High Time

by Mary Lasswell

Lily was beginning to get the drift. Her face bright—‘Boy, oh boy! I’d sure make it worth your while! I’d pay good! An’ bring the formula all ready to last ’em through the day—and the diaper-man could still pick up the dirty ones at my house! Would fifteen dollars a week be okay?’

  The ladies looked at each other. No one said a word. Fifteen dollars a week! Better than sixty dollars a month without ever setting foot outside their home! Not to mention the sacrifice.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ Mrs. Feeley announced, ‘we’ll go home an’ drink it over—you stop by on your way home for the answer!’

  After making sure of the exact location of the Ark, Lily said: ‘Then I’ll not ask for no time off till I talk to youse tonight!’

  The ladies nodded solemnly and drove off toward Island Avenue. At the junk-yard they climbed out and entered the house, each occupied with her own thoughts.

  Miss Tinkham got out the chart for war service and painstakingly erased the notation of the night before. Then she printed sadly: ‘Rejected.’

  ‘At least we cannot be accused by our consciences of not making the effort,’ she said ruefully. Under the first column heading of most important ways to win the war, she wrote a third line: Are you relieving a man or woman for work in a vital industry?

  ‘They’ll sure be a mess, do we take ’em!’ Mrs. Rasmussen knew what she was talking about.

  ‘Yeup. We’ll sure be tied down for real,’ Mrs. Feeley agreed. ‘But what the hell? Them fellers on Bataan woulda been plenty willin’ to swap jobs with us, don’t you reckon?’ Mrs. Feeley was selling herself a bill of goods. ‘Yeah. Lily’d come after ’em at six sharp—then we’d be shed of ’em for the evenin’ at least.’ Mrs. Rasmussen finally capitulated.

  ‘Then I may write “Yes” in the column?’ Miss Tinkham asked.

  ‘All in favor, say I?’ Mrs. Rasmussen remembered some of the parliamentary law she had heard about at Citizenship class years ago.

  ‘I do!’ Mrs. Feeley chirped, matrimonially.

  ’Unanimously carried!’ Miss Tinkham cried. ‘Suffer little children to come unto me!’

  ‘Suffer is right!’ Mrs. Rasmussen sniffed.

  ‘Guess we’ll have a beer while we can,’ Mrs. Feeley remarked. ‘The place’ll be such a boar’s nest with them twins howlin’ an’ smellin’ that we won’t be able to enjoy a bottle in peace.’

  At six o’clock Lily came up the walk with a hopeful expression.

  ‘What time will you bring ’em?’ Mrs. Feeley demanded.

  ‘I gotta be there at eight. Is seven-thirty too early?’ she asked, well pleased at the prospect.

  ‘That ain’t the question! This ain’t bein’ done to accommodate us, you understand! If you pass here at seven-thirty, that’s the time you gotta drop ’em off! We can’t have no dead-headin’! No extra trips just to bring the boogers over here to be took care of!’ Mrs. Feeley was an authority on the gasoline situation.

  ‘Okay!’ Lily grinned. ‘I’ll bring the formula, an’ the boiled water, an’ the orange juice, an’ the Pablum.’

  Miss Tinkham looked at her friends and they wondered if they had bitten off more than they could chew.

  ‘You’ll pick ’em up prompt o’ nights?’ Mrs. Rasmussen reminded. ‘No stoppin’ for a short beer on the way!’ The trio seemed to overlook the fact that Franklin and Winston, rosy balls of suet, were more than a mere nuisance to their mother.

  ‘Swear to God! Cross my heart! I’ll not leave youse stuck with ’em! I kinda like bathin’ ’em at the end o’ the day. Sometimes I take ’em right in the tub with me. They’re awful slippery, but they sure love the water!’

  ‘Well, their namesakes spend enough time on it,’ Mrs. Feeley remarked.

  Lily was fumbling in her pocket.

  ‘I don’t wanna insult youse or nothin’: but I wanna give five dollars now to bind the bargain. I’ll just owe that much less at the end o’ the week!’

  Mrs. Feeley took the fin and handed it to Mrs. Rasmussen.

  ‘Okay, Lily. Bring ’em in the mornin’! Don’t you forget: this is strickly at your own risk! We ain’t responsible for nothin’ but keepin’ ’em fed an’ changed an’ from swallowin’ safety-pins!’ Mrs. Feeley admonished.

  Lily nodded and departed hastily before the ladies should change their minds.

  The ladies looked at each other, poured fresh beer, and sat down. Mrs. Rasmussen fingered the five-dollar bill.

