Maggie Now

by Betty Smith

Camp Upton any day now. I'd like to take in a good show

  before I leave. Would you go with me, providing I can get

  tickets for Saturday night? "

  "Why I would love to, Mr. Pheid," she said.

  "Look," he blurted out. "It's not my fault and I can't

  help it, but everybody calls me Sonny."

  She laughed and said: "And they call me Maggie-Now

  and I can't help it either."

  "So long for a while, Maggie-Now."

  "So long, Sonny."

  He kissed her and, to her surprise, she liked it.

  After the show he asked her if she'd care for some chop

  suey. She thought of Claude and felt a pang. She said she

  didn't care for chop suey, so they had butter cakes and

  coffee at Child's. Going home on the B.M.T., he told her

  he had been going with a girl but she liked a feller who

  could spend a lot of money on her, and the way it was

  with him, he was partners with his father and he got room

  and board and pocket money, but all the profits went back

  in the business. And Sonny said he thought that was all

  right seeing that he would get the business after his father

  died, but the girl found another feller who had more

  money to spend on her and that was that, he said.

  t249]

 

  "Are you going with anyone?" he asked.

  "Not any more," she said.

  "We're both in the clear, then," he said.

  He told her he was going to camp Tuesday and he had

  to spend Monday night with his family but couldn't they

  do something together on Sunday? She told him she had

  to go and see her godmother but it would be a short visit.

  He suggested picking her up there and they could have a

  soda or something. Arrangements were made. She

  received his good-night kiss, which she had looked forward

  to, with a sensation of pleasure.

  Lottie, her conscience bothering her a little because she

  had been so outspoken in her dislike of Claude, treated

  Sonny most cordially and insisted that he stay a while. She

  made him sit in Timrmy's chair.

  He sat down, leaned back and looked around. "My, it's

  nice here, isn't it, Maggie-Now?"

  "I love this room," said Maggie-Now.

  "Timmy always liked it so," said Lottie.

  "Your son?" he asked.

  "My husband. He passed away some years ago."

  "God rest his soul," said Sonny.

  "I'll show you his picture."

  The album tinkled out its little tune when she opened it.

  "Say! Do that again," he said. She opened and closed it

  several times. "That's a dandy picture album."

  "Timmy gave it to me on our anniversary. Here's a

  picture of the two of us taken just before we was married."

  He looked at the picture and looked at her. "You

  haven't changed," he said. An old-rose flush came to her

  faded cheeks. She showed him a picture of Tim in his

  uniform. "Your husband must have been quite a man," he

  said.

  "Oh, he was! Didn't Maggie-Now tell you about my

  Timmy?"

  "I haven't known Mr. Pheid very long," said

  Maggie-Now. Sonny looked around the room.

  "Looking for an ashtray?" asked Lottie.

  "I'm looking for this Mister Pheid."

  Maggie-Now laughed. "I mean Sonny," she said.

  "Well, I'll tell you about Timmy," said Lottie.

  To Maggie-Now, the story seemed interminable. She

  had heard

  [ So ]

 

  it a hundred times, it seemed. Also she was a little

  annoyed with Lottie, who had been so cool toward Claude

  and now was so warm toward Sonny.

  Eventually, Lottie concluded her story with the

  inevitable: "And we was sweethearts until the end."

  Sonny was moved by the story. "You were a lucky

  woman, Mrs. Shawn," he said.

  "Don't I know it! "

  He touched her hand briefly and said: "And he was a

  very lucky man."

  Quick tears came to Lottie's tired eyes. She rubbed the

  tears out with her fingers. "Thank you, Sonny," she said.

  She turned to Maggie-l`;ow. "Come in the kitchen with

  me. I want to show you something. Excuse us?" she asked

  Sonny.

  "Certainly." He didn't get up. He was looking through

  the album.

  In the kitchen, Lottie whispered: "Where'd you meet

  him?"

  "Church social. But I knew who he was, though. He and

  his father have a plumbing shop together."

  "Will he get the business when his father dies?"

