by Betty Smith
one thing: She had two dead husbands and Pat, being
superstitious, believed that everything came in threes.
He rationalised his decision to marry her: Every year a
priest comes and gives me the last rites and me family leaves
me f or dead. I can lick that. But wheel two priests believe
I'm dying, that's tough. With the Ridder now, I'll only die the
once, iilstead-a every year.
Tessie came to pay a visit to her baby's godmother and
Pat. From his window, Pat saw her arrival. He sent Mick
Mack back to his own room, saying, "Here comes me
daughter-in-law, the Informer." Pat turned off his radiator.
The Informer will tell me daughter that I sit in a cold room
and Maggie-Now will worry her head off, he thought with
satisfaction.
~4~5]
She left the baby with the widow and came up to see
Pat. "I brought you some new clay pipes," she said.
"Where's the tobacco?" he asked.
"You've got tobacco."
"What'd you come here for?"
"Just for a visit."
"You came so you could inform on me to me daughter."
"I did not!" she said hotly. "I know you don't like me.
And I don't like you either. I come to see you only
because it pleases Dennis when I do. Well, I've paid my
visit. Good-by." She left.
She's got spunk, that ooze, he thought. Me son's in good
hands. After a while, his room got cold. He forgot that he
had turned off the heat. He grabbed his shillelagh and
banged on the radiator pipes.
"Heat, O'Crawley! !' he bawled. "Heat, Goddamn it! "
Slle came up to his room. "Where's me heat?" he hollered.
She knelt down and turned the valve. There was an
immediate hiss and gurgle. "You turned it off," she said
reproachfully.
He looked at the slender, aging woman kneeling there,
her small, work-worn hand resting on the valve. There was
something tender and vulnerable about the arch of her
slender, bent back.
And so had a young girl, long ago, knelt in a field in
Kilkenny County to pluck a daisy to put in his buttonhole
and her young back had had that same tender and
vulnerable look. He thought briefly of Maggie Rose and
lingeringly of Mary Moriarity.
"Me first wife was named Mary," he said. "And the one
I'm taking for me second wife is Mary, too."
She got: up and clasped her hands ecstatically. "Oh, my
man, dear! "
"No fancy wedding, now," he warned her.
And it was done and he made his permanent home at
the vidow's house. When llaggie-Now realized her father
had moved 'ut for good, she felt sty angely depressed.
l hat year Claude came home late, the second creek in
December. Maggie-Now was shocked at his appearance.
Fle had gotten quite thin and his clothes were nearly in
rags and he had an irritating c ought
He Dent away too far t/JiS year, she thought in dismay.
Where it tubas too cold. Arzd he angst have IJad a hard time
getting back.
1 Ales 1
In her presence, he unpinned the gold piece and took
it out of his pocket. "I almost needed it this thee," he
said. "But I managed to get through without it." He put
the coin in her hand. "You'll never need to pin it in my
coat again. I'm never going away
,,
again.
He pulled a package front his pocket. "My last
coming-home present to you. Open it."
It was a beautiful thing; a sea gull made of alabaster. It
was poised in flight on a bit of ebony wood. The whole
thing NN7:15 only six inches high.
"It's so beautiful," she said, "that it hurts to look at it."
"Of all the creatures of creation, the gull is the loveliest.
And the most free. The blue sky and the bluer sea and a
gull poised in the wind . . . alone . . . free . . . nothing but
sky and sea and wind and bird . .
"Oh, if there is a life after death; if one could return to
earth in another form, I would lie a sea gull!"
She shuddered. "You'll always go," she said sadly. "And
I'll always miss you."
He took her by her arms and pulled her close to him.
"Margaret, look at me! I will never to away again. There
will never be a reason for me to go."
Timidly, she ventured a question. She asked it in a
whisper: "Did you find what you were looking for?"
For the first time in their life together, he gave her a
definite answer. He said: "Yes."
He said no more and she asked for no more.
Later they went to bed. As the years had gone by, their
lovemaking had imperceptibly changed. Once it had been
a wild, passionate thing; as if thert had to be a surfeit of
love. NONV, it was a wonderful surcease from not having
had love for so long all during the months he'd been
away.
Two days later Claude became very ill. It seemed like a
routine cold at first. Only it didn t respond to the usual
home treatment. When his fever went high and he
babbled of inconsequential things, she sent for the doctor.
"It looks like flu," said the doctor. "Yes, Spanish
influenza. That's strange, though. We haven't had any of
that since the World War. Strange . . .
1 4!- 1
"Have the children shown any symptoms?"
"The children?"
"It's very contagious and I'm afraid the children must
leave, Mrs. Bassett."
"No!" she cried out.
"They're too young to survive if . . . You wouldn't vvant
anything to happen to any one of them, would you?"
"No, oh, no!"
"I'll have to notify the home." He was the home doctor
for the children.