  Mrs. Feeley looked at the money and remarked: ‘Once them twins is installed here, we’ll be so wore out we won’t be good for nothin’! So let’s go out tonight an’ pitch a bitch!’

  Chapter 2

  ‘MIGHT’S WELL make a night of it!’ Mrs. Feeley remarked over her shoulder as the three friends entered the Pacific Gardens about midnight. The huge pleasure dome housed a large bar, enormous dance-floor, and a bowling alley.

  ‘Might’s well be drunk as the way we are,’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.

  ‘But what a change the war has brought,’ Miss Tinkham lamented, referring to the women clad in slacks and the men without coats. And she ruffled the frills of her beaded georgette dress smugly. She did not notice any of the other ladies wearing capes to match their frocks, but they were not exactly what one could call the dressy type anyway.

  ‘Yeup! This town sure ain’t what it used to be,’ Mrs Feeley agreed. ‘Was a classy bunch in these joints a few years back, but they sure ain’t nothin’ but rat-races now! Hardly no reg’lar Navy!’

  ‘You know what? Most o’ them guys is feather merchants an’ merchant marines. I kin tell is they Danish or Swedes!’ Mrs. Rasmussen volunteered.

  ‘After all, dear ladies,’ Miss Tinkham said kindly, ‘the important thing is not whether they are regular Navy or not: what counts is whether they are regular fellows or not!’ The ladies were about to air their views on the Naval Reserve when Mrs. Feeley noticed something out of order in a corner.

  ‘Hey! Looky there! That guy’s abusin’ that girl somethin’ fierce!’ She pointed to a booth near-by where a short, swarthy man with pock marks was threatening a buxom platinum blonde with his fist. They could not hear what he was saying, but he obviously was not making love to her. Mrs. Feeley scented a shakedown.

  The bully took her by the wrist and began twisting her arm. Such brutality was more than the residents of Noah’s Ark could bear. With one accord they rose, taking their beer with them, and walked over to the booth where the miserable girl sat.

  ‘Ain’t he gettin’ a mite too familiar, girlie?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

  ‘Look, Toots! Don’t come buttin’ in where you ain’t wanted!’ the man said menacingly.

  ‘I don’t believe I have the pleasure of your acquaintance!’ Mrs. Feeley replied coolly, doubling up her fist and bringing it around in front of her where he could see it.

  ‘An’ you’ll let it rest right there if you know what’s good for you!’ he growled. ‘Just go ahead an’ peddle your papers!’ Here he made the mistake of shoving her.

  The silence was so thick it could have been sliced. Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham looked at each other. Then they looked at the man. He had actually laid a hand on Mrs. Feeley.

  ‘Did you see what I seen, Miss Tinkham, dear?’ Mrs. Rasmussen was the first to break the silence.

  ‘I am afraid I did,’ Miss Tinkham replied sadly.

  With one accord the ladies set their beer-mugs on the table. Then, with a movement like greased lightning, they seized the flabbergasted man by the ankles, turned him upside-down, and began to bang his head against the floor. Mrs. Feeley had recovered sufficiently from the outrage to grab him by the seat of the pants with both hands. The ladies used him like an old-fashioned churn-dasher for the space of some three minutes. He wriggled and roared, but to no avail. All at once a triumphant shriek split the air, Mrs. Feeley was the author of it and she deigned to turn loose her grip on his pants.

  ‘Just like I thought!’ she shouted, and straightened up from the floor with a roll of bills in he
r hand. ‘Dirty liar!’ she yelled, shaking the money in his face. ‘Ain’t you the stinker! Ain’t you ashamed o’ yourself? Had it all the time! An’ you was tryin’ to shake her down!’ Mrs. Feeley’s voice rose as she warmed to her subject.

  The man had resumed an upright position after the ladies dropped him with scant ceremony at Mrs. Feeley’s first gloating shriek. He muttered something about must have tried to put it in his pocket and it went in his shirt by mistake, or some such rot. He looked sheepish and was about to efface himself silently when Mrs. Rasmussen grabbed him by the sleeve.

  ‘No, you don’t!’ she droned. ‘What about the lady’s feelin’s? Ain’t you got no ’couth at all?’

  ‘I ’pologize,’ the fellow mumbled.

  ‘You’ll have to do better’n that,’ his tormentor continued. ‘Take at least a sawbuck to soothe her wounded feelin’s!’

  The man peeled off a ten-dollar bill and threw it in front of the girl. He was sweating and glad to leave.

