Johnny crossed his long legs and said thoughtfully, “When a man wants to commit suicide it isn’t because of the immediate cause, as he thinks. He feels his back is against a wall. But millions of people go through that every day, and they don’t shoot their blamed heads off. They come out fighting, away from the wall. The man who kills himself, though, hasn’t any fight; he can’t face the thing he has to face. It’s just another of a hundred things he’s been up against, probably all his life. Not just that one thing. Howard, when did you first feel your back was against the wall? When you were a kid in your teens in the Army?”
Howard stopped his pacing, his head bent. Then he swung to Johnny rapidly, and his face was bitter and alive. “When I was fourteen years old! Look at that thing over there! I whittled it when I was a kid. I been whittling all my life. But my pa said I got to stop it and get to work, and so I did, and nobody’s going to tell me I didn’t make a good living for my wife and kids. Maybe Pa had good sense, but I never did get around to forgiving him. Maybe he didn’t know any better, and he was right all the time.”
Johnny got up and went to the small wooden pedestal hanging in the corner. He lifted down the magnificent statue of dark wood and held it reverently in his hands. Howard watched him. He laughed shortly. “Trudie liked it. She got it from me on her birthday, when we was both kids. I keep wanting to throw it away, but Trudie kind of likes it, and so do the kids. Fool thing.”
The statue, fourteen inches tall, was incredibly beautiful and awesome. It represented Christ as a young and virile man, in a simple robe so exquisitely carved that it seemed stirred and blown backward by an invisible and eternal wind. Strength and power were here, and exultation. This was no meek and gentle Christ, but a man of force whose hands had hurled suns and worlds and galaxies and universes, blazing with light, into a black and voiceless abyss where they would burn forever, conflagrations of life and glory. Here was the God who stepped from constellation to constellation, leaving His radiant trail behind Him in time and space.
The face was vital and strong, calm and smiling with deathless youth, lifted to listen to the music He had created everywhere. The small hands, powerfully carved, were half raised in a gesture of imminent creation. Here was the simple Man of Galilee, but here also was the triumphant and mighty God.
“You did this?” asked Johnny in a hushed voice, charged with amazement. “When you were a child?”
Howard swaggered a little. He came close to Johnny and looked over his shoulder at the statuette. “Fool thing,” he said proudly. “I was real religious in those days. A fella back home offered me ten dollars for it when I was a kid, but I gave it to Trudie.”
“You did this?” repeated Johnny. He had to sit down. He held the statuette and shook his head incredulously. Then he looked at Howard’s hands for the first time, and saw the lean brownness of them, the sensitive length of the calloused fingers, the nervous tenseness of them. He sighed, and closed his eyes.
Still keeping his eyes closed, as if in protection against a light too intense to be borne, he began to speak softly.
“I am a minister, yet every hour of my life is a revelation to me. Of God and His strange and mysterious wonders, and commands. He gave you genius and the ability to create marvelous things. You were stopped, partly by your father, partly by yourself, because you have the spirit of an artist, and that isn’t always strong enough to defy the world of men. For every artist who survives and lives and creates, fully ten thousand of him have gone down into the dust of obscurity, and have died like half-men, not having ever lived. Why? Because they lacked faith in themselves, and in God? Because they had feeble bodies, or because they were too sensitive? I don’t know.”
He opened his eyes now and looked suddenly at Howard, who was standing near him, listening painfully.
“I know a writer who is famous now,” said Johnny. “But he never had a book published until he was forty. He was always a writer; life and petty things just got in his way, and it took him a long time to climb over them to freedom. That is what happened to you. But God didn’t want to wait until you were middle-aged, and had completely forgotten. He didn’t want you to work at small things any longer. So He took away the strength of your legs, and commanded you to use your hands again, to do the work He had ordained you to do.”
“Now look,” said Howard sheepishly. “You mean that thing there means anything? Hell, I showed it to a couple of ministers, right here in town, and they said it was—what did they call it?—blasphemy. One said it wasn’t any good, anyway. Another said I should make another, kneeling and just praying. I told Trudie it wasn’t any good, but she made me show it to them ministers, and did I laugh at her afterward!”
