Tender Victory

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Johnny smiled slightly. But his strong brown hands unconsciously twisted together in his hidden despair. “I thought it very kind of—Lorry.” He opened a drawer in his desk and brought out the golden box, carefully wrapped in tissue. He lifted the lid and sniffed. “I’m sure it’s attar of roses.”

  The doctor was watching him keenly. The young man’s face had unexpectedly lightened. “Well,” said the doctor, “I told you she was a fine girl. Often wish I were young enough to marry her. She’s got a reputation of being—well—wild. Drinking.” He coughed. “It’s her dad. She is an idealist, and he let her believe he was too. Not deliberately; it’s just the way he is. I think she dreamed up an idea of him which doesn’t exist. Anyway, she’s gone again, and this time she isn’t coming back.”

  Johnny’s fingers tightened suddenly on the box, and his eyes darkened with dismay. “Not coming back? Why?”

  The doctor shrugged, and he smiled with satisfaction in himelf. “Filled right up to here with old Mac. What’s the matter, Johnny? You don’t look very well yourself, all of a sudden.”

  “Nothing,” said Johnny abruptly. He looked at the box; his knuckles were white as he held it. Then he added, “I hope she comes back. I—we—though we haven’t met her often, she made a deep—impression—on all of us. She came a couple of times to see Jean. He took to her right away. Showed her his statue, which he keeps in his room. Told her his mother brought it to him. And Kathy is standing up straight, the way Lorry does, and keeps talking all the time of how their hair is almost the same color, and she’s practically brushing it off her skull. Pietro adores her, and even Max talked to her without prompting, and Emilie sat in her lap. Why, Max is making a statue of her; Miss Coogan brought him modeling clay.” Again he got to his feet, rapidly. “Write to her. She can’t leave her friends like this. She didn’t even come to say goodby!”

  The doctor nodded over and over. “She’ll write to me, I think. And then you can write to her and tell her you need her. Eh?”

  Johnny colored. He folded the tissue paper tenderly about the box and put it away, reluctantly. He said, almost inaudibly, “What can I say to her? What can I—offer—her?” He closed the drawer loudly. “Do you want to see the children? It’s just about their lunchtime.”

  They went into the small, dark dining room. The new table had been spread with newspapers, and on it were scattered piles of books. All the children were gathered about it, bending over notebooks, and writing solemnly with firmly gripped pencils. Jean was there, in his wheel chair, his encased leg elevated, his wise face full of earnest concentration. Pietro was more restless; he was writing very fast on his paper, and biting the tongue he had thrust between his teeth. Kathy was precisely putting down words, every letter neat and rounded. Max, wearing a small black skullcap, was soberly intent on reading, a pencil waiting in his hand. Even little Emilie was there, playing with blocks. Her tiny face was very translucent, like alabaster, and her blue eyes were enormous in it. She seemed much smaller; but when she looked up her expression was one of brilliant joy at the sight of Johnny and the doctor. At the head of the table sat a very little, fat old woman with white stringy hair in a coil on the back of her head, and with the bright, gay eyes of a young child.

  The children all stood up at once, as Miss Coogan had taught them to do, and waited for their elders to speak. Emilie quivered; she wanted to run to Johnny, but Miss Coogan had taught her an old-fashioned respect. Dr. McManus greeted them in his usual truculent way, while they smiled at him. “What’s the skullcap for?” he asked Max, growling.

  The boy, whose once vacant eyes were now filled with serenity, answered, “Rabbi Chortow wears one. He gave me this. He said I could wear it.” He pointed at Jean. “See. Jean. He wears one too.”

  “Well!” said the doctor, with a scowl.

  Jean regarded him sternly. “Father John Kanty says it is—good. The bishops wear one. If I want to wear one, it is good. His Holiness wears one, too. White.”

  The doctor laughed derisively. “So, you’re a Pope at your early age, are you?” He turned to Johnny. “I never asked you, but I’ve been wondering how you’ve explained the religious hodgepodge to these kids. Be interestin’ to know.”

  Johnny put his hand on Jean’s shoulder. “Dear, tell the doctor what I have told you about God, and religion.”

