by Belva Plain
The next day’s traffic was surprising. People had read the “About Town” column, or had heard some talk and were now curious to see for themselves. Many bought, some praised, and a few were disappointed.
“There’s nothing much here,” they complained, “except leftover summer clothes.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Adam told them. “We’re in the midst of repairs in the shop, and so we’re behind schedule.” And he gave them a warm smile. “Please be a little patient with us, will you?”
From the remains of the menswear section he had taken a jacket and a new tie. Wearing these with a clean white shirt, he felt confident; they belonged with what Mrs. R. had called his “upper-class” accent.
Reilly apparently thought so, too, for after paying his compliments, he added, “I suppose if the old lady likes what you’re doing, it’s the end for Archer and me. What use are we in women’s wear? In fancy women’s wear? Twelve years in this place, and now—ta-ta. I guess that’s it.”
“Nine years for me,” said Archer. “Part-time for the last two months. Three kids and a wife.”
All of a sudden, Adam was seeing the unemployed customers in Pa’s store. Then it was that he knew why yesterday Reilly and Archer had made him feel sad.
“She came in the afternoon, right after you had left,” Reilly said on the third day. “We gave her your list. She wants to see you at the house.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Was she pleased? Was she mad?”
“She wouldn’t let anybody know if she was pleased. But she wasn’t exactly mad, either. Or, maybe a little . . . You’d better go right away. She hates to be kept waiting. It’s straight out Fourth Street, number seventeen, with an iron fence around it.”
Vaguely, as he hurried, Adam remembered some quotation about “the die was cast.” Well, his die could go three ways. He might get the promised pay and a simple good-bye, or the pay and a tirade over having spent so much, or perhaps the pay with a compliment.
The house, a fussy Victorian with a wraparound porch of wooden lace, was the largest on the street. A pair of rounded turrets, crenellated like those on medieval castles, rose above the roof; the double doorway frowned like a surly mouth. The place was hideous. Costly and hideous.
Only once before, that time at Mr. Shipper’s, had he been inside what you might call a mansion. This time, though, he was met with gloomy browns and tans; they covered the hall and the rooms beyond it, where in the distance a stained-glass window admitted a dreary purple light.
“You have some good ideas,” Mrs. R. began. “Now about that extension in the rear. When it was damaged in the fire, I collected the insurance, but never used it, just put it in the bank. I’m a very frugal person, and I had lost all my interest in the business. But somehow—I guess it was this article in the paper, a very nice one I must say—I feel my interest coming back. Aaron built the business up from zero, you know, and I believe I owe something to his memory.”
Yes, undoubtedly it was the Chattahoochee Item that had revived the feel of past dignity, of the glory that had built this expensive house, bought the fine automobile and the bulky jewelry.
“I will give you fifteen dollars a week,” she said. “It’s more than I’ve been giving those two I have now. Neither Archer nor Reilly has one idea in his head. Actually, since it’s to be all women’s apparel, I don’t even need them anymore.”
She was moving too fast! Of course, it was her store, but still . . . He avoided looking at the sharp eyes behind the glasses. Were those two graying men to be tossed out because of him?
“Mr. Reilly said your husband liked him, him and Mr. Archer.”
“Maybe he did, but what’s that got to do with now?”
“Maybe he wouldn’t get rid of them, if he were here.”
“Oh, really? This bothers you?”
He nodded. “It does. It really does. I’m sorry.”
Behind her head, there were shelves filled with gewgaws, porcelain cupids, and bead flowers in gaudy pots. Turning away from them in distaste, he rejected them, and the woman, too.
“For a man your age, you’re mighty outspoken, mighty independent, Mr. Arnring.”
“At my age, Mrs. Rothirsch, I can afford to be independent,” he said quietly. “Mr. Reilly and Mr. Archer can’t.”
“Well, I never! I’ve met all kinds in my time, but I’m darned if I’ve ever met anybody like you. I suppose you think that because you’re good-looking, young, and smart, you can get away with anything. The world’s your oyster, isn’t it?”
The world can be very cruel, Pa said that night. The wind was rattling the windows, and it was cold.
