by Osa Johnson
“If you can go away like that and not care whether you ever see me again, then I can see that our friendship means nothing to you,” I said dramatically.
The street we were taking to church on this particular morning ran past the hotel. We were almost there when out of the door walked Mr. Martin Johnson.
“Oh, you must meet him,” Gail whispered. “He’s wonderful!”
“I never want to meet him as long as I live,” I said and, turning, walked straight across the middle of the street and in front of a couple of brisk horses pulling an empty dray. Mr. Martin Johnson shouted his alarm and I leaped clear, then climbed the high curb on the opposite side with what I hoped, passionately, was both dignity and grace.
It was only a week later, on a Saturday; I was up to my elbows in flour with the week’s bread baking, and Papa, home from a long freight run, sat at the kitchen table. He was in his shirtsleeves, reading the paper. Mama was at the sink, and Grandma, in a rocker near Papa, was mending one of his hickory shirts.
“Osie,” Papa called out, “I see where your friend Gail Perigo just got married down there in Independence.”
I left a trail of flour behind me as I ran to the table.
“She couldn’t, not without telling me—we promised—she couldn’t!”
“Well, it says here in the paper she married that Dick Hamilton boy, and the ceremony was performed right on the stage of some theater—it says the Snark or some such name.” He chuckled. “Why, it says here that folks were strung clear up the block trying to get in.”
“She couldn’t! I don’t believe it.” I was crying tragically and loudly by now.
“Don’t take on so, honey,” Mama’s arms were around me. “Dick’s a right nice boy, and Gail always did like him, you know.”
“Sure, sure, don’t take on so, Osie,” Grandma said. She went right ahead with her mending. “Folks get married. That’s right and natural.” She was suddenly troubled. “Seems like it would have been more fittin’, though, if they’d been married in a church.”
“Yes,” I wailed, “in a church, a double wedding, the two of us on the same day. It was a promise!”
Papa grinned, “Come on now, Osie. Why, you haven’t even got a beau right now. Too peppery and choosy, I reckon, and you wouldn’t want Gail to wait—”
Suddenly my anger focused. “In the Snark Theater,” I raged. “Everything’s his fault, that’s what it is. Everything!”
I was inconsolable for days. Then a letter, all dignity and new importance, came from Gail inviting me to visit her in Independence.
Grandma put her foot down on the whole idea. Since she was my self-constituted chaperone from the moment she had witnessed a game of kiss-the-pillow at one of my birthday parties, it looked as though I would have to take her with me. But Mama persuaded her that Gail, now married, was herself a proper chaperone.
This was my first journey alone, and as my father put me on the train he warned me against talking to strangers. Grandma had already admonished me, if spoken to, to give attention to the tips of my gloves, and that the top flounce of my dress, when I was sitting, would be the proper focus for my gaze. She added, a little severely, that my instep was as high as my dress should ever be lifted. Mama, as she hugged me good-bye, said it was always safe to ask directions of men in uniform; she told me to be cautious in all things, certainly, but not to be afraid.
At all events, I arrived without mishap at a theater named Snark No. 1, where the box office looked like the prow of a boat, and I thought this very cute.
The Snark to which Gail’s letter directed me, however, was No. 2. I asked directions from a gentleman behind the ticket window, then realized with a shock that not only had I spoken to a man without a uniform but had addressed Mr. Martin Johnson.
He smiled suddenly. “Oh, you’re Gail Hamilton’s friend from Chanute, aren’t you?” he asked.
I looked at my gloved fingertips.
“It’s just a couple of blocks up,” he said, coming out of the box office, “and as a matter of fact I was just on my way over there myself.”
He reached for my portmanteau. Haughtily, I picked it up myself and started along the street.
“I wish you’d let me carry that,” he said. I heard his footsteps just behind me. The wind was blowing gustily and presented three problems: to hold my big hat firmly atop my pompadoured hair, to carry my portmanteau, and to keep my long dress from blowing and exposing more than my instep.
By the time I had reached Snark No. 2, I was in something of a temper. Gail lived in the flat over the theater. I pushed open the street door and climbed the stairs. Martin Johnson followed. At the top landing, Gail rushed out to meet me.
“Oh!” She seemed pleased and laughed. “You two have met!”
“No,” Mr. Johnson grinned, “though it isn’t my fault.”
“I never speak to strangers.” I was angry and cold at the same time. What did he think he was laughing at? I tried to straighten my hat.
“Well, anyhow,” Gail put her arm around me, “Mr. Martin Johnson, this is my best friend, Miss Osa Leighty.”
Dick Hamilton, looking very proud and happy, came and shook hands with us, then led the way into their cute little flat.
“Gail’s got lunch all ready,” he said, then winked, “and I think she kept a piece of our wedding cake for you to sleep on, Osie.”
Martin Johnson looked at me when Dick spoke about my sleeping on the wedding cake; it was a long, thoughtful, unsmiling look, and I found myself shivering very pleasantly. He had widely set gray-green eyes, I noticed after a minute, and they were nice and clear.
The next time I visited Gail, he came to the flat.
