There was the tiniest of entry halls, containing nothing but an ancient hatrack, the floor covered with clean but broken linoleum, of a dull-red color. It opened onto a parlor, filled with elderly furniture made of imitation maple, upholstered in a chintz pattern that had been washed so often that its original pattern was completely faded, giving a general effect of a dim pink-green. A big fiber mat covered the floor, in squares of blue and yellow, obviously new, and obviously more suited to a terrace than an indoor room. Johnny saw dark-chocolate walls, plastered, with a pink ceiling, old lamps with checkered porcelain shades or lamps made of wicker, tables of pseudo-maple, mahogany, and walnut, all glazed with fresh and ugly varnish. Along one wall stretched a big bookcase, but only five or six old books were there. But there was a fireplace, and it was to this that Johnny turned, after his first dejected survey of the room. There could be fires here in the winter, and rosy comfort, and intimacy and love.
“It looks very—clean,” he said to Mrs. McGee, who was watching him closely for his reaction.
“That’s about all you can say of it,” the doctor jeered. “Everything is here that anybody wanted to throw away, then thought it good enough for the parsons.”
“Now, Dr. McManus,” said Mrs. McGee coldly. She had spirit; her pale nostrils flared in her nondescript face. “We do our best. Dan and I give all we can.”
She led them into a dining room, so narrow, so dark that it was almost impossible to see that here the furniture was “mission,” dating back to the early years of the century, dark ugly wood with imitation-leather seats, and a round table. Mrs. McGee snapped on a light, though the sunset was still glowing with gold and magenta outside. Then Johnny was touched. The table was covered with a cheap, machine-made lace cloth. Modest china and plated silver, very worn, had been laid out. In the center stood a glass bowl of garden flowers, fresh and sweet.
Mrs. McGee pressed her hands against the inexpensive print of her dress and waited. “Well,” said Johnny, “this is very kind.” He gave her his strong, gentle smile, and she smiled back at him, becoming as pretty as a girl. She explained that the other members of the Ladies’ Aid could not be here just now; they had families, and it was suppertime. But they had filled the icebox and the pantry, and had brought their own “roll-out” beds for the children. Johnny was perplexed, but Mrs. Burnsdale said, “Roll-out beds! No bedrooms here?”
The two women’s eyes clashed together in an invisible but palpable engagement. Then, just as Johnny was becoming apprehensive, Mrs. McGee smiled her pretty smile again, and she tilted her head regretfully. “There are only three bedrooms, I’m sorry to say. One a little big, for the minister, and two very small ones. We worried and worried about it. There were just three beds, a double for the minister and a single in each of the other rooms. Where would we put five children, and a housekeeper? We had a special meeting. We were terribly worried. Seven people. So we worked on it Somebody had an extra twin bed, and it’s in one of the small rooms. And then somebody else had two roll-out beds. They push away when you’ve folded them up in the morning; there wouldn’t be room to let them stand open during the day. And then Mrs. Fichte got the men working, and they bought a day bed, and we put it in the minister’s room. We shoved the beds around, and the only way we could think of was that two of the boys have the tiny bedroom, and one of the boys sleep in the minister’s room, and the girls with Mrs. Burnsdale.” She sighed and rubbed her thin arms, as if remembering strenuous work. “It’s the best we can do.”
Johnny said quickly, “After all, you hadn’t expected five children. I think you’ve done wonderfully, and thank you.”
Mrs. McGee became gloomy, and shook her head. “Maybe you won’t be happy when you see the rest of the house.”
“Correct,” said Dr. McManus gleefully. She gave him a devastating glance, which made him chuckle.
Mrs. Burnsdale had a low opinion of the small dark kitchen. The pantry space was large enough for only a few battered pans, and a few dishes and kitchenware. The sink was iron, its glaze of cracked white porcelain. There was no refrigerator, only an icebox with a water pan beneath it. The gas stove, converted from coal, emitted a sickening smell, but its black sides and nickel front had been polished. Mrs. Burnsdale said, “I haven’t seen a stove like that since I was in my twenties. I didn’t think they could make it work with gas.”
Mrs. McGee gazed at it despondently. “It’s pretty awful,” she admitted. “But we hope to get you a better one soon. Mrs. Barnes is going to buy an electric, when her husband gets his raise; he works for our night newspaper. And then she’ll give the parsonage her gas stove, which isn’t more than six years old.”
