“Now, McGee,” said his wife admonishingly.
He ignored her. “All us presidents of unions, any unions, want to keep out Communists, the kind of people who cause trouble and set one workingman against another, and against their employers. What help do we get, in most newspapers? Practically none. We throw Commies out of a union, and some of the newspapers write editorials about ‘intolerance’ or ‘guilt by association,’ or some other damn foolishness. What help do we get from the Press? Look, Miss Summerfield, if we’ve got people like those who hurt Mr. Fletcher and the little boy, it’s because of people like you, in the newspapers, stirring up folks and making them hate one another.”
A pleasant wave of happiness invaded Lorry. Her eyes began to twinkle vividly. The others, who had been listening with eagerness, straightened in their chairs and nodded severely at each other, no longer awed by the beautiful Miss Summerfield.
Mr. McGee still pointed at the girl, and he shook a finger, wrath turning his moist forehead to a purplish scarlet.
“Look, we’ve got trouble in Barryfield. The miners don’t want to strike; I don’t want them to strike; the independent owners don’t want them to strike. Nobody wants a strike. We can’t afford it, and neither can the owners. A third of the men work in the mines. Think what a strike would mean to them, and the owners, and everybody else. I’ve seen the owners’ books, and they’re hardly making expenses. They keep the mines open so the men’ll have jobs. Yet out comes the Press a little while ago, telling the miners they’re being exploited. And all at once there’s strangers in town, talking to the men as they come out of the mines and giving them leaflets quoting the Press. And then, after you’ve caused all kinds of trouble here in your papers, you walk right into this room and call us a zoo or something!”
“That’s right,” chorused the others, nodding their heads vehemently.
“We’ve got a dirty town; air ain’t fit to breathe,” said Mr. McGee, his voice tight with emotion. “Does the Press write about it? Does the Press demand that the factories and mills have smoke control? Oh, no! Mr. Summerfield has too many friends who own those damned places. And he calls himself a liberal! Liberal for what, ma’am? Liberal for trouble?”
You couldn’t be righter, friend, thought Lorry, more and more pleased. Keep on thinking and talking as you do, McGee, and all the millions of honest workers everywhere, and you’ll defeat what my father is plotting for you. She said, “Well, that’s a nice speech, Mr. McGee. I think you’ve got something there. By the way, you might read the Press day after tomorrow. I think you’ll like it, for once.”
She nodded at him gayly and went out of the room. One of the women said, with excitement, “You told her, Mr. McGee! And did you smell the alcohol on her! Phew!”
Mr. McGee sat down slowly and contemplated the floor. He frowned. “You know,” he said at last, “there’s something about that girl—I don’t know what it is. I can’t put my finger on it. But it isn’t what we think.”
As Lorry went up the bare stairs her exultation suddenly died, and the depression she always dreaded swept over her. She climbed more slowly. Why had she gone to the hospital? Why was she here? She always did the most irresponsible things after too many drinks. The brilliant clarity of alcohol was now receding; she could not remember what had sent her out into the night, like a maniac. Of course it was Barry, and this minister. But no doubt if Fletcher knew that alcohol had pitched her into this sentimentality, or even if Barry knew, they would have contempt for her as an unreliable, unstable fool of a woman. The dull confusion which invariably followed too much indulgence clouded her mind. She half turned to go down again.
She shook her head at herself; her skull was aching in a nasty way. I need a drink, she thought. Several drinks. There was a sick gnawing at her stomach. Then she impatiently pulled her drifting thoughts together. A fool shouldn’t stop halfway, she said to herself sardonically. All the way, fool!
The door of the main bedroom was open; pinkish light gushed out. Lorry could hear the murmur of men’s voices. She stood on the threshold, and was appalled by the dreary poverty of the room, its mottled walls, its ragged little rugs. Dr. McManus had told her that one or two of the boys slept in this room; she saw the closed day bed. And there was Johnny Fletcher, half sitting up on the sagging double bed, his forehead bandaged, his face drawn and pale, one side of it a hideous mass of bruises, purple, yellow, and green. But he was smiling, and listening to the two men near him, one a big, bulky priest and another an old man with a skullcap and a long beard like drifting sunlight. A hideous little pink light was the only illumination in the room.
