“Frightful,” said the doctor.
“Miss Coogan speaks, reads, and writes three languages,” said Johnny, and he stood up. His heart was hammering. He continued in a lower voice, “Besides English. She is a fine mathematician. She knows more history and English literature than the average college professor. Father John Kanty assured me of that himself.”
She bridled, lifted up her beetle eyes to him so that the glaring white below them shone. “Really, Mr. Fletcher! Do you take the word of an ignorant Polish priest?”
Johnny wanted to hit her. His face must have betrayed his desire, for she shrank back. But he kept his voice even: “You lie when you say that, Mrs. Guston. An ignorant Polish priest? I thought you were one of the lovers of humanity, as your kind calls itself. Father John Kanty was graduated from Notre Dame. Did you ever hear of Notre Dame, Mrs. Guston?”
“Are you calling me a liar, sir?” she exclaimed, outraged.
“I am, madam. When you say that priest, my friend, is ignorant, then you are either a fool or a liar. Take your choice.”
She clenched her hands on her hard leather bag. She was one force of concentrated malice. “I refuse to argue with you about the priest. Here are these children, about to become public charges, with a bachelor foster father, who has shown some undesirable traits of character by provoking some innocent young boy into attacking him!” She flicked an eye at Johnny’s scar. “We know the details. You’re not sending the children to school. You can’t take care of them. May I ask, Mr. Fletcher, what your salary is?”
Johnny replied bitterly, a sick lump of hatred in his throat: “I believe it is two thousand five hundred dollars a year.”
She laughed disagreeably. “Well, what a lot of money to support seven people on! Even though your house is free, and your fuel and telephone. How do you expect to feed, educate, clothe, and supply medical attention for five children?”
She preened. “Al, you know I’m not the kind just to think. I act. So I appealed to the Children’s Aid Society. And they agree with me that Mr. Fletcher must be subpoenaed to appear in Children’s Court—dear old Judge Bridges, you know, who always has children’s welfare at heart—and made to show why these children should not be placed in individual foster homes where they’ll get proper attention, or, if the court rules that this would make them public charges in fact, they must be deported to the countries of their origin.”
“It’s already in the hands of the Children’s Aid Society, and Judge Bridges knows about all this?” asked the doctor in a silky voice.
Johnny, dumfounded, began to tremble violently. Despair made his eyes flicker. He approached the triumphant woman and said in a low voice, “Are you an animal? You say you know all about these children. Do you know they’ll die if they are separated?” But he could not go on. He was overwhelmed with horror. This was some nightmare; it was not really happening. The room fled from his sight, and he was running, again, across the moonlit field toward the executioner’s house, with the wolf pack before him. He could actually feel the flailing of his legs, the loud and aching thunder of his heart, the sound of his own prayers in his ears. His children—they were threatened with the executioner’s house again, threatened with death, with things worse than death—loneliness, hatred, abandonment. He could not believe it. His eyes looked at Mrs. Guston like the eyes of a dying man.
“You are condemning my children to death,” he said, and the sickness of death was in his own mouth.
“I don’t think so,” said the woman, almost caroling. “After all, we are sending so much money to Europe, and there are places. The children will be happier among their own kind.”
“Gussie, you said that it’s already in the hands of the Children’s Aid Society, and will soon be brought up in Children’s Court?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, Al. We thought we ought to move fast, for the children’s sake.”
Now Dr. McManus stood up. His face was still genial. “Who do you mean by ‘we,’ Gussie?”
She hesitated, moistened the vicious, painted scarlet of her thin lips. “Well, Al, there are people, even in Barryfield—which you hate—who have the interest of children at heart. My league, for instance. And—others.”
“But, it’s out of your hands now, Gussie?”
“I’m afraid so, Al.” She picked up her bag and gloves, smiling with satisfaction.
“I’m wondering, Gussie,” said the doctor in a gentle voice, “if one of the others isn’t Mac Summerfield. You’re good friends with Mac, aren’t you?” The doctor sighed. “Often wondered why Ben married you. But you did have some cash, didn’t you? Often look at Ben, with his miserable face, and pity him.”
