Nora felt small and ashamed. Her eyes filled with tears. She sobbed against Roy’s heart.
‘Don’t,” he said gently. “You’ve known all along, and you haven’t let down. Don’t do it now. You see, he enlists tomorrow. Let’s make tonight a lark.”
He dried her tears, and they started back toward the house. They could see Skippy silhouetted against the porch light. She loved him so much that she wanted to weep again.
“Hey,” she called, “just because you’re a sweet boy graduate, you don’t have to strike a pose so we can admire you.”
He laughed, and so did Roy, and then so did Nora.
The Cottagers and Mrs. Carmody
News Syndicate
April 15, 1946
Summary: For a caretaker, a little something left by a weekend cottager turns into a pleasant, unexpected surprise.
Mrs. Carmody got the cottages ready for week enders. Someone would write her a letter enclosing a list of provisions and a money order. Mrs. Carmody would sit down with a stub of pencil and a penny postcard and slowly, painfully inform the letter writer that message and contents had been received.
She rarely saw the week-enders. She had key(s) to all their houses. She would go in, air and dust, drag in firewood, check the piles of purchases on the kitchen table, and depart. When the cottagers had gone, leaving behind them a note of thanks, three dollars, and the leftovers, Mrs. Carmody returned to carry a way a week’s meals.
The bitter winter months, from December through February, were the period when Mrs. Carmody, sitting in her small, run-down house, talking monotonously to Pete, her old and adoring mongrel dog, was lifeless and lonely and often hungry for a tastier bit than oatmeal, the meatless stews, the bread and tea that her budget allowed.
Couldn’t Bear Thought of End
For most of the money that Mrs. Carmody made in the seasonal months went to into her burial hoard. She had never had any insurance. She had been superstitious about it until Tim died. There was always a bit of money in the bank, enough to tide them through a brief illness. Insurance to both her and Time, had seemed a macabre investment. The fact of death was something neither one of them would face. They were childless and could not bear the thought that one might die and leave the other.
Tim fell ill. It was a long dying, and Mrs. Carmody could not leave him and go to work. The money in the bank diminished, dwarfed, disappeared. And when Tim died, there was nothing with which to bury him.
Mrs. Carmody had never been beholden in her life. She was beholden now. Helplessly she had to stand by and see kindly neighbors contribute their hard -earned dimes and dollars to a coffin and a plot of ground. The only other choice was too heartbreaking, even for contemplation.
She was sixty, and she was old. The two years of nursing had taken their toll. There was no use her seeking steady employment. Her long confinement and anxiety by a sick bed had made her too nervous to work in one place all day.
Her work for the cottagers was idea. She rarely had to see them for these were people on rustic holiday, who did not want waiting on. Spring and Fall were the times of year when Mrs. Carmody, who had enjoyed good eating, when Tim was alive and well and had never quite lost her lusty appetite, was able to feel her flesh fill out with ends of lamb, Chicken wings, slabs of pie, chunks of cake, and generous scoops of creamy potatoes and macaroni.
During the summer the pickings ere less profitable, for the cottagers had come to stay, and often there were guests who kept the cupboard bare. But Mrs. Carmody’s desire for good food was tempered by the summer heat, and she had no unwillingness to eat sparsely.
It was a Winter that Mrs. Carmody sat close by her coal fire. She stirred her tea and ate her bread and tried to think of them as meat and macaroni. But despite her imagination, there was still an unsatisfied feeling in her stomach when she put her cup down and swept her lap free of crumbs.
By Spring, Mrs. Carmody was so starved for one of those wonderful meals of leftover macaroni, full of cheese and milk and butter and beef bones with generous shreds of beautiful meat, and crumbled cake covered with lovely goo, that she was as impatient as a child at Christmas in her nervous expectation, excited waiting for the first letter from the first cottager.