  ‘Whew!’ Mrs. Feeley said, sitting down in the booth. ‘Guess you’re glad we come along,’ she said brightly. ‘I don’t know what would of happened without you,’ the girl smiled gratefully. ‘We all need a drink after that! You ladies sit down, all of you!’ she invited graciously.

  ‘I am Miss Agnes Harriet Tinkham and this is Mrs. Rasmussen. The lady beside you is Mrs. Feeley,’ said Miss Tinkham, ever mindful of the amenities.

  ‘I’m Darleen, and I’m sure pleased to become acquainted with you. Will you have some more of the same?’ she inquired, as the waiter stood ready to take their order. The ladies nodded.

  ‘Three large beers and a limeade!’ Darleen ordered. ‘I don’t never drink nothing but Seven-Up, but I feel the need of something a little stronger after all that struggle. He wouldn’t of had the crust if my boy-friend was here. He don’t approve of me working here, but I get lonely looking at the four walls with him away so much.’

  ‘He in the Navy?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

  ‘Unh-huh!’ The girl shook her head—‘merchant marine. He’s awfully nice. I don’t have nothin’ to do with any of my gentlemen friends at all when Johnny’s in port. I tell them flat out: don’t go calling me up at all. I’m out of circulation.’

  Miss Tinkham cleared her throat.

  ‘Your fiancé, I take it?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Darleen replied.

  ‘You an’ him fixin’ to marry?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think we’re the marrying type. Seems like so many couples get along like love-birds in a cage, but the minute they get married they start fighting and arguing! Besides, I kinda like to play the field, myself. Seems like in this business I meet so many nice-looking fellows, and I get kinda sentimental thinking about them being shot at and killed, and I suppose I just listen to them a little too much!’ Darleen stirred her limeade and looked dreamy.

  No one spoke for a while. Then Mrs. Feeley asked:

  ‘This here Johnny: don’t you think about him gettin’ shot at none?’

  ‘Oh, sure! He’s been torpedoed three times already! He was bringing me a silver fox fur from Russia and it was lost with the ship. It was just as well, though, like I was telling him, one isn’t stylish any more. They wear a pair now!’

  ‘Does he know you got other fellers?’ Mrs. Rasmussen asked.

  ‘Yes, he knows. I told him all about me. It’s like this, see: when he’s here I’m strictly true to him. Only he isn’t here much.’ That seemed to settle the issue pretty definitely.

  Miss Tinkham was reminded of a Biblical lady who was forgiven much. The ladies looked at each other and wonder was written on their faces: Darleen had apparently never got the word about right and wrong.

  ‘Well,’ Mrs. Feeley said at last, ‘I guess it’s all in how you look at it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Mrs. Rasmussen was in a brown study. ‘Times has changed! But you sure couldn’t do it in the old country!’

  ‘The inferiority complex manifests itself in many forms,’ Miss Tinkham remarked to no one in particular.

  Mrs. Feeley lifted her glass to that sentiment, even if she didn’t know what it meant.

  ‘You know what?’ Darleen said suddenly. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Y’are?’ Mrs. Rasmussen queried. ‘Well, this ain’t no place to eat,’ Mrs. Feeley said. ‘Get the hog cholera eatin’ in a pig-sty like this.’

  ‘It isn’t at all appetizing, is it?’ Miss Tinkham agreed.

  ‘It’s two o’clock now—an’ them brats comin’ in the momin’! What say we take her home with us an’ scrapes her up a bite?’

  They thought it was a fine idea—hadn’t realized how hungry they all were.

  Darleen went over to the cashier, turned in the checks from the drinks that had been bought for her during the evening, and counted her dance-ticket stubs for her percentage on the evening’s work. She pulled out a small notebook from a white leatherette bag shaped like a toy drum; in this notebook the cashier recorded the figures and initialed them.

  ‘Okay! We can go now,’ Darleen said to the ladies, who were standing by watching the transaction with interest.

  After a five-minute walk Noah’s Ark hove into view, the beer-can wall shimmering like gold in the moonlight.

  ‘This is where we lives at!’ Mrs. Feeley said.

  Miss Tinkham recited:

  ‘Who enters through this friendly gate,

  Comes never too early nor stays too late!’

  ‘It ain’t always nasty-neat, but it’s a grand house for eatin’!’ Mrs. Rasmussen put in.

  ‘Gee! It’s sure swell, isn’t it?’ Darleen was awe-struck by the rose-velvet draperies that formed the private rooms of the ladies. ‘Sure cozy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Neat but not gaudy!’ Miss Tinkham agreed.

  Darleen strolled over to the piano and began to beat out, ‘I Love Coffee, I Love Tea,’ with one finger. Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen looked at each other and their faces suddenly looked as if they had just bitten into a piece of overripe fish.

