High Time

by Mary Lasswell

  Two fellows asked if it was all right to loosen their belts, and one asked permission to run around the house before tackling dessert.

  The dessert really caused them to blow a fuse.

  ‘What is it?’ they asked in hushed tones after the first bite.

  ‘Molasses pie! Full o’ iron!’ Mrs. Rasmussen replied, as she poured large cups of coffee, strong enough to raise up and flag a train.

  The molasses and the extravagant number of eggs she had put into the pie should add some red corpuscles to their blood. The pie had lived up to her fondest hopes; it was a dark, glossy custard, topped with a crunchy crust of pecans.

  When the last crumb had disappeared, a tall red-head rose and asked: ‘Mrs. Rasmussen, would you mind marryin’ me, ma’am?’

  The cook beamed and came right back at him: ‘You can take your place in the line with the rest of ’em!’ she quipped. ‘Too bad you wasn’t hungry!’

  ‘Stinker!’ another man shouted, ‘tryin’ to take her outa circulation, huh? What’s to become of the rest of us?’

  All in all, the dinner was a huge success. The boys vowed that one meal like that was worth ten dollars, but Mrs. Rasmussen said that would be a mite high.

  ‘The biggest part o’ your payin’ is gonna be donatin’ blood to the bank! First one that welches—out on his sitter he goes! Seems like you good-lookin’ fellers had oughta be in the army, anyway!’ Mrs. Feeley said.

  Oscar was too old, Jasper and one other had occupational deferment, and the three others were 4-F.

  ‘Well, you sure better eat plenty an’ produce blood for them that is fightin’! Damned if you Four-F Commandos hadn’t oughta be good for somethin’!’

  The young men showed no inclination to leave. They lolled around the Ark in the big chairs; some produced newspapers, and some just sat and smoked.

  Oscar came back to where the ladies and Old Timer were eating.

  ‘Mrs. Feeley,’ he said, ‘I still think you oughta have a bar of your own!’

  ‘An’ I already told you it ain’t worth the trouble! Besides, you can’t buy none o’ them licenses no more—you gotta buy a gin-mill that’s already runnin’—an’ where’d we get the money, even if we wanted one? Or if we owned a little store, we could get a beer to be drunk on the premises permit, but we ain’t got no store! Too much trouble!’

  After paying the week’s board bill in advance, the men finally made up their minds to go home. They were profuse in their thanks.

  ‘Sure pleasant here,’ they said. True enough, most of them were thousands of miles from their own homes and a furnished room night after night was not very heartwarming.

  ‘And when you’ve seen one movie, you’ve seen ’em all!’ one man said.

  ‘An’ you can’t get tight every night an’ be on the job! They won’t let you sit in the lounges unless you order somethin’,’ the red-head remarked.

  Mrs. Feeley wondered how they would ever get rid of them at all if Miss Tinkham started playing and conducting one of their song-fests around the piano.

  ‘Gee, we’ll sure be lookin’ forward to tomorrow!’ Jasper said as they left.

  Mrs. Rasmussen was counting the money: ‘You know what? If we ain’t careful, we’ll be makin’ enough money to get caught by the income tax!’

  Tuesday afternoon Johnny and his bride showed up. Pierpont and Myrna were glad to see Darleen. She had a toy for each of them and Johnny gave them each a dollar bill. Johnny was to be in port only a week, and wanted to take Darleen on a honeymoon if someone would look after the children. Miss Tinkham’s tender heart could not bear the thought of the newly-weds being cheated out of their honeymoon, so she offered her services as foster-mother, even if she had to muzzle Myrna. Old Timer could be relied on to invent games that were certainly different, if not always instructive.

  ‘This trip’s a short one,’ Johnny told Mrs. Feeley. ‘With luck I’ll be back in four weeks. An’ then I’m gonna buy Darleen that bungalow across the street—the Jap that owns it will be glad to sell. I want she should have her own home.’

  ‘Gawdlemighty, boy! This ain’t no time to buy!’ she warned. ‘Everythin’s sky-high!’

  ‘I know that!’ Johnny said, ‘but right now I am makin’ more money than I ever done before! Did you stop to think about that, old lady?’

  Mrs. Feeley grinned and said she guessed that was so. Mrs. Rasmussen said she was sure glad Darleen had sat down in a butter-tub.

  ‘And when Daphne has recuperated from the hospital,’ Darleen added, ‘she can get a job and I’ll keep the house and kids. I’ll be right across the street from you and can see you every day just the same! With you helping me, Johnny can find a nice house to come home to!’

