“What’s your name?”
“Tony Jarvis.”
Maybe the big man remembered seeing his face at the window, Tony thought. Anyway, the big man’s grin was wide and friendly. “How would you like to carry these pails for me?” he asked.
Tony grabbed the pails before any other kid could touch them. The big, freckled, crazy, blue-eyed face of the giant opened into a smile.
Tony walked down the alley, carrying the pails. The big redhead walked beside him, leading the pony and grinning in such a friendly fashion Tony felt sure he understood why the pony swung his head eagerly to the giant whenever he made the soft, clucking noise with his tongue. While Tony was going down the street, his mind was filled with how it would be in the garage, making friends with the pony. Even now he might have reached out and touched the pony if he hadn’t had a pail in each hand. The pails were heavy because they were filled with water-soaked sponges, but Tony kept up with the big man all right, and he held the pail handles tight.
“I guess the pony’s worth a lot of money,” he said timidly.
“Uh?”
“I guess a lot of people want to ride him.”
“Sure.”
“I guess a lot of kids have wanted a little ride on him, too.” Tony said. When the man nodded and looked straight ahead, Tony was so stirred up he dared not say anything more. It was understood between them now, he was sure. They would let him hang around the garage and maybe even have a ride on the pony.
When they got to the garage he waited while the redhead opened the door and gave the pony a gentle slap on the rump and sent it on ahead. Tony was so full of pride he thought he would choke as he started to follow the pony in.
“All right, son, I’ll take the pails,” the redhead said.
“It’s all right. I can carry them.”
“Give ’em to me.”
“Can’t I go in?’ Tony asked, unbelieving.
“No kids in here,” the redhead said brusquely, taking the pails.
“Gee, Mister,” Tony cried. But the door had closed. Tony stood with his mouth open, sick at his stomach, still seeing the redhead’s warm, magnificent smile. He couldn’t understand. If the redhead was like that, why would the pony swing its head to him? Then he realized that that was the kind of thing men like him took for granted in the world he had wanted to grow into when he had glimpsed it from the garage window.
“You big red-headed bum!” he screamed at the closed door.
“You dirty, double-crossing, red-headed cheat!”
AN ESCAPADE
Snow fell softly and the sidewalks were wet. Mrs. Rose Carey had on her galoshes and enjoyed the snow underfoot. She walked slowly, big flakes falling on her lamb coat and clinging to her hair, the falling snow giving her, in her warm coat, a feeling of self-indulgence. She stood on the corner of Bloor and Yonge, an impressive woman, tall, stout, good looking for forty-two, and waited for the traffic light. Few people were on this corner at half past eight, Sunday evening. A policeman, leaning against a big plate-glass window, idly watched her cross the road and look up to the clock on the fire hall and down the street to the theatre lights, where Reverend John Simpson held Sunday service. She had kept herself late, intending to enter the theatre unnoticed, and sit in a back seat, ready to leave as soon as the service was over. Bothered by her own shyness, she remembered that her husband had asked if Father Conley was speaking tonight in the Cathedral.
Under the theatre lights someone said to her: “This way, lady. Step this way, right along now.”
She stopped abruptly, watching the little man with a long nose and green sweater, pacing up and down in front of the entrance, waving his hands. He saw her hesitating and came close to her. He had on a flat black hat, and walked with his toes turned out. “Step lively, lady,” he muttered, wagging his head at her.
She was scared and would have turned away but a man got out of a car at the curb and smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid of Dick,” he said. The man had grey hair and a red face and wore a tie pin in a wide black tie. He was going into the theatre.
“Run along, Dick,” he said and, turning to Mrs. Carey, he explained: “He’s absolutely harmless. They call him Crazy Dick.”
“Thank you very much,” Mrs. Carey said.
“I hope he didn’t keep you from going in,” he said, taking off his hat. He had a generous smile.
“I didn’t know him, that was all,” she said, feeling foolish as he opened the door for her.