  ‘Look, dear!’ Mrs. Feeley said. ‘What would you want to drink? On account o’ we see you don’t drink no beer! Mrs. Rasmussen’ll fix whatever you want, but get away from that pie-anna an’ let somebody play that can!’

  Darleen realized she had rushed in where angels fear to tread.

  ‘Oh, coffee! I just love coffee! Isn’t it swell that we don’t have to have no stamps no more?’

  ‘Yeah. How you want it, weak or strong?’ Mrs. Rasmussen demanded.

  ‘Strong! Strong and black!’ Darleen said.

  Mrs. Rasmussen nodded approvingly. Even if Darleen did drink limeade in preference to beer, she had sense about some things.

  Mrs. Feeley turned to Miss Tinkham.

  ‘Would you be too tired to play some real music for Darleen, ’long’s she likes it?’

  ‘Not at all!’ cried Miss Tinkham graciously; she rolled up her angel sleeves and carefully adjusted the creaking stool to the correct height, although no one ever used it but herself.

  ‘I think the Tschaikowski Romeo and Juliet theme would be appropriate,’ she beamed in a beery glow. The poignant melody with its aching love burden could not be totally obliterated even by Miss Tinkham’s fumbling rendition on the battered instrument.

  ‘Why, that’s “Our Love”!’ Darleen cried. ‘Only you don’t play it in swingtime! Sounds nice, though!’

  ‘Darleen!’ Mrs. Feeley trumpeted, ‘the way Miss Tinkham plays it is the way it had oughta be played! An’ if she says it’s “Romeo and Juliet,” “Romeo and Juliet” it is—an’ not “Our Love” nor no such baloney! That there’s classical! Pretty, too!’

  ‘Yes, ma’m,’ Darleen said, by now thoroughly squelched.

  Miss Tinkham soared to the heights of passion; she threw back her head and caroled unsteadily:

  ‘Lovely night, come!

  And with thy beauty hide our love!’

  Miss Grace Moore could have listened to Miss Tinkham with complete equanim
ity and little fear of competition.

  ‘Gawd!’ Mrs. Feeley cried admiringly. ‘Gives me duck-bumps up an’ down my arms! Don’t it you?’

  ‘It’s sure nice!’ Darleen agreed.

  Miss Tinkham turned around to accept their homage; her face was ecstatic.

  ‘Miss Tinkham, do you know “Pistol-Packin’ Mama”?’ Darleen asked shyly.

  ‘I can’t say that I do, but I’ll try it,’ Miss Tinkham, the ever-obliging, conceded graciously and was about to launch into her conception of the theme of an artillery-bearing mother when Mrs. Rasmussen yelled:

  ‘Chow down!’

  Miss Tinkham left the piano with more haste than dignity. Mrs. Feeley needed no urging either, and Darleen streamed along in her wake. Mrs. Rasmussen had set out the remains of the peppery cheese-mix, a green salad, rye hardtack, and a few of the rapidly dwindling roll-mops; she really did admire Darleen’s flaxen hair!

  Darleen inhaled the fragrance of her coffee while Mrs. Rasmussen piled a huge amount of food on her plate. ‘Don’t you never fix no lunches for your feller?’ she asked, between bites.

  ‘We generally go down for chop suey,’ Darleen said.

  ‘Chop suey!’ Mrs. Feeley cried, looking at her friends in horror. ‘How in hell can a man keep up his strength on chop suey? The Navy always wants steak an’ eggs! An’ apple pie, second!’

  ‘Johnny likes that, too,’ Darleen admitted.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be delightful if you could master the culinary art before he returns?’ Miss Tinkham mused. ‘Such a pretty domestic scene! Home is the sailor, home from the sea—and the beloved broiling hamburgers!’

  ‘Yeah. I could learn you,’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.

  ‘I can fix creamed chipped beef and goldenrod eggs,’ Darleen stated modestly.

  A pained expression passed over the faces of the Noah’s Arkies.

  ‘Every time I see food like that, I wonder if it’s somethin’ somebody’s gonna eat, or has already et!’ Mrs. Feeley stated.

  ‘Yeah. Kinda chewed-up-lookin’! You had oughta know how to cook any kind o’ meat real good, an’ how to cook eggs so they ain’t leathery, an’ how to cook with cheese. If you could make a real good French dressin’, hot biscuits, an’ a decent apple pie, you could hold your man, I don’t care how big a Ike he thinks he is!’ Mrs. Rasmussen knew the magic formula.