  The ladies beamed. Respectably married, a prospective home-owner, and a friend to those in need: little old Darleen had certainly come a long way toward being a solid citizen in a very short time.

  ‘The real-estate man wanted to sell us somethin’ in Loma Portal, but Darleen wouldn’t hear of movin’ away from you ladies,’ Johnny said. ‘You sure done right by my wife an’ you never know when the day will come when she can do a little somethin’ for you in return.’

  ‘What a lovely sentiment!’ Miss Tinkham cried. ‘And that would be a sweet, companionable thing to do, taking Daphne and the children for company during Johnny’s absence!’

  ‘I’ll give you starts o’ flowers!’ Mrs. Feeley said.

  ‘An’ I can finish your cookin’ lessons!’ Mrs. Rasmussen smiled.

  ‘I shall lend you some of my best magazines on home decoration,’ Miss Tinkham offered.

  ‘You’ll be careful at sea, won’t you, Johnny?’ Mrs. Feeley reminded.

  ‘Oh, you must!’ Miss Tinkham urged. ‘You have so much to live for now!’

  ‘Don’t never worry about that!’ Johnny promised, ‘’specially not now! If any son-of-a-bitch gets off that ship, it’s gonna be me!’

  Johnny insisted on opening the case of beer he had bought for the Noah’s Arkies. They didn’t know how he ever got it, but they guessed the cut of his jib discouraged argument, even from tavern-keepers. The couple was pleased with the wedding-bell and the prospective dinner-party.

  Nothing would do the boarders but they must all go out for a night on the town in honor of the great occasion. They went home before dinner to change into better clothes. On the way they must have passed the hat, for they returned in time for dinner, bearing an imposing electric clock for Darleen and Johnny.

  ‘After all,’ Oscar said, ‘if it hadn’t been for knowin’ Darleen, we would never have met these ladies—an’ all this fine grub!’

  Mrs. Rasmussen had rather blown her top on the wedding-dinner. The rich soup had flocks of little marrow-balls floating in it. By means best known to herself, Mrs. Rasmussen had wangled sixteen pounds of Porterhouse steak from her butcher. She used a whole basket of fresh mushrooms on top of the steak. Platters of French-fried onions accompanied the steak—each onion ring the size of a doughnut! She served some broccoli with Hollandaise sauce, and baked potatoes with pimento cheese inside. The salad was made of grapefruit and avocados. The dessert was a tipsy-cake of great beauty. Layers and layers of sponge-cake were soaked in brandy and put together with alternate fillings of lemon-custard and wild-cherry preserves. The entire structure was frosted over with strictly illegal whipped cream and dusted with toasted almonds. The guests gorged and sighed. Mrs. Rasmussen basked in their adulation. Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham looked supercilious: they had known all the time what kind of a cook Mrs. Rasmussen was.

  All hands turned to and did the dishes in record time. The ladies went to get dressed for the binge. They had not worn their best dresses since Katy’s wedding. As they were about to leave the Ark, Darleen shyly brought out a cardboard box. It held a cerise velvet evening jacket for Mrs. Rasmussen, a Spanish shawl for Mrs. Feeley, and the coveted skunk chubby for Miss Tinkham.

  ‘We ain’t had such swell presents since Danny got married!’ Mrs. F
eeley said, speaking for all of them. She wrapped her shawl wickedly around her and grabbed a handful of fringe between her toothless gums, jumped high into the air, and clicked both heels together, to the noisy delight of the spectators.

  ‘What-a-gal Feeley!’ Oscar shouted.

  Mrs. Rasmussen pulled her cerise wrap tightly around her hips in the most approved model-fashion and sauntered regally across the floor.

  ‘Yippee! The Queen of the Molasses Pies!’ the redhead yelled.

  Miss Tinkham, always a mistress of timing, slithered out between the curtains of her room clad in her lovely clinging white silk-jersey dress, vintage 1926. It was a perfect foil for the skunk jacket. The coup de grâce was a pair of violently purple velvet gloves that came ’ way above her elbows. Her hair was done in a modish upsweep, and she wore a half-hat consisting of a bunch of red velvet roses and a bit of veiling. She postured and strutted before the admiring eyes of her friends.

  ‘Jeez!’ Jasper whispered, ‘don’t she look like the Duchess o’—you know!’

  ‘Sure does! Only not so tough!’