The minister was moving on stage and talking quietly. She knew it was the minister because she had seen his picture in the papers and recognized the Prince Albert coat and the four-in-hand tie with the collar open at the throat. She took three steps down the aisle, fearfully aware that many people were looking at her, and sat down, four rows from the back. Only once before had she been in a strange church, when a friend of her husband’s had got married, and it hadn’t seemed like church. She unbuttoned her coat, leaving a green and black scarf lying across her full breasts, and relaxed in the seat, getting her big body comfortable. Someone sat down beside her. The man with the grey hair and red face was sitting beside her. She was annoyed, she knew she was too aware of his closeness. The minister walked the length of the platform, his voice pleasant and soothing. She tried to follow the flow of words but was too restless. She had come in too late, that was the trouble. So she tried concentrating, closing her eyes, but thought of a trivial and amusing argument she had had with her husband. The minister was trying to describe the afterlife and some of his words seemed beautiful, but she had no intention of taking his religious notions seriously
The seat was uncomfortable, and she stretched a little, crossing her legs at the ankles. The minister had a lovely voice, but so far he’d said nothing sensational, and she felt out of place in the theatre and slightly ashamed.
The man on her right was sniffling. Puzzled, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, as he gently dabbed at his eyes with a large white handkerchief. The handkerchief was fresh and the creases firm. One plump hand held four corners, making a pad, and he was watching the minister intently.
She was anxious not to appear ill-bred, but a man, moved by the minister’s words, or an old thought, was sitting beside her, crying. She did not glance at him again till she realized that his elbow was on the arm of her seat, supporting his chin, while he blinked and moved his head. He was feeling so bad she was uncomfortable, but thought that he looked gentlemanly, though feeling miserable. He was probably a nice man, and she was sorry for him.
She expected him to get up and go out. Other people were noticing him. A fat woman, in the seat ahead, craned her neck. Mrs. Carey wanted to slap her. The man put the handkerchief over his face and didn’t lift his head. The minister was talking rapidly. Mrs. Carey suddenly felt absolutely alone in the theatre. Impulsively she touched the man’s arm, leaning toward him, whispering: “I’m awfully sorry for you, sir.”
She patted his arm a second time, and he looked at her helplessly, and went to speak, but merely shook his head and patted the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated gently.
“Thank you very much.”
“I hope it’s all right now,” she whispered.
He spoke quietly: “Something the minister said, it reminded me of my brother who died last week. My younger brother.”
People in the row ahead were turning angrily. She became embarrassed, and leaned back in her seat, very dignified, and looked directly ahead, aware that the man was now holding her hand. Startled, she twitched, but he didn’t notice. His thoughts seemed so far away. She reflected it could do no harm to let him hold her hand a moment, if it helped him.
She listened to the minister but didn’t understand a word he was saying, and glanced curiously at the grey-haired man, who didn’t look at her but still held her hand. He was handsome, and a feeling she had not had for years was inside her, her hand suddenly so sensitive. She closed her eyes. Then the minister stopp
ed speaking and, knowing the congregation was ready to sing a hymn, she looked at his hand on hers, and at him. He had put away the handkerchief and now was smiling sadly. She avoided his eyes, removing her hand as she stood up to sing the hymn. Her cheeks were warm. She tried to stop thinking altogether. It was necessary to leave at once only she would have to squeeze by his knees to reach the aisle. She buttoned her coat while they were singing, ready to slip past him. She was surprised when he stepped out to the aisle, allowing her to pass, but didn’t look at him. Erect, she walked slowly up the aisle, her eyes on the door. Then she heard steps and knew he was following. An usher held open the door and she smiled awkwardly. The usher smiled.
Outside, she took a few quick steps, then stood still, bewildered, expecting Crazy Dick to be on the street. She thought of the green sweater and funny flat hat. Through the doorway she saw the grey-haired man smiling at the usher and putting on his hat, the tie pin shining in the light. Tucking her chin into her high fur collar she walked rapidly down the street. It was snowing harder, driving along on a wind. When she got to a car stop she looked back and saw him standing on the sidewalk in front of the theatre doors. A streetcar was coming. She was sure he took a few steps toward her, but she got on the car. The conductor said, “Fares please,” but hardly glancing at him, she shook wet snow from her coat and sat down, taking three deep breaths, while her cheeks tingled. She felt tired, and her heart was thumping.