“Something tells me, Mrs. Burnsdale, that you’ll be cooking on that cave-man range to the end of time,” Dr. McManus remarked. “Mac Summerfield doesn’t believe in raises for his labor.”
Mrs. McGee swung on him, her tired, shrewd eyes sparkling with anger. “Well, what’s wrong with you giving Mrs. Burnsdale a new stove then? Instead of sneering all the time?”
Dr. McManus rubbed his chin and regarded her approvingly. “Marjie, you always did have guts. Women seem to have more of ’em these days than men. When you put it that way—Mrs. Burnsdale’s stove—it makes me think. I wouldn’t do a thing for the parson, but Mrs. Burnsdale’s different. I’ll think it over.”
“I prefer electric,” said Mrs. Burnsdale majestically. “With at least four cooking spaces, and two ovens. I’ll need two ovens, with this family. Also a refrigerator, not this ice. The kids have to have fresh milk, and the refrigerator will have to be extra-large.”
Dr. McManus was all admiration. “Anything else?” he asked.
She studied the kitchen, one stubby gloved finger against her lips. “Yes. more cupboards. At least three iron skillets, and a lot of new pans. I’ll make a list.”
“Good,” said the doctor, while Johnny and Mrs. McGee gaped.
“And new linoleum,” said Mrs. Burnsdale thoughtfully. “And a corner blocked off, and a table and six chairs for breakfast. I like yellow, and chrome.”
“Make a list,” said Dr. McManus.
Mrs. McGee looked with helpless eloquence at Johnny. And then, involuntarily, he winked. Mrs. McGee was obviously startled. She brooded on it. She came to herself, gazed at Johnny, and winked back, rejoicing. She turned to Mrs. Burnsdale. “You wouldn’t want a nicer dining-room set, or new furniture for the parlor?” she asked innocently.
“I certainly would,” replied Mrs. Burnsdale calmly. “I’ll make a list.”
“Don’t be too niggardly about it,” said Dr. McManus with heavy irony.
“Of course I won’t,” Mrs. Burnsdale promised, which immediately brought ire to the doctor’s face. “And now,” Mrs. Burnsdale continued, “I want to see the pastor’s study. If we’re to have a real congregation here, the study is very important.”
Mrs. McGee coughed wretchedly. “There isn’t any,” she confessed. She pointed to the artificial-maple desk in the corner, near one of the two dreary windows. Then she pointed to the abominably pink ceiling with its countless cracks. “Do you see that line of division up there? Well, there was a partition, breaking up the parlor into two rooms. But they were so tiny! So the Ladies’ Aid got up a fund, five years ago, and we pulled down the partition and threw the two rooms together. You see, the study had only one window, and it was bad for the minister.”
Mrs. Burnsdale and Johnny again gave long attention to the room, which was still dishearteningly small. Mrs. McGee sighed with sympathy, but darted Dr. McManus an accusing glance. “It does make it homey when the pastor has visitors—his study and the parlor all one,” she ventured. Mrs. Burnsdale marched over to the desk, the floor shaking under her heavy step. She opened the small drawers, significantly examined its scarred and ink-stained surface. She looked at the bookcase which ran the whole length of the chocolate wall behind the desk. Then she put her hands on her hips and faced Dr. McManus across the length of the room.
“I ha
ve been in some pretty awful parsonages before,” she said, “but this beats them all. Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “I am. But the rest of the congregation isn’t. If they want a church, a decent parsonage, I’m here to help them. I’ll give exactly what they give, but not a penny more. Well?”
She considered this, and her frown slowly faded. “Doctor,” she said more kindly, “I’m afraid you’re right. Well, Mrs. McGee, I’m now a member of your Ladies’ Aid, and when I get through with them—”
The furnace was old, broken, and dangerous, a coal-burner of some forgotten make. Mrs. Burnsdale examined the dirty cellar, the small heap of coal. The filthy, cobwebbed windows admitted no light. They had not brought the children down here, after Johnny had given a quick signal to Mrs. Burnsdale. She said in her loud and forthright voice, “That furnace’ll never be used again in this house! I’m not taking chances on those five children dying of carbon—carbon—di—di—”
“Carbon monoxide is the word, I believe,” said the doctor.
