“A beauty! I never in my life saw such a beauty! Such a skin, white as snow, red lips without paint, and such sweet eyes and such a sweet smile! Oh, I could have fainted with joy. I thought birds were singing. I said, ‘Is this my niece?’ And in a week, in two weeks, there was not a boy on the street but was coming round to the house, and wanted to marry her. Such shoulders, such arms, and such sweet little hands, I could have kissed every finger,” and Grandmother would mumble with her withered lips, “Such a beautiful girl was never seen on the street.” She scowled, thinking of the street, “It was a shame to see this girl on that street. Before a month passed a boy came to me and asked to marry her. This boy, Spontini, would not eat or sleep, until at last his parents came to me and said, ‘Mrs. Fox, please let Lily marry him; he is ill and we are afraid he will die.’ Lily did not want to, but she liked the parents, especially the mother, Mrs. Spontini, an Italian woman, but very nice, very goodhearted. At last, to please the mother, she agreed to marry the poor boy. She was a widow at eighteen. But she is still a great friend of Mrs. Spontini. She calls her her real mother. She goes to see her every year on her birthday, and on the boy’s birthday, and Mrs. Spontini’s birthday.”
My grandmother, sitting in her dragging skirts and wrinkles, would sigh and again kiss her hands, looking angrily at us, “I will never see such a beauty again! Don’t talk to me about that Clara Bow, Theda Bara—pooh! The men followed her in the street; Lily never looked at them. She—a girl who could have had— The boys came round in front of the house till it was like a show; but she didn’t care for them. She did not want to get married; she only did it to please Mrs. Spontini, who came to her and begged her with tears in her eyes, and kissed Lily’s little white hands and said, ‘My darling, my dear one, marry him before he dies; there is not much left for him on this earth, and he has never had any pleasure, but he is an angel. Marry him, my dear one, and you will always be my daughter.’
“Lily married him, but she did not want to get married, and she was hardly married when he died. He only had an iron bedstead and a few books to leave her. Lily has the books somewhere in a trunk, but the bedstead she sold; she didn’t want to look at it. They had no home, poor things, but lived with the parents.”
Grandmother, forgetting us, would retell this tale as we rested after school, sitting on the floor, making up our stories of horrible adventure and diamond-sprinkled love. Sometimes she would come to herself, smooth our hair, kiss us, and say, “You cannot under stand all that, thank God!”
At other times she talked angrily to Lily about us and about our father and mother. She did not like to have us with her, though she boasted about us to visitors. She had been living with Lily Spontini for many years and did not like to be disturbed. Lily was now twenty-eight and had plenty of boy friends, and Grandmother’s mind was divided between getting her married again and keeping her to herself. Grandmother had very little money, all given to her by my father, and Lily earned a little in one of the poorest of occupations. When she first came from the country Grandmother had got her a job ironing babies’ dresses in a factory. Lily had worked all the time, paying rent to Grandmother, except during the three months when she had been married to young Spontini.
For ten years Lily had been pasting labels on bottles in a workroom with about fifty girls, and had worked up by seniority to the first ten girls. She was a close friend of the wives of the workroom manager and the factory owner. Sometimes she quarreled with the girls who said she was a favorite; when, after a few slow, reasonable words, in a slightly raised voice, she would cry quietly. They were rather fond of her. She avoided all the rough ones, made friends of polite foreign girls and older women, and one or two women who read books. She talked about her relatives and “my boy friend,” always looked clean and modest, had a pleased, kind smile, and never used a dirty word. Sometimes, in a chuckle, after a silence, in a modest undertone, she would tell Grandmother something bad that had been said at work. Grandmother would say, “Pooh! Disgraceful!”
Lily would apologize and gently laugh. Then, after another silence, Grandmother would laugh too, and make one of her burning, sour jokes. These silences between them, in their hour-long conversations, were like the silences between birds settling for the night.