Mrs. Peters wrote first. Her list included a turkey, the finest that Mrs. Carmody could find. Her son had just been discharged from the Army. He had a hankering to see the old house in which he had spent the idyllic Summers of his boyhood. He had an equal hankering for turkey. His return to America had been long months coming. He had hoped to be home for Thanksgiving. When his sailing orders were cancelled, his disappointment was keen. He had made up his mind to have Thanksgiving dinner at home if he didn’t set foot on American soil until Summer.
Mrs. Carmody hadn’t had turkey since Tim died. On feast days her friendly neighbors had invited her to join them. But she knows that these were courtesy invitations, freely extended but sent out of sympathy for her aloneness. She did not wish to intrude upon their family reunions and recollections. The taste of Mrs. Peter’s turkey was as strong in her mind as if an ambrosial bite of it were on her tongue.
It was a beautiful bird, big, buxom, and tender to her exploring touch. She eyes it with more envy than she had ever eyes anything in the whole of her undemanding life. For Mrs. Carmody knew her years on earth were numbered. And Old Pete’s too. If she could see a whole turkey, not the wing of it, nor the end of it, nor the last part to jump over the fence. She could set browned to perfection in the center of her own table, and cut off a slice of the light and a slice of the dark for Pete, and then eat her way through the naked frame, she would want nothing more this side of heaven.
Mrs. Carmody sighed and set the refrigerator humming. She wasn’t even sure there’d be any leftovers this weekend, including a slice of this elegant bird. For young men were eaters, particularly young men who had been away to war and had their hearts set on Thanksgiving dinner. They stuffed themselves sick and wouldn’t call quits until they had polished off the last bone.
Determinedly she turned her mind away from anticipation. Still she spent a wretched weekend. She had remembered Mrs. Peter’s boy as a pleasant-faced youngster. Now she saw him as an inhuman monster, entirely composed of interior and a wicked intent to plague a poor old woman.
For plagued she was. Her conscience bothered her because of her unkind thoughts. Her stomach refused to be solaced by her sorry offerings. Her heart pumped painfully at every imagined meal hour at the Peter’s house. The interminable weekend dragged to its end.
NOTE TELLS HER ITS HER TURKEY
Mrs. Carmody walked at a funeral pace into Mrs. Peter’s kitchen. She was controlling her desire to race as fast as her shuffling gain could carry her. She mustn’t be foolish. There might not even be the carcass. For Mrs. Peters was not the kind to leave bare bones as if she thought a lowly charlady could work some magic that would turn them into meat, no, there might be a bit of pie though she doubted this too. There would probably be a dish of vegetables that the boy hadn’t wanted, spinach or carrots, or similar pap.
Miserably, she crossed to the table. There were the note and the three bills. She picked up the note and scowled at it, not so much in anger as in her inability to see well without her reading glasses. The words blurred and she waited until they came into focus. Then slowly, haltingly she read aloud:
“Dear Mrs. Carmody: Thank you for everything. Hope to run down again soon. It was my son’s idea to eat Thanksgiving dinner here. Then he decided he couldn’t wait. So we had a huge turkey feast at home the day after I wrote to you. And he stuffed so, bless his heart, that he doesn’t want to hear the word turkey mentioned for another year. I didn’t write you because I supposed you had already bought it, and I didn’t want to upset you. We brought down a ham. Sorry, there is a shred, but the turkey is your, and welcome.”
Mrs. Carmody’s old lined face was beautiful with its radiance. She turned toward the refrigerator like somebody walking in a happy dream.
/> And there it was. And there she was only a matter of inches away from it.
Skippy
News Syndicate Co. Inc.
April 29, 1946
Summary: There’s no place like home. All of the happy Adamses realize that, but it took a dog to emphasize the fact.
Skippy was the least important occupant of the house. He was loved, but he was never consulted. It was taken for granted that the family’s will was his will, and that he would follow blindly. He was their dog.
When the family decided to move, Skippy was not invited to voice his views. They decided quite suddenly, on a day when everything seemed to go wrong. Mrs. Adams watched the first prize to Mrs. Cranston at the flower show. Mr. Adams came home from the publishing house with a book to read and report on and Mrs. Adams followed him up to their bedroom where he had retired to escape the sounds of banging doors, telephones and dinner preparations.
