by Frank Norris
CHAPTER 11
On that particular morning the McTeagues had risen a half hour earlier than usual and taken a hurried breakfast in the kitchen on the deal table with its oilcloth cover. Trina was house-cleaning that week and had a presentiment of a hard day’s work ahead of her, while McTeague remembered a seven o’clock appointment with a little German shoemaker.
At about eight o’clock, when the dentist had been in his office for over an hour, Trina descended upon the bedroom, a towel about her head and the roller-sweeper in her hand. She covered the bureau and sewing machine with sheets, and unhooked the chenille portieres between the bedroom and the sitting-room. As she was tying the Nottingham lace curtains at the window into great knots, she saw old Miss Baker on the opposite sidewalk in the street below, and raising the sash called down to her.
“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. McTeague,” cried the retired dressmaker, facing about, her head in the air. Then a long conversation was begun, Trina, her arms folded under her breast, her elbows resting on the window ledge, willing to be idle for a moment; old Miss Baker, her market-basket on her arm, her hands wrapped in the ends of her worsted shawl against the cold of the early morning. They exchanged phrases, calling to each other from window to curb, their breath coming from their lips in faint puffs of vapor, their voices shrill, and raised to dominate the clamor of the waking street. The newsboys had made their appearance on the street, together with the day laborers. The cable cars had begun to fill up; all along the street could be seen the shopkeepers taking down their shutters; some were still breakfasting. Now and then a waiter from one of the cheap restaurants crossed from one sidewalk to another, balancing on one palm a tray covered with a napkin.
“Aren’t you out pretty early this morning, Miss Baker?” called Trina.
“No, no,” answered the other. “I’m always up at half-past six, but I don’t always get out so soon. I wanted to get a nice head of cabbage and some lentils for a soup, and if you don’t go to market early, the restaurants get all the best.”
“And you’ve been to market already, Miss Baker?”
“Oh, my, yes; and I got a fish — a sole — see.” She drew the sole in question from her basket.
“Oh, the lovely sole!” exclaimed Trina.
“I got this one at Spadella’s; he always has good fish on Friday. How is the doctor, Mrs. McTeague?”
“Ah, Mac is always well, thank you, Miss Baker.”
“You know, Mrs. Ryer told me,” cried the little dressmaker, moving forward a step out of the way of a “glass-put-in” man, “that Doctor McTeague pulled a tooth of that Catholic priest, Father — oh, I forget his name — anyhow, he pulled his tooth with his fingers. Was that true, Mrs. McTeague?”
“Oh, of course. Mac does that almost all the time now, ‘specially with front teeth. He’s got a regular reputation for it. He says it’s brought him more patients than even the sign I gave him,” she added, pointing to the big golden molar projecting from the office window.
“With his fingers! Now, think of that,” exclaimed Miss Baker, wagging her head. “Isn’t he that strong! It’s just wonderful. Cleaning house to-day?” she inquired, glancing at Trina’s towelled head.
“Um hum,” answered Trina. “Maria Macapa’s coming in to help pretty soon.”
At the mention of Maria’s name the little old dressmaker suddenly uttered an exclamation.
“Well, if I’m not here talking to you and forgetting something I was just dying to tell you. Mrs. McTeague, what ever in the world do you suppose? Maria and old Zerkow, that red-headed Polish Jew, the rag-bottles-sacks man, you know, they’re going to be married.”
“No!” cried Trina, in blank amazement. “You don’t mean it.”
“Of course I do. Isn’t it the funniest thing you ever heard of?”
“Oh, tell me all about it,” said Trina, leaning eagerly from the window. Miss Baker crossed the street and stood just beneath her.
“Well, Maria came to me last night and wanted me to make her a new gown, said she wanted something gay, like what the girls at the candy store wear when they go out with their young men. I couldn’t tell what had got into the girl, until finally she told me she wanted something to get married in, and that Zerkow had asked her to marry him, and that she was going to do it. Poor Maria! I guess it’s the first and only offer she ever received, and it’s just turned her head.”
