Maggie Now

by Betty Smith

laughed louder. Henny was satisfied. If they had to laugh,

  let them laugh at his comeback.

  ". . . And I dreamed," continued Claude, "that I gave the

  shovel back to you, like this." Gently he put the shovel

  back in Henny's hand. ". . . And I dreamed I said: 'Stick

  it , you sadistic son-of-a-bitch!'"

  Before Henny could recover, Claude was swaggering

  down the street, hands in pocket, and whistling: "Hail to

  the victors valiant. Hail . . ."

  He went to a men's furnishing store and bought a cheap

  suit, a shirt, a pair of shoes and a hat. While the pants

  were being shortened, he went to a barbershop down the

  street and had a haircut and a mustache trim. While

  sitting in the chair, he read the want ads in the Brooklyn

  Eagle. He picked out a job for himself and went back to

  the store and got into his new outfit. The man asked

  couldn't he interest him in an overcoat. He couldn't.

  Claude had a

  ~ 3 ? 1

 

  khaki wool pullover left over from Maggie-Now's days of

  knitting for the Red Cross. That, pulled over his shirt, was

  as good as an overcoat, he thought.

  He got home at three that afternoon and Maggie-Now

  threw her arms around him and told him he looked just

  grand.

  "Just grand! But where are your old clothes?"

  "In the store, Miss Practical. I'll pick them up tomorrow.

  Your grand husband feels grand because he has a grand

  job."

  "No!" she said ecstatically.

  "Floorwalker. In one of Brooklyn's biggest department

  stores. Basement," he added.

  "Where, Claude? Where?"

  "Downtown Brooklyn "

  "Oh!" Her voice fell a Iittle. So he's not going to tell me,

  she thought. "I see," she said inanely. She turned away

  from him. He turned on his heel and went out the front

  door. "Where are you going?" she asked, frightened. The

  door closed.

  It opened almost immediately and he came in with a

  pasteboard box which he had left on the stoop. It said

  Gage and Tollner on the cover and it held six pieces of

  wonderful French pastry.

  "For you," he said. "A surprise."

  "Oh, Claude, I love you so much!" She was grateful. Her

  gratitude was mixed with relief. For a second, she had

  been afraid that he was going to leave her again.

  I mustn't question him, she advised herself. Even though

  a wif e has a right to know where her husband works. But l

  must take him as he is and just be so glad that I have him

  back.

  "We'll have some right away," she said. "I'll make coffee."

  "You will not! You will come to bed with me right away.

  Last night, I fell asleep before I had a chance to kiss you

  good night."

  "But . . ."

  "But what? Don't tell me . . ."

  "No. Not that. But I jenny will be home from school any

  minute."

  "Let him play outside awhile. It won't hurt him." He

  locked the door. "Oh, Margaret." He took her into his

  arms. "It's been such a long time!"

  "Such a long, long time," she sighed.

  ~ 308 ]

 

  She heard Denny try the doorknob. She grew rigid in

  her husband's embrace. "It's Denny," she whispered.

  "Never mind," he said roughly. "He can look out for

  himself. I come first."

  Afterward, she unlocked the door and looked up and

  down the street. "Nova, sweetheart," Claude said, "stop

  fussing. You'll make a sissy out of him."

  It was nearly six; supper was almost ready. She looked

  at the clock for the tenth time in five minutes. "I can't

  help it, Claude," she burst out. "I'm worried about Denny."

  "I'll go out and find him, dear," he said.

  He found him a couple of blocks away. He was with a

  gang of boys. They were throb. ing icy snowballs at a

  Jewish junkman. The man was in a rickety wagon pulled

  by a starved-looking dirty white horse. He was having a

  hard time getting the horse to pull the junk wagon

  through the street as the poor beast skidded from time to

  time on bits of ice left from the day's snow clearance. The

  boys were laughing and yelling and calling the junkman

  dirty names. Claude dispersed the boys, made Denny

  apologise to the man and say he was sorry, and took his

  hand and walked him home.

