by J.F. Powers
“What’s wrong?”
“Look in the lounge.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Look in the lounge.”
He threw a blanket over her, and hurried downstairs.
The younger children were in the lounge, as he’d expected they would be, with the Christmas tree turned on, but somebody else was there, too: a woman—he’d seen her there before, three months before—knitting.
So Daddy, right away, got on the phone, and during the second sitting (there wasn’t a first one), with the help of the local tax-iman, who also did light hauling, they moved themselves and their effects, including groceries and Christmas tree, out of the hotel and into a house down the road. The agent was there, waiting for them with a temporary lease, which was signed by flashlight—the only hitch (a blow to Mama) was that the electricity was off in the house. But the agent had already called the Electricity Supply Board, and the teenagers, who had been dispatched to the shop that kept open, were soon back with a bundle of turf and a dozen candles. And a candle, as Daddy pointed out, gives a surprising amount of light for a candle. There was coal in the shed, enough for two or three days, also kindling, and the kitchen range only smoked at first. They had their meal of baked beans and scrambled eggs by candlelight in the kitchen. Then they had their dessert—the fruitcake from Bewley’s—by firelight in the parlor, some with tea, some with cocoa and wearing their pajamas, and talking about the ship’s lamp, which there hadn’t been time to examine until then.
Mama explained its red and green windows and its internal parts—apparently all there except for the wick. Daddy was interested in the manufacturer’s name and address (Telford, Grier & Mackay, Ltd., 16 Carrick St., Glasgow), almost invisible from polishing. He pointed out that copper and brass (and silver) looked better when slightly tarnished, better still when seen, as now, by firelight. No, he didn’t know where the ship’s lamp’s ship was (the younger boy wanted to know), probably it wasn’t, and no, didn’t know what he was going to do with the ship’s lamp. Just liked it, just liked looking at it, he said, and, seeing that that wasn’t enough, said he might put it over the front door of the house they might have in America someday. They wouldn’t have to worry about it, he said—these old ship’s lamps were made to be out in all kinds of weather.
“Will we get to keep it, Daddy?” said the younger boy.
“Yes, of course.”
“Daddy, he means the house,” said one of the teenagers.
“Oh.”
“The house in America,” said the younger boy. “Will we get to keep it?”
“Yes, of course—when we get it.” And Daddy remembered the paperbacks—one of them, actually, and then the others—still in his coat. Taking a candle, he went to the cloakroom (good idea, having a cloakroom in a house), and while there, heard a knock at the front door—hoped it was the Electricity Supply Board. It was a man in blue, a gray-haired garda, who had believed the house to be vacant, he said, until he saw the wee light from the fireplace.
“We’re waiting for the E.S.B.”
“Ah. You and the family were at the hotel, sir.”
“We were, yes.”
“And now you’re here.”
“We are, yes.”
“And will you be here long, sir?”
“Six months. Have a six-month lease. May be here longer. Probably not. It’s hard to say. We never know.”
“Ah, indeed. We never know. Good night, sir.”
No, not the E.S.B., Daddy said, returning to the parlor, and gave the younger children the paperbacks, saying of one (The Market: The Buying and Selling of Shares, in which subject the older boy had shown an encouraging interest—Beebee’s influence?), “If you have any questions, ask Millions.” And noticed how quiet it was then, so quiet the turf could be heard burning, puffing.
“Beebee’s gone,” said the youngest child.
Daddy looked at the older boy.
“Sold Beebee.”
“Now, wait a minute.”
“A friend wanted to buy him. One of my friends.”
It was painful to hear the pride in the boy’s voice, in having friends, and Daddy knew what Mama was thinking, that this is what comes from being a mobile family. “What friend? What’s his name? Where’s he live? What kind of boy is he? Do I know him? It doesn’t matter. You can’t sell Beebee.”
“I can always buy him back. That’s part of the deal.”
“You can’t sell Beebee. Go get him. Now.”
“In the morning,” Mama said.
“No, now.”
“He’s got his pajamas on,” Mama said.
“He can take ’em off.”
Mama said nothing.
“O.K., I’ll go.”
So Daddy went, and at the friend’s house, a cottage, did not say that the older boy missed his teddy bear, or that others did, but still told the truth. “Beebee was a gift from my mother”—his mother whose funeral he, in Ireland then, had been too broke to attend—“and I don’t think she’d like it if he left us.” The friend, his mother, his older sister, his two small brothers, they all seemed to understand. No trouble. Ten bob. And after a cup of tea, Daddy and Beebee—who looked the same, grumpy, stuffy, and still sure of himself—came home.
The electricity was on when they got there, the Christmas tree was going, and the younger children were in bed.
When Daddy put Beebee in with the older boy and said, “Good night, Millions,” there was a gurgle in the dark that made him wonder if he’d been taken.
“Where’s the money?”
“Spent it.”
“What? Already? All of it? On what?”
“Billiards.”
Mama and Daddy had work to do, but were tired, and spent the evening in the parlor before the fire (it and the tree gave enough light to talk by), with their drinks. There hadn’t been time until then for him to tell her what Mrs Maroon had said: that it hadn’t originally been the plan to open the hotel for the Christmas season, that unforeseen requests for bookings (she had thanked him again for sending on the mail) and the dearness of things in London had combined to change the plan, and that she and her husband had hesitated to inform the tenants, for fear of upsetting them.
“We’re well out of that,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
They talked about the house, about the carved mahogany chimney piece, which, though, was spoiled by the glazed tiles (these reminding him of the Men’s Room at the Union Station in Chicago), and about what they’d need in the way of equipment—different plugs for the brass lamps, for instance, for there were a number of types in use in Ireland and they had the wrong type for this house, which, though, had to be expected.
“The odds are three or four to one against you whenever you move,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
He tuned in the American Forces Network, Europe, for the home news, and heard that there was a blizzard sweeping across the Midwest. Then “Mr Midnight” came on with his usual drivel about “music for night people, romance, and quiet listening . . . lonesome sounds of a metropolitan city after dark”—and they discussed “metropolitan city,” Mama saying that it was redundant, Daddy that he didn’t like the sound of it but pointing out that it might not be redundant in certain circumstances, citing bishops who were metropolitans, whose seats, sees, or see cities, were rightly called metropolitan seats, sees, or cities. But Mama still took exception to it.
After that, they talked—he did—about their friends in America, about Joe and the highway, about Fred and the river, more about Dick and those big old trees that were probably heavy with snow and ice now, and about that big frame house that had to be painted every five years.
“That’s one good thing about a house like this,” he said. “Pebbledash.”
“Yes,” she said.