The Chinaberry Tree
Page 5
Well, she could shake him later, she thought, darting off irritably. But Phil was up with her in a moment, had caught her hand and they were making their way across the pond straight by Sidney Reamer, to whom Phil often went for advice.
“Evenin’, Mr. Reamer.”
“Evenin’, Hackett. Haven’t seen you for some time. Suppose you drop in to-morrow.”
“All right, sir. Any special time?”
“About five would be O.K. Suit you?”
“O.K. for me too, Mr. Reamer.”
• • • • •
Harry Robbins put his flask back in his pocket. He was mad through and through. Melissa had tricked him, had tricked him and there she was laughing, pirouetting, sharing a hot dog with Ben Davis, though a moment before she had been with Herbert Tucker and a moment later she would be laughing and jesting with Asshur, like the worthless creature she was. Anybody’s girl! His girl too since he wanted her. Wanted her with a devastating desire that balked and wasted him. He’d show her.
Somewhat unsteadily he skated over, laid his hand over-familiarly on her arm.
“C’mon Melissa; you’re gonna skate with me now. You’ve skated with everybody else. My turn now.”
Melissa was pale under her ruddy skin. “I don’t wish to skate with you, Harry. I never promised you . . . let go my arm. Let go, I say, don’t you dare to touch me again.”
His drunken grasp tightened. “Don’t touch you! Say, that’s a good one.” He pointed his finger at her, inviting the attention of the suddenly gaping crowd. “Who’s she, not to be touched? Lord, that’s funny, givin’ herself such high and mighty airs.”
Asshur strode forward, his dark face ashen. “You know I gave you fair warning. Take your hands off her.”
“Why should I? How do you know how many hands have been on her? Why should she rate herself so high? Her aunt was a slut if ever there was one and everybody in Red Brook says that her mother—” Asshur’s mighty fist struck him down.
Not a soul intervened. Harry lifted a face grotesquely smeared with blood. “Look here, Lane, you’ll pay for this. You can’t get away with this, you big black devil.” He was almost crying now. “Besides you’ve lived here only a year. I’ve been here all my life. . . . I know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Asshur yanked him to his feet. “What in hell are you talkin’ about? Here, come here.” He drew him apart from the crowd. “Now spill your lie man and be sure you make it a good one ”
Trembling with cold and rage, Harry began whispering, putting his hand on Asshur’s arm to steady himself. Asshur listened, his brow darkling, a muscle in his tight young cheek working convulsively. Then he drew back and without warning, at that terrific short range he struck Robbins again.
The young fellow lay like a log, his feet on the ice and his head in a deep bank of snow on the edge of the brook. Still not satisfied, Asshur turned him over and struck him again and again. He was like some one mad, in a frenzy. Phil Hackett dashed across and pulled him away. Strong as Asshur was, Hackett was heavier and stronger.
“You’ve punished him enough, Asshur. My God, man, do you realize you’ve almost killed him? And he’s not worth swinging for.”
Asshur walked to Melissa, took the trembling girl by the arm and started off toward his Ford. “You fellows’ll have to get home some other way. There’ll be a bus out this way in a few minutes.” He took off his own and Melissa’s skates. “There, that’s better! Gee! I hope my car hasn’t frozen.”
They rode home in silence, Asshur helped her out at the gate.
“All right now, Honey?”
“Yes and thank you, Asshur. I won’t ask you in.”
“No, and it’s too late for you to be havin’ company anyway, Melissa. Good-night, girl. See you soon.”
“Yes, oh yes! Good-night, Asshur.”
• • • • •
Phil Hackett, guiding Kitty back to her mother, met Mr. Reamer again at the edge of the crowd.
“Kind of a nasty affair, Hackett. They say that girl they were fighting over is some sort of kin to Sal Strange.”
“Yes,” said Phil reluctantly, “I believe she is.”
Reamer swallowed hard. “It’s not, it’s not her daughter, is it? No, no, she’d be too young.”
“No,” said Phil shortly, “it’s her niece.”
“H’m, well whoever she is, she’s like the rest of them. Hackett, you know me, a broad-minded man if ever there was one. But I tell you there’s bad, there’s vicious blood in that bunch. The town would do well to get rid of ’em . . . remember, I want to see you, Hackett.”
