a lacy camisole to show
through and a tight skirt and high-heeled slippers. She
wore silk stockings now, instead of lisle.
She still ran the Thursday-night church socials. She was
popular with the boys someone always walked her home.
The girls liked her, too. Some of the girls had their hair
bobbed. They urged Maggie-Now to have hers cut.
~ ~57 ]
"Why don't you get a Castle clip, Maggie?" they urged
her.
In her mind, she heard Claude say: The classic simplicity
of your hair style . . .
"You'd look like Irene Castle, wouldn't she, girls, with
those high cheekbones and all>"
Said Gina Pheid, Sonny's sister, who took almost a
relative's interest in Maggie-Now: "You could be a model
with your face."