She got off the car at Shuter Street. She didn’t want to go straight home, and was determined to visit the Cathedral.
On the side street the snow was thick. Men from the rooming houses were shovelling the sidewalks, the shovels scraping on concrete. She lifted her eyes to the illuminated cross on the Cathedral spire. The congregation had come out half an hour ago, and she felt lonely walking in the dark toward the light
Inside the Cathedral she knelt down halfway up the centre aisle. She closed her eyes to pray, and remembered midnight mass in the Cathedral, the Archbishop with his mitre and staff, and the choir of boys’ voices. A vestry door opened, a priest passed in the shadow beside the altar, took a book from a pew, and went out. She closed her eyes again and said many prayers, repeating her favourite ones over and over, but often she thought of her husband at home. She prayed hard so she could go home and not be bothered by anything that had happened in the theatre. She prayed for half an hour, feeling better gradually, till she hardly remembered the man in the theatre, and fairly satisfied, she got up and left the Cathedral.
ELLEN
Old Mr. Mason had always longed with a desperate earnestness that his daughter, Ellen, should be happy. She had lived alone with him since she had been a little girl. Years ago his wife, after a long time of bickering and secret bitterness over his failure to get along in business, had left him, left him to a long monotony of steady working days and evenings at home, listening to music from the gramophone or waiting for election time so that he could go to meetings. He had hoped for a bright joyousness in Ellen’s life, and whenever he heard her laugh and saw how independently she walked along the street, and felt her cool reticence, he was sure she would be content. Ellen was a small girl with little hands and feet, blue eyes set far apart and a wide forehead and a face that tapered to her chin. She wore her clothes with grace and natural assurance.
Before going out in the evenings, whenever she had a new hat or dress and was sure of her beauty, she used to pretend to annoy her father, who was reading his paper, by saying coaxingly, “Please tell me that I don’t look a fright. Could anybody say I looked pretty, Dad?” She would smile to herself with secret amusement while he was saying, “You’re a beauty, Ellen. Bless my soul, if you’re not! When I was young, I’d twist my neck if a girl like you passed by.” Until she went out the front door he would wait, apparently interested only in the paper; then he would hurry to the window with his pipe in one hand and the paper under the other arm and watch her hurrying along the street with her short, rapid steps.
From the beginning she had been very much in love with Joe Baton. Joe was handsome and good-natured – a big, broad-shouldered young man with a fine head of untidy brown hair who laughed often, was always at ease, and was marvellously gentle with Ellen. This gentleness in such a big man used to make Mr. Mason warm with joy, and sometimes when he went to bed after watching Joe and Ellen, it seemed wonderful that Ellen should have the love of a man who had so much tenderness for her. Joe Baton hadn’t much money but he wanted to be an architect and he loved the work, and he liked talking about the things he planned to do, especially when he and Ellen had come into the house with the elation of two children after the evening out together. Ellen used to listen to him with a grave wonder, and then, a little later, with laughter in her eyes, she would try to get him to tease her father. Joe could tell stories that would keep them all laughing till two o’clock in the morning, especially if he had brought a bottle or two of red wine. Three times Mr. Mason coaxed Joe to play a game of checkers and then enjoyed giving him a bad beating; Joe was too impulsive to be good at the game.
Mr. Mason hoped that Ellen and Joe would get married and have a place of their own, and after a year, perhaps, he hoped they might invite him to go and live with them. But instead of that, Joe stopped coming to the house. “He’s gone, It’s over. We won’t see him again,” Ellen said. Her solemn face could not conceal her fierce resentment.
