Maggie Now

one thing: She had two dead husbands and Pat, being

  superstitious, believed that everything came in threes.

  He rationalised his decision to marry her: Every year a

  priest comes and gives me the last rites and me family leaves

  me f or dead. I can lick that. But wheel two priests believe

  I'm dying, that's tough. With the Ridder now, I'll only die the

  once, iilstead-a every year.

  Tessie came to pay a visit to her baby's godmother and

  Pat. From his window, Pat saw her arrival. He sent Mick

  Mack back to his own room, saying, "Here comes me

  daughter-in-law, the Informer." Pat turned off his radiator.

  The Informer will tell me daughter that I sit in a cold room

  and Maggie-Now will worry her head off, he thought with

  satisfaction.

  ~4~5]

 

  She left the baby with the widow and came up to see

  Pat. "I brought you some new clay pipes," she said.

  "Where's the tobacco?" he asked.

  "You've got tobacco."

  "What'd you come here for?"

  "Just for a visit."

  "You came so you could inform on me to me daughter."

  "I did not!" she said hotly. "I know you don't like me.

  And I don't like you either. I come to see you only

  because it pleases Dennis when I do. Well, I've paid my

  visit. Good-by." She left.

  She's got spunk, that ooze, he thought. Me son's in good

  hands. After a while, his room got cold. He forgot that he

  had turned off the heat. He grabbed his shillelagh and

  banged on the radiator pipes.

  "Heat, O'Crawley! !' he bawled. "Heat, Goddamn it! "

  Slle came up to his room. "Where's me heat?" he hollered.

  She knelt down and turned the valve. There was an

  immediate hiss and gurgle. "You turned it off," she said

  reproachfully.

  He looked at the slender, aging woman kneeling there,

  her small, work-worn hand resting on the valve. There was

  something tender and vulnerable about the arch of her

  slender, bent back.

  And so had a young girl, long ago, knelt in a field in

  Kilkenny County to pluck a daisy to put in his buttonhole

  and her young back had had that same tender and

  vulnerable look. He thought briefly of Maggie Rose and

  lingeringly of Mary Moriarity.

  "Me first wife was named Mary," he said. "And the one

  I'm taking for me second wife is Mary, too."

  She got: up and clasped her hands ecstatically. "Oh, my

  man, dear! "

  "No fancy wedding, now," he warned her.

  And it was done and he made his permanent home at

  the vidow's house. When llaggie-Now realized her father

  had moved 'ut for good, she felt sty angely depressed.

  l hat year Claude came home late, the second creek in

  December. Maggie-Now was shocked at his appearance.

  Fle had gotten quite thin and his clothes were nearly in

  rags and he had an irritating c ought

  He Dent away too far t/JiS year, she thought in dismay.

  Where it tubas too cold. Arzd he angst have IJad a hard time

  getting back.

  1 Ales 1

 

  In her presence, he unpinned the gold piece and took

  it out of his pocket. "I almost needed it this thee," he

  said. "But I managed to get through without it." He put

  the coin in her hand. "You'll never need to pin it in my

  coat again. I'm never going away

  ,,

  again.

  He pulled a package front his pocket. "My last

  coming-home present to you. Open it."

  It was a beautiful thing; a sea gull made of alabaster. It

  was poised in flight on a bit of ebony wood. The whole

  thing NN7:15 only six inches high.

  "It's so beautiful," she said, "that it hurts to look at it."

  "Of all the creatures of creation, the gull is the loveliest.

  And the most free. The blue sky and the bluer sea and a

  gull poised in the wind . . . alone . . . free . . . nothing but

  sky and sea and wind and bird . .

  "Oh, if there is a life after death; if one could return to

  earth in another form, I would lie a sea gull!"

  She shuddered. "You'll always go," she said sadly. "And

  I'll always miss you."

  He took her by her arms and pulled her close to him.

  "Margaret, look at me! I will never to away again. There

  will never be a reason for me to go."

