by Betty Smith
mile oflf."
"That's interesting, sir," said Claude. Henny was getting
nervous at Claude staring at his ear lobe. He moved his
head. Claude refocused his stare.
[ 274 ]
"Yep, I can tell by your shoes. A honest, hard-working
man don't wear thin shoes with thin soles. I always say, let
me see a man's shoes and I'll tell you what he is."
"That's very clever, sir."
"I know you're a college graduate. Come on, now. What
college? "
"Shall we say, Oxford?" said Claude.
"Where's Oxford?"
"In Mississippi."
"So you went to college! Born with a silver spoon in
your mouth. And you end up begging me for work; hard
work, mind you. Dirty work. Now take me," he went on
complacently. "Never went to school more than three
years in me whole life. Would you believe it to look at
me?"
"Oh, no, sir!"
"I learned meself everything I know and I know plenty.
I came to this country thirty years ago a ignorant mick
with me trunk on me back. I didn't know nothing. And
look at me today!"
"My! " breathed Claude admiringly. He thrust his head
forward to take a closer look at Henny's ear lobe.
"What's-a matter?" asked Henny.
"Nothing."
"You wait here, now, till I interview them other rah-rah
boys."
Henny separated the wheat from the chaff. Then he
lined up the wheat, gave them instructions, handed out
shovels and marched them to their work area. He went
back to his office, which was a rented store, and examined
his left ear in the lavatory mirror.
For a nzinz~te, there, he thought, the way that feller was
looking at me, I thought there was a louse or something
crawling around me ear.
The men had been working two hours when Henny
showed up for the morning pep talk. He chose to address
his communal remarks to C'laude.
"Shovel it up, college boy. Shovel it up! We ain't here to
pick daisies, you know." Some of the men stopped working
and leaned on their shovels. Penny was waiting for this. "I
see that the coach called time out. That gives us a chance
to give out with the old razz-a-ma-tazz, fellers." He took
a cheer leader's stance and
~ 27S ]
chanted: "Raw-raw-raw! Raw-raw-raw! Shovel it up, shovel
it up, raw-raw-raw! "
One shoveler guffawed, one grinned, another turned his
head to spit, some looked astonished, some looked
sheepish and Claude stared at Henny's left ear lobe. He
stared until Henny scratched it, then Claude resumed
piling up the snow.
A small crowd had gathered to enjoy Henny's
show mostly old men with nothing to do and marketing
mothers with small children.
"Those men went to college," said a mother to her small
son.
"How can you tell, Ilissus?" asked a garrulous old man
who had overheard the remark.
"Because some ain't got overcoats and because Mr.
Clynne said so."
"So they went to college," mused the old man.
"Yeah.''
"And what does that prove, Missus? "
"I didn't say it proved anything. I just said what was a
fac'. They went to college."
Late that afternoon, dead tired, but with earned money
in his pocket, Claude went to keep the appointment with
Father Flynn that Maggie-Now had made for him. He was
glad, at the priest's invitation, to sink into a worn,
brown-leather Morris chair.
Claude was surprised that the priest's living room
looked like any room in a comfortable house. He had
expected it to look a little like a small church. The wintry,
lemon-colored sun slanted in through a window and shone
through a clear glass decanter, half full of sauterne (the
gift of a parishioner). It made a pale golden shadow on
the polished wood of the table. There was a rack of pipes
on the desk (each pipe a loving gift), and a humidor of
tobacco supplied by Van Clees.
The room smelled good of coffee simmering in the
kitchen, of mellow, burning tobacco, and the warm,
ironing smell of freshly lalmdered linen. He saw stunted
boughs of a bare bush outlined outside a window. He
knew it was the priest's treasure, the lilac bush.
Maggie-Now had told him about it.
Father Flynn knew the purpose of Claude's visit. After
a few preliminary remarks about the weather, the state of
the world and
[276]
the war, and after both had agreed that the boys wouldn't
be out of the trenches by Christmas, Father Flynn filled
his pipe, lit it and settled back in his chair.
"I understand," he said, "that you wish to marry
Margaret and have agreed with her to a Catholic marriage
ceremony."
"Yes, sir."
"What is your faith?"
"Oh, I'm a Christian at large," said Claude airily. Too
late, he realized he'd said the wrong thing. He saw the
priest's kindly expression go stern and he waited
apprehensively for the priest's reply.
"If I asked your political affiliation, no doubt you'd say
you were a citizen at large. Is that correct?" He saw
Claude shift his eyes. "I mean," said Father Flynn, trying
again, "what is your denomination? "
"I'm not a Jew, if that's what you're getting at," said
Claude.
"That statement," said Father Flynn, coldly minting each
word, "should be made with humility and not with
arrogance."
"Sorry," mumbled Claude.
"For our Lord was a Jew," said the priest.
Father Flynn thought: '4s an ordained priest, I nzast love,
u~Zdersta~zd and forgive him. But as private citizen
Joseph Flyer`, I calZ't stand the sight of him. God forgive
me.