“Yes, I’ll remember. Got to get this young lady to her mother now, Mr. Reamer,” indicating Kitty.
The girl made a face after the editor’s retreating figure. “What’s the matter with him? What kind of blood’s he got in his veins. Calling a girl vicious just because two jealous boys got to fighting over her.” She made an impatient gesture with one hand. “He must be all wet. Personally I think it was great if you ask me.”
• • • • •
Hackett saw the Browns and Ismays into their respective cars, refusing the lift which Mrs. Brown so ardently offered him.
“No, think I’ll stay around here and find out where Robbins got his liquor. Then I’ll catch a bus home. Don’t worry about me, I’m all right.”
He watched the cars out of sight, caught a bus and twenty minutes later was sitting distraught and anxious in his father’s office behind the large, still brightly lighted, billiard parlor.
Reamer was his one sole means of entrance into this field which he so desired to invade. It would be a case of a not quite equivalent tit for tat. Undoubtedly Reamer hoped to profit by his—Hackett’s—co-operation. But he could go on without him. But Hackett was helpless without Reamer. Every one knew how persistently hipped Reamer had remained all these years on the subject of his sister’s humiliation at the hands of Sal Strange.
And he had been thinking of asking the daughter of Sal Strange to marry him.
“Ain’t it the devil the way I never thought of that before?”
Another very small, scarcely recognizable thought, a very beast of a thought began pushing its way through his inner consciousness rearing its ugly head.
“That fellow Robbins certainly was persistent about insulting—what was her name, Millicent, Melissa Paul. Paul h’m!”
Was there anything really he wondered in this story of “bad blood.”
• • • • •
In the morning awaking from a troubled sleep after having half formed a shameful resolution he bethought himself of a freshly unpleasant eventuality. At nine he got Sidney Reamer on the telephone.
“Hackett speaking, Mr. Reamer.”
“Yes, good-morning Hackett.”
“About that nasty affair on the ice last night. You’re not going to put that in the Record are you?”
“Why not, Hackett? It’s news. Properly featured it might serve to rid the town of that nest of—of those damn Strange women.”
“Yes. Well I hadn’t thought of that. I was thinking of this young Lane’s uncle, Ceylon Lane. Pretty strong out Birney Way you know.”
“Yes but Hackett—here’s a chance ”
“I know, I know. But I ask you is it good politics to let a purely personal matter interfere in your larger plans?” He manœuvered skilfully. “Suppose I let old C. Lane know that you killed the publicity because of your regard for him?”
“Well there’s something in what you say—there’s a good deal in it. Well I’ll think about it.”
“I think you’d better give me your word now sir. I’ve just had a call from Lane senior,” he lied smoothly. “I know he’ll want to find out what’s what. He’s not one to ask favors, but you can count on his acknowledging them.”
“I guess you’re right about that, Hackett. Well—I’ll keep it quiet, you may depend on it.”
“Good business, Mr. Reamer. See you later.”
• • �
� • •
He hung up the receiver, stared moodily at the mysterious instrument.
He could do this much for Laurentine. He could do this much but by God if he were going to get ahead at all in Red Brook he could do no more. No more.
CHAPTER X
LAURENTINE came down to her sewing-room just as Phil Hackett lifted the receiver to telephone Mr. Reamer. It was Saturday and she would have a long, full day before her. Four gowns had to be delivered to-day. Two of them genuine creations. She would have to be behind Matilda Gathers and Johnasteen Stede at every turn; she might even have to do some of the actual stitching herself—a rare experience for she attended usually only to the designing, cutting and fitting.
But she was glad the day would be full—that meant swifter passage of time and at nine o’clock Phil would probably be here. She glanced at his flowers rearing their lovely heads still fresh and odorous in a vase in the sitting-room. That reminded her. She must speak to Melissa. If her young cousin planned to have company to-night she must have them in the dining-room, in the kitchen; if girls, in her bedroom, anywhere, anyhow as long as they kept their distance from her and Phil. She would wear her red dress. It had short sleeves and a shallow round neck, not too low. It was not too elaborate either as though one were deliberately dressing up, as it were.