In two hours, the home nurse and an assistant came in
a car for the babies. They wouldn't let Maggie-Now dress
the children. They brought blankets and clothes from the
home. They put masks on when they went into the babies'
rooms. The nurse was very severe with
Maggic-Now telling her sharply that the home should
have been notified earlier. Of course, Maggie-Now
couldn't even tell ':he children good-by.
Szlddenly it's all over, thought Maggie-Now. I mustn't
think of the children. I have Claude. Please God, she
prayed, don't let anything happen to him. Holy Mary,
Mother of God, I beseech thee . . .
Claude got over the flu. It left him weak. And no matter
how she tended him, how many custards and how much
chicken broth she made for him, he didn't improve. She
put the rocking chair near the coal range and put pillows
in it. He sat there and she gave him a footstool to keep
his feet off the floor and put a blanket over his knees.
He was content to sit there holding on his lap the little
Siamese cat he had once brought her and to watch
Maggie-Now at her household duties. He watched the
time go by, smiling when the cuckoo clock struck
and the
canary in its cage rapturously burst into competitive song.
"We are alone together, love," he said. "For the first
time. Your father's gone and Denny . . ." He didn't
mention the children because he knew she'd cry.
"I'm glad I've got you, Claude. So glad! And you are my
father, my brother and my children all in one. If I have
you, I need no one else."
"Were you frightened, love, when I was sick?"
[ 4~8 ]
"No. I was worried though."
"I was frightened," he said. "Oh, not of dying. I'm no
fool. I know we'll all die someday just as sure as we're
born. I was frightened of being put in a covered box and
being put in the earth."
"Don't talk that ay, Claude," she moaned.
"Let me. I've always been free. I hate darkness and
small places; small dark rooms with closed doors. I never
want to he tucked away somewhere."
"It's getting cold in here," she said. "I'll poke up the fire."
"No. Listen, Margaret. Where is that little gull I brought
you?"
"I'll get it for you."
He held it in his hand and ran a finger over the spread
alabaster wings.
The little cat on his lap got up, arched its back, gave the
canary in the cage a baleful look, and jumped to the floor.
Maggie-Now picked up the cat and held it close.
Claude spoke all in a rush. "I wouldn't be so
frightened I'd even be contented if I were sure that my
ashes would be thrown to the winds over the sea where
gulls are flying."
She trembled so much that the cat struggled to get out
of her arms. She held the cat against its will. "No, Claude.
No! I won't do it! If there is a life after death and I
know there is I want us to be together in it. And that
couldn't be if you . . ."
"Do you love me, Margaret?"
She let the cat go then and Vent over and held Claude
tightly "My darling, my dear, my love, my everything," she
said. She was trembling.
"There, Margaret! There now, Maggie-Now. There!"
After a while, she said: "Mr. Van Clees sent over a
bottle of very fine cognac for you. And Annie made some
wonderful calf's foot jelly for you. How about a nice hot
cup of tea with lemon and sugar and half cognacs And
toast and sweet butter and calf's foot jelly spread on top?"
"Wonderful! Will you have some too-"
"Of course. You don't think you're going to have all of
it do you, Mr. Bassett?"
"No, Mrs. Bassett."
That night, after tucking him into bed' she undressed.
brushed if 4779 ~
her hair and got in beside him. She put her arm under his
shoulder and put his head on her breast.
"Margaret," he said, 'if you happen to see your father,
ask him to come over. I'd like to talk to him awhile."
"All right," she said.
Pat came over a couple of mornings later and went into
the kitchen where Claude was sitting. Pat closed the
kitchen door after him. Maggie-Now went into the
bedroom to make up her bed. Pat didn't stay 107lg with
Claude. Pat opened the door and paused to say:
"I said I would. And I will. In fact, I'll bury youse all!"
Maggie-Now accompanied her father out to the stoop.
"Oh, Papa," she said, and the ready tears came to her eyes.
"Why do you fight with him? And he's so sick."
"Well, I ain't sick," said Pat. "I didn't like him when he
was well. Should I insult him by liking him just because
he's sick? No! Furthermore," he burst out, "I don't like
that damned skinny cat and that lousy canary and that
dopey clock. That's why I married the widow," he said
illogically, "so's I wouldn't have to put up with all that
stuff. And statures of pigeons, too." He stalked down the
street.
Claude must have said soz7~ethi~?g to upset him, she
thought.
She went in to Claude. He was smiling. "Your father!"
he said. His voice was full of admiration.
~ CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE ~
THERE was a warm day in February and Claude wanted
to sit by the front-room window. Maggie-Now set him up
there and then she knelt down and put her arms about his
waist.
"Claude," she said, "I always knew when you were going
away but I never let you know that I knew. But now I will
speak out. My dear darling, don't go away this spring.
You're not well yet.
[ 4 2 ]
Later on in the summer, if you have to go, I won't try to
hold you. But don't go! Please, don't go! And if you do,
I'll have to go with you. Because now there is no one but
you."