  Jean settled deeper into his wheel chair with importance, while the other children still stood. “Papa told us of a great King, who was good and—chari—chari—table. And he had many boys—saints. And one day he called them and told them to go out into the poor world and tell everybody about him. The King. And the saints did. They were all—different. They all had”—he floundered, and looked at Johnny pleadingly.

  “They all saw the King in a different way,” Johnny prompted.

  Jean nodded. “That’s right. They loved him, but they all saw him in a different way. But he was still the one King. And they went to many—nations—peoples and places, and they told everybody about their Father, and how much they loved Him, and they gave—messages—to the whole world, from their Father to the people. How the King loved them, too, more than anything, and wanted them to know Him, and be happy, and then come to His Kingdom to be with Him forever. And most of the people believed the saints. Almost everybody, I think, and they couldn’t forget the King.”

  “Neat,” squeaked Dr. McManus with a wry grin. “Got around to religious wars yet, Johnny, and everybody butchering everybody else in the name of the King?”

  “Go on, Jean,” said Johnny gravely to the listening boy.

  “Well, there’s Satan,” said Jean. “Father John Kanty told me about him too. And Satan hates people. He—stirs—them up, to hate each other and kill each other. And tries to make them forget God. So they make wars on each other, and Satan thinks that is very good. He—made the people kill the saints. He doesn’t want people to go to the Kingdom, and be with God. He wants them to go into the—the—hell, I think it is—to be with him, without God.”

  “Neat,” repeated the doctor. “Congratulations, Johnny. Nice and simple. I bet, though, all of ’em will be savagely arguing theology with each other when they’re a little older. Hope you enjoy it.”

  He looked at Kathy, his special pet. “Well, fat-face, how are the lessons coming?”

  She gave him her prim smile, and her periwinkle eyes sparkled “I do long division now,” she said.

  “You do, eh?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “Well, good for you. You’ll be a help to your papa, helping him divide his little salary among all you brats. That’ll be one of his miracles.”

  The young eyes twinkled still more. “Mama Burnsdale thinks doctor should pay Papa more.”

  “Is that so?” he said irascibly. “Papa probably thinks so too. Well, excuse me, scholars. I want a word with the lady-withall-those-infemal-lists.”

  He stamped off, frowning, toward the kitchen. Pietro could restrain himself no longer. He cried shrilly, “Suckers all gone! Need more suckers!”

  The doctor glared at him over his immense shoulder, and then glared at Johnny. “Boy,” he said, “you’ve already got one!”

  Mrs. Burnsdale was busily ladling soup into an immense, cracked old tureen. Her solid and rocky face broke into a smile when she saw the doctor, and she pushed a gray curl off her forehead. She was a pleasant, plump sight in her flowered housedress and white apron. “Well, doctor,” she said, “I’m glad to see you. We’re clean out of flour and sugar and a dozen other things. I’ve got the list ready. I was going to mail it to you this afternoon. I’m thinking of a good big ham for Sunday.”

  “Oh, you are!” He picked up a couple of thick sugar cookies waiting on a plate, and began to chew them. “Know what hams cost these days? And how do you explain to the parson where all the goodies come from?”

  She laughed. “He doesn’t even ask, poor dear. He thinks they come from the food allowance. Why, he even said yesterday that he doesn’t know why people complain so about the high c
ost of living! Everything’s so cheap, he says.”

  “That’s nice,” said the doctor. “How about stopping raiding my wallet and letting him find out some of the facts of life? Do him good.”

  Mrs. Burnsdale put her hands on her hips. “No, doctor. Hasn’t he got enough troubles?” Her flushed face clouded uneasily. “Maybe you think I’m superstitious, or something. Maybe I am,” she added defiantly. “But when things go kind of good I cross my fingers, because usually something bad’s on the way. And things are going too good for all of us just now.”

  The doctor picked up another couple of cookies, and Mrs. Burnsdale deftly removed the plate to a safer place. The doctor leaned against the fine new refrigerator. “Don’t think you’re superstitious at all. Found out that a long time ago. Anything in the air you can put your finger on?”

  She shook her head mournfully. “Well, there’s little Emilie, of course. Mr. Fletcher can’t stop brooding about her. That’s one thing. But I feel it’s something else, just about ready to break.” She shivered. “If I was a Catholic I’d cross myself.”