“But what DO those two see in each other?” cried Trina. “Zerkow is a horror, he’s an old man, and his hair is red and his voice is gone, and then he’s a Jew, isn’t he?”
“I know, I know; but it’s Maria’s only chance for a husband, and she don’t mean to let it pass. You know she isn’t quite right in her head, anyhow. I’m awfully sorry for poor Maria. But I can’t see what Zerkow wants to marry her for. It’s not possible that he’s in love with Maria, it’s out of the question. Maria hasn’t a sou, either, and I’m just positive that Zerkow has lots of money.”
“I’ll bet I know why,” exclaimed Trina, with sudden conviction; “yes, I know just why. See here, Miss Baker, you know how crazy old Zerkow is after money and gold and those sort of things.”
“Yes, I know; but you know Maria hasn’t — —”
“Now, just listen. You’ve heard Maria tell about that wonderful service of gold dishes she says her folks used to own in Central America; she’s crazy on that subject, don’t you know. She’s all right on everything else, but just start her on that service of gold plate and she’ll talk you deaf. She can describe it just as though she saw it, and she can make you see it, too, almost. Now, you see, Maria and Zerkow have known each other pretty well. Maria goes to him every two weeks or so to sell him junk; they got acquainted that way, and I know Maria’s been dropping in to see him pretty often this last year, and sometimes he comes here to see her. He’s made Maria tell him the story of that plate over and over and over again, and Maria does it and is glad to, because he’s the only one that believes it. Now he’s going to marry her just so’s he can hear that story every day, every hour. He’s pretty near as crazy on the subject as Maria is. They’re a pair for you, aren’t they? Both crazy over a lot of gold dishes that never existed. Perhaps Maria’ll marry him because it’s her only chance to get a husband, but I’m sure it’s more for the reason that she’s got some one to talk to now who believes her story. Don’t you think I’m right?”
“Yes, yes, I guess you’re right,” admitted Miss Baker.
“But it’s a queer match anyway you put it,” said Trina, musingly.
“Ah, you may well say that,” returned the other, nodding her head. There was a silence. For a long moment the dentist’s wife and the retired dressmaker, the one at the window, the other on the sidewalk, remained lost in thought, wondering over the strangeness of the affair.
But suddenly there was a diversion. Alexander, Marcus Schouler’s Irish setter, whom his master had long since allowed the liberty of running untrammelled about the neighborhood, turned the corner briskly and came trotting along the sidewalk where Miss Baker stood. At the same moment the Scotch collie who had at one time belonged to the branch post-office issued from the side door of a house not fifty feet away. In an instant the two enemies had recognized each other. They halted abruptly, their fore feet planted rigidly. Trina uttered a little cry.
“Oh, look out, Miss Baker. Those two dogs hate each other just like humans. You best look out. They’ll fight sure.” Miss Baker sought safety in a nearby vestibule, whence she peered forth at the scene, very interested and curious. Maria Macapa’s head thrust itself from one of the top-story windows of the flat, with a shrill cry. Even McTeague’s huge form appeared above the half curtains of the “Parlor” windows, while over his shoulder could be seen the face of the “patient,” a napkin tucked in his collar, the rubber dam depending from his mouth. All the flat knew of the feud between the dogs, but never before had the pair been brought face to face.
Meanwhile, the collie and the setter had drawn near to each other;
five feet apart they paused as if by mutual consent. The collie turned sidewise to the setter; the setter instantly wheeled himself flank on to the collie. Their tails rose and stiffened, they raised their lips over their long white fangs, the napes of their necks bristled, and they showed each other the vicious whites of their eyes, while they drew in their breaths with prolonged and rasping snarls. Each dog seemed to be the personification of fury and unsatisfied hate. They began to circle about each other with infinite slowness, walking stiffed-legged and upon the very points of their feet. Then they wheeled about and began to circle in the opposite direction. Twice they repeated this motion, their snarls growing louder. But still they did not come together, and the distance of five feet between them was maintained with an almost mathematical precision. It was magnificent, but it was not war. Then the setter, pausing in his walk, turned his head slowly from his enemy. The collie sniffed the air and pretended an interest in an old shoe lying in the gutter. Gradually and with all the dignity of monarchs they moved away from each other. Alexander stalked back to the corner of the street. The collie paced toward the side gate whence he had issued, affecting to remember something of great importance. They disappeared. Once out of sight of one another they began to bark furiously.
