by Osa Johnson
That picture being taken without the collar had always rankled with Grandma too, and she said so.
Martin looked uncomfortable.
“Well,” he said, “I didn’t like collars when I was a boy, so I thought I’d take it off.”
Mama was distressed and suggested that I sing for Mr. Johnson.
As I went to the piano, I saw that Vaughn was making inroads on my box of candy, but I didn’t care. I asked Mr. Johnson if there were any particular song that he liked and he said there wasn’t. I thought he might at least come over and turn the music for me, but he didn’t, so I sang “Glow Little Glow Worm,” “After the Ball,” “Mighty Lak a Rose,” and “Ring Down the Curtain,” one right after another, then stopped. There had been no response whatsoever from Mr. Martin Johnson. Even Mama noticed this.
“Don’t you care for music, Mr. Johnson?” she inquired.
“Well,” he lifted one long leg and crossed it over the other, “I guess I like it all right. The only thing, on account of me being what they call tone-deaf, I—”
“Deaf?” Grandma was startled.
“No, not that way. I mean, I can’t carry a tune and I can’t hear one either. It’s just a lot of noise to me. Some people are color-blind just the same way.”
I had spent half an hour singing to him and it had been just a lot of noise.
Mama hurried out and came back with some sandwiches, cake, and milk. We all ate this very rapidly, then sat and looked at one another a little helplessly.
“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Johnson?” Grandma asked abruptly.
“Me?” Martin looked a little baffled. “Why—well, you see, I travel quite a lot. Take pictures.” Then, with growing confidence, “And then, of course, I’ve got a couple of theaters with Charlie Kerr there in Independence.”
“That’s very nice,” Mama said. Her eyes begged Grandma not to ask any more questions.
“And your papa. What does he do?” Grandma wasn’t to be stopped until she’d got what she was after.
Martin beamed with pride.
“Oh, Dad, he’s a jeweler in Independence. Why, he’s one of the biggest jewelers in the whole state of Kansas, I guess.”
Grandma relaxed a little. “And you’ll go into business with him, of course?”
“Well—” Martin began, but he was on to Grandma now and changed the subject. “You’d like my mother, too, and my sister, Freda. My mother’s a wonderful cook.”
Mama was distinctly happier with the way things were going, but Grandma was as persistent as a horsefly.
“Any of your folks fight in the Civil War?” she demanded.
“Oh, yes, sure”
“On what side, young man?”
Martin moved carefully.
“And my mother, she was a Constant, and her great-great-grandfather, or something, came over from France with Lafayette and fought in the Revolutionary War.”
This won Grandma completely. It was nine o’clock, and she told Martin it was time for him to go, because what with school tomorrow I had to be in bed early, but she hoped he’d come again soon. The good-byes at the door were somewhat confused, and, indeed, I can’t remember saying good-bye at all.
“A very nice young man,” Grandma said. She fixed my mother with her eyes. “Don’t you think so, Belle?”
“Why—why, yes, only I still think he’s a little old for Osie. Nine years between them.”
“Fiddlesticks,” Grandma declared. “It’s just enough difference to give him some sense, which, goodness knows, one of ’em’s got to have when they get married.”
“Who said anything about getting married?” I screamed. “I’m sure I didn’t. I’m sure he didn’t—and I hope I never lay eyes on him again.”
Martin came again a few weeks later, and except that he brought a bigger box of candy, everything remained exactly as it was. We sat awkwardly, the four of us, and looked at one another, and that’s about all there was to it. What I felt or thought about him seemed completely in abeyance; largely, I think, because he neither did, nor liked, any of the things I did or liked. He wasn’t interested in dancing, roller-skating, or singing, and what else was there?
And then, all unexpectedly, the following Saturday afternoon I found myself on the train going to Independence. Martin had telephoned my mother to ask if she’d mind if I sang at his Snark No. 2 theater that night. Gail had a sore throat, he said, and he had to have a substitute. Then he added quickly that the whole thing was Gail’s idea.
Mama was too bewildered to be able to think clearly. If only my father were home and she could talk to him. Then Martin put his mother on the phone. The moment Mama heard her voice she was sure everything would be all right. Grandma talked with her and, to my complete amazement, thought so too.
Martin’s mother and sister, Freda, met me at the train. I went home with them and they helped me dress for the theater. Mr. Johnson came home from the jewelry store, looked at me a minute, then kissed me on the forehead, called me “Pinkie,” and decided I was almost as nice as Martin said I was.
I didn’t see Martin until I arrived at the theater. He met me just inside the door.
“Oh, hello.” He looked at me crossly. “You’re late.”
“Well, this whole thing wasn’t my idea,” I retorted, suddenly hot and mad all over. I wondered how it was possible for anybody to make me as mad as this man always did.
He led the way along the side aisle and up the three steps to the back of the stage. Here he pushed a piece of music into my hands.
“It’s one of those things you sang that night at your house.” He took my arm almost roughly. “You go on here in front of the screen, not in back of it, and don’t fall over that cleat.”
I had on my prettiest dress and he never even looked at it.