“Miss Leighty,” Martin Johnson said, very formally, a little while later, “I was wondering, would you like to go to Coffeyville for lunch tomorrow? They’re opening a new pavilion, and I thought—I wondered—”
“I don’t think I can, Mr. Johnson,” I answered primly. “Not without my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother?” He looked perplexed.
“I almost never go to amusement places without her,” I replied.
“Oh, a chaperone. Well, we’ll fix that. Gail and Dick here will go along.”
We went and in style, in a big touring car hired by Martin for the occasion—one of the first of its kind to appear in the state. It was my first automobile ride, and I was astonished and delighted at the speed and ease with which we moved along, and more particularly with the skill of Mr. Johnson in handling it. I began to see that he was quite a remarkable man, though, of course, I must never let him see I thought anything one way or the other. That would be bold.
We reached Coffeyville in just no time at all, and brought up with a flourish before the new pavilion. First we had lunch on a sort of balcony, but I was too excited to eat. People here and there recognized Martin and pointed him out as the famous young traveler. Then the music started for dancing. Dick and Gail went out on the floor.
I had begun to feel that I was just nobody at all. Martin didn’t ask me to dance, and I made up my mind he didn’t like me, so I told him I thought his cannibal pictures were horrible and I could see no excuse whatever for showing such ugliness to people. I told him, too, that I walked out on his lecture that day in Chanute. In other words, I let him see I thought him conceited, and that I didn’t think he had anything to be conceited about. Gail and Dick came back to the table and were surprised we hadn’t danced.
“Let’s go see the roller-skating rink,” Gail suggested.
“Sure,” Martin grinned, “but don’t ask me to skate. I’m no good at it.” Then, to me, “How about you, brown eyes?”
“Oh, I can stay on my feet,” I answered modestly.
The rink was wonderful. Painted a pale green, it was decorated with bunting and colored lights. There were tiers of seats all the way around, an
d a little solid wooden fence stood between the seats and the skating floor.
Already a hundred or so couples were out on the floor. I led the way to where they had skates for rent. Gail and Dick wanted to go out on the floor too. Martin just picked a seat for himself and looked a little bored. Like a pelican on a rock, I thought, but if he’ll just stay right there, I’ll show him he isn’t the only person around that can do things. He thinks all he has to do is go on a boat, come back with some pictures, and never stir himself the rest of his life.
Gail and Dick were so much in love, just married and all, I didn’t blame them for going off the minute they had their skates on. The floor was wonderful, the band was playing a waltz, and pretty soon they had everybody looking at them and thinking how professional they were. Feeling very sad and lonely and without so much as a look in Martin’s direction, I just skated off down the hall by myself.
Down at the other end of the rink I came on a group getting ready to do a mixed chariot race. This name is pretty accurately descriptive. Two boys—fast, sure skaters—are harnessed together. They are the “horses.” Straps from their harness, like reins, go back to a third skater, a girl, who is the “driver” in the mixed races. Six chariots were to start out, three abreast.
The waltz had ended, the band blew a fanfare, and a man with a loud voice asked that the floor be cleared for the next event. He announced the chariot race and the names of the contestants. Everybody cheered.
As the chariots were moving into position, I saw one of the drivers swerve and bend over her right skate. Then she shook her head; something was wrong.
The band was blowing another fanfare. With a crazy and unaccountable impulse I darted forward and told the girl I’d take her place. She looked startled but gave me the reins. There was a roll of drums, a blank cartridge was fired, and we were off.
I glanced out of the corner of my eye as we swung past Martin and had the satisfaction of seeing him suddenly grip the arms of his seat and lean forward, staring. We hadn’t picked up much speed as yet, and I began to be afraid the whole thing was going to be mild and silly. The next forty-five seconds or so told a different story. The floor, being new, was smooth and even; the skates of the boys in harness were ball-bearing and built for speed. I caught just two impressions as I flew like the tail of a comet around that floor—Gail, white as chalk at the side of the rink, and Martin, straining forward in his seat, his eyes bulging.
The reins began to slip through my moist hands. To let them go would mean failure. And with Martin watching me! I would rather have died. Waiting for the straightaway, I skated hard and got enough slack in the straps to wind them around my wrists. Now, I thought with satisfaction, they can’t slip.
Twice more around the rink, with the wind sharp on my face. I narrowed my eyes; we were just at the turn where Martin sat. I looked again to see if he were noticing me, and he was—his face drained of every bit of color.
What happened in that moment of inattention I don’t know, but I suspect that I must have failed perhaps by no more than a fraction to take the turn. At the speed we were going, that was enough. I felt myself suddenly jerked from my feet, the straps around my wrists held as if riveted there, and I was swung clear from the rink over the fence and into the first row of seats.
There was a confused roar in my ears. Then I saw Martin pushing through the crowd toward me. I was all tangled up in the seats somehow but managed to be on my feet and brushing myself off when he reached me.
“I still think I can do it,” I heard myself saying.
“Are you hurt bad?” he croaked.
“Of course not.” I was furious at him for asking. With great dignity, I led the way from the skating rink. And then I refused to sit with him in the front seat of the car on the way back to Independence.