She went from day to day with a set little smile on her face, and there was growing in her a strange gravity and stillness that made her father, watching her, ache with disappointment. They used to get up in the morning at the same hour and have breakfast together before going out to work. Her face on these mornings looked pinched and weary, as if she had not slept, and her blue eyes, which at first had shown so easily that she was hurt, now had a dull expression of despair. Yet she walked along the street in the old way, dressed smartly in bright colours, her body erect, and when she came home in the evenings and saw her father looking at her anxiously, she smiled and said, “Do you know, Dad, the most amusing thing happened today . . .” She would start to tell some trivial story, but in a few moments she was so grave again that she frightened him.
Mr. Mason was so upset that he hardly knew what he was doing. One night he left Ellen sitting by herself in the living room and went into his bedroom to read himself to sleep. He was standing on the carpet in his bare feet, staring at the reading-light with his evening paper under his arm. The pillows were propped up on the bed, as they were every night, and he patted them with his hand. At last he sighed, half smiled, and dragged himself into bed, his old body heavy with disappointment. The reading-light shone on his white head and on the intricate network of veins on his red neck as he lay back with his glasses in his hand. “There’s no use worrying and wondering about these things,” he said to himself, so he set his glasses firmly on his nose and started turning the pages of the paper. But no matter how he stared, or even rubbed his hand over his eyes, he kept having the same thought. He sat up and felt a surge of anger. The hand holding the paper began to tremble, his face got red with a sudden rush of blood, and it looked as if he were going to have one of his bursts of bad temper. He felt a hatred of Joe Baton, a resentment against all the days of the past year. “This has got to end,” he thought. “Ellen’s not going to worry herself and me into the grave. What’s she doing sitting in that room by herself at this hour? I’ll put an end to this once and for all.”
He hurried, throwing his old brown dressing gown around him, feeling strong with independence. With his slippers slapping on the floor, and his white hair, ruffled by the pillow, sticking out from his head, he went striding along the hall to the living room.
The light was out, but from the door he could see Ellen sitting by the window with her elbows on the sill. First he coughed, then he walked over softly and sat down on a chair beside her. Moonlight was shining on the side of her face, and her wide forehead where her long hair was pushed back from her temples. He wanted to touch her
cheek and her hair, but he was determined to speak firmly. He did not know how to begin such a conversation. He said very hesitantly, “Aren’t you up late, Ellen?”
“Weren’t you able to sleep, Dad?” she said.
“Yes, but I didn’t want you sitting in here feeling alone.”
“It isn’t late, and I’m all right.”
“The house seemed so quiet,“ he said. “I got thinking you might be feeling lonely. I got thinking of Joe Baton, too. Are you thinking he might still marry you?”
“He can’t marry me. He’s not here to marry me. He’s gone away to Detroit.” And, still without turning her head to look at him, she said, “It will get unpleasant for you, Dad. If you don’t want me to stay here, I won’t. Soon the neighbours will notice me and begin to talk.”
He thought she must hear his heart beating with such slow heaviness that it hurt him, and he said, “I wasn’t thinking anything like that.”
“It doesn’t take people long to notice things,” she said.
“Ellen, it’s all right. Don’t waste yourself on such thoughts. I know you can’t be happy, but try not to feel miserable,” he said. His voice faltered, he thought he was going to lose control of himself. Then he said with simple dignity, “I’ll look after you as long as I live, you know. Please don’t feel miserable.”
“I don’t, Dad,” she said, turning toward him. He saw the soft light on her face. Her face was so smooth and serene that he was startled. There was a contentment in it he had never seen before. The soft light gave her face a glow.
“Ellen,” he whispered. “You look happy, child.”
“I’m very happy,” she said.
“Why are you so happy? How can you have such a feeling?”
“I feel very contented now, that’s all,” she said. “Tonight everything is so still on the street outside and in the dark here. I was so very happy while Joe was with me,” she whispered. “It was as though I had never been alive before. It’s so sweetly peaceful tonight, waiting, and feeling so much stirring within me, so lovely and still.”
The New Yorker Stories Page 4