“I’m going to give the signal now for the colored slides.” He gave me a shove. “Well, go on, go on,” he whispered impatiently. “Don’t you know an introduction when you hear one?”
“Yes,” I answered as loudly as I could. “Don’t you know a lady when you see one?”
I marched out on to the little stage. I suppose I looked as cross as I felt; anyhow, a little boy in the audience laughed. Another yelled, “Get the hook!”
I stepped right up back of the piano, and a light was turned on me. Then I saw that the pianist, a Mrs. Snyder, was nodding anxiously at me to begin. She played part of the introduction again, and then it was I recognized a tune I’d heard on the player piano up the street from our house. So far as I knew, I’d never heard the words. The sheet of music in my hands was no help, since it was “In the Good Old Summer Time.”
Well, I could see Martin scowling at me, so I just sang any old words that came in my head, smothering them, sort of, in my mouth and covering them with a lot of sound. At the end of a verse every now and then I rhymed “love” with “above” and “moon” with “spoon,” and at the finish of the song I hit a high C and held it till all my breath was gone.
The audience applauded, and I bowed and went off smiling the way I’d seen Gail do a hundred times. Martin pushed me on for an encore, and there was nothing to do but talk to the pianist over the footlights. By this time I was having a lot of fun. Mrs. Snyder and I agreed on “My Hero” as an encore, and we were off. What I lacked in finesse I made up for in volume, and when I climbed finally to that last high note and let it go, the blast astonished even me. I held it, too, until Mrs. Snyder signaled me that for goodness’ sake that was enough.
Audiences in that day liked volume and rewarded me with a burst of applause. I bowed as nearly in the manner of Gail as I could and walked off, my head in the clouds. Coming to Independence, I had found my career. I decided I was going to be an actress.
“You did all right,” Martin grinned. “For a pint-size you certainly make a lot of noise.”
“I’m
going to be an actress,” I said.
He looked startled. “Fine,” he said, then, “Here, I want you to meet my partner, Charlie Kerr.”
I shook hands with Mr. Kerr and was very happy.
When Mrs. Johnson tucked me in bed that night with Freda, who was already asleep, I announced my new ambition. She laughed quietly, kissed me, then shook her head.
My father telephoned at noon the next day, Sunday. He was just home from one of his long freight runs and insisted that I return on the five o’clock train. He would be at the station to meet me. I had never heard my father take quite that tone before, so I promised I’d be there.
The trophies which Martin had brought home from his trip with Jack London were all over the house, and I was polite and said I thought they were very nice. As a matter of fact I didn’t think so at all; I thought they were horrid, especially a dried-up brown knob of a thing with a hank of straight black hair which he said was a human head. The fact that it might have been, or was, human didn’t seem to bother him at all.
About this time a new girlfriend of Freda’s came to call. She was very pretty, with dark hair, and spoke with the cunningest French accent. She thought Martin was wonderful. She even thought the mummy head was wonderful, and when Martin began telling her some of the things about his trip, she followed him around and never took her eyes from his face. He had picked up a little French on some trip or other to Paris, and they talked and laughed. Suddenly I found myself completely outside of everything. I also found that I was in a sick sort of fury which I had never known before, and I was honest enough to admit to myself that it was jealousy.
“I think I’d better go now,” I said suddenly. This was right after dinner and about two o’clock. Mr. Johnson looked at his watch.
“But there won’t be another train for two hours,” he said.
“Well, it looks as if it might storm, and I’d rather wait at the station.”
I kissed Mrs. Johnson and Freda good-bye and shook hands with Mr. Johnson. I also offered my fingertips to the little French girl.
“Au revoir,” I said, making it sound just the way it’s spelled.
Martin picked up my portmanteau and walked glumly at my side. I was sure he was glum at leaving the little French girl and quickened my step. After all, I still had my pride.
“What’s all the hurry,” Martin said testily after a bit, “or do you like to sit in railroad stations?”
“As long as you have company at home, I don’t want to detain you,” I replied in my most formal manner.
He stared at me.
“What company?”
“Your little ‘parley vou’ friend,” I answered crossly.
“Her? with those earrings? Huh!”
I went suddenly weak with relief. I blew my nose so that I wouldn’t cry. We were just passing the Snark No. 1. Martin put down my portmanteau.
“As long as it’s still a couple of hours before your train time, do you care if we stop here at the Snark for a minute? I ought to put up the posters announcing tomorrow’s show.”
I said of course it was all right. It began to sprinkle a little, so he opened the door for me to go in and sit down. It was thundering now, and suddenly a heavy rainfall swept the front of the theater. Martin came in and sat down beside me. He had left the door open and we could see the rain. It was like a bright curtain and made a soft, swishing sound. It smelled very cool and sweet.
“Might as well sit here as over at the station,” Martin said. “I’ll call the livery stable and get a buggy when it’s time to go.”
“That’ll be fine,” I replied. My voice squeaked a little.
“Not catching cold, are you?”
“No.”
“You’re shivering.”
“That’s nothing. I practically always shiver when it thunders.”
“Afraid?”
“No. Just shivering.”
“Maybe you’re cold,” he insisted.
“No.”