Buzz Adams stormed in cross as sticks because Sally, who lived next door, had given him back his class ring. Chottie Adams drifted in dreamily from her first meeting with a tall dark and handsome young man. When the Adamses sat down to dinner, they began a round of grievances.
“…It isn’t that (Lola) Cranston has a better growing hand that I have. It’s because she has a bigger garden. She doesn’t have to crowd things and let them run riot. I don’t know what I wouldn’t give to move to a house with extensive grounds.”
Mr. Adams said vehemently, “I’d like to move too. I’d like a house big enough to allow me the luxury of a room of my own.”
“I wish we lived in a stately house,” said Chottie wistfully.
SO IT’S SETTLED, THEY WILL MOVE
“If I may put my two cents in,” Buzz offered miserably. “I hate this whole neighborhood.”
“That’s it,” said Mr. Adams excitedly. “We will move tomorrow. I’ll see the agent for the Thayer place. It’s quite an estate. …I can swing it and the peace is worth the price.”
Having arrived at the hasty decision to move within a matter of days, the Adamses settled down to their excellent dinner, which they all ate with relish for each thought that the major problem in his life had just been solved.
Except Skippy, who until this moment had had no problems.
Skippy lay with his head between his paws. Buzz relaxed his hand and let the piece of meat fall. It fell within an inch of Skippy’s nose, a succulent sizable bit of beef. But Skippy did not stir. His nose did not even wrinkle. He was sorrowing. Buzz looked away from his beseeching eyes.
Skippy loved the house. He had lived in it practically all his life. Actually, you might almost say it was his. For the thing was, the Adamses had bought it because of him. He had been given to Buzz as a birthday surprise when he, Skippy was three months old. Until then, he had lived in a kennel which could not be considered home life. he and Buzz had recognized each other instantly as dog lover and boy worshiper. Two days later the apartment house agent came over to register the complaint of the people downstairs, who could not accustom their ears to the overwhelming sounds of a boy and his dog. The dog, the agent explained regretfully, must go.
They moved to a house in the suburbs as soon as a suitable one could be found. It was a move the elder Adamses had been meaning to make ever since Chottie was born, but one thing and another kept them chained to the city. And eleven years later a little dog led them to the charming white house that might have emerged from their dreams.
Skippy, racing wildly through the rooms with nobody rapping on the radiator, romping madly on the front lawn with no policemen commanding that he be put on a lead, and gnawing a bone in the back yard quite out of the way of cook’s complaints, knew very well that this was his heaven on earth, this was home. In his most horrendous nightmare he never dreamed of moving day.
Now after five years, as if they had slyly waited until he reached the age when the most obliging dog balks at change and views the moving of his basket from one corner to another as a complete up upheaval of his lifetime habits, the family was preparing to depart.
In the cold light of the next morning, Mrs. Adams was not sure either that the fields beyond were greener. Looking down on her lovely garden with the next annual flower show a whole year away, she felt a real pang at leaving it. Mr. Adams was thinking the same thing. At the Thayer place he would have a library, which was a fine thing, but then there would never be an excuse to pile his books about. Mr. Adams loved books about Mr. Adams loved books and he loved to see them in whatever room he chose to sit in just as some people like to see flowers or clocks. Now he would have his own room where he could be (alone) and read without interruption.
Buzz was going to miss Sally. She had leaned across the fence that morning full of remorse of her fickle heart, and solemnly crossing it with the sacred promise never to stray again. “Oh, why,” mourned Buzz, had he been such a dope as to dip his oar in.
Chottie was wondering the same thing. A letter from Bill had come that morning. He was out of the Army, free as a bird and flying to her side. He hoped she hadn’t changed, except to have grown old enough to have a proposal. Bill was back!
The Adamses who had recklessly spoken before they thought were now ashamed to recant and show the honest sentiment in their hearts.