He reached out and took the statuette from Johnny and held it in his hands, and all at once the broad pale face changed, became tender and brooding and full of sorrow. “But I sure like it,” he whispered. “That’s what He still looks like to me.”
“And to me,” said Johnny.
Howard turned to him abruptly, and he was no longer a workman, but a spirit of eager life and hope. “You mean I could make a living, whittling things like this?” he asked, and his voice shook.
“You could not only make a fortune, but you could become famous, all over the world,” said Johnny. “I am not lying to you. I know. I’ve never seen work like this, not even in the museums in Europe. If I didn’t know what miracles God performs constantly, I could not believe you had done it.” He laughed shakily. “You and your service station! You, and gasoline! In the Name of God!”
Howard looked at him mutely, his hazel eyes blazing with an almost uncontrollable excitement. Then he stammered, “You—you aren’t kidding me—are you?”
Johnny put his hand on his shoulder. But he could only stand and shake his head, in wonder, in joy. At last he said, “I’d like to get down on my knees and pray. Howard, when Dr. McManus comes, I want you to show him this. How much cash have you? Five thousand dollars, eh? That’ll last you long enough to get started. You’ve got to carve more statuettes, of anything you wish, religious, your children, your wife—anything. About half a dozen. And then you’ll take them to New York. Dr. McManus will find an outlet for you; he knows everybody. You may need some lessons, a very few, for you’re probably rusty. But not too many lessons, given by people with less genius!”
Howard ran, not walked, to his chest of drawers, and pulled open the top drawer. He snatched out a long box and tumbled the contents on the bed. They were a collection of half a dozen tiny statuettes, of children and birds and animals and angels, each wonderfully perfect and sternly delicate. Johnny examined them speechlessly.
“I never did give up whittling,” said Howard. “Have to do something with my hands all the time. Kind of like being hungry, and you got to eat. Trudie wanted to put them on tables, but I keep hearing my pa say, ‘Stop that damn foolishness and get to work like a man!’ So, I was shamed.”
Johnny was examining a five-inch statuette of a mournful child, ragged and despondent. It breathed desertion and misery. Yet the half-turned head had a look of listening, of fragile hope. “You like that?” asked Howard. “I saw a kid like that in Europe. A refugee kid. Say, do you want it? You can have it, if you do.” His voice was assured, modestly proud, the voice of a creator.
“Thank you,” said Johnny. He touched the tiny face, and thought of Emilie.
Howard took the statuette from him in gentle fingers, as if it were alive, and lovingly wrapped it in a piece of tissue paper. He put it in Johnny’s palm. He said, looking into the minister’s eyes, “You’ve made me live again. Why, hell, I feel life coming back all over me! Like I’ve been born again!”
“And so you have,” said Johnny.
But Howard was shouting at the top of his lungs. “Trudie! Joey! Elsie! Come on in here and listen to the Reverend! Come on in! And hey, Trudie, better start frying that chicken. He’s staying for dinner!”
33
At two o’clock, in that house of
rejoicing and laughter and young faces and gratitude, Johnny called home. Yes, Mrs. Burnsdale said, there were three sick calls for him, one at the hospital. The doctor had just taken the four older children to the zoo, but Debby had been sent home from kindergarten. She had a slight fever, the school nurse had said. “Measles coming on, maybe,” added Mrs. Burnsdale with nonchalance. “Measles!” cried Johnny, dismayed. “And all those other kids!”
He added gloomily, “I’ll probably get them too. Never had them.”
Half an hour later a maid came into the kitchen where Mrs. Burnsdale was happily making the doctor’s favorite dessert for dinner. “Miss Summerfield’s here,” said the girl. Mrs. Burnsdale ran out of the kitchen, followed by Debby, who resolutely refused to go to bed and preferred the excitement attendant on the preparing of meals in a fragrant and steaming warmth. Lorry was already taking off her gloves and hat and coat when Mrs. Burnsdale reached her and took her cold hands, and beamed at her with delight. “I decided to come home for the week end instead of going to New York,” she said, and bent to kiss Mrs. Burnsdale on the cheek. “Well, well,” she added, putting her hands on her knees and bending down. “So, this is Debby. What a pretty—”
“You’re Aunt Lorry,” said Debby. She skipped gayly, and flung her arms about Lorry’s neck. “I saw your picture,” the child said, after a hearty kiss, nestling close to the girl. “Papa’s got it. I can be flower girl, Papa said.”