That was all for a while, then suddenly he spoke again. “Will you marry me?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Right away, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
He took my shoulders and turned me toward him. “You won’t ever be sorry?”
“No.”
Martin went to the telephone and called Mr. Kerr, saying he was going to get married and could he borrow some money against their partnership, and what did he think was the quickest way to get a license?
Apparently he listened to Mr. Kerr for a minute, then he spoke again.
“No. No, not her. Nope…. What?…Her?…I should say not, we were just friends…. No, no! This is a little girl from Chanute—you met her yesterday. She sang. Big brown eyes, taffy hair…Yes, that’s her…. What? Sure, marriage is a serious thing, I know that…. Yes, and I’ve seen girls all over the world, too…What?…Young? Well, maybe so, but she’s got spirit and spunk…You say if I call the probate judge you think he can fix it up about the license even if it is Sunday? All right, Charlie, and thanks.”
Martin came back to where I was sitting. He had turned on only one dim light in the theater, but he looked very tall and handsome. I think I was very proud—anyhow, I couldn’t speak for a minute.
“I think I ought to go and see Gail before I go home,” I heard myself saying, “if she’s sick and all.” I got up.
“What do you mean, ‘go home’?” Martin scowled. “Are you backing out already?”
“N-n-no, but I think I ought to go to Gail’s. I—I always tell her everything.”
“Well—all right.” Then, after a moment’s thought, “I’ll get the license, a minister, some sandwiches and things, and we’ll be married in Gail’s flat. That’s a good place.”
He went back to the telephone and called the livery stable to send over a horse and buggy right away.
* * *
—
At nine o’clock I was saying yes, I would take Martin for my lawfully wedded husband. I wore the pretty dress in which I had sung “My Hero” only the night before. I also wore white carnations in my hair and at my waist and remembered vaguely that about five dozen of them had come with the sandwiches. Martin wore one too.
Gail kissed me and cried when it was all over, and so did Dick. I think Mr. Kerr was there, and Martin introduced me to a Mr. John Overfield, Mr. John Callahan, and some more people, and everything seemed very strange. After a little while in which everybody, except Martin and me, ate sandwiches, Gail helped me put on my traveling suit again and we all got into buggies and drove very fast to the railroad station. Then, with everybody waving good-bye, Martin and I were on the train going to Kansas City.
“Why are we going to Kansas City?” I asked. “Why aren’t we going home to Chanute?”
Martin grinned. “Well, the fact is—I’m a little worried about this whole thing and figured we’d better be married again in Missouri.”
“What?” I asked.
“In Missouri. John Callahan—he’s a lawyer, you know—he said that, considering you were quite a lot under age, your father could have our marriage annulled, and that if we wanted to make it permanent, we’d better get into another state as fast as we could and be married again.”
Just then I happened to think that I had been married without my father, mother, and grandmother being there; I had been married without even letting them know about it. They had expected me home on the five o’clock train; my father was to be at the station to meet me; and I had forgotten all of these things. I jumped up and looked out the window to see where we were.
“We’ve got to get off the train at Chanute,” I said, beginning to cry. “We’ve got to.”
We argued miserably about this for a long time. Martin said all right, if I didn’t love him any more than that I could get off at Chanute, and goodness knows he wouldn’t try to stop me. We were still talking about this when the train pulled into Chanute. He picked up my portmanteau and led the way to the door.
“I’ll be hanged if I want a wife,” he flung this at me over his shoulder, “who bawls after her folks in less than an hour after she’s married.”
I sat down suddenly, more frightened than grieved. The train pulled out of the Chanute station, and there under a strong light I saw my father, staring bewilderedly after the departing train. And then, once more, my grief was greater than my fright, and I cried loudly all the way into Kansas City.
Chapter 9
After five days in Kansas City, where we were married a second time and spent many long hours every day in a telephone booth trying to straighten things out with both Martin’s parents and mine, Martin decided the only thing to do was to face the music—in other words, face my father.
This meeting was difficult for everybody concerned. My father was a much smaller man than Martin but for a minute, as he walked into the room where Martin stood nervously waiting, I didn’t know what might happen. His fists were clenched and his face was first very white and then very red.
“Young fellow,” he thundered finally, “I never wanted to punch anybody so bad in all my life. In all my life, do you understand?”
Martin cleared his throat.
“Well, yes, I think I do, and—well, I don’t blame you a bit, Mr. Leighty. The only thing is—”
“The only thing is this, Mr. Martin Johnson: You’ve got her, now see that you take care of her!”
* * *
—
For the next few months I was a completely smug and happy bride. Thanks to Mama, I was a good cook and an efficient housekeeper, and it seemed to me that my little flat up over a row of stores was quite the loveliest place in the world. Each piece of furniture shone with all the polishing I gave it, and, of course, our wedding gifts—which, considering our unannounced marriage, were of an astonishing number and variety—were on constant parade. My pride in my handsome husband certainly would have been unendurable in anyone less young, and as I look back on it now I know that I strutted when we went along the street together. And, of course, all of my conversations, whether in the butcher shop or grocery, or even in my own home when a friendly neighbor chanced to call, were brought back without quibble or delay to “my husband.”