One Basket

by Edna Ferber

  Upstairs, lying fully dressed on her hard little bed, she stared up into the darkness, thinking, her hands limp at her sides. Oh, well, what’s the diff? You had to make the best of it. Everybody makin’ a fuss about the soldiers—feeding ‘em, and asking ‘em to their houses, and sending ‘em things, and giving dances and picnics and parties so they wouldn’t be lonesome. Chuck had told her all about it. The other boys told the same. They could just pick and choose their good times. Tessie’s mind groped about, sensing a certain injustice. How about the girls? She didn’t put it thus squarely. Hers was not a logical mind. Easy enough to paw over the menfolks and get silly over brass buttons and a uniform. She put it that way. She thought of the refrain of a popular song: “What Are You Going to Do to Help the Boys?” Tessie, smiling a crooked little smile up there in the darkness, parodied the words deftly: “What’re you going to do to help the girls?” she demanded. “What’re you going to do–-” She rolled over on one side and buried her head in her arms.

  There was news again next morning at the watch factory. Tessie of the old days had never needed to depend on the other girls for the latest bit of gossip. Her alert eye and quick ear had always caught it first. But of late she had led a cloistered existence, indifferent to the world about her. The Chippewa Courier went into the newpaper pile behind the kitchen door without a glance from Tessie’s incurious eye.

  She was late this morning. As she sat down at the bench and fitted her glass in her eye, the chatter of the others, pitched in the high key of unusual excitement, penetrated even her listlessness.

  “And they say she never screeched or fainted or anything. She stood there, kind of quiet, looking straight ahead, and then all of a sudden she ran to her pa–-“

  “I feel sorry for her. She never did anything to me. She–-“

  Tessie spoke, her voice penetrating the staccato fragments all about her and gathering them into a whole. “Say, who’s the heroine of this picture? I come in in the middle of the film, I guess.”

  They turned on her with the unlovely eagerness of those who have ugly news to tell. They all spoke at once, in short sentences, their voices high with the note of hysteria.

  “Angie Hatton’s beau was killed–-“

  “They say his airyoplane fell ten thousand feet–-“

  “The news come only last evening about eight–-“

  “She won’t see nobody but her pa–-“

  Eight! At eight Tessie had been standing outside Hatton’s house, envying Angie and hating her. So that explained the people, and the automobiles, and the excitement. Tessie was not receiving the news with the dramatic reaction which its purveyors felt it deserved. Tessie, turning from one to the other quietly, had said nothing. She was pitying Angie. Oh, the luxury of it! Nap Ballou, coming in swiftly to still the unwonted commotion in work hours, found Tessie the only one quietly occupied in that chatter-filled room. She was smiling as she worked. Nap Ballou, bending over her on some pretense that deceived no one, spoke low-voiced in her ear. But she veiled her eyes insolently and did not glance up. She hummed contentedly all the morning at her tedious work.

  She had promised Nap Ballou to go picknicking with him Sunday. Down the river, boating, with supper on shore. The small, still voice within her had said, “Don’t go! Don’t go!” But the harsh, high-pitched, reckless overtone said, “Go on! Have a good time. Take all you can get.”

  She would have to lie at home and she did it. Some fabrication about the girls at the watchworks did the trick. Fried chicken, chocolate cake. She packed them deftly and daintily. High-heeled shoes, flimsy blouse, rustling skirt. Nap Ballou was waiting for her over in the city park. She saw him before he espied her. He was leaning against a tree, idly, staring straight ahead with queer, lackluster eyes. Silhouetted there against the tender green of the pretty square, he looked very old, somehow, and different— much older than he looked in his shop clothes, issuing orders. Tessie noticed that he sagged where he should have stuck out, and protruded where he should have been flat. There flashed across her mind a vividly clear picture of Chuck as she had last seen him—brown, fit, high of chest, flat of stomach, slim of flank.

  Ballou saw her. He straightened and came toward her swiftly. “Somebody looks mighty sweet this afternoon.”

  Tessie plumped the heavy lunch box into his arms. “When you get a line you like you stick to it, don’t you?”

  Down at the boathouse even Tessie, who had confessed ignorance of boats and oars, knew that Ballou was fumbling clumsily. He stooped to adjust the oars to the oarlocks. His hat was off. His hair looked very gray in the cruel spring sunshine. He straightened and smiled up at her.