He stood up. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I would have liked to stay. But I can’t, if they have to go.”
“No. No, wait!” Mrs. R. cried as Adam moved toward the door. She stretched out her arm. “You win. All right. There’s no sense in my getting myself all upset. You win. Satisfied? I want your brains and your energy. I’ll admit it, even though you are making me angry. So we might as well shake hands.”
The rings cut into Adam’s hand, but he smiled.
“We’ll meet at the store tomorrow morning, Mr. Arnring. Ten o’clock sharp. I have to tell you I have no patience with people who are not on time.”
“I’m like that, too, Mrs. R.”
“Incidentally,” she added as he opened the door, “I like the awnings and the flowers.”
He had to stifle an impulse to whistle. If he had been wearing a hat, he would have tossed it up into the air. The old girl’s bark was worse than her bite! Who would have imagined it? But of course, it was the good publicity that had most appealed to her. He ought to thank Jeff Horace, and he certainly would do so.
These were his thoughts as he leaped down the porch steps and almost stumbled over Emma, who was sitting on the last one. Somewhat flustered, he stepped back and apologized.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’m not supposed to be sitting here on the steps, anyway. But it’s nice to read here and watch the traffic, when there is any.”
Aside from a horse and wagon that were disappearing around the corner, there was at the moment no traffic.
“Lonesome?” he asked.
He was not surprised when she nodded. “It’s a very quiet house, and I’m used to all the people in my boarding school.”
“So you’re in a hurry to get back to school?”
“Yes, but I would never let my aunt see it. It would hurt her feelings too much. You know how it is with old people.”
In the blue gingham dress, with the high-buttoned shoes crossed at the ankles and barely visible below the skirt, she looked demure. Yet he had already seen she was not demure.
One of her hands, with fingers curled, lay open on her lap. The nails were oval, glossy and delicate as the tiny shells that one sometimes found on the beach. The hand made him think of a painting or a sculpture, perhaps something he had seen in a book, or possibly something he only imagined.
“So you are going to stay,” she said.
“For a while, anyway. How did you guess?”
“I didn’t have to guess. It was obvious. The fresh paint, the flowers, and the newspaper. You did a lot in two days.”
Standing above her as he leaned against the stone wall, he read one of the titles on her books: The Oregon Trail.
He wanted to stay and talk, so he fastened on the books, a harmless enough subject.
“The Oregon Trail. You’re a true westerner.”
“One who spends almost all of her life in the East.”
“Do you have to?”
“Yes. It’s planned for me. In the summer I go to a music school and study piano. I’m supposed to spend the whole of next year in France studying more piano. Not that I mind. Who would mind a year in France? But my aunt thinks I’m some kind of genius, you see, and I’m not, not at all. I simply love to play the piano, and I’m pretty good at it, too, but so are plenty of ot
her people. I’ll be sorry for her when she finds out the truth.” Emma laughed. “Sorry for myself, too.”
“But why not tell her now and get it over with?”
“After what you saw the other day at the store, you can ask me that?”
Adam was silent. Don’t interfere, he warned himself. Mind your own business. Don’t say a word that might be quoted. Still, he was puzzled. The girl certainly didn’t appear to be mistreated. And yet you never knew. Who was she, and why was she living with “Auntie”?
He was about to walk on, when from the porch above them, a sharp voice rang out. “What in the world are you doing, Emma? Aren’t you supposed to finish those books during this vacation?”
“I’m almost half through the last one, Auntie, so don’t worry.”
“But then you have math to do.” Mrs. R., as she descended three steps, was on a level with Adam. “You have to watch these adolescents every minute. They think they know everything. All about life, all about the world. They don’t need their aunt to watch out for them anymore. Right, little Emma?”
“No, wrong.”
“Well, I’ll be on my way,” Adam said quickly. “Tomorrow morning at the store, Mrs. R., and thank you for everything.”
The message was clear: This girl is out of bounds to you, Mr. Arnring. She needn’t have bothered. Girls—even girls with vivid green eyes—were the last subject on his mind right now.
His steps as he went down the street were jaunty. He couldn’t wait to write home with the news. Pa would warn him as always not to take the job for granted. Never count chickens before they’re hatched, he would say.