Grandmother was a passionate party lover, mad for details of parties gone to. Lily was always visiting. Getting friends, holding them, and visiting them was her gift and her pastime. It was for this, too, that Grandmother Fox clung to her. Grandmother herself was no longer invited to family parties, although a cultivated woman and eager for company. Few understood why. Perhaps she was too thirsty for it; perhaps she gossiped. She did not invite people in return. She had always been a queer little thing, sharp, angry, and disappointed.
It was Lily who brought us to Grandmother Fox’s after the great party that Grandmother Morgan gave. Mrs. Fox was not pleased to see us, we thought; but she flew and kissed us with a lot of affectionate chatter. Then she got rid of us, telling us to brush our hair while she hurried to the kitchen to speak to Lily. Only a few words were soft, and then, as usual, she spat her words out, slapping Lily into alertness, “Why did you get here so late, stupid? Well, never mind. Sit here, darling. Sit down, sit down. What’s that?”
Lily’s sleepwalking voice said, “I stayed the night at Mathilde’s—”
“I know, I know, you stupid. How did the children get here otherwise?”
“Mathilde sent you half a roast chicken with her compliments, and said she hopes you’re all right.”
“Well, good, that’s good. Yesterday I ate a bit of rice, and that’s all. I have nothing in the house when you’re out. It was raining. Yesterday Mrs. McAlan called on me. She said she was getting a good dinner ready for him. A good wife! It’s easy to be a good wife, why not? For money you have honey. He goes to the stores for her. But I had celery, rice; sit down, Lily. What did you have yesterday? What did they serve, Lily?”
“We had cocktails,” said Lily, as if dreaming. “I had a good supper, Auntie; don’t worry. With Mrs. Morgan, you know. Soup, cutlets, cakes, fruit cup, everything.”
“Ca-akes? Ca-akes?” said Grandmother, thoughtfully. “What kind of cakes? Where did she buy them?”
“I don’t know. They were provided I think. From a bakery, I think.”
“What sort of bakery? A good one?”
Lily’s sunny laugh came through the noise of cups and spoons, “What do I know about their bakery, in the restaurant, Auntie?”
“What an idiot,” cried Grandmother, “you ate them, didn’t you?”
Lily clinked her spoon, and laughed, “But the cakes did not say which bakery they came from; Auntie, you’re so funny. Which bakery—who knows?”
“Well,” said Grandmother after a moment, “and did Mrs. Morgan like your coat?”
“It’s all right,” Lily said briefly; “Auntie, the whole week I had a headache, the whole week, this week.”
“You don’t sleep. You don’t sleep. You must take your rest. You keep worrying. Now, now, darling, sit in that other chair. It’s more comfortable. It’s the best we have. It’s that old one Mathilde gave me. She’s a nice woman just the same. Look, something’s spilled here. I must have it cleaned. The whole chair, yes. What’s that? A hat?”
“That’s from Mathilde,” said Lily, “a friend of hers, Dora, gave it to her, but it doesn’t suit her.”
“She doesn’t wear hats,” said Grandmother sadly, “but she can easily get them, as many as she wants; a young woman is something different from me. What an idiot! That’s nothing to laugh at. Yes, it’s pretty, Lily. Very pretty. But not for me. I don’t need hats. I’m not joking. I’m through, that’s all, my girl. No hats, no coats, no cakes, nothing. All that rubbish. And did you see Phyllis?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night, of course.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“At the party?”
“Of cour
se.”
“Has she got a boy?”
“No special boy.”
“Special boy—such a pretty girl as that, and no special boy yet! I don’t understand it. If I had such a pretty daughter—she is nice, Mrs. Morgan, but she doesn’t look after her daughters. None of them. What had Mathilde to say?”
“Nothing. Sol is staying there tonight.” “Why shouldn’t he stay with his own wife? What’s news in that?” “A painter painted the living room in a different color and the bedroom, nice.”
“Very nice, very nice,” said Grandmother, sadly; “and the children’s room, Tootsy’s and Jacky’s? Jacky—for a girl! I don’t like these new customs. Poor children; they’re so innocent. So he stays there tonight, this week?” She whispered loudly, “They made it up—h’m?”