The three men were absorbed in some very serious discussion. The priest was saying, “Well, now, we have those three interpretations of the Psalm. The rabbi has given ns the original Hebraic version, with which the Church agrees in toto. But you, Johnny—”
It was Johnny who saw Lorry first, and his shadowed eyes fixed themselves on her in astonishment. The priest and the rabbi turned, and were also astonished.
“Am I intruding?” asked Lorry foolishly.
“Why no,” said Johnny slowly. His voice was very tired. “Come in, Miss Summerfield. If you’re looking for another story you won’t find one. Father Krupszyk, Rabbi Chortow, this is Miss Summerfield.”
The priest looked at Lorry keenly, the old rabbi inclined his head with an Old-World gesture. He was less inclined than the priest to study people with a touch of cynicism and mistrust, for he was a simple and gentle scholar who had some faith in the goodness of man, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. His intellectuality was softened by mysticism, by dreams of the ancient past in which innocent men walked together in a lost green garden, and conversed with God. He had not endeared himself to his shocked and frightened congregation when, during the war, he had asked them to pray for the Nazi murderers of his people that they might be restored to light and humanity and the knowledge of “the Lord our God,” and the humility of atonement. To Rabbi Chortow sin was evil, but not the sinner. Father Krupszyk had other and more realistic opinions, and agreed with Johnny that if there was the Mystical Body of God there was also the Mystical Body of Lucifer, to which quite a multitude of men belonged wholeheartedly, and with much more devotion and dedication than did those on the other side of the spiritual fence. However, the three were one in the belief that sin demanded not only repentance but penance.
Rabbi Chortow smiled sweetly at Lorry and, quite inexplicably, he thought of Rachel, the mother of many children. Johnny was merely suspicious and disturbed at her appearance. The minister and the priest caught the rankness of alcohol as the girl advanced slowly into the room, but the rabbi, paternally entranced by her extraordinary beauty, thought of incense, and the prophetesses.
Lorry stopped abruptly at the foot of the bed. Johnny, in silence, looked at her and waited. “I didn’t come for a story,” she said. Well, she was a fool. That priest was regarding her with positive dislike. The old rabbi was beaming at her mistily. Hurry it up, she thought. She went on: “I heard about you, Mr. Fletcher. And about Jean. I knew you couldn’t go to him, so I went to the hospital to find out for myself. Doctors are such soothing liars.”
Johnny quickened; he lifted himself on his pillows, and his expression tensed.
“That was good of you, Miss Summerfield,” he said uncertainly. “How—how was Jean?”
Only the priest, suddenly alerted by her slight, mobile change of face, caught the careful evasion of her next words: “When I left him—he was fine. Dr. Kennedy said he was improving remarkably. His fever had dropped, his pulse was almost normally strong.” Father Krupszyk straightened in his chair, and now his eyes were very keen on the girl’s face. Lorry went on: “He was sleeping wonderfully—when I left.”
Johnny was baffled. Why had she gone there? What was Jean to this hard young woman? But he was relieved and happy. He sank back against his pillows. “Good, good,” he murmured. “I knew everything would be all right.”
Again the priest saw Lorry’s face change. He listened intently when she continued, “Uncle Al said the boy was a Catholic. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought him a very pretty statue of the Virgin, and put it on his table. I—I told the nurse to tell him that his mother had sent it to him.”
Johnny turned his head quickly on his pillow, and now it seemed to him that he saw Lorry for the first time. His voice shook a little. “I—can’t thank you enough. But how did you know—I mean, how did you understand?”
Rabbi Chortow spoke very gently: “Is understanding the property of the clergy alone? Does not God move all human hearts to understanding—if they will give just one little minute to listening?” He had indicated a chair for Lorry several times, but she had ignored the gesture. She remained at the foot of Johnny’s bed, her hands tight on the posts.