  "Now, what devilment was he up to? " asked

  Maggie-Now crossly. Denny's hand twitched in Claude's.

  "He wasn't doing a thing," said Claude. "He was only

  playing with some other boys."

  Denny pressed his hand hard against Claude's hand.

  MaggieNow saw the movement and she knew.

  "Claude!" she said. It was a syllable of love.

  "I have a very foolish name," said Claude to Denny,

  "and some people make fun of it. But when your sister

  says it, it sounds like a very fine name."

  Denny smiled up at Claude.

  1 ' 9 ]

 

  ~ CHAPTER FORTY-THREE ~

  SHE was waiting on the stoop for him when he came

  from his first day of work. She kissed him, not caring if

  the neighbors saw, and pulled him into the house, where

  she kissed him again, this time more lingeringly. Ele was

  wearing a white carnation in his buttonhole. The flower

  was only a little bit wilted. She put it on the table in a

  wineglass full of water.

  She had taken pains with this, the first supper the whole

  family would eat together since her marriage. She had

  boiled tongue with horseradish sauce and asparagus with

  hollandaise sauce, and, with the hope of ingratiating

  herself with her father, candied sweet potatoes, a plain

  lettuce salad with oil and vinegar dressing, hardcrusted

  rolls, airy light inside, sweet butter, the pastries from Gage

  and Tollner, and of course coffee. (Only this time with

  real cream instead of canned milk.)

  Pat came home and, to everyone's astonishment, greeted

  Claude heartily, Ilaggie-Now cheerfully and Denny with

  fatherly affection. He was so full of good will and

  kindliness and cheerfulness that he cast a pall over the

  supper. All worried, thinking he was either sick or drunk.

  Thought Claude: He's got something up his grubby sleeve.

  Throwing up that good-will smokescreen. I'll wait and see.

  This should be interesting.

  Thought Maggie-Now: Papa knows I love Claude and

  that he can't do a thing about it. So I guess he thinks he

  might as well be nice about it. Only, she w orried, Papa

  don't need to be so awfully friendly, I'd feel better if he was

  just not unfriendly,

  Pat's thoughts were along the same line as Claude's. I'll

  treat him just like he was any other decent slob. He'll get so

  mad that I'm not interested in who or what he is that he'll

  spill the whole beans about himself, the bastid.

  Denny: There's six cakes and four of us. Papa feels good

  and ma
ybe he'll say to let the little boy get the two what's

  left.

  [ 37 1

 

  After supper, Claude told Denny he'd help him with his

  reading homework after the dishes were out of the way.

  Claude and Pat went into the front room.

  "Sit down, son," said pat benevolently.

  "After you, sir," said Claude courteously.

  Each sat at a window, their chairs facing each other. Pat

  lit up his clay pipeful of tobacco and Claude lit up a

  cigarette.

  "I'm proud of you, me boy, and you getting the grand

  job the first day you look. Maggie-Now told me."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "And how much do they be paying you?" he asked

  mellowly.

  "The usual salary." Pat was all ears. "A little more than

  they think I'm w orth and a little less than I think I'm

  worth."

  The bastid, thought Pat bitterly. He pulled himself

  together. I must watch meself and At ask him anything right

  out. I got to go roundabout.

  "I see you got a nice brown tan," said Pat.

  Claude looked at one of his sun-tanned hands and said

  in simulated astonishment: "Why, so I have!"

  "People what stay in the South for a time always get sun-

  burned," said Pat.

  "I envy vou your room upstairs, sir," countered Claude.

  "You can see the sky while you lie in bed."

  "Funny thing," mused Pat. "You can always tell when a

  man gets out that he's been in Sing Sing. Their skin is this

  here dead white because they never get out in the air."

  "And," said Claude, assuming an eager naivete, "their

  hair is clipped close to the head."

  "Now down South," said Pat, dreamily sucking on his

  pipe, "you can't tell. When they put them in jail, they let

  them out all day to work on the roads. Then they get a

  good tan. So, when they come out, nobody knows they're

  ex-convicts."