At the corner he turned and looked back. There, wrapped in sunlight, the girl was still sitting on the step. He had not really seen her hair until now. Probably that was because it had been pulled away from her face and caught in an almost childish bow at the back of her head. Why, it’s russet, he thought. It’s something you don’t often see. Green eyes, and this extraordinary hair! Perhaps bronze is a more accurate word? No, bronze has more brown in it. Russet is better. Russet.
Dear Pa and Family,
I’ve waited a couple of weeks to write because I want to make sure of the facts. So here they are. You will never believe what has happened. I’ve got a steady job. Fifteen dollars a week. This very eccentric, cranky old widow owns a real clothing store that was almost going broke. I can’t explain what got into me because I surely never knew or cared anything about ladies’ dresses, but all of a sudden it looked to me like a gold mine. All it needed was a pick and shovel. So I made a few improvements; Mrs. R. (I’ll call her that because I can scarcely spell her name) liked the improvements, and so here I am. I’ll wait another month or two. If she still wants to keep me, I’ll rent two rooms for myself downtown near the store. I figure that I’ll be able to save enough in the next few years to help you send Jonathan to college. More later. Love to you all.
Dear Pa,
This letter is for you alone. Did you know that Leo has already written to me? He is very bitter about his life, especially about helping you in the store. I know it is only for a few hours a week because you want him to study and improve his marks. Still, I am trying to think what else you and all of us could possibly do for him, but I haven’t come up with any ideas. Nobody can make him popular and happy any more than they can turn him into a Jonathan. Now he seems to be thinking that I, too, am having some kind of royal success, which is very much exaggerated. I have merely been lucky enough to find something that I like enough to stick with. So please don’t talk about me to Leo. He’s so—shall I say “sensitive”? I can’t seem to think of the right word. But comparisons are very hard for him to take right now. Don’t worry, because he’ll straighten out when he’s older.
I’ve sent him a few dollars so he can buy something for himself.
Love,
Adam
Chapter 4
Reilly was counting on his fingers. “Who needs a calendar? Ever since Adam took over two years ago, I can tell the month by his decorations. Pumpkins in October, then turkeys, Christmas holly, Lincoln’s Birthday, Washington’s portrait in a white wig, Valentine hearts, Easter bunnies, Flag Day, and the Fourth of July.”
“You forgot Halloween,” Archer said.
“I did not. What the deuce do you think we need pumpkins for?”
It was almost evening, the end of a long day, and having locked the doors, the three men were standing on the sidewalk in front of the windows. There were the handsome mannequins in quadruple silk flounces and cartwheel hats with roses and poppies on their brims, which had been bringing so many people into the store. Adam was thinking that it was time to be ordering for next spring. You had to be two seasons, close to three seasons, ahead.
“I heard,” Archer reported, “that we’ve been taking a load of customers away from Cace Clothiers. They’re losing a lot of business because of us.”
“Well, why not? People can get the same stuff here without making the trip.”
“Mrs. R. is sure raking it in,” Reilly said, making a face.
“It’s her store, her investment,” Adam said. “Let’s not begrudge her.”
“Listen to him! He’s a strange kid, isn’t he?” Reilly said to Archer. “Even Mrs. R. is afraid of our Adam. She calls us ‘Mr. Reilly’ and ‘Mr. Archer’ because he told her to.”
“You have to set a tone,” Adam said. “With all these customers from the hill coming in, you have to act accordingly. It’s what they expect.”
No one answered. They were decent men, who could quite understandably resent him. So much younger than they, he had suddenly appeared on the scene and was now, though without any title, taking charge. It was he who ordered the merchandise and reported once a month to the accountant, Theo Brown, who in turn reported to Mrs. R. And all this had come about almost from that first day when he had walked in to buy a shirt.
You have a good head for business, Mr. Shipper had told him.
Yes, he reflected, as the three men walked down the street. He, who had never given a second’s thought to fashion, could just as easily have taught himself all there was to know about mules and jacks in car lots.
Sometimes he felt that he must guard against seeming too sure of himself, and especially when he was with Archer and Reilly. Was he perhaps a trifle arrogant?