She said to Johnny with quiet scorn, “Aren’t you a little egotistic? Are understanding—and charity, perhaps—the possession of public Christians only? Are the rest of us outside the pale of humanity, without any decencies, or the impulses or virtues of humanity? Pardon me, Mr. Fletcher, but how stupid can you get?”
She was immediately contrite, for Johnny colored painful ly and his eyes darkened with distress. “I’m sorry,” he said at once. “You were right to say that. I’m often stupid. I’m sorry.”
Don’t be! she cried in her heart. Don’t be, Johnny Fletcher! You saved my brother’s life; you literally brought him back from the dead. Not only physically, but spiritually!
The mysterious and humble tenderness she had felt before for him almost overwhelmed her. They all saw her change of expression, melting, passionately emotional. Johnny was touched, and ashamed. But he did not understand. He thought to himself, I’ve misjudged her. She’s really very vulnerable, poor young woman, to accept my apology with such a reaction. He saw that her eyes were full of tears, and that her mouth was trembling. He said, “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for going to Jean, Miss Summerfield. You told the nurse to tell Jean that his mother had sent the statue? You know, I feel that’s true. She most likely did, through you, and that’s another step toward Jean’s recovery. And you came to tell me he was improving rapidly. That’s the kindest thing I’ve ever heard of. I won’t thank you. Thanks aren’t very adequate, are they?”
“No,” she murmured. She thought, To thank you, Johnny Fletcher, would be an insult. She wanted to go to him, to kneel beside his bed and take his hand. The impulse was almost too powerful to restrain. She wanted to tell him of the hatred for her father which was tearing the vital fabric of her spirit to tatters, and the reason for the hatred, and the tortured love for the same father which fought with the hatred. She wanted to tell him of the horror of her life, of the daily sickness of living, and her lostness. If they had been alone she would have gone to him and laid her cheek against his hand, weeping.
There was no wind outside, but all at once the house shivered perceptibly. Faint chatterings ran through it, and its worn timbers moaned dimly. Johnny exclaimed, “Was that an earthquake?”
“No,” said the priest. “The town’s just honeycombed by the mines. It happens all the time, especially in this section. Some of the richest deposits are under here.” He turned his attention to Lorry again, and he thought that something was disturbing this young woman beyond the knowledge of anyone in the room.
Johnny closed his eyes in exhaustion. He said, “I’m glad you’ve not come for a story about me. We—we’re getting too much notoriety as it is. It’s bad for us.”
“I don’t think so,” said the priest. “Part of your congregation is sitting downstairs in sackcloth and ashes, as you know. They’re inarticulate people, and they can only sit there and be sorry.”
Johnny smiled and opened his eyes. “You know—the day it happened—I was very worried. My sermon—I thought it was all up with me and the children after that. But now they tell me my congregation is thinking. Mr. McGee said tonight that it’s just what they needed. Perhaps I was a little hard on them.” His smile became deeper. “I was afraid, too, that we’d be told to leave. It doesn’t matter to me, but I wanted the children to take roots, somewhere.”
Mrs. Burnsdale came in with a wooden tray containing several cups of coffee. She stopped and blinked when she saw Lorry. Then she put the cups down on the table. “I think you’d better not drink the coffee, Mr. Fletcher,” she said. “I brought you a cup of hot milk. It’s time you went to sleep,” she added, not too subtly. Now, what on earth was this girl doing here? Trying to get up a wild, silly story? She regarded Lorry with more than a little antagonism. But she had more important matters on her mind. She said to Johnny, “I talked to Dr. Kennedy at the hospital. I told him we had all the windows shut to keep out the fog. But Emilie’s coughing, in spite of the cough syrup. She can’t sleep. I’ve given her another pill.”
Lorry swung to her quickly. “The fog and the smoke? It affects some people too much, especially young children, if they’re feeble. Is there anything the matter with the little girl?”
Johnny said, in a voice suddenly weak and faint, “She has a bad heart. Dr. Kennedy told me she can’t—”
Lorry was aghast. She looked at the priest and the rabbi and saw their grave faces. She cried out bitterly, “I know all about the smoke! Pittsburgh could get rid of it, but not Barryfield! It’s too expensive—for my father’s friends.” Again her face changed, became ugly with wrath and detestation. “Well, we can do something about it.”