  Now he'll kr~o~v I'm onto him, thought Pat.

  "I read that in the paper," he added in a too offhand way.

  "I read the newspapers, too," said Claude, dreamily

  contemplating the smoke from his cigarette. "I read that

  they put chains around their ankles when they work

  outdoors. And you can see white circles on the suntan of

  their ankles where the chains were."

  In an absent-minded way, Claude pulled up a trouser leg

  and

  [3~']

 

  crossed that leg over his other leg. Pat's eyes, like a

  true-thrown dart, went to the exposed ankle. It was

  smoothly tanned all over; no white circles.

  "Is there some other topic you would care to discuss,

  sir? We have the whole evening ahead of us. My, it's good

  to be home again," said Claude.

  Claude brought home his first week's salary: fifty

  dollars! Maggie-Now could hardly believe it. Even Pat was

  impressed.

  "That's good pay for a man what ain't got no steady

  trade," was his compliment.

  Claude mentioned the dressing table but Maggie-Now

  said to wait until there was a sale. She put the money in

  the bank, all but ten dollars of it.

  Claude seemed to like his work. Each night when he got

  home, he threw away the former day's carnation and put

  a new one in the wineglass. Each Saturday night, he gave

  her his pay intact. He asked nothing more than

  seventy-five cents a day for carfare, a luncheon sandwich

  and cigarettes. He seemed to want no material things for

  himself.

  He gave lavish Christmas gifts to them: a meerschaum

  pipe in a satin-lined, carved-wood c ase for Pat, a pair of

  ice skates for Denny with a promise he'd take him to

  Highland Park to teach him ice skating, and a beautiful

  small gold and white dressing table, with an oval mirror,

  for Mag~rie-Now.

  Pat pawned the pipe the day after Christmas and gave

  the ticket to Flick Mack, who did not smoke. But the little

  fellow considered the ticket itself, with Pat's name on it,

  as a Christmas gift and he put it in his wallet and

  treasured it for years.

  The payday after Christmas, Claude brought no salary

  home. He had charged the gifts at the store. He asked her

  if she minded and, of course, she said she didn't.

  In January, Father Paul, a missionary priest, came to

  give instructions to non-Catholic s who wished to become

  converts. He would serve all the parish s in that part of

  Brooklyn and his headquarters were the principal's office

  in the neighborhood parochial school. Instructions would

  be given at night.

  Father Paul was incredibly thin. His face looked like skin

  [ 312 ]

 

  stretched tight over a skeleton of bones with no flesh in

  between. He had spent his years in jungles and swamps

  and the brush and places not on any map. He had eaten

  the strange foods of savage people and been subjected to

  the strange ills of the jungle and had endured unheard-of

  hardships. He was worn as fine as a knife that had been

  honed too much. Every three or four years, he took a

  "rest" by carrying on his missionary work in America for

  a month or two.

  Here, thought Claude, was no gentle, serene priest like

  Father Flynn; no priest who took a glass of wine before a

  meal or smoked a cigar or pipe for relaxation; who tapped

  a foot to the rhythm of a passing tune. Father Paul wore

  a long black cassock, and a sixinch crucifix, that looked

  like flashing gold, hung on the left side of his breast. He

  raised his hooded eyes to Claude and spoke in a strong,

  ringing voice.

  "Your name, my son."

  "Claude Bassett, Father."

  "Religion ? "

  "I am a non-Catholic."

  The hooded eyes flashed up and the cross trembled as

  he took a deep breath to bring out the full volume of his

  voice.

  "Your religion!" he thundered. Religiously Religion!

  came back the echo of his voice from the corners of the

  room.

  "Protestant," said Claude, awed in spite of himself.

  "How long have you been married?"

  "A year, Father."

  "Is there a child?"

  "We have not been fortunate enough . . ." began Claude.

  "Has there been a child?" thundered the priest. The

  cross moved like a live thing and Child! Child! echoed in

  the room.

