by Betty Smith
her father wouldn't hear and wake up. She punched up
the fire in the kitchen range, threw in some slivers of
wood and some fresh coal and added half an inch of
kerosene measured into an empty tomato can. The fire
took hold. She put on a kettleful of Nvater for coffee and
put the chickens in the roasting pan.
"I won't bother making stuffing," she whispered. "It'll
take them two hours to get done as it is."
She made him take off his worn, wet shoes and socks
and she put them in the warming oven to dry. She helped
him off with his [ 266 ]
wet coat and her heart contracted as she touched him and
knew that he had no undershirt under his thin top shirt.
In the darkness of his bedroom, the sound of the coffee
grinder penetrated Pat's sleep. Morning already, he
thought, and still dark out. Must be raining. Oh, God what
a life, he moaned, having to get up every morning. He
pulled his pants on over his long woolen drawers which he
used for pajamas. He opened the door to his son's room
and called out ringingly: "School!" Hysterically, Denny
threw all the bedclothes on the floor, tied himself into a
fetus knot, and went back to sleep.
Claude and Maggie-Now talked in whispers as he knelt
before her, took off her sodden felt bedroom slippers and
dried her feet with a clean dish towel.
Suddenly, her father was in the doorway. "What the
hell's going on here?" he asked, more astonished than
angry.
"You see, it's snowing out," she started to explain, "and .
. ."
"And who the hell are you?" he asked Claude. "And
what the hell are you doing with her feet in the middle of
the night?"
"Why, I'm drying them," said Claude.
"Papa," said Maggie-Now formally, "I'd like to introduce
you to Mr. Basset-t."
"Get up, Mr. Bassett," said Pat. "I'll not hit a man and
him on his knees before me."
Claude stood up. Pat balled his hand into a fist and
stepped back for leverage to throw a punch. Claude
picked Pat's fist out of the air and pried it open. He fitted
his palm into Pat's to form a handshake. Claude narrowed
his eyes and started to press Pat's hand slowly and
strongly. Pat all but cried out in his pain. He was sure that
every bone in his hand was broken.
Holy Mother, thought Pat. He looks like a sissy but he's
got the strenth of a murtherin' lasted.
"I've been looking forward for a long time to meeting
you, old sir," said Claude in his best educated accent.
. . . a murtherin' educated lasted, amended Pat to himself.
"I hope we will be friends, old sir," said Claude,
releasing Pat's hand after one more bone-crushing
squeeze.
Pat let his hand hang by his side, using all his will power
not to flex the fingers to feel if they were still intact. His
face burned at the idea of being called "old sir." He didn't
think he was old. He
[ 267 ]
vvas only i orty-eight. H' turned furiously on his
daughter:
"Don't just stand there in your shimmy with your mouth
open," he told her. "Get him out of here!"
"Oh, Papa!" She smiled. "Chemises went out with bustles."
"You know what I mean," he roared. "Don't turn me
words on me."
"I think your father wants you to change into dry
clothes, Margaret. You do that, dear, and give me the
chance to ask your father for your hand in marriage."
Pat nearly choked. /'m going to beat the be-Jesz~s out of
him, Pat promised himself. As soon as me hand gets better.
Maggie-Now beamed on Claude. He had called her
dear! She went to her room to dress.
"Sit down, old sir," said Claude.
"You telling me to sit down in me own house?" gasped
Pat.
"Sit down," said Claude wearily. "I,ife is too short for
this nonsense. Get done with the sparring. Hang up your
gloves. Your daughter and I are going to marry. You
might as well get used to me because you'll have to put
up with me until you die."
"I'll bury you first," said Pat bitterly.
"That may well be. But while you're waiting to do so,
let's be amiable. It's easier on the liver."
Pat felt a flash of interest. This man might well be an
enemy worthy of him. Mick Mack always turned the other
cheek and Timmy had not been a consistent enemy. He'd
beat up a man and then weep in contrition. But this
Claude Bassett: Pat knew he would fight to a draw. I le
decided to test him with what he knew to be a sure-fire
insult.
"Why ain't you in uniform, you slacker?" he asked Claude.
"I was weighed in the balance and one of my ears was
found vv anting."
"A real man," said Pat disparagingly, "woulda Bucked
me in the nose for calling; him a slacker."
"So?" said Claude. "Old sir, I had hoped we could be
friends, on account of Margaret. But if it's a lifelong
enemy that you want, I'll try to be worthy of your Irish
spleen."
"Why can t you talk like a man?" said Pat irritably. "All
them Goddamned educated words!"
Claude put his hands in his pockets and stretched out his
legs [ 268 ]
under the table. He smiled at Pat. "You're enjoying this,
aren't you?" he said.
Pat was so confounded by this remark that he had
nothing to say. Maggie-Now came in dressed and poured
boiling water over the coffee Claude had ground. They
spoke in incomplete sentences to each other as if they had
been living together for many years. Pat couldn't stand it.
"Now that you're dressed," he told her, "pack your things
and get out. And take him with you."