  “Go ahead,” said the doctor. “Mighty good cookies, by the way. Well, go ahead and cross yourself. Aren’t you a Christian too?”

  He walked over to a counter and snatched another cooky. “You’ve got enough of ’em. Bake me a batch, when you send the next list. I’ll take the one you have now.”

  She found the envelope, already stamped, and gave it to him. He pushed it into his pocket. The door opened, and Johnny put his head into the room. He was very pale and unsmiling. “Doctor, may I see you a moment? There’s someone here.”

  The doctor and Mrs. Burnsdale stared at his drawn face. Then the doctor said to Mrs. Burnsdale, “Something tells me you’d better start crossing yourself right now.”

  “What?” asked Johnny in a dull and troubled voice. But Dr. McManus pushed him into the dining room where a strange quiet had fallen upon the children, for their abnormal prescience scented danger. Miss Coogan sat with her withered hands clasped on the table, and her equally withered face was working. She glanced at the closed door leading to the parlor. “That—that woman, Mr. Fletcher,” she faltered, “I’m afraid. She—forced me out of teaching in the schools—before I had a pension due. No—no certificate.” She swallowed. “Father John Kanty made them give me—a pension”; her frail voice broke, and her gentle eyes filled with tears. “She saw me here.”

  Johnny stopped beside her; the children’s suddenly enormous eyes fixed themselves upon him keenly, and he sensed the animal alertness in them for the first time in weeks—the impulse to flee, the flexing of their legs to spring, the clenching of their small hands to fight and tear. This terribly alarmed him. He put his hand on Miss Coogan’s shoulder and pressed it hard. He smiled. “Don’t worry, Miss Coogan. Everything will be all right.”

  “Famous last words,” muttered the doctor, alive with curiosity. “Who the hell’s out there? Medusa?”

  Miss Coogan, now sensing the mysterious if rigid agitation of the children, smiled and blew her nose. “Well, yes, doctor. Medusa it is.”

  “I think you’d better tell Mrs. Burnsdale to serve you and the children lunch,” said Johnny, forcing himself to relax. He patted Max’s head. “I won’t be here for a little while, so Max, you with the skullcap, you say grace.”

  “I have skullcap too,” said Jean offended.

  The doctor threw up his hands. “Both of you say grace, damn it!” he said. “And thank God for that thumping good soup out there.” He winked at Kathy, and the bright blueness of her eyes returned, and her cheek dimpled. He looked at Pietro, whose teeth were showing between a tight slit of lips. “Hey, you Pete,” said the doctor. “You eat too many suckers. I’m going to send you a bag today, with suckers as big as a plate.” He scowled at the little boy ferociously, and shook his fist. Petro immediately bounced up and down in his chair with delight. “Red ones!” he cried.

  “Hah,” said the doctor ominously. “Red, he says.”

  He and Johnny went into the parlor, and closed the door tightly behind them. A small, stiff woman in a mannish gray suit and a very mannish hat sat on the edge of one of the deplorable chairs, and was distastefully surveying the room. She turned herself swiftly on her buttocks at the entrance of the two men, and Dr. McManus saw her taut, sucked-in cheeks, her sharp, jutting nose, her fanatical black eyes. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was drawn into a large lump like wood at the nape of her winkled neck. When she saw Dr. McManus her lips parted in consternation.

  “Well, well,” he squealed genially. “If it isn’t Gussie Guston, our famous do-gooder and amateur psychiatrist and social-consciousness club girl! Hiya, Gus?” He surreptitiously pinched Johnny’s arm, and then planted himself affably before the woman.

  Mrs. Guston had recovered herself. Hate stood in her eyes like frozen lightning. But her voice was amazingly conciliatory, and she even smiled. “Now, Al,” she said, in a voice like tearing tin. “How you exaggerate.”

  The doctor nudged Johnny openly, and winked. “Gussie likes me; she really does. She knows that I hold her husband’s notes for forty-five thousand dollars. He runs a lumber mill. Can call in the notes any time. Always be nice to a creditor, Gussie believes.”