"I told you, Margaret, chat's all over. I don't want to go
any more. But I would like to sit at the window. I like to
see the skv and the street and watch the people go by."
"But the day that wind c omes, you'll go again."
"I promised you . . ."
"Could you say it in some way that I could know it's for
sure you won't go?"
"I'll tell you why I had to go away and why I don't have
to go any more. Once I told you that when we were old
and had nothing more to talk about: . . ."
"That you'd tell me the story of your life," she
interrupted. "But we're not old yet."
"We'll pretend. God know s I feel old. Tonight, when
it's dark and we're closed in, I'll tell you. But for the day,
let me sit by the window."
That night, she gathered all the pillows in the house and
she and Claude sat propped up in bed. She put her arm
around him and made him lean against her. She had a
moment of uneasiness w hen she felt that his heart was
beating too fast.
"If you don't want to tell me, Claude, it's all right."
"No, love. I want to I need to tell you.
"Well," he began, "soon after I was born, I v as placed
in a private institution for orphans in Detroit. It was
denominational, Protestant, and someone paid for my
care. From that, I knew these things about myself: That
I was white, a Christian, and that someone had enough of
a conscience to pav for my care. Wllo? Father? Mother?
"
He was not treated badly at the institution, but with a
lot of little boys and an inadequate, overworked staff
there was no time for love and understanding.
When he was eight he was sent to a boys' boarding
school. Here there was a difference. Some of the boys had
parents, though many were orphans placed in the school
by an aunt or older sister. A good many were children of
divorce. In all his time there. Claude was the only boy
who did not have a visitor.
if-!
It was here he learner! to parry questions. "Hey! When's
your mother coming?"
"Wouldn't you just like to know!" or,
"Hey! You got a mother?"
"How do you think I was born?"
At the age of twelve, he
was sent to a modest
preparatory school. He had a little surcease there. No one
seemed especially interested in his parentage.
Parents or guardians deposited money with the
headmaster and, once a week, each boy received fifty
cents' pocket money. Claude got his fifty cents along with
the rest. There was but one thing different about hell: He
was the only boy in the school who never received a letter.
One day he came across a writers' magazine in which
was a tiny ad that said: Letters remailed fro7n Chicago . .
25� Back. He wrote a letter to himself, starting, Dear Sorl,
and signed it Your Father. He addressed it to himself and
sent it off in another envelope with the quarter. In due
time, his letter came back, postmarked Chicago. From
that time on, he got a letter once a month from Chicago.
Once in a while he displayed a letter with elaborate
casualness and was not above quoting a pithy sentence or
two.
There came a time when he went to the headmaster.
"Sir," he said. "I know someone pays for me here and I
would like to know who . . ."
"You want to know who you are. Is that it-"
"Yes, sir."
"You may not know who you are, Bassett, but I'll tell
you went you are: a very lucky boy. Through no efforts of
your own, you are being provided with a good education
in a good school. .'? He talked on and on.
"Then You won't tell me, sir, who is responsible for me?"
"I can't tell you, Bassett. Your benefactor wishes to
remain anonymous."
When (~laude finished prep school, the headmaster
told him he had been registered at a small denominational
college in upper Michigan. His tuition would be paid and
rent on a room in the dormitory and meals at the college
cafeteria. There would be a small sum available for
textbooks....
[ 42 ~ 1
Claude matriculated there. After a few months he went
to the bursar of the college.
"Sir," he said, "I should like to know who is paying my
fees here."
The bursar got up and took a file from the filing
cabinet. The folder had two sheets. The bursar read the
papers, closed the folder and put his hand on it.
"Evidently-," he said, "your benefactor wishes to remain
anonymous. I can tell you this much, however: A small
trust has been set up for you. It will terminate when you
graduate from here."
"Sir, may I know the name of the bank or firm . . ."
"I am not in a position to give you that information."
Claude locked at the folder under the man's hand.
Everything I need to know is in that 1 order, he thought. I
could grab it, ruin oh with it.... But he was not aggressive
enough to make a deed out of his thought.
In Claude's sophomore year, the little college won an
important football game and some of the boys in his dorm
had a beer bust. They all got a little high and someone
inadvertently called Claude a bastard. Claude hit the
fellow and a free-for-all fight started. They smashed beer
bottles over each other's head. Claude woke up in the
infirmary with a row of stitches in front of his right ear
and they we re picking glass fragments out of his ear.
Probahl his defective ear resulted from that fight.
At graduation, he slipped out of the auditorium as soon
as he received his diploma. He stood on the steps and
scanned the face of each one who came out. He had a
strong feeling that his mother or father had come to see
him graduate. He saw a man standing alone and the man's
eyes searched the crowd. This is my father, thought
Claude, and he is looking for me. The man's eyes rested on
Claude and the man's searching look vas replaced by a
smile. He held ou': his hand and Claude started to go to
him. Then he found that the smile and the outstretched
hand were for a young man standing behind Claude. The
father put his arm about the young man's shoulder and