Skippy was not ashamed to show sentiment. All that day he would not eat, or wag his tail or bark of frisk.
Skippy didn’t lie by Buzz’ feet. he wanted no scraps from this or any other table. He lay by the door where every body could see him with his head between paws, and his eyes beseeching.
It was very hard to have an appetite in the face of his misery. Buzz put down his fork.
“Do you know what I think?” he said. ‘I don’t think Skippy’s sick at all. I think he’s sad.”
“Well, we’re certainly not going to stay here to indulge a dog,” said Mr. Adams, in the desperate hope that his wife, as usual, would take the opposite tack.
“Well, I for one,” said Mrs. Adams defiantly, “wouldn’t have a minutes happiness if I had to watch poor Skippy waste away to a shadow.”
The Adamses stared at Skippy. Why, he was one of themselves. His loss was inconceivable.
“Oh, let’s not move,” Chottie wailed.
Instantly, Skippy was on his feet. He had an ally. Quickly he crossed to Chottie and licked her hand.
“Oh Dad, let’s stay here,” begged Buzz. And Skippy went to Buzz and put his head on Buzz’ knee.
“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Adams, observing this miracle, “that dog seems to understand.” He wanted to try it himself. “Skippy come here.” Skippy came cautiously. They searched each other’s eyes. Mr. Adams said slowly and distinctly, “We’re not going to move. We’re staying right here in this house.”
The master of the house had spoken. For a moment Skippy looked as if he couldn’t believe. Then he threw back his head and began to bark joyously.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Adams, close to tears, “you shouldn’t have fooled him.”
“Who said I was?” asked Mr. Adams loftily, and cleared his throat.”
A Matter of Money
News Syndicate Co., Inc.
May 15, 1946
Mrs. Howell had done her best for her children. She had been widowed when they were young. Through the years of their growing, she had made every penny count, so that neither Joel nor Peggy would ever have to go without the right food, the proper clothes, the clean attractive house whose lack might make feel inferior to more fortunate children.
Mrs. Howell had never given much thought to money before her husband died. He had been a generous provider, too generous, it was seen when his modest will was read and Mrs. Howell had had only to ask and any request was granted.
Then quite suddenly she was a widow with two children, ten and twelve, to send through school. Mrs. Howell settled down in a determined effort to make ends meet.
She had always indulged her children as much as she indulged herself. When she was out, they helped themselves to whatever mon
ey they found in her room. She had only asked that they tell her how much they had taken. She never asked them what use they had put it. Now she found that she must be with herself. It was a harder task than she had thought to b severe with her children, whom she loved dearly.
LIES TO CHILDRE, KEEPS PURSE HIDDEN
She had never lied to her children. Now she did. She no longer left money in view nor in an easily accessible place. She left her purse on a hook in her closet, hidden under an old coat.
When they were in their teens and having their lunch in high school, she went to work as a saleslady. Joel had already expressed his ambition to be a doctor. Peggy was entitled to a college education too. The long hours on her feet, the fact of working for the first time in her life were her willing sacrifices for her children’s future. What she did not realize was that their comprehension had increased too. They were very conscious of her sacrifices and eager to be grown and working and able to make them up to her. Their common sense told them that she kept more money in the house that she ever admitted having.
Mrs. Howell did not know that the morning she started out to work. She locked her closet door and put the key in her bureau drawer. A good part of that day she worried about it. That night she hid her money under her mattress. And then the next night she scattered her money in separate places, in a boo, in an old letter, under the rug, so that if one sum were taken, the rest would be left. And perhaps the most egregious thing was they were never large amounts, for weekly Mrs. Howell banked as much as she could. What remained was expense money.
Mrs. Howell loved her children to desperation. She did not know that she was treating them as if they were thieves. Nor did she know that she hid her money like a miser.
Joel received his medical degree, interned and then volunteered for Army service. On her graduation from college, Peggy went to work as a laboratory technician at a very satisfactory salary.
The Last Leaf of Harlem Page 21