If she went back to the offices at once she could slip in the article next day. She gathered up her purse quickly, and felt the weight of the golden box in it, which she had forgotten. She paused. A fool thing to do. But she had wanted to give him a small gift, because of Barry. It had seemed sensible then, but now it appeared absurd. Still, she hesitated. Then, finally, willing to accomplish the whole of her folly, she took out the wrapped parcel and laid it abruptly beside Johnny’s hand. His face swam close to hers, and for one shaking moment they looked fully into each other’s eyes. Lorry turned away, her hands clenched stiffly at her sides. “I brought you a little gift, too,” she said with a sort of defiance. “At the time I bought it for you it seemed reasonable. I’m not so sure now.” Her cheeks, usually so smooth and white, were vivid with embarrassment. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it away.”
Johnny said in wonder, “Why should you give me a gift, Miss Summerfield?”
“I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you look at it, at least?”
Johnny slowly unwrapped the box. And then it lay on his palm, glimmering with golden lights and shadows, exquisitely carved. He opened it, and immediately the air was penetrated by the faint, exotic fragrance of forgotten unguents, of attar of roses. Father Krupszyk bent forward to look at it, and for some reason the back of his neck prickled. There was something he was trying to remember; this was too familiar to be forgotten.
Lorry said recklessly, in the awed silence, “I don’t know what you’ll do with it, honestly. I thought I knew when I bought it, but I don’t know now. To be frank, I’d had too much to drink.” She added, “You could use it for cuff links, or anything, I suppose.”
Johnny was dumfounded. He held the box so that the rabbi and the priest could examine it closer. And then he thought, It was terribly expensive, and I can’t imagine … Why should she? And if she wanted to spend all that money, there’s the parish hall under the church, and the money could have been used for play and craft equipment for the children of the parish, or for help for mothers, or the aged.
Then the priest murmured to him, “The poor are with you always.”
Johnny turned to him at once. The priest smiled and nodded. Johnny said to Lorry, “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Miss Summerfield.” He spoke simply and gravely, and his bruised face was quiet. “If you wanted me to have it, then I can only accept it with gratitude.”
They all started as they heard the hard pounding of feet on the bare stairs, and the heavy rush of them when they entered t
he room. And there was Dr. McManus in a rumpled and exultant hurry, more untidy than ever, as if he had thrown his unkempt clothing on his wide short body in wild haste. He squealed, “A miracle, you said! Well, Johnny, you’ve got your damned miracle! I just came from the—”
He saw Lorry for the first time, and he fell into a complete silence. He forgot the others; he gazed at the girl, and his stony eyelids fluttered and his face became tremulous. Then he went to her, slowly, and put his arm about her and held her tightly. He tried to speak, then he coughed raucously, and sniffed audibly. Still holding her, he let his eyes touch the priest, the rabbi, and then Johnny. He said, “A miracle. And who did it? This girl here. This wonderful girl of mine, the finest girl in the world. It makes a man feel—hell, it doesn’t matter. Johnny, I can only say this. Five hours ago we practically gave up Jean. The infection—everything was a shock to him. It came up suddenly; he seemed to be letting go, making up his mind to go. And then this girl came.”
Johnny sat up in bed, paling. “You mean, you didn’t tell me about my boy? You—you lied to me?”
“What good would telling you do? You couldn’t go to him, man. Don’t be a fool. We were doing all we could. It was the boy—he was letting go, I tell you. All he could talk about was his mother, not you, not his father, not anybody else. Just his mother. Sol Klein’s been with him most of the time, and me too. But it was getting bad. He wanted his mother.” His arm tightened still more about Lorry, and he turned his massive head to her and gently kissed her cheek. “Lorry, you saved him. You brought him back. He thought you were his mother. And now he’s looking at the statue all the time, and smiling, and then he was hungry about half an hour ago, and he’s telling everybody his mother came to him and left the statue for him. He’s going to live, Lorry, because of you.”
A Tender Victory Page 25