“Well, I NEVER!” exclaimed Trina in great disgust. “The way those two dogs have been carrying on you’d ‘a’ thought they would ‘a’ just torn each other to pieces when they had the chance, and here I’m wasting the whole morning — —” she closed her window with a bang.
“Sick ‘im, sick ‘im,” called Maria Macapa, in a vain attempt to promote a fight.
Old Miss Baker came out of the vestibule, pursing her lips, quite put out at the fiasco. “And after all that fuss,” she said to herself aggrievedly.
The little dressmaker bought an envelope of nasturtium seeds at the florist’s, and returned to her tiny room in the flat. But as she slowly mounted the first flight of steps she suddenly came face to face with Old Grannis, who was coming down. It was between eight and nine, and he was on his way to his little dog hospital, no doubt. Instantly Miss Baker was seized with trepidation, her curious little false curls shook, a faint — a very faint — flush came into her withered cheeks, and her heart beat so violently under the worsted shawl that she felt obliged to shift the market-basket to her other arm and put out her free hand to steady herself against the rail.
On his part, Old Grannis was instantly overwhelmed with confusion. His awkwardness seemed to paralyze his limbs, his lips twitched and turned dry, his hand went tremblingly to his chin. But what added to Miss Baker’s miserable embarrassment on this occasion was the fact that the old Englishman should meet her thus, carrying a sordid market-basket full of sordid fish and cabbage. It seemed as if a malicious fate persisted in bringing the two old people face to face at the most inopportune moments.
Just now, however, a veritable catastrophe occurred. The little old dressmaker changed her basket to her other arm at precisely the wrong moment, and Old Grannis, hastening to pass, removing his hat in a hurried salutation, struck it with his fore arm, knocking it from her grasp, and sending it rolling and bumping down the stairs. The sole fell flat upon the first landing; the lentils scattered themselves over the entire flight; while the cabbage, leaping from step to step, thundered down the incline and brought up against the street door with a shock that reverberated through the entire building.
The little retired dressmaker, horribly vexed, nervous and embarrassed, was hard put to it to keep back the tears. Old Grannis stood for a moment with averted eyes, murmuring: “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I — I really — I beg your pardon, really — really.”
Marcus Schouler, coming down stairs from his room, saved the situation.
“Hello, people,” he cried. “By damn! you’ve upset your basket — you have, for a fact. Here, let’s pick um up.” He and Old Grannis went up and down the flight, gathering up the fish, the lentils, and the sadly battered cabbage. Marcus was raging over the pusillanimity of Alexander, of which Maria had just told him.
“I’ll cut him in two — with the whip,” he shouted. “I will, I will, I say I will, for a fact. He wouldn’t fight, hey? I’ll give um all the fight he wants, nasty, mangy cur. If he won’t fight he won’t eat. I’m going to get the butcher’s bull pup and I’ll put um both in a bag and shake um up. I will, for a fact, and I guess Alec will fight. Come along, Mister Grannis,” and he took the old Englishman away.
Little Miss Baker hastened to her room and locked herself in. She was excited and upset during all the rest of the day, and listened eagerly for Old Grannis’s return that evening. He went instantly to work binding up “The Breeder and Sportsman,” and back numbers of the “Nation.” She heard him softly draw his chair and the table on which he had placed his little binding apparatus close to the wall. At once she did the same, brewing herself a cup of tea. All through that evening the two old people “kept company” with each other, after their own peculiar fashion. “Setting out with each other” Miss Baker had begun to call it. That they had been presented, that they had even been forced to talk together, had made no change in their relative positions. Almost immediately they had fallen back into their old ways again, quite unable to master their timidity, to overcome the stifling embarrassment that seized upon them when in each other’s presence. It was a sort of hypnotism, a thing stronger than themselves. But they were not altogether dissatisfied with the way things had come to be. It was their little romance, their last, and they were living through it with supreme enjoyment and calm contentment.