She even had on a red house dress this morning, trim and snug and perfect, a little dressier than usual for this time of day. True Phil had never run in during the day time. He had indeed never run in at all; his visits had always been precluded rather irritatingly by a—well, not a warning—but at least by a notification over the telephone. Nothing like the informal visits which Melissa received all the time from Asshur and that rather nasty—what was his name?—Robinson boy or something like that. Well, things happened like that when you were very young. Boys and girls felt and acted as though the world were made expressly for them. That was why she must warn Melissa about the sitting-room. She thought of an odd expression which she had read in a fashion book displaying the latest and most absolutely recklessly revealing sports wear for very young women: “Youth must be served.” She supposed that applied also to things other than sports wear.
“Not that mine was ever served,” she reflected in a momentary rebellion.
“That’s all over, Laurentine, Laurentine,” she was saying silently, “do you realize it?” No one glancing at her beautiful, still face could have dreamed of the hot blood, the rushing thoughts swirling within her.
“Perhaps later, this time next week, he’ll be dropping in. He’ll come in ; why, he’ll come in to lunch.” She looked suddenly across at Johnasteen Stede and smiled, almost laughed outright.
Johnasteen anxious to pour forth her news, to register impressions for a future retailing, plunged in.
“Ain’t seen Melissa this mawnin’ Laurentine. She ain’t sick?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Laurentine listening with the very surface of her consciousness. “No of course I know she isn’t. It’s Saturday. She’s gone to market for mother.”
“She tell you about the big fuss last night down by the brook?” Johnasteen had not been near the Carnival. Mr. Stede, her father, had gone to bed at eight, Saturday being a day of many and difficult chores for him. Miss Stede furthermore had had to be at Laurentine’s at eight-thirty in the morning but she knew of the entire incident, knew every word and if put through a cross examination would have made a better witness than Melissa herself whose bewilderment had dimmed everything but the actual fighting. “No,” said Laurentine again. . . . Perhaps he’d telephone . . . any moment now. . . .
“Why no Johnasteen—was there a fuss?”
“Yes,” said Johnasteen happily, “that there Harry Robbins and that big Asshur Lane that’s always a hangin’ around here after Melissa. . . . Why Matilda Gathers do you know you stuck me! . . . Why look Laurentine, she drawed blood. . . .”
“Some accident,” said dignified Laurentine slangy for once because she was happy and young. “My goodness, look at the blood! Put some witch hazel on it there’s plenty in the bathroom. . . . Harry and Asshur got in a fuss? I’m not so surprised. Boys seem to quarrel for the fun of it.”
The Italian girl across the street, now, she was just about Laurentine’s age, they had been in High School at the same time—the colored girl couldn’t remember their relative status—she had a beau, a young druggist. In the nature of things he must be as busy, even busier than Phil. And he was at her house two and three times a day and of course every evening.
Well Phil would be like that too.
• • • • •
At one o’clock Melissa after answering an imperative door-bell returned wide-eyed to Laurentine. She had been rather listless all morning, even pale. But she was excited now, flushed and even a little anxious.
“Mrs. Ismay’s in the sitting-room,” she reported to her cousin who was eating dreamily from the dainty tray which Aunt Sal sometimes brought her on busy days like these.
“Mrs. Ismay?”
“Yes, Mrs. Ismay, the doctor’s wife, not Mrs. Brown, you know,” Melissa stammered stupidly, “she’s the other doctor’s wife. But this one is ”
“Mrs. Ismay, I think you said,” Laurentine finished for her, smiling. “Well what’s the matter with you this morning? Not awake yet?”
“What do you suppose she wants Laurentine?”
Laurentine couldn’t be persuaded to guess. “But you’ll find out as soon as I’ve finished my lunch.”
Presently she was in the sitting-room looking at Mrs. Ismay, a thin, brown-skinned rather elegant woman talking with the precision, the broad “a” and the culture of the Boston which had been her home.
She plunged into her errand. “I’ve heard so much of your establishment and of your work Miss Strange—of your creations rather, and I wondered,—I wondered ”
“Yes, Mrs. Ismay?”
