by John O'Hara
The sewing-room looked out on the yard of Gloria’s house, and across the yard and across the contiguous yard was the rear of an old house which had been cut up into furnished apartments. It was nothing to look at. A woman in that house had a grand piano with a good tone, but her musical taste was precisely that of Roxy, the theater fellow. In fact Gloria had a theory that this woman closely followed the Roxy program, except when the program called for Ravel’s “Bolero” and the César Franck and one or two others that Gloria and Roxy liked. The woman also sang. She was terrible. And this woman was the only human being Gloria identified with the house. On warm days she had seen that much of the woman that was between the shoulders and the knees. The woman did not close the window all the way down on hot days. She never had seen the woman’s face, but only her torso. She had seen it in and out of clothes, and it was nothing to go out of your way to see. And that woman was the only human neighbor that Gloria knew anything about.
But a couple of yards away there was a garden; two yards with no fence between. Grass grew, there was a tree, there were some rose bushes, there were four iron chairs and a table to match with an umbrella standard in the center of the table. In that garden there was a police bitch and, just now, four puppies.
The last time Gloria had looked out the sewing-room windows the puppies were hardly more than little pieces of meat, not easy to count and completely helpless.
Now they must have been six weeks old, and as Gloria stood and watched them she forgot all about the woman who was playing the piano, for in a very few minutes she discovered something about the family of police dogs: the bitch had a favorite.
The bitch’s teats had lost their fullness and had gone back into her body, but that did not make the puppies forget that they had got milk there not so long ago. The mother would run away from their persistent attempts to gnaw at her, but one tan little fellow was more persistent than the others, and when the mother and the tan had got far enough away, the mother would stand and let him nibble at her. Then she would swat him good and hard, but, Gloria noticed, not hard enough for him to misunderstand and take offense and get angry with his mother. The mother would open her surprisingly big mouth and lift him up and swing him away from her, then she would take a mighty leap and fly about the garden, chasing sparrows. Meanwhile the other puppies would be waiting for her and when she met them they would try again to take milk from her. Or maybe they were like men, Gloria thought; maybe they knew there was no milk there. And Gloria had a strong suspicion that the mother really liked their making passes at her. She guessed Nature provided the mother with the instinct to swat the puppies away from her. They were old enough to eat solid food now and as a good mother it was her duty to make them look out for themselves.
The mother was a marvelous person. Gloria found herself thinking this and since she was alone and not thinking out loud she went on thinking it. The mother was a marvelous person. Such good qualities as there must be in her, the way she held up her head and her ears stood straight up, and the way she would play with her puppies but at the same time not let them get too fresh or have their own way. Then the way she would lie down with her face on her paws, her eyes looking deceptively sleepy as she watched the puppies trying to eat grass or find something edible in the grass. It was really marvelous. There was one black fellow who wanted to play with himself, and every time he did the mother would get up and let him have it with her paw or else pick him up in her mouth and pretend to chastise him. She would put him down after a few moments and by that time his mind would be off sex. But all this time the tan was her favorite, and then Gloria saw something she did not believe. She saw it with her own eyes. She did not know anything about dogs, and maybe this was common practice among dogs, but she made up her mind to ask the next vet if dogs did this all the time. What she saw that she did not believe was a matter between the mother and the tan.
The mother was lying on the grass watching her children (about the way Ann would on the beach when she had hers). The tan was getting ready to squat for Number One. Instantly the mother got up and grabbed him in her mouth and took him to a bush. She put him down and grabbed his hind leg and lifted it. It was all new to him and he struggled, trying to get into a squatting position again, and he leaked a little, but the mother held on and shook him until he stopped leaking. That was all. It must have been one of the first times the mother had done this, but it was wonderful to see. It made Gloria wonder where the father was.
The father. That son of a bitch probably was out on Long Island or Connecticut or Westchester, where it was fashionable and cool, and here was the mother teaching her pup to stand up like a man and not sit down like a pansy. But the mother didn’t seem to miss the father. She was self-sufficient, and that was a good thing about women. All that stuff about women must weep or wait or whichever it was. Give a woman her child or her children, and the hell with the men. It was incredible that before her very eyes Gloria had seen all the stuff about motherhood, which she thought was pretty much the bunk, being demonstrated by a police bitch and her litter. But it made her feel good again. It put Bill Henderson in his place as the mere father of Ann’s children, and let him put his nurse up on the operating table or do whatever he liked. He wasn’t important once he did his part toward making Ann’s babies. If you loved a man, so much the better, but you didn’t have to love him, you didn’t even have to know him. They brought the stuff all the way from France and England and made mares have colts in this country, and they had done it successfully with people in New York, where the father was sterile and both parents wanted a child. Liggett. He had children. Gloria wondered about herself. Three abortions and all the things she had done not to have children probably had a very bad effect. For the first time she wanted a child, and she—
“Gloria! Eddie Brunner wants to speak to you,” called her mother.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said.
Eddie might do it. But she didn’t want Eddie. She wanted Liggett. Still, Eddie would do it. Only too glad.
“Hello.”