She could not look away from the doctor. For his face was dark with loathing.
“Gussie, you were never interested in people in all your life, except when they could advance you or give you social position. Gussie, you know something? You hate children; you hate everybody. Have you ever tried to find out anything about anybody, except how to do them harm? You’ve known me a long time, Gussie. You never found out, in all that time, anything about me, except that I’m a reactionary, as your kind says. If you’d given me any real interest you’d have known that this is my church, and this is my parson, Johnny Fletcher, here.”
“Your—your church?” she whispered, almost inaudibly.
“Why sure, Gussie. It was my dad’s church too. But you’re not interested in churches, are you? Bet you never went in one since you were baptized. Bet if you ever look at one you just think of the day when you hope they’ll be torn down.”
Johnny, looking at her, remembered the faces of the women who had leaped in the moonlight toward the executioner’s house to do death to children. He had said to them then, “Forgive me.” He closed his eyes. He could not endure looking at this woman. He could not say in his heart, “Forgive her.”
Dr. McManus’s voice could not have been more friendly and amiable. “Gussie, you’ve gone too far this time. Had you just waited, and come here first, without setting the Children’s Aid Society and the Children’s Court after the parson, we could have settled things between us in a nice and friendly way. And so I’m telling you something. If the parson loses the children, that day I call in poor Ben’s notes, all of them. And his banker’s my friend.” He scratched his cheek reflectively. “Poor Ben. Well, let’s see. Judge Bridges’s boy is general manager at the mill. He knows all about lumber. Think I’ll back him with the money I loaned Ben. The judge’ll listen to reason, perhaps. He’s not a bad old coot. And his boy’s the apple of his eye.”
The woman sat up, her face bluish.
“You can’t, you can’t, you don’t dare, you don’t dare! Why, I’ll—I’ll tell Mr. Summerfield. Why, you don’t dare!”
The doctor said in that silky tone, “Gussie, I’m surprised at you. Mac Summerfield? Why, Gussie, when he knows something I am thinking of telling him, he’ll drum you out of town, Gussie. A lying scandal you spread about his daughter, Lorry, who’s the heart of his life. I traced it back to you.”
Johnny put his hand on the doctor’s arm, and said, “The children! The children will hear!”
“I hope so,” said the doctor. “They’ll know, once and for all, that people like this female can’t hurt them in this country.”
Dr. McManus took Mrs. Guston’s lean shoulders in his powerful hands and wrenched her to her feet. He shook her as if she were a wooden doll. “Sue me for striking you, Gussie. I know lots about you. It’ll make a good story. And now, get out!”
Still holding her by the shoulders, he pushed her to the door. Johnny opened it for him. The doctor shoved her outside on the stoop. And there she stood, shaking with impotent rage and fear and menace.
“Go and tell poor old Ben what is going to happen to him, Gussie,” he said. “That is, if you go through with your plan.”
The doctor slammed the door hard. He dusted off his hands. “Well, what’s the matter with you, son? If you’re going to puke, better
run upstairs fast. You’re green.”
“Why,” said Johnny in a trembling voice, “I don’t think that woman’s human. What have I done to her that brought her here, that made her—?”
Dr. McManus grinned. He puffed a little. “Remember your sermon last Sunday, son? It was in the papers. That set her off. You’re dangerous to her, Rollo.”
He waddled to the door of the dining room while Johnny followed. The children were eating in silence. Miss Coogan was reading to them, her kind old face still very pale and strained. She looked at the doctor steadily. “I kept on reading.”
“Good,” said the doctor. He studied the children’s quiet faces. It was evident that they had overheard too much. He put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Nobody’s got anything to worry about,” he said. “Nobody. I’ve got the best lawyers in the state. Remember what your Pa said, kids? We’ve got the law here.”
17
Saturday was a dull, dank day. The fading trees which had scintillated the day before like golden sequins now stood clad in colorless tatters. The mountains loomed through the industrial smoke in faint purple over the city. And the air had the all-pervading stench of a choking foundry, acrid and sickening.