  Timidly, she ventured a question. She asked it in a

  whisper: "Did you find what you were looking for?"

  For the first time in their life together, he gave her a

  definite answer. He said: "Yes."

  He said no more and she asked for no more.

  Later they went to bed. As the years had gone by, their

  lovemaking had imperceptibly changed. Once it had been

  a wild, passionate thing; as if thert had to be a surfeit of

  love. NONV, it was a wonderful surcease from not having

  had love for so long all during the months he'd been

  away.

  Two days later Claude became very ill. It seemed like a

  routine cold at first. Only it didn t respond to the usual

  home treatment. When his fever went high and he

  babbled of inconsequential things, she sent for the doctor.

  "It looks like flu," said the doctor. "Yes, Spanish

  influenza. That's strange, though. We haven't had any of

  that since the World War. Strange . . .

  1 4!- 1

  "Have the children shown any symptoms?"

  "The children?"

  "It's very contagious and I'm afraid the children must

  leave, Mrs. Bassett."

  "No!" she cried out.

  "They're too young to survive if . . . You wouldn't vvant

  anything to happen to any one of them, would you?"

  "No, oh, no!"

  "I'll have to notify the home." He was the home doctor

  for the children.

  In two hours, the home nurse and an assistant came in

  a car for the babies. They wouldn't let Maggie-Now dress

  the children. They brought blankets and clothes from the

  home. They put masks on when they went into the babies'

  rooms. The nurse was very severe with

  Maggic-Now telling her sharply that the home should

  have been notified earlier. Of course, Maggie-Now

  couldn't even tell ':he children good-by.

  Szlddenly it's all over, thought Maggie-Now. I mustn't

  think of the children. I have Claude. Please God, she

  prayed, don't let anything happen to him. Holy Mary,

  Mother of God, I beseech thee . . .

  Claude got over the flu. It left him weak. And no matter

  how she tended him, how many custards and how much

  chicken broth she made for him, he didn't improve. She

  put the rocking chair near the coal range and put pillows

  in it. He sat there and she gave him a footstool to keep

  his feet off the floor and put a blanket over his knees.

  He was content to sit there holding on his lap the little

  Siamese cat he had once brought her and to watch

  Maggie-Now at her household duties. He watched the

  time go by, smiling when the cuckoo clock struck
and the

  canary in its cage rapturously burst into competitive song.

  "We are alone together, love," he said. "For the first

  time. Your father's gone and Denny . . ." He didn't

  mention the children because he knew she'd cry.

  "I'm glad I've got you, Claude. So glad! And you are my

  father, my brother and my children all in one. If I have

  you, I need no one else."

  "Were you frightened, love, when I was sick?"

  [ 4~8 ]

 

  "No. I was worried though."

  "I was frightened," he said. "Oh, not of dying. I'm no

  fool. I know we'll all die someday just as sure as we're

  born. I was frightened of being put in a covered box and

  being put in the earth."

  "Don't talk that ay, Claude," she moaned.

  "Let me. I've always been free. I hate darkness and

  small places; small dark rooms with closed doors. I never

  want to he tucked away somewhere."

  "It's getting cold in here," she said. "I'll poke up the fire."

  "No. Listen, Margaret. Where is that little gull I brought

  you?"

  "I'll get it for you."

  He held it in his hand and ran a finger over the spread

  alabaster wings.

  The little cat on his lap got up, arched its back, gave the

  canary in the cage a baleful look, and jumped to the floor.

  Maggie-Now picked up the cat and held it close.

  Claude spoke all in a rush. "I wouldn't be so

  frightened I'd even be contented if I were sure that my

  ashes would be thrown to the winds over the sea where

  gulls are flying."

  She trembled so much that the cat struggled to get out

  of her arms. She held the cat against its will. "No, Claude.

  No! I won't do it! If there is a life after death and I

  know there is I want us to be together in it. And that

  couldn't be if you . . ."