Thought Claude: He hates me, the way her father Ed her
godmother hate nze. The way everyone who loves her hates
me.
"What was your parents' religion?"
"I don't know."
"You, a non-Catholic, have come to nze," said Father
FlyrIn sharply, "to plead for the privilege of marrying a
Catholic. I will refuse you that privilege unless . . ."
"I do not know who my parents were," said Claude quietly.
Father Flynn put his pipe down very carefully. He put
his finger tips together, leaned back in his chair and
waited. He waited. He waited a long time.
Finally, he urged: "Yes, my son?"
"I was brought up in a nondenominational institution. A
very good one. Someone paid for me. I was given a good
education. Someone paid for it."
1 277 1
"I see,' said the priest. And he did see. He understood
now why Claude was the way he was.
"Have you told Margaret?"
"No. I have told no on
e in the world, except you."
"Tell her."
"If I choose not to tell her, will you tell her?"
"As a priest, I cannot violate a confession. As a man, I
will not violate a confidence."
"Thank you, sir."
"Father," prompted the priest.
"Father," said Claude.
"But tell her, my son. She is worthy of knowing it."
"I think she knows," said Claude.
Claude had a feeling of immense peace. He felt a great
warmth toward the priest; almost a feeling of tenderness.
That's why he wanders, thought the priest. He goes to a
new place, thinking there he will find a flit of the piece that's
missing from his life.
They talked further. (Claude said he would like to be
converted to Catholicism. Father Flynn said he couldn't
become a Catholic merely by requesting it. He'd have to
take instructions, learn the history and theology of the
church. It would take time.
"And there is the question of faith. It cannot be taught
you, you cannot have it by announcing that you have it. It
must come from something within you. There is no
formula. You will know when you have it. Only then can
you become a Catholic."
"How soon?" asked Claude. "For Margaret's sake. I
want to be one with her in all things."
"To some, faith comes soon and to others, late. And to
many, it never comes at all."
It was dark in the room now. The housekeeper came in
to turn on the lights. She spoke bitterly and said she
couldn't keep Father's supper warm much longer. It was
drying up. Father Flynn apologised and asked her
indulgence five minutes longer. He stood in some fear of
his housekeeper. She left the room muttering.
"I always have a glass of sauterne before my supper,"
said the priest. "Will you join me?"
Claude said he would. He stood up when the priest did.
He was relieved that, for once, someone didn't say: "Keep
seated."
L278]
The street seemed cold and lonely after the warmth of
the priest's living room. Claude went to a bakery
lunchroom and had several cups of coffee and a couple of
doughnuts. He was tired to death. The day before he had
traveled through miles of snow to get to Maggie-Now. He
had sat up most of the night talking to her and had put in
a hard day shoveling snow.
He didn't know how long he had been in the
lunchroom. A stout woman was shaking him awake.
"You can't sleep here, Mister. Go home."
He made his way to the movie cheater where
Maggie-Now was working. She gave a gasp of pity when
he loomed up before her outside the glass enclosure. He
looked so tired and bedraggled. She gave him a ticket and
told him to wait inside for her; she'd be through in an
hour and would fix a hot supper for him.
He stumbled into the theater and collapsed in a
back-row seat. He slept soundly through the most
controversial part of The Birth of a Nation.
~ CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE ~
IN SPITE of all Pat's efforts to lick Claude with his
"mind," plans for the marriage went forward. Pat had
come to the conclusion that Claude was an ex-convict,
else why was he so reticent about his past? He knew his
daughter would not marry an ex-convict. But how to get
Claude to admit it?
Pat, knowing how most men babble when they are
drunk, took him to a saloon to get him drunk. Claude
spent the evening staring into his untouched shot glass of
rye. He wouldn't drink; he wouldn't talk. Pat drank too
much and he was the one who talked. He told Claude the
complete story of his life and, when he had finished, he
told it all over again with variations. Then he got sick and
Claude had to take him to the men's room and hold his
forehead while he retched. Claude took him home, gave
him a Bromo
[ ,79 ]
Seltzer and put him to bed.
In order to be with llaggie-Now in the afternoon,
Claude got a job as night clerk in a downtown Brooklyn
hotel. He wouldn't say what hotel except that it wasn't the
St. George. Maggie-Now asked no questions but Pat had
to know. Claude wouldn't name the hotel but Pat got this
much out of him: that it was a small family hotel catering
to permanent guests, mostly elderly couples who had just
enough money to keep out of the poorhouse.
From this explanation, Pat concluded that the place was
a brothel, else why should Claude go to so much trouble
to throw him oflf the track by assuring him that the place
was so respectable? Now if Maggie-Now had proof that
Claude was a procurer. . .
He decided to let Claude compromise himself. He took
him aside and asked how about their having a fling
together. He hinted that Claude would be a long time
married, and . ..
"Maybe you can dig up two 'skirts' for us from that
hotel where you work and get us a couple of rooms there
and I'll bring along a bottle of Four Star Hennessy and
we'll have ourselfs a high old
,,
time.