Lorry picked up the child in her arms and hugged her. Mrs. Burnsdale’s welcoming smile became somewhat fixed. She saw that Lorry looked too worn, too thin, and her mouth was very pale. “Debby’s too heavy for you, Miss Lorry,” she said. “A great big girl acting like a baby!”
But Lorry clung to the child hungrily. Debby leaned back in her arms and said importantly, “I’m getting the measles.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Lorry, and put her down with haste. “And I’m with kids three days a week, or more.” She stroked the gleaming auburn curls, sighed, and smiled. There was something troubling her, thought Mrs. Burnsdale, who suggested hot tea and sandwiches, which Lorry gratefully accepted in front of the great living-room fire. Debby sat near her, bouncing with pleasure. “We’re going to have a new home,” she informed Lorry. “And a big room for Kathy and me.” She bounced again, her brilliant blue eyes lit with anticipation.
Lorry looked about this old, ugly room, and at the fire, and sighed again. She and Debby were alone. She listened to the child’s prattle with a kind of contentment. It was wonderful to be with a little girl who bore no spiritual or physical wounds. An American child, who had known nothing but love! How marvelous, how satisfying, how hopeful. “Never mind the measles, if you’re really getting them,” said Lorry, holding out her arms. “Come sit on my lap and tell me all about yourself.” It was blessed that the other children could have this child for a sister, so vibrant, so healthy and so fresh.
Debby happily accepted the invitation. Her sweet infant voice went on and on, and Lorry nodded her head soberly at intervals, merely listening to that voice and drawing courage from it. She thought of the other children of this house, and her courage became steadier. If they could be saved, only by love, then the others could be saved too. In fact, she added to herself, look what it did for me. And think what it could do for the whole wretched world.
Then she noticed that Debby was no longer chattering. The child’s face was still and withdrawn, and she was looking at the fire. “What is it, dear?” asked Lorry.
Debby leaned against her breast. “Papa told me about my own Daddy and Mama with the angels,” she said in a small, lost voice. “I wish they could live with us in our new house.”
Lorry stroked her curls tenderly. “You don’t see them, darling, but they see you and love you. Always. Besides, what would Papa do without you now? God sent you to him. Didn’t you know?”
Debby’s rosy face changed, and she looked at Lorry, enchanted. “He did? Was it because He took Emilie? Kathy told me about Emilie. Was she nicer than me?”
Lorry rested her cheek on the warm round head. “Every child is nice,” she said. And her weary eyes stared at the fire, seeing the frightened and lonely and injured children whom she classified, consoled, and comforted these sad and bitter days. What if there was ever another war, with more shattered cities, more horrors, more death, more broken children, more wasted homes? Never, never must it happen again, God, she prayed, and she was full of fear. There were too many men like her father in the world now, the hating men, the men who wanted vengeance—for nothing. Or, worse still, men who wanted profits. She squeezed her eyelids together, thinking of her father, not detesting him as she had once detested him, but fearing him.
Debby was drowsing in her arms and Lorry leaned her head back against the deep wing chair, and suddenly she was asleep, sprawled in an attitude of complete exhaustion. When she awoke it was dark, and Johnny was standing beside her, his hand against her cheek, and Debby was gone. Wordlessly he bent and kissed her lips, then sat on the arm of the chair, holding her head to his chest. A sensation of rest and bliss came to her, and a desire to weep, not from pain but from peace.
The fire chattered softly on the hearth, and rosy shadows curtsied and swayed on the dusky walls. Then Lorry began to speak.
“Johnny, I’ve come here because I’m so tired, and I need you. And to give you a chance to see things—right. Johnny, I don’t think I’ll be good for you. In fact, I’ll be very bad for you. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“And all foolish,” he said. “What do you mean, bad?”