  "I guess so."

  "He's just the right man for you, Maggie-Now."

  Maggie-Now thought of Claude and sighed.

  "You're still thinking of that other one, ain't you?"

  "Always," said Maggie-Now.

  "Listen. He was all right for one springtime of your

  life the way he looked at you and the things he must-a

  said to you. He gave you something nice to remember

  from time to time as you grow old. And that's all he

  should be: a memory.

  "But for the long haul . . . marriage, a home, children,

  being supported . . . someone to get old with, Sonny's the

  one."

  "What makes you think he'd want me?"

  "He does. Or he will. Don't be foolish. Hang on to him."

  When they got back into the living room, Sonny was

  standing at the mantelpiece. He grinned and said: "Well,

  ladies, will I do?"

  Maggie-Nc,w couldn't help but laugh. But she was

  embarrassed when Lottie went to him, put her hands on

  his arms, looked up at him and said: "You'll do."

  Maybe Solmy was embarrassed, too. He looked away from

  [2Si ~

 

  Maggie-Now and pointed to the china pug dog on the

  mantelpiece. "I was looking at this," he said. "Can I see

  it?" (He meant, could he pick it up.)

  "Sure. Go 'head," said Lottie.

  He examined it admiringly. "Say, it's a little dandy," he

  said. "Just a little dandy."

  "My Thnmy give it to me for a anniversary present. He

  loved it, too. He used to stand there, just like you, and

  hold it and say: 'Look at the little buggers getting theirs!'"

  Sonny let out a roar of laughter. "Sh!" said Lottie.

  "Mama's sleeping."

  But Mama had awakened. She called out querulously

  from the bedroom: "Timmy? That you, Timmy?"

  "It's all right, Mama," called out Lottie. There was a

  little silence. The old lady mumbled and evidently went

  back to sleep.

  With av.7ed voice, Lottie said to Maggie-Now, "Mama

  thought it was Timmy laughing." She stared at Sonny.

  "Yes," she said, "come to think of it, in many ways, he

  reminds me of Timmy."

  With a little shock, Ilaggie-Now told herself: Yes. He

  does! But how? Why? She wondered. He doesn't look like

  Uncle l immy.

  "Anyhow," Lottie went on, "when Maggie-Now gets

  married, I'm going to give her that little dog for a

  wedding present."

  "I better be careful then, not to break it." He replaced

>   it carefully on the mantelpiece.

  Sonny took Maggie-Now home. "I'd ask you in," she

  said, "only...

  "I know how it is," he said. "My pop's the same. My

  sister used to go with Cholly. You know, the piano

  player? She couldn't bring him in the house. Pop always

  passed some remark. He had nothing against Cholly, but

  he passed these remarks. She always had to meet Cholly

  on the corner."

  In a way, thought Maggie-Now, it's a relief to be with

  someone of your own kind, who knows how things are and

  who doesn't keep saying he'd like to meet your father.

  "Look, Maggie-Now," he said, "if I write to you, will you

  write back?"

  "I'd be so glad to, Sonny."

  1 2S2 J

 

  "Good-by, then." He put his arms about her tightly and

  kissed

  her urgently.

  "Don't," she murmured.

  "Just a long good-by kiss, Maggie-Now?"

  "Please don't," she said.

  "It wouldn't go further than that. I'm not that kind of a

  guy."

  "I know, Sonny."

  She submitted to the embrace, wishing Sonny were

  Claude and

  unhappy because she felt that she was disloyal to the one

  she

  loved and would always love, even though she never saw

  him

  again.

  ~ CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR ~

  HE WROTE once a week. } lis first letter was a detailed

  account of the weather of Camp Upton. Her answer was a

  detailed account of the weather of Brooklyn. In his next

  letter he gave her a detailed account of the meals served at

  camp. She wrote back how dear everything was getting and

  how, now, three people could hardly eat on a dollar a day.