  "No, Father."

  "Is a child expected?"

  "No, Father."

  "Why?" Claude shrugged and smiled. "Why has your

  wife not conceived?" continued the priest.

  "I beg your pardon, Father?"

  "Do you do anything to prevent conception?"

  "Really, Father," began Claude.

  [ 3~3 ]

 

  "Do you use contraceptives?" thundered the priest. The

  word echoed back.

  A dark color came into Claude's face. He got to his feet

  and said: "With all due res
pect to you, Father, that's

  hardly any of your business."

  The priest rose, also. PI he cross flashed like fire and

  the echoes of his thundering words made it seem as

  though there were three voices in the room.

  "It is my business! It is the business of the Church! It is

  the holy duty of those who marry in the Catholic Church

  to produce children children for the Church!"

  "We might want them for our own pleasure," said

  Claude a little flippantly.

  "Your pleasure will be that you will be custodians of the

  children for Holy Moth' r Church!"

  "Good evening, sir," said Claude suddenly. He turned on

  his heel and walked out of the room.

  Maggie-Now greeted him eagerly. "Is it all settled?"

  "As far as I'm concerned it is. For good!"

  "Will you take instructions?"

  "I had a heart-to-hea rt talk with Father Paul. He did

  the talking."

  "Oh, Claude, can't you give me a direct answer? Can't

  you ever say a 'yes' or a 'no'?" She was nervous and tense.

  His conversion meant so, so much to her.

  "I'll give you a direct answer," he said coldly. "No! I can

  never give a 'yes' or a 'no.' I don't believe everything in

  life can be settled by a monosyllable "

  "Don't talk to me that way, Claude," she pleaded.

  "When you use words like that, I feel you are away from

  me."

  Without another word, he went into their bedroom.

  When she got into bed later, he turned away from her and

  slept with his back to her all night.

  The next morning, as hi was leaving for work, he said:

  "Let me have twenty dollars."

  She choked back the automatic question: "What for?"

  She thought she knew what for. He was leaving her again

  and he

  ~ 3~4 ]

 

  wanted twenty dollars to start off on. She gave him the

  money. He pocketed! it and put an arm around her and

  pulled her to him.

  "It's time we celebrated our first wedding anniversary," he

  said.

  "That was last week, C laude. I didn't say anything

  because I knew you'd forgotten."

  "All men forget wedding anniversaries."

  "But you're different, C laude."

  "Not that different. Now here's what I want you to do:

  Pack your little red bag, put my stuff in too, and n eet me

  in the lobby of the St. George at six. Bring a clean shirt.

  I'll go to work directly from the hotel."

  She left two cold plates in the icebox for Pat's and

  Denny's supper and told Denny not to leave the house;

  his father would be home in an hour.

  They had dinner at the same place. They didn't have the

  same room at the hotel but one almost as nice. It was like

  t'r eir marriage night except this time they undressed

  together in the bedroom. He got into his pajamas, loom

  d in the glass, put the jacket inside the pants, took it out

  again, said, "The hell with it," and stripped off the pajamas

  and went to bed naked.

  She went into the bathroom to wash up and clean her

  teeth and came out and stood before the dresser and

  started to brush her hair.

  "Never mind the brushing tonight," he said impatiently.

  "Get into bed."

  "All right, Claude." She picked up the pajamas from the

  floor to hang them up.

  "Stop fussing around so," he said crossly.

  "All right." She dropped the pajamas back on the floor

  and got into bed with him.

  It was a night of wild, almost insatiable passion. When

  morning came, she kissed him with great tenderness and

  said: "I know I'll have a baby now!"

  "If you do, I know who'll be deliriously happy."

  "Who?" she asked teasingly, assuming he'd say, "Me."

  "Your Church!" he said bitterly.

  She sighed. She guessed what Father Paul had said to

  him and she knew IOW that Claude would never come

  into her Church and her Faith.

  L3~51

  They had breakfast in the hotel restaurant. "I'll walk you

  to the store where you work," said.