Maggie Now

by Betty Smith

the bedroom with trepidation. She was sitting up in bed in

  her modest white nightgown and a braid over each

  shoulder.

  When she saw him, she smiled, stretched out both arms

  to him and said: "Come to me."

  ~ CHAPTER FORTY-ONE ~

  "IT AIN'T a home no more," complained Pat. "It's the

  Long Island Railroad Depot where people come and go

  all hours. It's a shortorder lunchroom where they throw

  food at you, and," he concluded vaguely, "that's where all

  me money goes."

  It wasn't as bad as he said, even though all didn't sit

  down to meals at the same time and all didn't sleep at the

  same time. Claude came home from work as Pat and

  Denny were leaving the house in the morning. Claude and

  Maggie-Now had breakfast together, then she pulled down

  the bedroom shades and they went to bed together. She

  got up in time to fix Denny's noon lunch and didn't go

  back to bed. She put in the afternoon attending to her

  household duties.

  Claude go,: up at six and had supper with Maggie-Now

  and Denny. Pat got home for his supper just as they had

  finished theirs. (This gave him the idea that he was served

  leftovers.) MaggieNow left for work at seven and Claude

  didn't have to leave until nine. He spent the two hours

  talking with Pat; that is, listening

  [29~ ]

 

  to Pat talk, and helping Denny with his homework.

  Weekends were different on account of Pat or Denny

  being home, and Maggie-Now couldn't go to bed with her

  husband. Pat complained bitterly that all ought to eat one

  meal together at least once a week. Since the

  Sunday-noon dinner was the only time in the week when

  this could happen, contrary Pat chose to eat that meal at

  Mrs. O'Crawley's house.

  There was no religious friction. Claude stayed up

  Sundays to go to eight o'clock Mass with Maggie-Now. He

  got up an hour earlier Saturday evenings to escort

  Maggie-Now to church for her weekly confession. He

  waited outside for her or else sat quietly in a back pew.

  When Maggie-Now apologised for having fish each Friday

  instead of meat, he said he liked fish and that they ought

  to have it twice a week. Denny was to make his First

  Communion that spring and Claude helped him memorize

  his Catechism. Lottie's old mother died in February and

  Claude gave up an afternoon of sleep to go to the funeral

  with his wife. He told her how much he had been moved

  by the great and somber beauty of the Requiem Mass.

  "I'm waiting the day," confided Pat to Mick Mack over

  a beer, "when he'll show up in his real colors. He's too

  good to be true, the bastid."

  "Yeah, like me own son-in-laws," agreed the little man.

  "Bastids Old sonsabitches, all of them!" (He didn't really

  believe that. He just wanted to be in sympathy with Pat.)

  "That I can believe," said Pat coldly, "seeing the

  father-in-law what they got."

  It was inevitable that changes came about. For one

  thing, Claude stopped going to Mass. "I'll wait until I'm

  accepted in the church as a convert," he told Maggie-Now.

  "It's not right to go merely as an outsider; a spectator."

  He asked her jokingly why she went to confession every

  week; how in the world could she accumulate so many

  sins in a week? She said she went weekly because she was

  used to it, she guessed. He smiled and said that was

  hardly an intelligent reason, was it? After that, she didn't

  wake him up to escort her to the church. She went to

  confession alone.

  He no longer sat with Pat and Denny when she left for

  her

  [ 29~ ]

 

  work. He went with her and either stood in the booth and

  talked to her or else went directly to the hotel where he

  worked. "I can sit in the lobby and read," he explained,

  "until it's time to go on duty."

  She surmised that Claude no longer spent the evenings

  with Pat because her father asked too many questions. She

  recalled a shred of conversation between them she'd

  overheard.

  "How'd t77OU come to get such a name like Claude?"

  asked Pat.

  When Claude answered, Maggie-Now noted he spoke in

  that academic way which meant he was coldly angry. He

  said: "Shall we say I had a romantic mother?" (Too

  romantic, he thought bitterly.) "And she got the name out

  of a Victorian novel?"