“It goes on the list,” said Mrs. Burnsdale.
“How much,” asked the doctor with outrage, “is going on my list, and how much does the congregation pay?”
Mrs. Burnsdale relented. Her broad face dimpled, and her eyes sparkled. She put her hand on the doctor’s arm. “Just what I’ve mentioned. Nothing else. Doctor, you are a wonderful man. A wonderful man.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” said the doctor brusquely, and put a safe distance between himself and the redoubtable woman. “I’m buying you what you need, but nothing for the parson. That’s understood, isn’t it?”
Johnny, after this inspection, was too disheartened to be amused. Mrs. Burnsdale was considering the cellar shelves, and frowning rebukingly. “I don’t know if the other ministers had wives, but if they did they certainly weren’t forehanded about canning and such. In my opinion, a woman who doesn’t can hasn’t any business being a wife.”
They walked carefully up the molding wooden stairs. “You can buy frozen things, and canned goods,” said the doctor.
“Yes, fine for emergencies and people who have to cook fast, and other things too. But give me a good home-canned peach any time, or real strawberry jam, or tomatoes, or jelly.” Mrs. Burnsdale spoke with authority, and the doctor did not dispute her. When they reached the kitchen again, where the children were huddling in silence, Dr. McManus said, “You haven’t seen the bedrooms yet.” He chuckled morosely. “If what has greeted your dewy eyes already hasn’t taken the heart out of you, the bedrooms will! They will!”
They did. The “minister’s room” was even more drab than the parlor, and was furnished with the same imitation, scarred maple and indistinguishable print, with matching draperies, one small high window, round like a porthole in the leprous green plaster of the wall, one table by the side of the wilted four-poster with its cheap maroon counterpane, and garnished with a dim lamp and a cheap pink rayon shade, and a maple rocking chair. Johnny thought of the large gilt and mosaic crucifix he had been given in Rome, guaranteed to be blessed by His Holiness himself, and he thought that, hung over his bed, it would brighten this wretched room. “But the red day bed is nice, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. McGee, with hope. She went to the object in question, and smoothed its coarse cotton cover. “It cost nearly seventy dollars, and they tell me it’s very comfortable. One of the boys can sleep here. Or even two; it’s wide enough.” Mrs. Burnsdale murmured approvingly.
Johnny said, “I think Jean and Max should sleep on the day bed.” Mrs. Burnsdale had found the meager closet which Airs. McGee explained was the “linen shelves, and such.” Six blankets, worn but clean, and very thin, lay there, and about ten sheets and a dozen pillowcases, and one cotton comforter.
“The Ladies’ Aid, which I belong to, is going to find lots more blankets and sheets,” said Mrs. Burnsdale emphatically. “And about four dozen towels. When’s your next meeting, Mrs. McGee?”
“The terror of the Ladies’ Aid,” said the doctor with respect.
The bathroom was displayed with deep embarrassment by Airs. McGee. The fixtures were incredibly ancient, the high tub set in a wooden frame. Mrs. Burnsdale began to express her indignation, but the doctor raised his hand. “No, Mrs. McGee, nothing here is going on the list. That’s the parson’s department.”
“Seven people, and only this,” said Mrs. Burnsdale, pointing ruthlessly.
Dr. McManus’s eyes followed her finger. “Now I think that’s a very nice article. Used it myself, when I was a kid. I’ve got a fondness for it. Did a lot of good, sound meditation there. If it’s ever thrown out I’ll take it for my own.”
“And put it in your front hall. Everybody should have something he cherishes,” said Mrs. Burnsdale witheringly, and Johnny smiled. Mrs. McGee had retreated delicately to the door, where she was pretending to examine the fiber matting in the tiny hall. “In fact,” went on Mrs. Burnsdale, “why should we keep what’s so dear to you, doctor? Let’s make you a present of it!”
“Now that’s very good of you, Mrs. Burnsdale,” said the doctor, scowling at Johnny. “In fact, I’ll take you up on it. Excellent workmanship there; nothing shoddy, like these days. Last a century. Let me see. I’ll replace it with two of ’em. Would you, my dear lady, prefer pink ones, or a blue and a rose one?” Mrs. McGee, hearing his tone, went quickly down the twisted little stairway. Even she, who had spirit, winced when Dr. McManus spoke like that.