For me to fly into a temper, it was only necessary for one of the three to ask me what had happened, whether I was hurt anyplace, if I felt all right, so the subject was dismissed. Martin turned once after a long and awkward silence and said, with honest concern, that maybe I didn’t have any bones broken, but he bet I was black and blue from head to foot. In a rage I said I wasn’t. I think it was because I hurt so all over that I lost my temper, but anyhow I threw the horse blanket off my lap—I guess I had in mind jumping out of the car—and it went over Martin’s head. Since he was driving, this nearly had us in the ditch, but Dick seized the wheel and saved us. From then on and until we arrived in Independence, no one spoke, and I decided to go home that night instead of waiting until the evening of the next day.
Chapter 8
Back in school as usual the following Monday morning, I ached all over, inside and out. The chariot race accounted for the outside ache, but not for the in. Of course, I knew it was love. Always completely happy and carefree until now, all this misery seemed more than I could bear, but I saved up all my crying until after I’d gone to bed, and in that way I kept the whole thing to myself.
I was quite sure, of course, that I’d never see Martin Johnson again. I knew he must think me completely horrid, and I made up my mind calmly and dispassionately that all the rest of my life a brave smile would hide my broken heart.
The postman’s whistle up the street meant nothing to me the next Friday morning as I went out the gate on my way to school, but when he waved a letter at me I waited for him.
“A letter for you, Osie,” he said.
“Oh! Oh, dear,” I said. I was all hot and cold, for in the corner opposite the stamp it said, “The Snark, Independence,” and below that in a scrawly hand was the name, “Martin Johnson.”
I couldn’t read the letter there in front of the postman, and I saw Grandma waving at me from the window, so I ran all the way to school and opened it behind my geography, where I read it all day long at every study period. It said, with sufficient formality to suit even my grandmother: “Dear Miss Leighty, May I call to see you Sunday and meet your folks? Yours truly, Martin Johnson.”
Sunday. That was the day after tomorrow.
Papa was away on a long freight run, so he couldn’t be consulted. Grandma approved the tone of the letter but didn’t like the idea that a man who had been to Paris, the South Seas, and a lot of other foreign places should be courting Osa. Mama voiced the single doubt that perhaps he was too old for me.
This lack of enthusiasm was powerless to take one whit from my happiness, and on Saturday I baked four kinds of cake, some gingerbread as well as plain bread, and early Sunday morning I fried chicken and made some ice cream. Mama finished a rose-colored satin shirtwaist she had had in the making for me, and I washed my hair.
I ran all the way home from church, bolted my dinner, washed the dishes, then rushed upstairs to put on my new blouse. All three of the afternoon trains from Independence came and went. I took my hair down and put it up again five times. I tried it with “rats” and without “rats,” braided and tied with a ribbon, and loose and in curls. The six o’clock train came and went, and Mama called me to come down for supper. I couldn’t swallow even a mouthful. Grandma said she was afraid of this. All foreign-traveled young men trifled with young ladies’ affections. Vaughn, my brother, said that what he’d heard, this Johnson fellow had once helped some cannibals eat a missionary. I burst out crying, and Mama led me gently upstairs and put me to bed. She had no sooner put out the light and closed the door than I heard footsteps come up on the front porch and the bell ring.
Martin had come.
With women’s clothes as complicated as they were in that day, even with Mama’s help, it was nearly half an hour before I could get downstairs. Entering the parlor, I saw that Grandma and Vaughn were making Martin anything but comfortable. They had had the doubtful pleasure of one another’s company for some little time; nevertheless, I introduced them very formally, but completely forgot to introduce Mama. She took care of this with her unfailing tact and grace. Martin thrust a two-pound box of candy a
t me and we all sat down.
“Sure he ate a missionary.” Vaughn tossed this blithely into the silence. “He just said so.”
Martin winked at me.
“Well, not a whole missionary. Just half of one.”
“Missionaries are very nice people and should not be joked about, especially on Sunday,” Grandma said firmly.
Mama got out the family album, which I thought was very clever of her, especially when she put it in my lap and Martin had to come and sit beside me. I showed him pictures of Papa and his family, and Mama and Papa just after they were married, and Grandma when she was younger, and of me as a little girl.
Martin said he thought the photography in all of them was terrible. Nettled at this, I said I thought the photography in all of them was wonderful.
“It’s all terrible,” Martin insisted. Then, suddenly, “Wait a minute—all except this one.” Enthusiastically, “This is good.”
I was disgusted, and quite sure by now that he was horrid.
“Well, if you like that one, I guess we’ll never agree on anything,” I said, and shut the album with a bang. The picture was one of Vaughn as a little boy with his hair all tousled.
“Hey, wait a minute. Let me look at that!”
He opened the album with sharpened interest.
“Why, I took this picture! This is my photography!” He laughed as if it were a fine joke. “And he’s the little boy,” pointing at Vaughn, “and you’re the little girl that brought him to my place in Williams’ Opera House!”
“Yes,” I rejoined hotly, “and you took off his nice white collar and roughed up his hair and made him look like a poor little boy just out of an orphanage!”
“Osie.” My mother was gentle but firm. “Mr. Johnson is our guest. You must remember that.”