  ‘Somebody get a couple or three taxis,’ Oscar said. ‘In honor of the bride and groom, we’re all going out an’ get higher than a Georgia pine!’

  Chapter 12

  ‘WE’RE OUTA nearly everythin’, you know it?’ Mrs. Rasmussen mused. ‘Sheets is wore to shreds, the towels is a disgrace, an’ we need a new set o’ dishes—them’s all chipped an’ cracked.’

  ‘Right you are! But where we gonna get money for all them necessities? We need it for our luxuries!’ Mrs. Feeley knew that getting what you need never makes you happy. The things you really want are what count in this life.

  Miss Tinkham bought another small bond after the skunk chubby dropped into her lap like manna from the sky.

  ‘But we gotta get new dishes,’ Mrs. Rasmussen insisted. ‘Them cracked ones is non-sanitary—get dishwater in them cracks!’

  ‘Okay—but take it outa the runnin’ expenses, why don’tcha?’ Mrs. Feeley suggested. They couldn’t be spending their own money foolishly with beer so expensive.

  The ladies were preparing the dinner and Miss Tinkham came in with a lovely bouquet for the table; she caroled gaily:

  ‘Tell me, tell me, tell me, pray!

  What’s in the air today?’

  ‘Offhand, I’d say it was that tripe an’ onions I’m fixin’!’ Mrs. Rasmussen grinned, as she stirred the iron pot full of the savory Spanish mixture. Over on Logan Avenue that morning she had found a Mexican woman clapping out delicate tender tortillas and immediately seized three dozen for her boarders.

  The boarders were filling out; their cheeks were rosy and their eyes clear and bright. Oscar insisted that their rate of production had gone up and thought that Mrs. Rasmussen rated the Navy E for efficiency.

  The Red Cross did a double take when the three ladies, six boarders, and Old Timer all strolled in at one time to donate blood. They said the ladies at Noah’s Ark were national benefactors.

  ‘An’ you can count on ’em steady, too!’ Mrs. Feeley said grimly. ‘First one that balks, out he goes an’ we gets another guy to take his place!’

  Several executives at the blood-bank expressed the sentiment that it was too bad that Mrs. Feeley was not in an executive position in Washington. With her direct methods, they thought the war might be shortened measurably.

  Johnny bought the bungalow for Darleen. True it was that the exterminator had to work three days and nights before it was habitable. But as Mrs. Feeley said, there was very little that a couple of coats of paint wouldn’t kill.

  Darleen scoured the shops and with the help of Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Rasmussen turned the place into a creditable little home.

  ‘That girl’s as handy as a pocket in a shirt!’ Mrs. Rasmussen said with pride.

  Daphne Garfunkle returned from the hospital twenty pounds heavier and minus her tic. She spent one week at home furnishing the bedroom that her children shared. Darleen arranged the house in such a way that there were three bedrooms. It meant giving up her dining room, but it was cozier to eat in the kitchen, anyway. After the furniture was arranged and the curtains hung, Mrs. Garfunkle returned with the news that she had a job: washing the parts of gyros. The ladies at the Ark were delighted. It looked as though their friends were all getting squared away at last.

  ‘There is no satisfaction so great as that of having helped someone to a better life, is there?’ Miss Tinkham mused as she scraped carrots.

  ‘Damned if that ain’t right!’ Mrs. Feeley agreed. ‘Lookit them fellers we’re feedin’! They was the peakiest, puniest bunch o’ dough-bellies I’d ever saw when they come here.’

  ‘Yeah. They hadn’t got the stren’th!’ Mrs. Rasmussen said. ‘Might’s well o’ been eatin’ sawdust as that pukey restaurant chow!’

  ‘Ain’t you noticed?’ Mrs. Feeley mused. ‘It’s the devil’s own time we have gettin’ ’em to go home of a night after they’ve et!’

  ‘It’s the hospitable atmosphere of our cozy hearth and home,’ Miss Tinkham explained.

  ‘I know that,’ Mrs. Feeley replied. ‘But does a body have a mind to take off her dress an’ sit around in her slip of an evenin’, it can’t rightly be done with them fellers sittin’ there gawkin’!’

  ‘An’ if we goes in our rooms, they think we’re sulkin’, ain’t it?’ Mrs. Rasmussen asked.

  ‘What we really need,’ Miss Tinkham said dreamily, ‘is a recreation room!’

  No one said a word for several minutes. Ideas began to scurry across Mrs. Feeley’s face like cockroaches when the light is turned on suddenly. Then she grinned.