Johnny walked slowly around the edges of the back yard, accompanied by young Lon Harding, who carried a staggering bundle of very young trees, the fragile roots wrapped in wet burlap. The children trailed behind, intent and eager. Even Jean was there, pushed by Mrs. Burnsdale, the wheel chair rocking and wobbling. Nothing could keep him away. He winced with pain, but his pale eyes shone. Little Emilie, much weaker now, held tightly to Kathy’s hand. Pietro leaped about the yard like an impatient but happily capering faun, while Max walked sedately beside the wheel chair and helped Mrs. Burnsdale.
“Jean, being the oldest, has first choice of the trees, and where they should be set,” said Johnny, who carried a big spade. The miserable late-afternoon light cast no shadows; it seemed to Johnny that they all moved in a soundless, smothering world of silence and unreality. At the mention of his name, Jean indicated to the puffing Mrs. Burnsdale and straining Max that they should hurry. They triumphantly brought the wheel chair to the front. “Apples,” said Jean. “Two apples.”
“All right, kid,” said Lon Harding, in his hoarse young voice. “Show me where.” He removed his leather jacket and took the spade from Johnny. Seriously, he began to dig where Jean had excitedly indicated. The burlap was removed from the tender roots, and they were inserted in the ground. Jean leaned forward in his chair and watched the wet earth being thrown into the hole and then tamped around the tree. When the two saplings stood upright, Jean sighed deeply and contentedly.
Max was next. “Pears,” he said, in a religiously solemn voice. He came closer as Lon dug. Max shyly pulled his skullcap out of his pocket, put it on his head, and intoned in Hebrew very softly, “Praise be to God, King of the Universe, who hath sanctified us through His Commandments, and hath ordained us participants in creation in the planting of trees.”
Johnny listened intently, his halting knowledge of the ancient language barely translating for him. “What’s he saying?” asked Lon, wiping away his sweat.
“He’s calling attention to the fact that there is only God, and all things are in God, even these little trees,” said Johnny.
Lon blushed brightly, in embarrassment. “Yeah,” he said, as he took up the spade again. “Guess he’s right. Never thought of that before. Y’know, sir, after all you’ve been telling me, I kind of forgot there were differences—in people and things.”
He leaned on the spade a moment. “If it’s so, what the kid is saying, why don’t we get together? I keep telling the other kids. Know what? They look at me as if I’m nuts or something.” He grinned, straightened up, and flexed his muscles. “The only thing is, I’m stronger than they are. I keep my knife in my pocket, and they know I can get it out faster than they can get out theirs. And so I’m still head of the gang.” He peered at Johnny. “Perhaps it ain’t right, carrying my knife around and watching the kids for dirty work?”
Johnny smiled. “I’ve heard that the old prophets were pretty good with their fists, and some of them carried swords, too. After all, you’ve got to protect yourself. People don’t like weaklings, you know. A prophet, a leader, should be a doughty man, as the English used to say.”
“That’s Chaucer,” said Lon, starting another hole. Johnny was surprised. “Oh, sure, I read Chaucer,” Lon continued nonchalantly. “If you read the footnotes, you kind of get what he’s digging. I write poems, too, sometimes.” He rubbed his hand over his round and bristling head, sheepishly. His lean, tough face colored again. He hitched his tight blue jeans about his waist and tightened the absurd, broad belt with its enormous buckle. He looked about him, scowling, as if confronting lesser punks. He said darkly, to no one in particular, “Just let anyone get ideas! Man!”
He frowned formidably. “The kid with the yellow hair next?”
“I’m a girl,” said Kathy, with rebuke. “And you’re just a boy.”
“Okay, okay!” said Lon throwing out his arms. “I don’t fight with ladies. Just tell me what you want, and this cube will plant ’em.”
Pietro, who was bouncing about eagerly, shouted, “Cube! Cube! That is square! Four corners!” His bright black eyes gleamed in the sulfurous light. “See, I know!”
“That’s right,” said Johnny, hugging his shoulder briefly, but looking at Lon Harding. “Foursquare.” The older boy blushed again, scowled at Kathy. “Well, what do you want?”