"Now, Papa," she said with a little laugh, "pack in what?"
"Now, now, old sir," said Claude. "You wouldn't put
your wonderful daughter out on a night like this in all
that snow."
"She can stay," muttered Pat. "But," he turned to
Maggie-Now and shouted, "get this man out of my house!"
"My house!" said Maggie-Now sharply. "Mama said you
were to give it to me when I married." She went to Claude
and put her hand on his shoulder. "Now, Papa, you stop
being so mean. This is my man and I want him.'' Claude
took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. "And if we all
can be friends together, I'll be glad. If we can't, I'll feel
bad, but I ll do what I want to anyway. I'm over
twenty-one and I don't owe you anything, Papa. Except
love. And that's because you're my father."
By God, he thought in sincere admiration, she's got
spunks She stood up to me for once. Then, he felt that he
had lost the old Maggie-Now. From now on, he knew
where he stood with her. He felt terribly alone. Where, he
cried in his heart, is me mother who would have died for
me? Me wife who loved me so? Timmy who licked me but
all the time knew how it was with me? Where is t
he little girl
what held my hand so tight when we walked down the street?
He wept in his heart.
"Margaret," he heard Claude say gently, "you mustn't
speak so sharply to your father."
"Me daughter can speak to me any damn way she
wants," said Pat belligerently.
Maggie-Now went to him and patted his head. "That's
all right, Papa. You have a cup of coffee with us and then
you get your sleep; you've got to work tomorrow. Claude
and I will talk a while and have something to eat, then
he'll go and tomorrow we'll all sit down together and talk
things over."
[ 269 ]
At first, he refused the coffee. Then he reasoned that,
after all, he'd paid for the coffee and the milk and the
sugar and he might as well drink it. He had three cups.
He cast about in his mind for something to say that would
make Claude angry but wouldn't make Maggie-Now
angry. He thought he had it. Jealousy! He cleared his
throat.
"Maggie-Now, dear, did you hear from Son Pheid
lately?" he said.
"Who?" asked Maggie-Now. "Oh, Sonny! No," she said.
"He's a plumber," said Pat to Claude. "In business for
himself."
"That so?" commented Claude politely. He turned to
MaggieNow. "You didn't tell me," he said, "whether you
lost interest in dancing after that or . . ."
I got to think of some way, thought Pat desperately. I
can't beat hell cut of him because he's younger and stronger
than me. I got to lick him with me mind. I can't throw him
out. She'll go with him. She's that loony about him. Yes,
she'd go with him and that's just what he wants. Then he
could have her without marrying her and that's what he's
working for. He's not the marrying kind. I know them kind.
Well, I'll think of something. You can catch more lilies with
Elgar than with vinegar, he concluded vaguely.
He got up and scratched his ribs. "Like Maggie-Now
said, I'm a working man and I got to get me sleep."
Claude stood up. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "but I got to
talking with Margaret and . . . '
"That's all right," said Pat. "Good night, all."
"Good night, Papa," she said.
"Good night, old sir."
"Good night," Pat paused, "old son." He stood in the
doorway. "I Nvish I wasn't such a light sleeper," he said
with a significant look at Claude. He went to his room,
leaving the kitchen door a) ar.
Claude went over and closed the door. He came back
to Maggie-Now. "How soon can we get married?"
She straightened the cup in her saucer before she said:
"You know I'm a Catholic."
"No!" he said in mock surprise.
[ 270 ]
"But I told you," she said seriously.
"I was joking," he said.
"I didn't really know...."
"Ah, Margaret, you know so much about so many things
and so little about so many things. Now: When can we be
married?"
"In a month five weeks. I'd have to ask Father Flynn."
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"There's no measure. I loved you when I first met you
in the dentist's office, I guess. I loved you when you left,
even though I thought you'd never come back. And if I
had married someone else, I still would have loved you
somewhere in the back of my mind. When you sent that
card and told me to wait for you, I thought everything was
all right, even though I was a Catholic."
"Don't belittle your religion, my little Chinee. It's a
grand faith. But could you love me enough to give it up?"
He saw her hand on the table tremble. She put it in her
lap. She lowered her head and he saw her face work in
anguish.
Look at me, he told himself scornfully, a vagabond.
That's classy f or slum. What have I got to give her?
Nothing. I know how she is about her religion. What
dil~erence does it make? No faith means anything to me.
So I ask her to give it up. Why? Just to own all of her? To
prove I'm a man?
But he h. d to go through with it. "Will you, Margaret?"
Silence. "Will you give up your religion for me?" No
answer. "Please say you will. I need you to say it."
"I will," she said finally.
"Thank you, Margaret." A pause. "But you don't mean
it, do you? "
"No," she whispered. Then she burst out: "Why did you
make me say it? How could I fix my mind to mean it? Is
it a crime to be a Catholic?"
She put her head down on her folded arms on the table
and wept. She cried noisily and her whole body shook. He
went to the door to see if it was tightly shut. He didn't
want her father to hear. Then he went to her, pulled her
to her feet and put his arms around her.