“She hopes, she doesn’t know.”
“She was beautiful,” said Grandmother, “that Mathilde. The whole family, beauties, even the boys. The mother used to be good-looking, but running after men—no, no, no, when her daughters are not married yet. Oh, Mattie is such a beauty, and Mrs. Morgan, never mind, never mind, she’s a fine woman, though she used to dye her hair. She is very smart, a snappy dresser. And Phyllis, I never saw one like that—what a shame! But if a woman doesn’t care for her daughters—but she doesn’t dye it now, much better!” Grandmother sighed. “And when will he come?”
“He will come tomorrow to bring the children home.”
“Tomorrow, and he’s going away to England. It’s my finish,” said Grandmother. “All right, let him go; he can’t help it; he must support his family, I understand that, but it’s the end of everything. The poor innocent children. It isn’t right to leave them like that. And she, that Mattie, though for an actress very ladylike. And—Die Konkubine—eh? Did you see her?”
“Yes, I saw her.”
“All alone, poor Mattie!” sighed Grandmother; then said hastily, “How does she look? She’s not pretty, is she? Who could guess? Who could guess?”
“She’s not bad,” said Lily.
“Who? Who? Who’s not bad? What an idiot!” cried Grandmother.
“She—Die Konkubine.”
“Stupid idiot!” cried Grandmother; “did she give you something to eat? You ate at her house?”
“Yes, of course! I was invited there.”
“And did you tell Mathilde? Oh, dear, dear, dear.”
“Of course I didn’t tell. Am I an idiot?” cried Lily.
“What did you eat? Is she a good cook, eh?”
“Yes.”
“What did she give you?”
“We had a Wiener schnitzel, duck soup, salad, apple tart.”
“What? What do you say? Are you crazy? Duck soup, apple tart—was it a party?”
“No, it was just dinner. I was invited to dinner.”
“Was there cream with the apple tart?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Was there some left over?”
“Some what?”
“Apple tart, cream—anything, you idiot,” cried Grandmother, running about the kitchen in her fury.
“I don’t know, Auntie.”
“Don’t know! Don’t know bakeries, don’t know cakes, don’t know boy friends. Are you crazy?” piped Grandmother. “What sort of eyes? What sort of a girl? You’re there, but you see nothing.”
Lily laughed.
“Perhaps it was all in the icebox after and you didn’t see what was left,” said Grandmother suddenly, mournfully.
“Maybe!”
“And he was there, Sol?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t understand it,” said Grandmother, softly, to herself. “It’s beyond me. But she’s clever. Mattie is a good woman, but too honest. You mustn’t be too honest in this life. What a world! A man on the phone was asking for you! I don’t know what he said—General Askas—I don’t know—”
“General Askas—” Lily smothered her sweet, rich laughter; “oh, Auntie! Jimmy Brant? Who was it? Mr. Ender? Who?”
“Askas, Askas—a fine name,” said Grandmother in confusion. “What is it? Russian, foreign, I don’t know.”
After a long silence, during which life went on mysteriously in the kitchen at the end of the passage, Grandmother said, “Were you at Rose’s on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“Were you there alone?”
“No, Tony, too.”
“And why not Marion?”
“Perhaps she wasn’t invited.”
“It’s a funny thing not to invite your daughter-in-law. Perhaps they quarreled.”
“I don’t know, Auntie.”
“That’s a very funny thing.”
We never had anything to do at Grandmother Fox’s, in the wretched back room which was their sitting room and which looked over an asphalted courtyard. But at night we stayed up half the night, leaning over the window sills black with soot, breathing in the thick air, for drunken couples quarreled, dirty names were called out in clear voices, a place with red blinds had Chinese shrieks coming from it, and people stood in the courtyard and called upstairs to closed windows in the tall brick wall at all hours of the night. Grandmother snored or prowled. Lily slept heavily, or got up to make herself tea. Sometimes Grandmother went into her room and the two cronies, the beautiful pony-faced girl and the wrinkled old woman with straggling hair, held councils relating to their long wedded existence.