But Mrs. Burnsdale was not intimidated. She thought. “Well, I think I’d like pink. Nice for the girls, and girls should be considered first. That’ll be the beginning for what they call matched sets. We can put a shower rod over that—that tub! Look at it! Doctor, did you meditate there, too, and what did you think about?”
Dr. McManus said, “My father was the first minister, and usually I thought of how hungry I was, and how boiled potatoes, even with my mother’s milk gravy, wasn’t enough for dinner. I thought of how I was going to get through medical school; I thought about adding some new odd jobs to the other jobs I had. I thought of how nice it would be if my mother could have a single new dress; she never got one for nearly five years after we came here. I thought of my father, trying to inspire the love of God, and faith and hope and charity, in his congregation, and how he wasn’t doing very well at it, though he was the finest man on earth. I thought how his spirit was being broken, and how he looked when the sun was on his face in the back yard. I thought what courage he had, for many years, standing in his pulpit, talking like an angel, and nobody listening. Mrs. Burnsdale, my-lady-with-the-list, that’s what I thought about.”
Johnny put his hand on that incredibly wide and massive shoulder. It was only his imagination, of course, but he thought it was trembling. Mrs. Burnsdale’s eyes had begun to blink. She sniffled. “Hope I’m not getting a cold,” she said severely, as she fumbled in her purse and brought out a very white, starched handkerchief. She blew her nose. “Doctor,” she said, and nothing could have been sadder than her voice, “why did your father stay?”
“Because no one else would take this parish at his salary,” said the doctor roughly, but he stood very rigid under Johnny’s hand and did not move away. “And he wouldn’t desert what he called his ‘people’ and let the church and this house rot, untenanted.” He grumbled under his breath. “He said shepherds had lived in worse places, and that the first Shepherd had no place to lay His head. So why should he complain? Taking it all in all, though, the people weren’t any poorer than they are now. Twenty dollars a week at the best, but it bought more then. Well. Besides, the old ladies and the kids loved him, and they were his own.”
Mrs. Burnsdale gazed at the tub, then she said strongly, “We can get rid of everything else, but not that! I’ll tell the kids about it. Just a shower rod, though, and perhaps we can paint that splintered wood around it some nice color.”
“Pink, no doubt,” said the doctor wrathfully. She smiled at him, and they went downstairs again, after visiting the i
ncredibly tiny bedrooms where Mrs. Burnsdale and the children would sleep. They were met by Mrs. McGee, who said, “It’s getting real dark, and I think the children ought to have their supper, Mrs. Burnsdale, and it’s all ready for all of you, hot in the oven. A good big pot of pork and beans, and macaroni with cheese—lots of cheese—and three loaves of home-made bread, and—oh, yes—some vegetable soup, and a nice potato salad, with greens from Mrs. Schoeffel’s own garden, and milk for the children, and a pot of coffee. I can’t stay any longer. I hope,” she said politely, “that it’ll be all right. And there’s enough food here for a couple of days more, too. The ladies took care of that.”
“Fine, fine,” said Mrs. Burnsdale warmly, and took off her gloves. “I’ll just get an apron.” She hesitated. She wondered what her status would be here but, seeing Mrs. McGee’s grateful eyes, she responded impulsively. She kissed the other woman quickly on her cheek.
“I’m staying for dinner,” announced the doctor. “Haven’t had anything to eat like that for years.” He unfastened his grimy tie, and let it hang. “And, afterwards, you can give me your infernal list, madam.”
They sat crowded about the small and ugly table in the dining room. Johnny folded his hands, and the children imitated him, and he bent his head. “Dear Lord, Our God, Our Most Beloved Father, we thank You for what You have given us this day. Let it nourish us, that we may do Your work, and grant us peace. Amen.”
Dr. McManus, who had just sat like an enormous lump in his chair, did not join in the prayer, or even bend his head. And then he snorted, “Peace, amen! You’ll need it, my bright young man. And now, pass the beans.”
“Papa first,” said Kathy in her admonishing voice, and the doctor dropped his hand and waited.
7
They had finished dinner and the children were in bed, and there was the good hearty sound of Mrs. Burnsdale washing dishes in the kitchen. Dr. McManus and Johnny sat in the study-parlor; the muggy air barely stirred in the close confines of the room.
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