  "Do you love me, Margaret?"

  She let the cat go then and Vent over and held Claude

  tightly "My darling, my dear, my love, my everything," she

  said. She was trembling.

  "There, Margaret! There now, Maggie-Now. There!"

  After a while, she said: "Mr. Van Clees sent over a

  bottle of very fine cognac for you. And Annie made some

  wonderful calf's foot jelly for you. How about a nice hot

  cup of tea with lemon and sugar and half cognacs And

  toast and sweet butter and calf's foot jelly spread on top?"

  "Wonderful! Will you have some too-"

  "Of course. You don't think you're going to have all of

  it do you, Mr. Bassett?"

  "No, Mrs. Bassett."

  That night, after tucking him into bed' she undressed.

  brushed if 4779 ~

  her hair and got in beside him. She put her arm under his

  shoulder and put his head on her breast.

  "Margaret," he said, 'if you happen to see your father,

  ask him to come over. I'd like to talk to him awhile."

  "All right," she said.

  Pat came over a couple of mornings later and went into

  the kitchen where Claude was sitting. Pat closed the

  kitchen door after him. Maggie-Now went into the

  bedroom to make up her bed. Pat didn't stay 107lg with

  Claude. Pat opened the door and paused to say:

  "I said I would. And I will. In fact, I'll bury youse all!"

  Maggie-Now accompanied her father out to the stoop.

  "Oh, Papa," she said, and the ready tears came to her eyes.

  "Why do you fight with him? And he's so sick."

  "Well, I ain't sick," said Pat. "I didn't like him when he

  was well. Should I insult him by liking him just because

  he's sick? No! Furthermore," he burst out, "I don't like

  that damned skinny cat and that lousy canary and that

  dopey clock. That's why I married the widow," he said

  illogically, "so's I wouldn't have to put up with all that

  stuff. And statures of pigeons, too." He stalked down the

  street.

  Claude must have said soz7~ethi~?g to upset him, she

  thought.

  She went in to Claude. He was smiling. "Your father!"

  he said. His voice was full of admiration.

  ~ CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE ~

  THERE was a warm day in February and Claude wanted

  to sit by the front-room window. Maggie-Now set him up

  there and then she knelt down and put her arms about his

  waist.

  "Claude," she said, "I always knew when you were going

  away but I never let you know that I knew. But now I will

  speak out. My dear darling, don't go away this spring.

  You're not well yet.

  [ 4 2 ]

 

  Later on in the summer, if you have to go, I won't try to

  hold you. But don't go! Please, don't go! And if you do,

  I'll have to go with you. Because now there is no one but

  you."

  "I told you, Margaret, chat's all over. I don't want to go

  any more. But I would like to sit at the window. I like to

  see the skv and the street and watch the people go by."

  "But the day that wind c omes, you'll go again."

  "I promised you . . ."

  "Could you say it in some way that I could know it's for

  sure you won't go?"

  "I'll tell you why I had to go away and why I don't have

  to go any more. Once I told you that when we were old

  and had nothing more to talk about: . . ."

  "That you'd tell me the story of your life," she

  interrupted. "But we're not old yet."

  "We'll pretend. God know s I feel old. Tonight, when

  it's dark and we're closed in, I'll tell you. But for the day,

  let me sit by the window."

  That night, she gathered all the pillows in the house and

  she and Claude sat propped up in bed. She put her arm

  around him and made him lean against her. She had a

  moment of uneasiness w hen she felt that his heart was

  beating too fast.

  "If you don't want to tell me, Claude, it's all right."

  "No, love. I want to I need to tell you.

  "Well," he began, "soon after I was born, I v as placed

  in a private institution for orphans in Detroit. It was

  denominational, Protestant, and someone paid for my

  care. From that, I knew these things about myself: That

  I was white, a Christian, and that someone had enough of

  a conscience to pav for my care. Wllo? Father? Mother?