“Hello, pal. This is Eddie.”
“I know.”
“I have good news for you, baby. I got a job.”
“A job! Eddie, that’s wonderful. Where? What doing?”
“Well, it isn’t much, only twenty-five bucks a week, but it’s something. Drawing for movie ads.”
“Oh, swell. When do you start?”
“Right away. I work at home. They’ll furnish the Bristol board and all that, but I can work at home. They called up this morning. Yesterday I was pretty sure I had it but I wasn’t sure. I did some sketches for them and they seemed pretty sure I could do the kind of stuff they wanted, but this morning they called up and said it was definite. In fact it’s going to be more than twenty-five bucks a week. That’s what it was going to be originally, on a basis of part-time work, but now they said they could use some of my drawings on every picture. What they’ll do is make mats and sell them. Do you know what mats are? Doesn’t make any difference. I’ll tell you at lunch. Will you have lunch with me?”
“Sure. But I don’t want you to spend your money on me. We’ll go Dutch Treat.”
“Nuts. I buy this lunch. I’ll be over for you how soon?”
“You can start right away. I’ve been up for over an hour. Come right over.”
“I’ll be over before you can say Jefferson Machamer.”
“Jefferson Machamer,” she said.
“That’s not the way to say it,” said Eddie, and hung up.
Eddie was full of plans, few of them making sense when his income was considered. All Gloria had to do was listen. “A small car, an Austin or one of those little Jordans. You know those little Jordans? They don’t make them any more, but they were some cars. Or I keep seeing an ad in the paper for a baby Peugeot. I just want a small car.”
“Naturally.”
“Why naturally?”
“So you won’t have to take anyone else for a ride. You want a car to think in, don’t you, Baby?”
“That’s right,” he said. “A car I can think in.”
“And Norma and I, we’ll just sit around and sew on Sunday afternoons when it’s hot. You go out to the country—the North Shore is nice and cool. You go out and you think and Norma and I will sit and wait for you, and then you come home and tell us what you’ve been thinking. Understand, if you don’t want to tell us, or you’re too tired, it’ll keep. What else are you going to do with your money?”
“Well—” They were at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street, halted by traffic. “You see those figures on top of the traffic lights?” At that time the traffic light standards were adorned on top with gilt statuettes of semi-nude men in trench helmets.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I’m going to do something about them. I’m not sure what, but something.”
“Somebody ought to.”
“I may only buy them, all the way from here to a Hundred and Tenth Street, if they go that far, and send them to a silly old uncle of mine who loves to play with soldiers.”
“No.”
“No. You’re right. I have a better idea, but I don’t know you well enough to tell you.”
“Certainly not.”
“The idea is, how to control female jaywalkers. I would have instead of a light, when it is time for the red light to go on, all the little soldiers would uh, come to attention as it were.”
“As it were.”
“And all the women would stop, see? They would watch this phenomenon and meanwhile traffic would be rolling by. There’s only one difficulty. When the women get tired of watching it we’ll have jaywalking again.”
“Ho-ho. Women—”
“I know. Women won’t ever get tired of watching that phenomenon. This is a nice conversation.”
“What about men jaywalkers?” said Gloria.
“We have a jaywalker for a mayor,” said Eddie.
“Oh, stop it. That isn’t even original.”
“Yes, it’s at least original. It may be lousy, but it’s original. Anyway I never heard anyone else say it. That’s always my trouble when I make puns.”
“What else with your money?”
“Buy you lunch. Buy you a present. Buy Norma a present—”
“And get a haircut.”
Eddie was gay all through luncheon, long after Gloria grew tired of his fun. She could see that it was more than the prospect of the job that made him feel good. The other thing was without a doubt Norma Day. Always before this when he was gay it did not last so long without encouragement from Gloria; this time he went on, and in a way that in anyone else she would have called stupid. Not stupid in Eddie. Eddie did not do stupid things. And God knows he was entitled to some fun. But twice in one day was too much for this: first it was Ann Paul with her Mr. Fletcher—Mr. Henderson, rather. Ann was all packed and everything and moving right out of Gloria’s life. And now Eddie. She could easily have said the hell with Ann. She didn’t like women anyway. Women had no spine. Gloria thought they were more intelligent than men, but they didn’t get as much out of it as men did. Unless trouble was getting something out of it. Now that Ann was safe and happy Gloria admitted to herself that what their schoolmates had suspected might easily have been true. It was nothing special against Ann. Gloria had a theory that there was a little of that in practically all women; just get them drunk enough in the right surroundings. And a lot of them didn’t have to get drunk. She had had passes made at her by dressmakers’ fitters, show girls, women doctors, and—and then she pulled herself out of this. For every woman who had made a pass at her there were ten, fifteen, a hundred, a thousand, who had not, and who probably had not the slightest inclination in that direction. But admitting that she was factually wrong did not get her out of the general mood. She came back to wishing Ann well, and found herself wanting to be away from Eddie. She was tired of being with him. The only person she wanted to be with was Liggett. She wanted to be home or with Liggett. One or the other. Away from the whole thing, all that was her usual life; Eddie, her friends, the smart places or the gay places, the language she and they spoke, and all about that life. But if she had to have any of it, she wanted all of it. Here, with the bright sun on Fifth Avenue, she was thinking that the only thing she wanted was to be with Liggett, lying in bed or on the floor or anywhere with him, drunk as hell, taking dope, doing anything he wanted, not caring about the time of day or the day of the week and not thinking whether it was going to end. And if not Liggett, then no one. Then she wanted to be home where she could be within sound of her mother’s voice, surrounded by the furniture that she would not bump even in the dark. She wanted to be moral. She would stop smoking. She would wear plain clothes and no makeup. She would wear a proper brassière, no nail polish. She would get a job and keep regular hours. And she knew she could do these things, because she knew Liggett would be back. Maybe.