Claude looked at him with distaste and said: "Aren't
you a bit along in years for that sort of thing, old sir?"
After the banns had been read for the first time, Pat
came to another conclusion: that the marriage was
inevitable; that there was no way to stop it mew. He went
on to his next project: the house. He knew Claude wanted
to live there.
"How much will he pay?" he asked Maggie-Now.
"How do you mean, I'apa?"
"I'll rent him the downstairs for twenty-five a month and
you can have me big bedroom and I'll take your bit of a
one. Of course, I'll pay for me share of the food and the
boy's."
"Now, Papa, must we go all through that again? Mama
said I was to get the house when I married. You
promised."
"It was one of them promises no man has to keep."
"Oh, shame, Papa. Shame. Grandpapa gave it to Mama
in the first place. It was never yours."
"Ha! Me deed says: To Patrick Dennis Moore ate us."
"And you know what Et Ux means? "
"Sure. A/l His," he ventured, figuring that she didn't
know what it meant either.
~ 280 ]
"It means bled IVife. I know that much Latin anyhow. If
you give the house to me after I marry, even if you don't
want Claude to have it, the deed would have to be in his
name."
"Over me dead body!"
"All right, Papa. I won't fight with you over it. I'll get
the house anyway after you die."
"Knock wood when you say that," he shouted.
"I will not!" she shouted back. "I don't want to live here
anyhow. What kind of a married life would I have and you
always making trouble? We'll get an apartment
."
"Do so. 'Tis right married people live alone." She got
her hat. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going out to rent an apartment."
"Who's going to cook me meals? Who's going to look
after the boy?"
"I'll find you a housekeeper, Papa. Maybe Father Flynn's
housekeeper knows somebody . . ."
"How much will it cost?"
"A very old lady will work for fifteen a month and room
and board. Only you have to give her so much every week
for groceries not a dollar whenever you feel like it."
He did some mental arithmetic; then he started to
negotiate: He'd give her the upstairs rent free for the rest
of her life, provided she continued keeping house for him.
She declined. The downstairs, then; same conditions. She
said, no. They reached no agreement. Maggie-Now went
out to look for an apartment.
When the banns were read for the second time, Pat
made a deal. Because, and only because, he'd promised
her mother, he told Maggie-Now, he would turn over the
house to her. There were provisions. The house was hers
for her lifetime only; after that, it went to Denny; she was
to continue keeping house for him and Denny; he was to
have the upstairs hall bedroom as his own to occupy or to
rent out he to receive said rent.
"But why do you want to own a hall bedroom, Papa?"
"Because I just got to end up with something out of this."
She agreed. He had the deed made over to her right
away. She suggested he wait until she and Claude married.
"It would be a nice wedding present," she said.
"I don't want it to be Et lJx," he said. ~81 ]
Claude helped her move Pat's furniture to the upstairs
room. They painted the walls and ceiling of Pat's old
room, which would now be theirs, and Maggie-Now made
new, rose-sprigged, ruffled dimity curtains. She bought a
new bed and dresser for the room that would be hers and
Claude's, and a taffeta, green bedspread. She decorated
the bed with half a dozen tiny, heartshaped lace pillows
and two French dolls with their legs knotted. This was the
fashion of the time. Claude raised his eyebrows when he
saw the decorated bed.
"I guess you think it's tacky or something, but all my life
I wanted heart-shaped lace pillows. I like that stuff on my
bed."
"Our bed," he said.
"That's right, Claude, and I'll put the stuff away after
we're married."
"Oh, leave it, Margaret. Just so there's room for a
husband."
She was ecstatically happy during those waiting weeks,
but sometimes the thought of Lottie diluted her happiness.
She put off telling Lottie about her coming marriage as
long as she could because she knew Lottie would rave.
She did.
"A fool! That's what you are, a fool! Marrying this
nobody when you could have had a man like Timmy; you
could have married Sonny. Who is this Claude anyway?
What do you know about him? He might be a jailbird; he
might be already married to someone in Jersey. What do
you see in him? "
"I love him so."
"You love the grand way he talks to you. And more
shame to you. Are you not used to grand talkers and you
coming from the Irish who is the grandest talkers of all?"
"But you'll come to my wedding anyhow, won't you,
Aunt Lottie? "
"No! "
"Please! Since Mama died, you've been my mother. I
want my mother to come to my wedding to wish me luck."
"I use' to think of you as my daughter. Now I'm glad
you ain't because I' rather see a daughter of mine in her
casket than married to a man like him." Maggie-Now
broke down and sobbed. Lottie wasn't moved an inch by
her tears. "Go on and cry," she said bitterly. "Get use' to
crying. You'll shed many a tear after you're married to
him."
[ 282 ]
Pat went to Mass with Maggie-Now and Claude the
Sunday when the banns were read for the last time. He
half closed his eyes and the church seemed like the little
church in Ireland. He heard the same names he had heard