  Next he wrote, asking her for a picture of herself. All the

  fellows here have pictures to hang up.... She had only a

  picture of herself at six with veil and prayerbook when she

  made her first communion and another when she was

  twelve and was confirmed. She went down to Batterman's

  and had a cabinet picture made of herself. She thought it

  was a good picture. She inscribed it: "To Sonny, from

  Margaret Rose." (She thought the fellers might laugh if she

  wrote "Maggie-Now.") A few weeks later, he sent her a

  snapshot of himself in his lima-bean pants and rolled

  puttees and campaign hat straight over his eyes and

  cradling his rifle in his arms. He was looking straight into

  the camera. He looked like exactly what he was: a good,

  honest, straightforward,

  [253]

 

  ordinary boy. She showed Lottie the snapshot when she

  visited her.

  "His face is a open book," said Lottie.

  Yes, thought Maggie-Now, and his life is an open book.

  She knew all about him: she knew his father, she knew

  what their business was, what their background was. She

  knew where he lived and where he had come from. She

  knew of his sister and his brothers and the girl he used to

  go with. She knew he had graduated from Boys' High and

  that he was a Catholic.

  She knew nothing about Claude.

  Yet . . .

  Sonny wrote, after he'd been in the army for two months,

  that his next letter might come from a different address.

  I can't tell you anymore than that, but if I come back all

  in one piece, will you be my girl?

  She was touched. Be my girl was tantamount to saying:

  Become engaged to me and we'll marry . . .

  She found it hard writing an answering letter. She was a

  fairly direct person and it was always easier to say yes or

  no rather than maybe. But now she couldn't say yes, and

  she didn't want to say no.

  Any girl would be proud to be your girl,

  she wrote. (But she couldn't write: I'll be proud to be your

  girl.

  I'll see,

  she wrote, meaning she'd think it over. (She couldn't write:

  I've made up my mind.)

  His answer came three weeks later.

  I'm tickled to death you didn't say no. I'll wait and I'll

  keep my fingers crossed.

  The letter came from overseas.

  She looked forward to getting Sonny's letters and she

  enjoyed answering them. He kept pressing her for a

  decision.

  . . . we'll be moving up soon and it would mean a lot to

  me if I knew . . . [And] P.S. If you run into Father Flynn,

  tell him our chaplain, Father Newsome, said he went to

  college with him and I forgot to say, don't worry if you

  don't hear from me in some time.

  t254]

 

  She started to worry immediately. As soon as she'd

  finished reading the letter, she went to church and lit a

  candle and prayed for his safety. She saw Father Flynn

  outside the church and told him about the chaplain.

  A longing, faraway look came to Father Flynn's face as

  he said: "Oh, yes. Freddy! The best end the school ever

  had. It seems so long ago."

  He told her how pleased he was with the

  Thursday-night socials in the church basement. Sometimes

  there were as many as twenty yotmg people attending. He

  told her he had ten new player rolls for the pianola.

  "I went from door to door begging for rolls old and

  new," he said.

  "But, Father, we were going to appoint a committee to

  go out and get donations...."

  "I couldn't wait that long. I got so sick and tired of

  hearing 'The Oceana Roll.'" He paused. "I've heard there

  was some criticism about using the church basement for

  the socials. I've heard that some of our parishioners are

  against them."

  "There are always a few people against things," she said.

  "But I heard that people think they're a good thing. They

  bring young people together."

  He looked at the letter in her hand. "Yes, they do, don't

  they, Margaret?" There was a twinkle in his eye. He put

  two fingers on the letter as though blessing the sender.

  "He's a good boy, Margaret."

  "Yes, he is, Father. But . . ."

  He remembered the way she had looked at Claude that

  Easter morning when they came out of the church.

  "He is a good man," he said firmly. "Pray to our Holy

  Mother for guidance."

  "Yes, Father."

  She prayed long and hard and sincerely and then wrote

  to Sonny. She wrote: Maybe . . .

  It was some weeks before she got his answer.