"Why, I wouldn't have you give up your faith for me. I
only
t27, ]
wanted to hear you say, just once, that you would."
sobbed louder. "There, Margaret, there! Stop crying.
There, Margaret, there!" I le stroked her hair. "There,
there, Margaret now. There, Maggie. There, Maggie-Now.
"Listen! You got me around to calling you Maggie-Now.
And you can call me Claudv, if you want to." She shook
her head and continued sobbing. He shook her roughly.
"Stop it, you little fool. Don't you know that I'm anxious
to marry you in the Catholic faith? And you know why?"
She held back a sob to listen. "Because there's no divorce
in the Catholic Church. I want my marriage to be that
way: no divorce. After we're married awhile, you'll find
out I'm nothing but a bum and you'll want to divorce me.
But you won't be table to. And I'll have you safe for
always. Now dry your eyes and tell me how to go about
things."
She wiped her eyes. "You'll have to see Father Flynn.
He'll give you instructions. I'll make an appointment for
you and I think the chickens are done novv.77
He couldn't help it. He started to laugh. He laughed
until he was weak.
"What's the matter?'' she asked.
"You," he said. "You're the matter. Oh, Margaret! Oh,
IIaggieNow, my practical love!"
Maggie-Now's sobs had not penetrated Pat's sleep, but
Claude's laughter had. Pat turned over and muttered,
"Bastid."
They mended the fire, made more coffee and ate the
roasted chicken with bread and butter while they
discussed plans for their marriage. Maggie-Now wanted
to know where they would live.
"Here," he said, "if it's all right."
"But the neighborhood's so rundown...."
"I love this neighborhood."
"And this house is so old...."
"It's wonderful! It's a safe place it's a ho7ne."
"But Papa lives here...."
"I like your father," he said. "He has his own special
kind of integrity
. I'll get a good job and pay all the
expenses. Your father will be our guest."
"Papa would pay something for himself and Denny."
"I wouldn't let him."
The door opened and Denny, in striped flannel pajamas
and
[ 272 ]
with his eyes half closed, stood there. He addressed
Claude without salutation.
"You know that kite you gave me?" he said.
"Yes."
"Well, it's busted."
"I'll get you another."
"But I had a kite. I'd like something different,."
"I'll get you something different."
"You mustn't ask for tilings, Denny," said Maggie-Now.
"Denny," said Claude, "will you be my brother?"
Denny looked at his sister. She smiled and nodded. "I
guess so," he said. He yawned and went back to bed.
"To think-," said Claude happily, "me who never had
anything; who never had anyone! And now I'll have a wife
and a father and a young brother and a home life. All this
to come to me!"
Maggie-Now had a flash of intuition. "You were brought
up in an orphans' home, then." She saw his eyes flicker
but he wouldn't say yes and he wouldn't say no. But she
knew it was true. "I wish you'd tell me . . ."
"There is little to tell. I was a boy, I grew up and got a
fairly good education and I turned into a wanderer. You
could call me a tramp, except that I worked my way
around. I've always liked to travel, see different places,
live in different ways. I'd stay in one place and work
awhile to get money to go on to a new place. I never
wanted to be long in one place, to form ties and
friendships. I liked being a lone wolf. But now my
wandering days are over. It will be bliss to settle down...."
He interrupted himself. "Bliss. There's a word, now. Bliss
to love and to be loved."
"But there must have been things that happened to
you someone that you got to know real well...."
"Do you mean, have I got a past?"
"I guess so.''
"You are my past. My past, my present and my future.
I am making my past now. And it is a good one. Twenty
years from now, maybe, someone will ask me about my
past and I'll say: 'My past started one Easter week in
Brooklyn where I met a girl named Margaret Rose
Moore, only everybody called her Maggie
~ 273 ]
~ CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT ~
SOME men don't like to work; they duck work as long as
they can. When conscience or need drives them to work,
they're apt to pick the hardest work available, probably as
penance or to prove they can do hard work. Claude took
a temporary job shoveling snow for the city.
The snow was a curse to many but a blessing to jobless
men and to children. Even in this war year, with so many
men in the services and well-paid, wartime jobs for nearly
all, there were still men available for snow shoveling: men
too old or too young to have steady jobs, college boys
wanting to pick up a few dollars, and drifters.
In one of the far-flung neighborhoods of Brooklyn, there
was a sanitation boss who had seemingly been born just to
hire college men to shovel snow. Henny Clynne had come
up from the ranks. He had started as sweeper and by
taking civil service exams over and over until he finally
passed, and by pull, he got to be superintendent and
gained the power, along with his other duties, of hiring
and firing college men. He liked to hire college men for
snow shoveling because he couldn't stand the sight of any
man who had gone to college. When Claude applied for
work, Henny looked him over and considered him a prize.
"What college you from?" he asked Claude.
Claude fixed his stare at the bottom of Henny's left ear
and said: "The college of hard knocks."
"Don't get wise with me," snarled Henny. "Though I
don't blame you for being ashamed to admit you went to
college. But you can't fool me. I can tell a college man a