  “Ready in a minute, sweetheart,” he said. He took off his collar and turned in the neckband of his shirt. His skin was very white. Tessie felt a little shudder of disgust sweep over her, so that she stumbled a little as she stepped into the boat.

  The river was very lovely. Tessie trailed her fingers in the water and told herself that she was having a grand time. She told Nap the same when he asked her.

  “Having a good time, little beauty?” he said. He was puffing a little with the unwonted exercise.

  Tessie tried some of her old-time pertness of speech. “Oh, good enough, considering the company.”

  He laughed admiringly at that and said she was a sketch.

  When the early evening came on they made a clumsy landing and had supper. This time Nap fed her the tidbits, though she protested.

  “White meat for you,” he said, “with your skin like milk.”

  “You must of read that in a book,” scoffed Tessie. She glanced around her at the deepening shadows. “We haven’t got much time.

  It gets dark so early.”

  “No hurry,” Nap assured her. He went on eating in a leisurely, finicking sort of way, though he consumed very little food, actually.

  “You’re not eating much,” Tessie said once, halfheartedly. She decided that she wasn’t having such a very grand time, after all, and that she hated his teeth, which were very bad. Now, Chuck’s strong, white, double row–-

  “Well,” she said, “let’s be going.”

  “No hurry,” again.

  Tessie looked up at that with the instinctive fear of her kind. “What d’you mean, no hurry! ‘Spect to stay here till dark?” She laughed at her own joke.

  “Yes.”

  She got up then, the blood in her face. “Well, I don’t.”

  He rose, too. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t, that’s why.” She stooped and began picking up the remnants of the lunch, placing spoons and glass bottles swiftly and thriftily into the lunch box. Nap stepped around behind her.

  “Let me help,” he said. And then his arm was about her and his face was close to hers, and Tessie did not like it. He kissed her after a little wordless struggle. And then she knew. She had been kissed before. But not like this. Not like this! She struck at him furiously. Across her mind flashed the memory of a girl who had worked in the finishing room. A nice girl, too. But that hadn’t helped her. Nap Ballou was laughing a little as he clasped her.

  At that she heard herself saying: “I’ll get Chuck Mory after you—you drunken bum, you! He’ll lick you black and blue. He’ll–-“

  The face, with the ugly, broken brown teeth, was coming close again. With all the young strength that was in her she freed one hand and clawed at that face from eyes to chin. A howl of pain rewarded her. His hold loosened. Like a flash she was off. She ran. It seemed to her that her feet did not touch the earth. Over brush, through bushes, crashing against trees, on and on. She heard him following her, but the broken-down engine that was his heart refused to do the work. She ran on, though her fear was as great as before. Fear of what might have happened—to her, Tessie Golden, that nobody could even talk fresh to. She gave a sob of fury and fatigue. She was stumbling now. It was growing dark. She ran on again, in fear of the overtaking darkness. It was easier now. Not so many trees and bushes. She came to a
fence, climbed over it, lurched as she landed, leaned against it weakly for support, one hand on her aching heart. Before her was the Hatton summer cottage, dimly outlined in the twilight among the trees.

  A warm, flickering light danced in the window. Tessie stood a moment, breathing painfully, sobbingly. Then, with an instinctive gesture, she patted her hair, tidied her blouse, and walked uncertainly toward the house, up the steps to the door. She stood there a moment, swaying slightly. Somebody’d be there.

  The light. The woman who cooked for them or the man who took care of the place. Somebody’d–-

  She knocked at the door feebly. She’d tell ‘em she had lost her way and got scared when it began to get dark. She knocked again, louder now. Footsteps. She braced herself and even arranged a crooked smile. The door opened wide. Old Man Hatton!

  She looked up at him, terror and relief in her face. He peered over his glasses at her. “Who is it?” Tessie had not known, somehow, that his face was so kindly.

  Tessie’s carefully planned story crumbled into nothingness. “It’s me!” she whimpered. “It’s me!”

  He reached out and put a hand on her arm and drew her inside.