  "

  He was not treated badly at the institution, but with a

  lot of little boys and an inadequate, overworked staff

  there was no time for love and understanding.

  When he was eight he was sent to a boys' boarding

  school. Here there was a difference. Some of the boys had

  parents, though many were orphans placed in the school

  by an aunt or older sister. A good many were children of

  divorce. In all his time there. Claude was the only boy

  who did not have a visitor.

  if-!

  It was here he learner! to parry questions. "Hey! When's

  your mother coming?"

  "Wouldn't you just like to know!" or,

  "Hey! You got a mother?"

  "How do you think I was born?"

  At the age of twelve, he
was sent to a modest

  preparatory school. He had a little surcease there. No one

  seemed especially interested in his parentage.

  Parents or guardians deposited money with the

  headmaster and, once a week, each boy received fifty

  cents' pocket money. Claude got his fifty cents along with

  the rest. There was but one thing different about hell: He

  was the only boy in the school who never received a letter.

  One day he came across a writers' magazine in which

  was a tiny ad that said: Letters remailed fro7n Chicago . .

  25? Back. He wrote a letter to himself, starting, Dear Sorl,

  and signed it Your Father. He addressed it to himself and

  sent it off in another envelope with the quarter. In due

  time, his letter came back, postmarked Chicago. From

  that time on, he got a letter once a month from Chicago.

  Once in a while he displayed a letter with elaborate

  casualness and was not above quoting a pithy sentence or

  two.

  There came a time when he went to the headmaster.

  "Sir," he said. "I know someone pays for me here and I

  would like to know who . . ."

  "You want to know who you are. Is that it-"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You may not know who you are, Bassett, but I'll tell

  you went you are: a very lucky boy. Through no efforts of

  your own, you are being provided with a good education

  in a good school. .'? He talked on and on.

  "Then You won't tell me, sir, who is responsible for me?"

  "I can't tell you, Bassett. Your benefactor wishes to

  remain anonymous."

  When (~laude finished prep school, the headmaster

  told him he had been registered at a small denominational

  college in upper Michigan. His tuition would be paid and

  rent on a room in the dormitory and meals at the college

  cafeteria. There would be a small sum available for

  textbooks....

  [ 42 ~ 1

 

  Claude matriculated there. After a few months he went

  to the bursar of the college.

  "Sir," he said, "I should like to know who is paying my

  fees here."

  The bursar got up and took a file from the filing

  cabinet. The folder had two sheets. The bursar read the

  papers, closed the folder and put his hand on it.

  "Evidently-," he said, "your benefactor wishes to remain

  anonymous. I can tell you this much, however: A small

  trust has been set up for you. It will terminate when you

  graduate from here."

  "Sir, may I know the name of the bank or firm . . ."

  "I am not in a position to give you that information."

  Claude locked at the folder under the man's hand.

  Everything I need to know is in that 1 order, he thought. I

  could grab it, ruin oh with it.... But he was not aggressive

  enough to make a deed out of his thought.

  In Claude's sophomore year, the little college won an

  important football game and some of the boys in his dorm

  had a beer bust. They all got a little high and someone

  inadvertently called Claude a bastard. Claude hit the

  fellow and a free-for-all fight started. They smashed beer

  bottles over each other's head. Claude woke up in the

  infirmary with a row of stitches in front of his right ear

  and they we re picking glass fragments out of his ear.

  Probahl his defective ear resulted from that fight.

  At graduation, he slipped out of the auditorium as soon

  as he received his diploma. He stood on the steps and

  scanned the face of each one who came out. He had a

  strong feeling that his mother or father had come to see

  him graduate. He saw a man standing alone and the man's

  eyes searched the crowd. This is my father, thought

  Claude, and he is looking for me. The man's eyes rested on

  Claude and the man's searching look vas replaced by a

  smile. He held ou': his hand and Claude started to go to

  him. Then he found that the smile and the outstretched

  hand were for a young man standing behind Claude. The

  father put his arm about the young man's shoulder and