“I wondered if you’d have your girls make two or three gowns for me.” She had meant to order only one, but this girl’s bearing, her real queenliness she told her husband later, confused her.
Laurentine hesitated. She had never had a colored customer, chiefly because they had never come. Before Melissa’s arrival few of her own people had ever crossed her sill, so persistent had been the legend which set her and her mother as people apart.
And then her prices were beyond the means of most of her group. But this woman, this lady, she said looking at her more intently, could pay. She really was a lady. No wonder Phil Hackett enjoyed the company of people such as these. . . . Phil—how would he like the idea of his wife being the dressmaker of one of his fine friends? Afterwards when Mrs. Ismay was her friend she could bestow a favor on her as a token of that friendship.
So she said very slowly, and very nicely: “I hope you won’t misunderstand me Mrs. Ismay. I’ve never had colored customers. Some of my other customers wouldn’t mind it a bit. Others would very much. You know how Jersey is. I can’t afford to trifle with my living.”
“No,” said Mrs. Ismay, “of course you can’t. I think you’re very sensible and I understand you perfectly. Did you make that gown you have on? . . . It is beautiful. I wish things were different—What a beautiful girl you are. I”—she hesitated—“I wish there were some way in which we could meet again.”
“I wish there were,” said Laurentine quite simply. Of course she had heard of Laurentine Strange and her mother Sal Strange. She bowed her visitor out. . . . Her mother for whom a replica of this kind of thing had been going on for years, would go on. . . .
But for her—for Laurentine Strange
She ran up to her room and looked out the window at the wintry skeleton of the Chinaberry Tree. “For me it is going to end to-night.”
• • • • •
By six o’clock the last stitch had been placed, the last drapery arranged. Johnasteen and Matilda had been sent on their way to deliver the dresses. They passed out the gate, each with a large box under her arm.
“Dumb yourself,” retorted the usually amiable Miss Gathers. “What d’you hafta bring it up for? Ain’t you niggers never gonna let that old business rest? And anyway what have these girls got to do with it?”
Johnasteen’s forebears had hailed from Mississippi but she had the attitude of the Puritan Pilgrims.
“Well their mothers wan’t no good wuz they? And what does the Bible say about the sins of the fathers,—and mothers too that means, don’t it Matilda Gathers? Everybody knows about Laurentine’s mother? Ain’t that very house they’re livin’ in the wages of sin? ’Course I don’t know nuthin’ about Melissa’s mother but the old folks say ”
“The old folks don’t say nothin’,” interrupted her fellow seamstress rudely. “Didn’t my father know Melissa’s mother long before the girl was born. He carried her mother’s trunk to the station—I c’n remember it yet—a funny little wooden affair. He says there wan’t nothin’ the matter with Judy Strange except that she was too lively and jolly for these dumb folks around yere.”
“Hope you ain’t callin’ me dumb. Well then what’re they always carryin’ on so for and lookin’ so queer and whisperin’ whenever they lay eyes on that Melissa Paul? Ain’t never heard of no colored man with Paul for a last name, have you?”
Matilda’s succinct retort was: “Niggers makes me sick!”
“Who’re you callin’ nigger, Matilda?”
• • • • •
At seven o’clock Laurentine had had her bath and was preparing to lie on the couch in her room to rest and relax against the evening’s demands. But she could do neither. For the first time she thought of the possibility of an engagement ring and sat up in excitement.
A ring, its safety, its security, its promise!
Feverishly she began to dress. Everything was perfect. The red dress was ravishing, her slippers, her thin smoky stockings. Not for nothing had she observed the élite of Red Brook who came to her sewing-rooms. She had never bobbed her hair. It was long and thick and shining, but it went up obediently into the dense, tight flat knot which Fashion now decreed. Phil, she thought, her face hot and flushed, would like it though when he saw it down, he would be surprised and pleased. From some mysterious source she who knew so little of men knew that colored men liked their wives to have straight hair, “good” hair. They had to have these things for their children . . . their children must surpass them . . . must mark a step forward . . . poor colored people, they had so much to attain to in America . . . looks, education, morals, ambition, a blameless family life!