Marcus Schouler still occupied his old room on the floor above the McTeagues. They saw but little of him, however. At long intervals the dentist or his wife met him on the stairs of the flat. Sometimes he would stop and talk with Trina, inquiring after the Sieppes, asking her if Mr. Sieppe had yet heard of any one with whom he, Marcus, could “go in with on a ranch.” McTeague, Marcus merely nodded to. Never had the quarrel between the two men been completely patched up. It did not seem possible to the dentist now that Marcus had ever been his “pal,” that they had ever taken long walks together. He was sorry that he had treated Marcus gratis for an ulcerated tooth, while Marcus daily recalled the fact that he had given up his “girl” to his friend — the girl who had won a fortune — as the great mistake of his life. Only once since the wedding had he called upon Trina, at a time when he knew McTeague would be out. Trina had shown him through the rooms and had told him, innocently enough, how gay was their life there. Marcus had come away fairly sick with envy; his rancor against the dentist — and against himself, for that matter — knew no bounds. “And you might ‘a’ had it all yourself, Marcus Schouler,” he muttered to himself on the stairs. “You mushhead, you damn fool!”
Meanwhile, Marcus was becoming involved in the politics of his ward. As secretary of the Polk Street Improvement Club — which soon developed into quite an affair and began to assume the proportions of a Republican political machine — he found he could make a little, a very little more than enough to live on. At once he had given up his position as Old Grannis’s assistant in the dog hospital. Marcus felt that he needed a wider sphere. He had his eye upon a place connected with the city pound. When the great railroad strike occurred, he promptly got himself engaged as deputy-sheriff, and spent a memorable week in Sacramento, where he involved himself in more than one terrible melee with the strikers. Marcus had that quickness of temper and passionate readiness to take offence which passes among his class for bravery. But whatever were his motives, his promptness to face danger could not for a moment be doubted. After the strike he returned to Polk Street, and throwing himself into the Improvement Club, heart, soul, and body, soon became one of its ruling spirits. In a certain local election, where a huge paving contract was at stake, the club made itself felt in the ward, and Marcus so managed his cards and pulled his wires that, at the end of the matter, he found himself some four hundred dollars to the good.
When McTeague cam
e out of his “Parlors” at noon of the day upon which Trina had heard the news of Maria Macapa’s intended marriage, he found Trina burning coffee on a shovel in the sitting-room. Try as she would, Trina could never quite eradicate from their rooms a certain faint and indefinable odor, particularly offensive to her. The smell of the photographer’s chemicals persisted in spite of all Trina could do to combat it. She burnt pastilles and Chinese punk, and even, as now, coffee on a shovel, all to no purpose. Indeed, the only drawback to their delightful home was the general unpleasant smell that pervaded it — a smell that arose partly from the photographer’s chemicals, partly from the cooking in the little kitchen, and partly from the ether and creosote of the dentist’s “Parlors.”
As McTeague came in to lunch on this occasion, he found the table already laid, a red cloth figured with white flowers was spread, and as he took his seat his wife put down the shovel on a chair and brought in the stewed codfish and the pot of chocolate. As he tucked his napkin into his enormous collar, McTeague looked vaguely about the room, rolling his eyes.
During the three years of their married life the McTeagues had made but few additions to their furniture, Trina declaring that they could not afford it. The sitting-room could boast of but three new ornaments. Over the melodeon hung their marriage certificate in a black frame. It was balanced upon one side by Trina’s wedding bouquet under a glass case, preserved by some fearful unknown process, and upon the other by the photograph of Trina and the dentist in their wedding finery. This latter picture was quite an affair, and had been taken immediately after the wedding, while McTeague’s broadcloth was still new, and before Trina’s silks and veil had lost their stiffness. It represented Trina, her veil thrown back, sitting very straight in a rep armchair, her elbows well in at her sides, holding her bouquet of cut flowers directly before her. The dentist stood at her side, one hand on her shoulder, the other thrust into the breast of his “Prince Albert,” his chin in the air, his eyes to one side, his left foot forward in the attitude of a statue of a Secretary of State.