  [ENS]

 

  ~ CHAPTER THIRTY-FT VE ~

  WAR IS a terrible thing, people kept telling each other,

  but just the same, they admitted, it sure made things

  exciting for the people at home. There was w ork for all

  and salaries were high and luxuries were available to all.

  The conservative haberdashery on Grand Street was

  forced to stock men's silk shirts for the first time in its

  long history. Workmen bought them.

  Before the war, wom
en had worked as factory hands,

  store clerks, waitresses, telephone operators, typists,

  cashiers, housemaids and so forth. Those with more

  specialised training could put their names on waiting lists

  for teachers, librarians, nurses, private secretaries, and

  wait around for an opening.

  Now, most all jobs were open to them. They worked as

  trolleycar conductors, operated elevators, drew beer,

  worked milk delivery routes, replaced men in the post

  offices, wore cute uniforms and worked down at the

  Brooklyn Navy Yard and were called ycomanettes. Men

  stopped giving them their seats in the subways.

  They wore pants. Since pants made expressly for women

  were not available, they wore their brothers' pants. They

  discarded high shoes and wore oxfords with spats. They

  invaded barbershops and had their hair cut short. They

  stopped pinching their cheelcs to make them red. They

  used rouge. They took to smoking cigarettes. Like men,

  they argued over politics. The time was drawing near

  when they'd be allowed to go to the polls to vote.

  In short, they were freed at last and they had a hell of a

  time.

  The war was good for real estate, too. The "Rooms for

  Rent" signs disappeared from the windows and

  prospective tenants gave landlords a "bonus" for first

  chance on a vacant flat. People sA:ho lived in hall

  bedrooms now could afford a flat; flat renters [ 2S6 1

  moved to apartments and apartment dwellers moved to

  little houses out on the Island that they could buy for so

  little down and so much time to pay, small additional

  charge for built-in breakfast nooks.

  Landlady Maggie-Now Moore profited. The contentious

  Heahlys had moved away, owing thirty dollars back rent,

  leaving a broken-back chair and a gentleman roomer in

  the hall bedroom. Maggie-Now had believed the woman's

  story that the man was a brother-in-law who was "staying"

  with them for a while because his wife had just "passed

  away."

  The gentleman didn't move away with the Heahlys

  because he had paid two months' advance rent on the hall

  room. No, he wasn't a relative of theirs, he told

  Maggie-Now, but it was true that his wife had died

  recently. She left a two-year-old son, he said, who had

  been placed in a "home," and he paid the home five

  dollars a week, until he remarried. Yes, there was a

  widow, he confided to Maggie-Now; they'd marry after the

  decent interval of a year from his wife's death. He was

  marrying again so his child could have a home and

  mother.

  Oh, if he'd only let me keep the baby here, instead of that

  place, ?mtil he married. I'd be so happy to have that baby,

  she thought.

  I wish l had the nerve, he thought, to ask her to board the

  boy for five dollars a week. I could have him every night and

  she's so nice....

  But he didn't ask and she didn't ask.

  He continued renting the room for ten dollars a month

  and Maggie-Now rented the rest of the place to an eager

  family who paid twent`TT-five dollars a month rent for it.

  Now she collected thirty-five dollars a month in rent,

  instead of fifteen. Taxes remained the same and the

  surplus in the bank account grew.

  She used some of the money for herself. She bought a

  sheer georgette crepe blouse and a lacy camisole to show

  through and a tight skirt and high-heeled slippers. She

  wore silk stockings now, instead of lisle.

  She still ran the Thursday-night church socials. She was

  popular with the boys someone always walked her home.

  The girls liked her, too. Some of the girls had their hair

  bobbed. They urged Maggie-Now to have hers cut.

  ~ ~57 ]

 

  "Why don't you get a Castle clip, Maggie?" they urged

  her.

  In her mind, she heard Claude say: The classic simplicity

  of your hair style . . .

  "You'd look like Irene Castle, wouldn't she, girls, with

  those high cheekbones and all>"

  Said Gina Pheid, Sonny's sister, who took almost a

  relative's interest in Maggie-Now: "You could be a model

  with your face."