“Peaches,” said Kathy, emphasizing her maternal air of authority. “And here is the place.” She indicated with the tip of her new shoe, black patent leather with a strap across her sturdy arch. “Okay, peaches,” said Lon respectfully. She supervised the planting of the tiny trees. When Lon bent down to insert the delicate roots in the hole she wiped his forehead with her own neat handkerchief, as calmly and as abstractedly as a mother. He glanced up at her with his sly, knowing glance. “Right, Mom?” he asked. “You kind of look like a peach yourself,” he added.
As it was now Pietro’s turn he was almost beside himself with excitement. He jumped up and down, grinning, clapping his hands. He suddenly sang, and his brilliant young voice, filled with exultation, startled even Johnny. It was not a song anyone knew; it came from some long-lost memory.
“That kid’s real nervous,” commented Lon, after the final trill fell to earth like shining rain.
“Well, yes, he is nervous,” said Johnny in a low voice. “After all, he’s had some terrible experiences.”
Lon eyed him tolerantly. “That ain’t what I mean, sir. I mean he’s got something with that voice. I got some old records home; one of them’s Martinelli’s.”
Johnny, confronted with the slang of the new generation, laughed. But he made a note in his mind to call Father John Kanty’s attention to Pietro’s voice; such a voice should be in a choir. He thought of his own choir and sighed.
“Cherries!” Pietro finally announced, and bounced wildly. He had tasted cherries in Paris, when Johnny had bought them for him. Lon sank his spade in the rich black soil. “Say,” he said to Pietro, “stop getting in my way. This kid can dance, too,” he remarked to Johnny with admiration. The cherry trees were planted.
Now it was Emilie’s turn. The little girl looked translucent and exhausted. All at once she began that awful, familiar coughing again, her dwindled face turning red. Johnny lifted her into his arms, and she pressed her convulsed features into his neck. Lon listened to the strangled, gasping sounds, and he turned his head aside, looking into the distance.
Johnny said softly, “It’s her heart. And this smog is bad for her.”
“Yeah,” muttered Lon, who knew Emilie’s story. His hard thin lips parted and he drew in a whistling breath. He waited until Emilie could breathe quietly again, and then he studied the child, his eyes narrowed and bitter. He put his hand on the tiny arm, which was encased in a bright-blue sweater Mrs. Burnsdale had made
for her. He could feel the fragile bones trembling under the skin. He said, and his voice was low and loving, “All right, baby. You have the plums.”
Emilie’s cheeks were running with her involuntary tears, but she gave Lon a radiant smile and he turned away quickly. Kathy fastened the buttons of the warm sweater with deft fingers; Max gazed at the child, Jean’s face tightened, and even Pietro was sobered. Emilie leaned from Johnny’s arms to watch the planting of her trees. When it was finished she crowed with delight, and insisted upon kissing Lon, to his immense but touching embarrassment. “Better watch that little skirt when she grows up,” he said to Johnny. But he knew.
There were two trees or shrubs left. Lon looked at them, lying waiting at his feet. Then, without a glance at Johnny, he said in an offhand voice, “The fruit trees won’t be much for several years. The big kids can wait. But I got something for the baby. Lilacs. Real white French lilacs. Planted a couple last year in our back yard, and you oughtta smell them. Man! They’ll come out next spring.”
That piercing pain which was becoming familiar to Johnny ran through his chest again. He pressed Emilie to him. He said to the child, “Emilie has plums, but she has flowers too. Beautiful flowers, just for Emilie.”
No one spoke, not even the jealous Pietro. The little boy’s eyes looked at Emilie and shone with tears. So, thought Johnny, even the children know. They knew out of the torturous wisdom they had acquired in their own agony.
Now they all solemnly contemplated the infant plants. There was not a trunk which even Emilie could not have encompassed with her hand. But small as they were, they stood gallantly in a rising wind, bending and swaying like wands. In a few years, thought Johnny, these heroic little things will be thick, tall, and strong, blossoming in the spring, alive with bees, and heavy with fruit in the fall. They’re like the children. In a way they are the children. He looked at the lilac bushes, and again his heart contracted. They will remember Emilie every spring, he thought, when the flowers are out. He tried to send out a prayer from his anguish, but there was no answer to his silent cry of sorrow.