  The woman attempted friendly coyness. “Now, Al, you know my name is Augusta, not Gussie. You’re the only one who ever calls me that disgusting name.” Two deep lines appeared between her eyes. “I suppose you’re here to see one of those unfortunate children who live in this house?”

  “Unfortunate?” asked Johnny, with slow wrath. But the doctor pinched him furtively again, and sat down. “Well, Gussie, as a matter of fact, I am. Concerned about the boy who had the operation a few weeks ago. After all, he was my patient.”

  Johnny sat down, and his wrath quieted. “Too bad about the boy,” said the doctor. “We just got him in time.” He looked at the woman sympathetically. “Never mind my gibes, Gussie. I know you’ve got a heart of gold; just like to kid you. Where’d you hear about Jean? Guess you’re here to see what you can do, eh? She’s the president of the League for Social Betterment, Johnny. Well, I’m right with you, Gussie. Shame about the kids,” and he shook his head dolorously.

  Johnny turned to him again, and saw only the blank and bristling profile of the old man.

  The doctor waved his hand. “Well, go on, Gussie. What’s it all about?”

  She shot Johnny a glance of the purest malignance. “It’s come to the attention of the Board of Education, through us, about these five children. They haven’t been registered at school, where they can be made into good Americans. They are all of school age—three boys, two girls. They should be in their classes.”

  Johnny said in a pent voice, “I told you that they aren’t ready for school. It will be months before Jean can walk. And Max and Pietro and Kathy, if they went to regular school, would be in classes with children much younger than themselves. I gave you an idea of their background, Mrs. Guston. They’ve had it hard enough, without having to stand the jeers of younger children in classes. They have to—orient themselves.”

  She tossed her head, and eyed him with cold triumph. “I don’t agree with you, Mr. Fletcher. They must learn to adjust. But that is beside the point. Much worse is really happening here. Five children, yourself, and a housekeeper. An elderly woman.”

  “That’s right,” interrupted the doctor happily. “She can’t be less than eight years younger than you, Gussie.”

  Her nostrils flared. She made her voice patient. “Al, I don’t suppose you know all the circumstances. After all, you are just a kind, good doctor, doing what you can. Such an imposition, too!” She smirked at him. “You see, Al, we’ve been doing some investigating these last few days. Mr. Fletcher was a chaplain, and he picked up these—these little ones—in some awful fascist place in Europe, and somehow brought them here. A call to Washington established the method. Bonds were put up for them so that they wouldn’t become public charges. But”—and she paused dramatically
—“they’ve already become public charges! The boy Jean was operated on without charge, and there was no charge to the minister for his hospital accommodations. Who paid the nurses I don’t know.”

  Johnny exclaimed with deep and passionate anger, “I don’t know what this is all about! Dr. McManus here told me that some friend owed me a great deal, and undertook to pay the expenses incurred by me!” He turned to Dr. McManus and said with rising rage, “Well, why don’t you speak up, doctor?”

  Dr. McManus sighed. “Go on, Gussie,” he murmured.

  She was gaining more and more confidence. She leaned toward the doctor eagerly, and her unpleasant voice was quick: “And there’s been all that notoriety. The boy Max was attacked by some other boy; he probably provoked the attack. These Germans are so savage. But where was someone to protect him? Mr. Fletcher is a minister, but he was very remiss. We all agree on that. Where was the housekeeper? After all, a woman her—”

  “Age,” supplied Dr. McManus, understandingly.

  Mrs. Guston bit her lip. “I’m sure she is very competent. I hear no complaints. But, after all, five children! Practically unprotected. Mr. Fletcher isn’t married; he can’t expect hired help to care for these children. So they will be neglected, their health and welfare ignored, their education abandoned. I saw that he”—and again she looked at Johnny with malevolence—“has a really dreadful person teaching them, as he says. Teaching! Why, the woman’s senile! She’s over seventy! We had to force her out of the”—and her face twisted as if she tasted something nasty—“the public school, though a priest made a fuss about getting her a pension. Really! She isn’t fit to be in charge of a kindergarten. We discovered she hasn’t a modern teaching certificate; she attended some nuns’ school a thousand years ago, which wasn’t even accredited then! Just imagine!”