  “Angie! Angie! Here’s a poor little kid–-“

  Tessie clutched frantically at the last crumbs of her pride. She tried to straighten, to smile with her old bravado. What was that story she had planned to tell?

  “Who is it, Dad? Who–-?” Angie Hatton came into the hallway. She stared at Tessie. Then: “Why, my dear!” she said. “My dear! Come in here.”

  Angie Hatton! Tessie began to cry weakly, her face buried in Angie Hatton’s expensive shoulder. Tessie remembered later that she had felt no surprise at the act.

  “There, there!” Angie Hatton was saying. “Just poke up the fire, Dad. And get something from the dining room. Oh, I don’t know. To drink, you know. Something–-“

  Then Old Man Hatton stood over her, holding a small glass to her lips. Tessie drank it obediently, made a wry little face, coughed, wiped her eyes, and sat up. She looked from one to the other, like a trapped little animal. She put a hand to her tousled head.

  “That’s all right,” Angie Hatton assured her. “You can fix it after a while.”

  There they were, the three of them: Old Man Hatton with his back to the fire, looking benignly down upon her; Angie seated, with some knitting in her hands, as if entertaining bedraggled, tear-stained young ladies at dusk were an everyday occurrence; Tessie, twisting her handkerchief in a torment of embarrassment. But they asked no questions, these two. They evinced no curiosity about this disheveled creature who had flung herself in upon their decent solitude.

  Tessie stared at the fire. She looked up at Old Man Hatton’s face and opened her lips. She looked down and shut them again. Then she flashed a quick look at Angie, to see if she could detect there some suspicion, some disdain. None. Angie Hatton looked—well, Tessie put it to herself, thus: “She looks like she’d cried till she couldn’t cry no more—only inside.”

  And then, surprisingly, Tessie began to talk. “I wouldn’t never have gone with this fella, only Chuck, he was gone. All the boys’re gone. It’s fierce. You get scared, sitting home, waiting, and they’re in France and everywhere, learning French and everything, and meeting grand people and having a fuss made over ‘em. So I got mad and said I didn’t care, I wasn’t going to squat home all my life, waiting–-“

  Angie Hatton had stopped knitting now. Old Man Hatton was looking down at her very kindly. And so Tessie went on. The pent-up emotions and thoughts of these past months were finding an outlet at last. These things which she had never been able to discuss with her mother she now was laying bare to Angie Hatton and Old Man Hatton! They asked no questions. They seemed to understand. Once Old Man Hatton interrupted with: “So that’s the kind of fellow they’ve got as escapement-room foreman, eh?”

  Tessie, whose mind was working very clearly now, put out a quick hand. “Say, it wasn’t his fault. He’s a bum, all right, but I knew it, didn’t I? It was me. I didn’t care. Seemed to me it didn’t make no difference who I went with, but it does.” She looked down at her hands clasped so tightly in her lap.

  “Yes, it makes a whole lot of difference,” Angie agreed, and looked up at her father.

  At that Tessie blurted her last desperate problem: “He’s learning all kind of new things. Me, I ain’t learning anything. When Chuck comes home he’ll just think I’m dumb, that’s all. He–-“

  “What kind of thing would you like to learn, Tessie, so that when Chuck comes home–-“

  Tessie looked up then, her wide mouth quivering with eagerness. “I’d like to learn to swim—and row a boat—and play tennis—like the rich girls— like the girls that’s making such a fuss over the soldiers.”

  Angie Hatton was not laughing. So, after a moment’s hesitation, Tessie brought out the worst of it. “And French. I’d like to learn to talk French.”

  Old Man Hatton had been surveying his shoes, his mouth grim. He looked at Angie now and smiled a little. “Well, Angie, it looks as if you’d found your job right here at home, doesn’t it? This young lady’s just one of hundreds, I suppose. Thousands. You can have the whole house for them, if you want it, Angie, and the grounds, and all the money you need. I guess we’ve kind of overlooked the girls. Hm, Angie? What d’you say?”

  But Tessie was not listening. She had scarcely heard. Her face was white with earnestness.

  “Can you speak French?”

  “Yes,” Angie answered.

  “Well,” said Tessie, and gulped once, “well, how do you say in French: `Give me a piece of bread’? That’s what I want to learn first.”

  Angie Hatton said it correctly.