  ‘Wreck-reation room is right! Some little shanty o’ their own where they can raise hell an’ horse around without bein’ in nobody’s way!’

  ‘Lumber’s froze,’ Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  ‘We’ll think o’ somethin’! We always do! They ain’t a beer left, by any chance?’

  ‘Yeah. But it ain’t by any chance!’ Mrs. Rasmussen had a few bottles hidden under the sink. These trying days one could never tell when inspiration might lag—and there was nothing like a bottle of beer to start the old thinker ticking.

  ‘Now if we had the stuff to build one,’ Mrs. Feeley said, wiping the foam-mustache off with the back of her hand, ‘would we have to bother with a building permit? They act awful feisty about stuff like that at times!’

  ‘Not if you puts it thirty inches from the property line an’ it has a flat, not a pitched, roof.’

  In all the time Mrs. Feeley had known Mrs. Rasmussen, she had never figured out where she gleaned these gems of practical information. She apparently picked them up hither and yon, and stored them in her cheek the way a squirrel hoards nuts. The ladies wagged their heads in admiration.

  ‘Well, I reckon that’s that!’ Mrs. Feeley said.

  ‘It would be on the order of a social club, would it not?’ Miss Tinkham asked.

  ‘Somethin’ like that! A place where they could read their papers, smoke, an’ drink their beer, an’ relapse generally,’ Mrs. Feeley explained.

  ‘What shall we call it?’ Miss Tinkham clapped her hands in excitement.

  ‘Seems like The Pink Grotto’d be kinda nice,’ Mrs. Feeley suggested.

  The ladies thought that over.

  ‘That rather suggests a spaghetti-house, don’t you think?’ Miss Tinkham said.

  ‘It does, at that!’ Mrs. Feeley agreed.

  ‘Orta call it The Skenkstuen!’ Mrs. Rasmussen suggested. ‘That’s Danish for rathskeller.’

  ‘It’ll be enough like a skunk’s den without callin’ it that!’ Mrs. Feeley laughed. ‘First time one o’ them fellers turns out the lights an’ hollers “Ten minutes rough-house!” it’s gonna be a skunk’s den for real.’

  Mrs. Rasmussen guessed that was about the size of it. Suddenly Miss Tinkham clapped a hand to her forehead.

  ‘Eureka! I have it! The fitting name in these eventful days! May I propose “The Four Freedoms Bar and Soc
ial Club”?’

  ‘Just to look at you,’ Mrs. Feeley said in awed tones, ‘a body would never guess you was subject to them brainstorms! Do they come to you in the middle o’ the night?’

  Miss Tinkham smiled in appreciation. Come to think of it, it was rather distingué.

  ‘Four Freedoms Bar an’ Social Club!’ Mrs. Rasmussen repeated. ‘Real fancy name! Sure got class!’

  ‘We can’t have no bar in there, or we’ll be in Dutch with them revenuers! But I guess ’long as it’s a club the charty members has a right to bring their own stuff an’ drink it there!’ Mrs. Feeley said.

  ‘Dues, they gotta pay.’ Mrs. Rasmussen would think of that.

  ‘Gawd! That’s right!’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Miss Tinkham seconded. ‘We must have dues to keep it exclusive! Paid in advance, as we don’t ant a lot of rabble—we want to keep it select and in-time!’

  ‘Who the hell is Ann Teem?’ Mrs. Feeley wanted to know. ‘We sure as hell don’t want them draggin’ no twists in there! Not after all them vitamins!’

  ‘Oh no!’ Miss Tinkham cried, horrified. ‘That’s French for intimate.’

  The ladies guessed it was all right, but the first skirt anybody tried to bring in would sure bring the vice squad down on them in a hurry. The ladies were almost late with dinner, so deeply had the plans absorbed them.

  The boarders were informed of what was afoot and met the proposal with cheers. They said they would do all the manual labor and leave the ladies only the decorating to do. They wanted to begin at once, but Mrs. Feeley nipped that in the bud, as she had not had a chance to check the oddments that were left around the junk-yard. She refused to consider any plan that required new and essential materials.

  ‘I got a swell record-player an’ radio that’s never been hooked up yet. I hereby donate it to the cause!’ one of the boarders said.

  ‘No slot machines!’ Mrs. Feeley warned.

  ‘An’ what I’d like most of all,’ Oscar said, ‘would be some little desks, just any kind at all, where we could sit down an’ write letters home.’