“Can you see me as a minister’s wife? Honestly, Johnny? Lorry Summerfield, president of the Ladies’ Aid! It’s—incongruous. For you. This town, and everything. I’m not the type, Johnny, and you know it.”
He came around before her, sat on his heels, and held her hands.
“Don’t you want to marry me, Lorry?” he asked.
She looked down into the deep and shining blue of his eyes, and began to cry, the tears sliding down her haggard cheeks. “Oh, Johnny,” she murmured, and leaned her head against his. “But my father, Johnny. He never lets you alone. Never. Uncle Al sends me all his squibs and jeers about you, until I feel like coming home and killing him.” She tried to laugh, and only sobbed. “Think of marrying a woman who has murder in her heart! Because of you.”
“I don’t mind what your father writes about me, darling,” said Johnny. “What does it matter? Let him imply what he wants to, whenever he wants to. Nobody believes it, anyway. Why, he now lets Father John Kanty alone, since he has me. Some men seem to need someone to hate, and I’m the joker just now. Tomorrow it’ll be someone else, probably.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Lorry. Johnny smiled up at her in surprise. “Never mind,” she went on. “Let’s get back to us. Johnny, do you need me, just as I am, unsuitable for you as I am? Johnny, I’ll never be able to be a sweet-faced minister’s wife, full of tact when fools speak, smoothing things over in the parish hall, arranging children’s parties and luncheons for missionaries. Can you see me doing that, in all honesty?”
“No,” said Johnny. He stood up, his hands clasped behind his back. “You have special talents. You can’t confine them in a narrow range. That is why, even when we are married, you’ll have to keep up your work with the Quakers. There are all those children, and, I am afraid, there will be others, now peaceful in their homes somewhere in the world—and tomorrow lost and orphaned. I feel it with every instinct I have. I’ve been thinking too.”
She rose and stood beside him, and put her hand through his arm. “Johnny, I knew you’d understand. I ought to have known,” she said, remorsefully. “I ought to have known what you are.” She dropped her head to his shoulder, and they clung together in the warm darkness of the room. Now she was completely at peace, though with knowledge that the years ahead would be hard and interrupted. There was so much to do. But she and Johnny would do it together.
They could hear the v
oices of the children in the upper rooms of the house, laughing, quarreling, teasing children. And Dr. McManus’s growls. Lorry smiled. “I feel I’ve come home,” she said.
Mrs. Burnsdale had put Debby to bed, in spite of protests and tears. Then when Debby saw the awed curiosity of the other children she acquired importance again. She was definitely developing a rash. Kathy, Jean, Max, and Pietro were banished to the threshold, peering over each other’s shoulders and jostling each other for long examination of this distinguished child. Dr. McManus was sitting on the edge of Debby’s bed, holding her hand. “Yes,” he said, testily, “you can have strawberry ice cream at every damn meal, and between times, if that’s what you want. But one bounce out of bed and you go on toast and milk. Hear me?”
Debby nodded so vigorously that her curls flew. The others gazed at her enviously, and she saw it. “Not everybody can have the measles,” said the doctor, with gloom. “I hope.” He glared at the other children, and said, “Scat! All of you. And stay away from Debby. She’s my special child just now, see?”
He piled Debby’s favorite toys on the bed, patted her hot cheek, and went downstairs. The living room was still redly lit by the fire. He could see Johnny and Lorry standing together, not speaking. He was pleased. He found Mrs. Burnsdale with the cook in the kitchen, and beckoned to her. She followed him into the dining room, which was already beaming with candlelight, the best silver and dishes, in honor of the visitor. “Well?” she demanded. “If you want a decent soufflé you’d better speak fast, for it’s very ticklish.”
He studied her in silence. Her plump figure was modishly encased in black silk, and a lace collar circled her flushed throat. Then the doctor said, “You know, madam, you get handsomer all the time, damned if you don’t. It’s the climate. Or, perhaps, could it be me by any chance?”
She laughed and blushed. “Now, doctor.”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the living room. “All this infernal love,” he grumbled. “It’s giving me a second childhood. Senility, that’s what. By the way, when do we get married?”
A Tender Victory Page 50