But they didn’t have his determination, nor did they look ahead beyond the week’s wages and weekly expenses with a bit left over. Maybe they were more human than he? He hoped not.
“Mrs. R. came in yesterday with Emma,” Reilly said. “She makes sure to come when she knows you’ll be at Mr. Brown’s, Adam,” he added with his teasing grin.
“Jim, don’t be ridiculous. That kid?”
“The kid’s eighteen.”
Reilly and Archer, the jesters, really could be ridiculous when they got started. All Adam needed to ruin his situation was to get friendly with that girl.
“I heard the old lady’s taking her to England next summer, or maybe the one after that. With Emma’s looks and her nice pot of money, they’ll probably come back with a banker or a duke or somebody.”
“Emma should get ahold of you,” said Archer. “You’re a catch, Adam.”
Everybody, including Adam, whose father had never told jokes, was used to these two men. Nevertheless, this kind of talk about Emma Rothirsch bothered him. He hardly ever saw her except at a distance when she came into the store accompanied by “Auntie.” Why, he might not even recognize her on the street were he to see her there! She sits in sunlight with a book on her lap and her russet hair flowing down her back. That’s all I see when I hear her name.
They had almost reached the place where Adam turned off to his street, and still the fun persisted.
“Get yourself a steady girl, Adam,” Reilly said. “Quit running around the way you do. You’ve got half the girls in this town hoping.”
“How do you know I haven’t got a steady girl?”
“Because if you had,
you would say something about her once in a while.”
In the same tone, since they expected it, Adam joked back. “My problem is, I’m waiting till I can afford one of those fine rigs and a fine mare of my own, so I can take her out in style on a Sunday afternoon.”
“I’ve a much better idea. Save your money and wait five years,” Reilly said. “Then you’ll be driving around here in an automobile, one of those Model T’s that Ford’s putting out.”
“What makes you so sure I’ll even be around here five years from now?”
Both men waved the question away. “You will be. You’ll probably own the place.”
Chapter 5
The mailbox was on the front porch, and it was Adam’s first stop when he returned from work at the end of the day. Usually it was empty, but now and then there would be a letter from Jonathan or Pa. If, rarely, there was one from Leo, he could be sure it contained the usual litany of complaints.
Two flights of stairs led to his pleasant apartment on the top floor of a pleasant house owned by a pair of retired schoolteachers. Even now in his third year here, he never entered this home of his without looking around and enjoying the change from his first two rooms in Chattahoochee. There was space here, space for books and for that marvel, the phonograph, which, when he wound it, brought him the voice of Caruso singing an aria from Pagliacci. This was the first place he had ever slept in that was not an attic where if he wasn’t careful, he could bump his head against the sloping ceiling.
He went to the window. Below lay a great green yard that was filled with the family’s hobbies: bird feeders and flowering shrubs. Everything is so large in the West, he thought, amazed as if he were seeing all of this for the first time.
When he had had enough of the scene, he opened the mail; there was only one letter, and it was in his father’s familiar, foreign script.
Dear Adam,
I was so proud of the pictures, the ads and the newspaper clippings you finally sent to me. I knew you did not want to send them, and I guessed why. You are always afraid there will be some trouble with Leo. But I tell you that Leo is the way he is, and I am not going to hide things from him to keep him quiet, the way Rachel and Jonathan do. So I am proud they made you manager of a beautiful store. My own son, a manager! It was smart to hire a window dresser. Rachel loved the one with the mother in her beautiful dress with the baby carriage, and the bigger sister walking next to her with matching dress. You are very, very clever, and I feel stupid. Thank you for sending the money. I feel bad and more stupid for taking it. I am only glad for Jonathan’s sake. He is sixteen, but his head is sixty. With your help, he will do big things, I think. He acts like a doctor. He knows how to behave with Leo. Leo is never angry with him. Sometimes my heart beats so fast when Leo is in the store, I wish he would get a different job, but when he goes to ask for one, the people do not hire him, they look at him and do not like him, I think, and then I am sorry for him, but what can I do? Anyway, we miss you. Keep up the good work. Love from us all,