And this night, coming suddenly out of the darkness, in the middle of the night, we heard two clear voices, “And you went and you saw she was going away?”
“Yes. Everything is being packed.”
“Die Konkubine?”
“Yes.”
“She is so clever. It’s strange, I tell you.”
“Yes, but he is packed too. He is going to sail.”
“Yes, it is nice, it is right.” After a moment, Grandmother added, “But such a clever—it is useless if a clever woman—men are taken in, and—but packed up and going already! Going where?”
Wearily, Lily said, “I don’t know, Auntie.”
“I smell a rat,” said Grandmother thoughtfully; “now a woman—”
“I got such a headache, Auntie.”
“Sleep, sleep, darling! It sounds right, but—h’m—you know it’s all too nice.”
“Why wouldn’t he go back to his wife?”
“Yes, yes. And will you be laid off another week, Lily?”
“Yes.”
“I say, people must work. Everyone must work. I have no money for instance—and my poor boy has to work; but it’s very strange, Lily.”
“Yooh! Ye-oh! Oh!”
“She got another job, Lily? She—?”
“I don’t know.”
“She goes and no one knows? Something wrong. No? And he goes to England? I smell a rat.”
“Go to sleep, Auntie!”
“Sleep—I am too old to sleep. The old do not sleep. What do you know about it? Everyone tells me to rest—what about? You have to have something to rest about! He’s like his father. A woman can do anything with him. Pooh! Don’t talk to me about his father. I could have had him back, too, but I would not say the word. Pooh! Run after a man? Never!”
“I have such a headache, Auntie! Oh!”
“I’ll get you an aspirin, darling. It’s because you’re worried about not working. I would be, too. People are supposed to work. Otherwise how can you eat? Have you a man to keep you? No!”
Grandmother got up and pattered down the hall in her bare feet, happy to have something to do in the night-time. She was heard in the bathroom, in Lily’s room, and coming back to her own bedroom. In the middle of the hall, continuing a conversation she had with Lily in the last minute or two, she said, “And in Europe they’re all crazy, as well! They wear fancy costumes all the time, gold braid, feathers in their hats, swords—mad people. It’s like a lunatic asylum. What does he want to be there for? His father had no sense either. His father had no brains; he just got those certificates to hang on his wall to
show people. Crazy, like a European! Pooh! All men— pooh! All nonsense.”
Silence.
“Where did she get another job?”
Silence.
“You don’t know. No, no one knows. Something fishy?”
Silence.
“I am old,” said the old woman. “Running about—”
11
In the deep, dead afternoons of August, Mother sat with us on the side porch of Green Acres Inn trying to knit herself a green sweater. The needles and wool lay in the lap of her flowered apron. She wore slacks and a pale yellow cotton blouse. She watched the opposite house, now an inn for elegant old maids, ladies past their bearing and retired gentlemen who imitated Indian colonels, the pure Connecticut line.
The easterly porch on which we were had a private sitting room of white iron and glass for the Morgan family, or for any family which arranged for the privilege. This was the still season. Most young people were off at the beaches or even in Europe, and only a few old-timers who could not resist Mrs. Morgan, or Green Acres, or poker, were left at the Inn. Grandmother would have closed the Inn and gone away to the beaches herself, if she could have done without this crowd and her poker.
It was about four. Few people were about. Most were up in their shaded, sweaty rooms, resting. Two old ladies and a middle-aged man were playing pinochle in the long dining room, just inside the windows, near my mother. We were sitting on stools covered with petit point, chattering about the dump heap we had seen—all kinds of food, good things thrown away.
“Mother, why do they throw away all that bread, those chairs and things?”
Mathilde sat still and stared across the two lawns.
From within came the voice of Mrs. Polk, a neat, highly rouged old woman, with clean collars and tarnished brassy hair, “There’s your answer, Cissie!”
Another old woman’s voice said, “That finishes me. I’m through. It’s too hot.”
Letty Fox Page 12