  "I bet you know how tT7OU got your last name,

  though," persisted Pat. "I guess your father's name was

  Bassett."

  "Your enunciation, old sir," said Claude icily, "is a little

  less than perfect. For your information there is no 't' or

  'd' sound in the middle of the name Bassert."

  "Yeah? And for your information," countered Pat, "there

  ain't all the time a 'old' in front of that word 'sir' neither.

  Especially when a man is still in his forties."

  It was a morning in late March. They were in bed

  together with the shades pulled down to shut out the

  daylight. He was holding her and caressing her and talking

  about nothing in the broken-sentence, murmuring way of

  one who is content. Gently, she put his hand away from

  her.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "I can't," she said. "It's My Time."

  "What time?"

  "You know."

  Sure, he knew. But he liked to tease her. He knew she

  had a queer distaste for the medical words of the woman

  cycle, such as "menstruate,'' "pregnancy" and "menopause."

  She substituted euphemisms for these terms: "My Time,"

  "With Child," and "The Change." He liked to try to get her

  to say the medical words by pretending he didn't

  understand her words.

  "I'm so disappointed," she said.

  "You're disappointed! What about me?" he asked in

  pretended anger.

  1 '93 ]

 

  Suddenly, she was weeping. Why can't I ever

  ren~e~nber, he thought, that she takes everything so

  literally?

  "I didn't mean it, darling. I'm not mad. Of course, I

  know you can't. It's all right. It's only for a few days. I

  can wait." Then, hoping to change her tears to laughter,

  he said sternly: "Only the next time see that it happens on

  a weekend when I can't have you anyhow."

  "It's not that," she sobbed.

  He put his arms about her and said, "Then tell me what

  it is' love."

  "It's . . . it's . . ." she sobbed, "that I'm not going to have

  a baby. This is the second time since we married that I'm

  not going to have a baby." He gave a spurt of laughter.

  "Don't laugh," she said piteously.

  "But you're so funny, my little Chinee. Most women cry

  their eyes out when they miss a period. You cry when you

  don't."

  "Because I want a baby. Because I need a baby so bad."

  She continued to weep as though she
never would ~top.

  He petted her as he would a child. "There, Margaret!

  There, Maggie-Now, dear; my own dear, good girl. Don't

  cry. A baby takes time. I mean when a girl has been a

  good girl before her marriage, she doesn't get pregnant

  right away. Now: When you're all over this period, we'll

  try again. And this time, I'll put my mind on it."

  This made her giggle through her sobs and soon she

  had stopped crying. After a while he said: "Since you can't

  sleep with me, would you brush-talk me to sleep, dear

  one?"

  Often Men he couldn't sleep, he liked her to brush her

  hair and talk to him about her childhood. So now she

  took her hair down, got her brush and sat on the bed

  facing him. She started brushing her hair.

  "All right. Now! What do you want me to talk about?"

  she asked in her practical w ay. He howled with laughter.

  "What did I say that struck you so funny?" she asked

  indignantly.

  "Nothing. Only you're such a practical darling; such a

  dear little thing with your no sense of humor; your dear

  no sense of humor."

  "Anyhow, what do you want to talk about?"

  "Tell me about the mln and the hair and the bird's nest."

  "Well . . ." She started to brush her hair with slow,

  rhythmic

  [ 294 1

 

  strokes. "When I was a little girl, Sister Veronica said:

  'When you cut your hair, put the cuttings in the yard so

  the birds can use them in building their nests.' So I had

  bangs and Mama used to cut them every time she washed

  my hair. So I told Mama to wash my hair first before she

  cut my bangs. You see, I wanted the birds to have clean

  hair for their nests...."

  Watching the up-and-down motion of the brush,

  listening to the rise and fall of her voice acted like a

  hypnotic. Soon his eyes were closed and he slept

  peacefully. She looked down on his face with love. With

  her forefinger poised an inch above his face, she traced

  the outlines. In this way, she conjured up the way he must

  have looked as a little boy.