  “That’s it! Wait a minute! Say it again, will you?”

  Angie said it again, Tessie wet her lips. Her cheeks were smeared with tears and dirt. Her hair was wild and her blouse awry. “DONNAY-MA-UN-MORSO-DOO-PANG,” she articulated painfully. And in that moment, as she put her hand in that of Chuck Mory, across the ocean, her face was very beautiful with contentment.

  Long Distance [1919]

  Chet Ball was painting a wooden chicken yellow. The wooden chicken was mounted on a six-by-twelve board. The board was mounted on four tiny wheels. The whole would eventually be pulled on a string guided by the plump, moist hand of some blissful five-year-old.

  You got the incongruity of it the instant your eye fell upon Chet Ball. Chet’s shoulders alone would have loomed large in contrast with any wooden toy ever devised, including the Trojan horse. Everything about him, from the big, blunt-fingered hands that held the ridiculous chick to the great muscular pillar of his neck, was in direct opposition to his task, his surroundings, and his attitude.

  Chet’s proper milieu was Chicago, Illinois (the West Side); his job that of lineman for the Gas, Light & Power Company; his normal working position astride the top of a telegraph pole, supported in his perilous perch by a lineman’s leather belt and the kindly fates, both of which are likely to trick you in an emergency.

  Yet now he lolled back among his pillows, dabbing complacently at the absurd yellow toy. A description of his surroundings would sound like pages 3 to 17 of a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward. The place was all greensward, and terraces, and sundials, and beeches, and even those rhododendrons without which no English novel or country estate is complete. The presence of Chet Ball among his pillows and some hundreds similarly disposed revealed to you at once the fact that this particular English estate was now transformed into Reconstruction Hospital No. 9.

  The painting of the chicken quite finished (including two beady black paint eyes), Chet was momentarily at a loss. Miss Kate had not told him to stop painting when the chicken was completed. Miss Kate was at the other end of the sunny garden walk, bending over a wheel chair. So Chet went on painting, placidly. One by one, with meticulous nicety, he painted all his fingernails a bright and cheery yellow. Then he did the whole of his left thumb and was starting on the second joint of t
he index finger when Miss Kate came up behind him and took the brush gently from his strong hands.

  “You shouldn’t have painted your fingers,” she said.

  Chet surveyed them with pride. “They look swell.”

  Miss Kate did not argue the point. She put the freshly painted wooden chicken on the table to dry in the sun. Her eyes fell upon a letter bearing an American postmark and addressed to Sergeant Chester Ball, with a lot of cryptic figures and letters strung out after it, such as A.E.F. and Co. 11.

  “Here’s a letter for you!” She infused a lot of Glad into her voice. But Chet only cast a languid eye upon it and said, “Yeh?”

  “I’ll read it to you, shall I? It’s a nice fat one.”

  Chet sat back, indifferent, negatively acquiescent. And Miss Kate began to read in her clear young voice, there in the sunshine and scent of the centuries-old English garden.

  It marked an epoch in Chet’s life—that letter. It reached out across the Atlantic Ocean from the Chester Ball of his Chicago days, before he had even heard of English gardens.

  Your true lineman has a daredevil way with the women, as have all men whose calling is a hazardous one. Chet was a crack workman. He could shinny up a pole, strap his emergency belt, open his tool kit, wield his pliers with expert deftness, and climb down again in record time. It was his pleasure—and seemingly the pleasure and privilege of all lineman’s gangs the world over—to whistle blithely and to call impudently to any passing petticoat that caught his fancy.

  Perched three feet from the top of the high pole he would cling protected, seemingly, by some force working in direct defiance of the law of gravity. And now and then, by way of brightening the tedium of their job, he and his gang would call to a girl passing in the street below, “Hoo-hoo! Hello, sweetheart!”

  There was nothing vicious in it. Chet would have come to the aid of beauty in distress as quickly as Don Quixote. Any man with a blue shirt as clean and a shave as smooth and a haircut as round as Chet Ball’s has no meanness in him. A certain daredeviltry went hand in hand with his work—a calling in which a careless load dispatcher, a cut wire, or a faulty strap may mean instant death. Usually the girls laughed and called back to them or went on more quickly, the color in their cheeks a little higher.