Eddie asked her to have more coffee but she said she had to go home and wait for a call. Like that Eddie understood. His gayety disappeared, he was considerate, he remembered that she had not been participating in his fun. “You go on home,” he said. “I’m going uptown, and I’ll take a bus from here.”
“I’m sorry, Eddie.”
“You’re sorry? I’m the one to be sorry.”
“It just happens today—”
“I know. Go ahead. Kiss me good-by.”
“No,” she said.
“All right, don’t,” he said. But she did, and at least made the waiter glad.
She went home, feeling like crying part of the way, and then halfway changing to pleased with herself because she was on her way home, which was a path to righteousness or something.
Three o’clock was striking when she let herself in. Elsie, the maid, was dusting the staircase and could easily have opened the door, but not Elsie. Sometimes Gloria suspected that Elsie, who was colored, knew something of Gloria’s Harlem benders. It may have been that, and it may only have been the contrast between the respectful, almost slave-like obedience Elsie accorded Mrs. Wandrous, and the casual, silent manner Elsie showed Gloria.
“Packages come from the stores,” said Elsie.
“For me?” said Gloria.
“Yes,” said Elsie. She spoke it on a high note, as much as to say, “Why, sure. Who else would be getting packages in this house?”
“Then why don’t you say so? . . . Oh, don’t answer me.” This was a swell way to start the new life, but this nigger irritated her. “What’s your husband doing now? Is he working?”
“Why?” said Elsie.
“Don’t ask why. Answer my question.”
“He’s gettin’ along. Now and then he gets sumpn. Now may I ask why?”
“You may not.” Gloria was on the verge of mentioning Lubby Joe, a Negro big shot the mention of whose name was enough to command respect among most Negroes. But it would be hard to explain how she knew Lubby Joe, and it was a thing that could not be left unexplained. This made her angry too, to start something she could not finish, especially something that would have given her so much pleasure as throwing a scare into Elsie. “Where’d you put the packages?”
“Uh cared them all the way up to your room,” said Elsie.
“Yeah man!” said Gloria, in spite of herself.
She was upstairs, trying on the new clothes, when Elsie came in, dust-cloth in hand. “Some man called you on the phone. He lef’ this here number.”
“God damn you, you black bitch! Why didn’t you give me this message when I came in?”
“Uh didn’t think.”
“Get out of here!”
She called the number, which was a private branch exchange, and the extension number which had been given Elsie. The extension did not answer. The number was the B
iltmore. It could have been a lot of people, but it couldn’t have been anyone but Liggett. She sat there half dressed, too furious to curse Elsie, hating the Negro race, hating herself and her luck. In five minutes she called the number again. It was always possible he was in the bathroom the first time. This time she left word that she had called. “Just say that Gloria phoned. The party will know.” She only hoped it was Liggett. She was sitting there and she heard the front door close in the careful but not noiseless way her mother closed it. Gloria called to her to come upstairs.
“Certainly is getting warmer. When did you get back? Is Eddie really working?”
“Mother, this is the last straw. I want you to fire Elsie. Today.”
“Why, what’s she done?”
“I just had a very important message and she forgot to give it to me till just this minute, and of course when I called the party had left.”
“Well, you know Elsie has a lot to do. She’s got this whole house—”
“You can get any number of niggers that will do twice the work and won’t forget a simple little thing like that. I’m sick of her. She’s lazy—”
“Oh, no. No, she isn’t lazy. Elsie’s a good worker. I admit she has her shortcomings, but she isn’t lazy, Gloria.”
“She is! She’s terrible, and I want you to fire her. I insist!”
“Oh, now don’t fly off the handle this way over a simple little telephone message. If it’s that important the person will call again, whoever it was. Who was it, and why is it so important?”
“It’d take too long to tell you now. I want you to fire Elsie, that’s what I want you to do. If you don’t I’ll tell Uncle Bill. I won’t stay here.”
“Now look here, just because Elsie does something bad isn’t any reason why you should be rude to me. You have your own way quite a lot it seems to me. Too much for your own good. You go around doing as you please, staying away at night and doing dear knows what, and we permit it because—well, I sometimes wonder why we do permit it. But you can’t come home and disrupt the whole household because one little thing goes wrong. If you can’t appreciate all the things we do, all for you—”