  He is so cold to the outside world, she thought. And so di

  jerent when he's alone with me. Oh, if only everyone knew

  him the way I know him . . .

  The next day, he was gone.

  ~ (CHAPTER FORTY-TWO ~

  THE next morning was one of those rare ones that come

  sometimes in early March when you had made up your

  mind that the long winter would never end. Sunshine

  burnished the hummocks of frozen slush in the gutters

  and there was a warm breeze.

  Claude was late getting home from work that morning.

  Denny was leaving for school and still Claude hadn't come

  home. MaggieNow went out on the stoop with Denny to

  see if Claude was coming. She sniffed the air. It smelled

  like freshly watered flowers. A breeze lifted a tendril of

  her hair and let it drop back against her cheek. She

  shivered in sensual delight. It felt like a lover's touch.

  "Yes," she murmured.

  "What?" asked Denny.

  "It's a south wind."

  1 Aft ]

 

  "How do you know?"

  "Because it's coming from South Brooklyn."

  "Kin I stay home from school then?"

  "I should say not! Get going." She gave him an

  affectionate whack on the backside to propel him on his

  way.

  She put Claude's slowly frying bacon on the back of the

  stove. She put his rolls in the warming oven and threw the

  warming coffee away; she'd make fresh when he came in.

  She told herself that, because it was such an unexpectedly

  wonderful day, he was walking part way before he took

  the trolley. She knew how excited he was about all

  weathers.

  When he comes home, she thought, we'll lie in bed and

  talk about what a worzderfz~l day it is before we . . .

  The day wore on slowly and she began to believe that

  he wasn't coming home. She wished and wished that she

  knew what hotel he worked at. Why didn't she make him

  put the address in a sealed envelope and let her assure

  him that she wouldn't open it ever except in a terrible

  emergency?

  From time to time, as she went about her routine

  household duties, a whinnying sound came from her like

  an animal in pain. And while she was washing Denny's

  lunch dishes, her throat got dry suddenly and tightened up

  and an ugly sound came from her: like an "ugh" when one

  is kicked suddenly in the stomach. She leaned way over

  and put her forehead down on the sink and sobbed loudly

  and hoarsely until she was exhausted. She went about her

  housework with violent tremblings in her stomach. If I was

  going to have a baby now, she thought, I'd lose it. And she

  started to cry again, knowing she was not going to have a

  baby and Claude would never come back and there never

  could be another man....

  What d,;d I say to hires? What did I do? Was it Papa?

  Denny? Was it the house? That we could never be i?Z bed

  together all night like other husbands and wives and all we

  had was a few hours in the morning? Corpse back, come

  back, darling, she prayed, and we'll have our own home . .

  . even if it's only one room somewhere....

  Then she got the idea that he had died where he

  worked or was deathly sick and they didn't know where he

  lived because he never told people things like that. She

  washed her face with shaking [2941

  hands and got her hat on. She was halfway to the trolley

  stop when she remembered that she didn't know where he

  worked and could not go to get him if he was sick.

  Denny came home from school. "I got nought in

  arithmetic today," he announced, "and I got double

  homework."

  "Do it! "

  "I want to go out and play first."

  "Do your homework!" she screamed.

  "It's too hard. You got to help me."

  "Let me alone!" she screamed.

  This frightened the boy. "I'm going to get Claude," he

  said. He went to the bedroom.

  "Claude's not here," she said.

  "Where'd he go?" She didn't answer. She went into her

  room. Denny went out on the street.

  The three of them sat down to a haphazard supper that

  night. "Hey, Papa," said Denny importantly, "Claude

  N'`,ent away."

  Pat put his fork down. "So," he said. "So. Three months

  was all he could stand, hey? Well, if he thinks I'm going

  to support his wife . . ." Maggie-Now pushed her plate

  away and ran into her bedroom and closed the door.

  "What did I say?" asked Pat of Denny. He sounded

  genuinely bewildered.

  Maggie-Now lay on her bed in the darkness. She did not

  know how long she had been there. The house was quiet.

  She heard someone knock on the door. She jumped up,

  thinking it was news of Claude, but it was only a boy with

  a message from the movietheater man
ager. It was

  seven-thirty and the manager wanted to know why she

  Noms late.

  "Tell him I'm sick," she said. "Tell him I'm sick. I can't

  come to work tonight."

  She went into the kitchen to clear the table and wash

  the dishes. She saw Denny's books still strapped up and

  knew he had not yet done his homework. She looked in

  his bedroom. He wasn't there. She surmised he had gone

  out with his father.

  Her father came in at eight-thirty. "Where's Denny? "

  she asked.

  "Why? Ain't 'he home? '

  "I thought he was with you."

  "Well, he ain't."

  [297]

 

  Without bothering to put on her coat, she ran out into

  the night, which had turned cold after the warm day,

  looking for her brother. She found him at last, three

  blocks away. There was a corner candy store with a

  newsstand outside. Denny, with two bigger boys, stood just

  around the corner. As she waited to cross the street, she

  saw a man pick up a paper, throw down some coins and

  go on his way. One of the bigger boys, quick as a flash,

  darted out, snatched the coins and went back to the

  others. As she crossed the street, she saw another man

  take a paper and put down the money. She reached the

  stand in time to see Denny duck around and grab the

  pennies.

  When he saw her, he was petrified with fright. She

  grasped his wrist tightly, held his clenched hand over the

  newsstand and hammered at his hand until he opened it

  and the pennies dropped back on the papers. The other

  kids ran away. She dragged him home. He cried all the

  way.

  When she remembered the episode afterward, she was

  always glad that the candy-store man had been too busy

  with customers to notice what had been going on outside

  his store. He was a mean man and would not have

  hesitated at all to call the police.

  Pat offered cruel reasons for why Claude had left her.

  All the reasons were to Claude's discredit. From time to

  time, Denny asked when Claude was coming home. There

  was talk in the neighborhood. One woman spoke to her

  bluntly.

  "I don't see your husband around no more."

  "No," said Maggie-Now.

  Others, more considerate, said nothing to her but

  discussed it with others. "He was never no good in the

  first place," was the verdict, "and she's well rid of the

  dirty, black Pratt-ess-stant."

  One woman said to a neighbor: "Now I'm just as

  broad-minded as the next one. But there's always two

  sides to every story and I'd sure like to hear his side. The

  way I look at it, a man just don't get up and leave his wife

  for nothing."

  Maggie-Now endured the gossip, real or imagined, and

  it neither added to, took from, nor diverted her from her

  grief.

  On her monthly visit to Lottie, she had to tell her

  Claude had gone. Lottie waited a long time before she

  spoke. "You know what I think about him," she said. "But

  that's got nothing to do

  [ 298 ]

 

  with the way you feel. I won't run him down. You get

  enough of that from your father. But tell me this: Before

  you married him and you had known for sure that he

  would leave you, would you have married him anyhow?"

  "Yes," whispered Maggie-Now.

  "Well, so in a way, you bought it and now you have to

  pay for it. Still and all, that don't make it easier. I felt the

  same way, almost, when Timmy left me that time to go

  back to Ireland. I thought maybe he wouldn't come back

  and then I thought, anyways, I was lucky that I had him

  for the time I did have him even if he never came back."

  BUt I had a child, she thought. And where is her child?

  Her children? She can't marry again while he lives. Not in

  our religion. I don't wish him ally hard luck. God forgive

  me, but . . .

  Van Clees, the benevolent busybody, went to Annie

  Vernacht and said: "Go by the poor girl's house and talk

  to her."

  "But what do I say, Jan?"

  "Tell her she is a good girl and he comes back again."