High Time

by Mary Lasswell

  ‘Could I learn to make a casserole dish, do you think? Johnny took me to a swell place one time and we had a casserole apiece, smoking hot, and he told me it was his favorite food!’ Darleen said eagerly.

  ‘Hell, that ain’t nothin’ but galley-sweepin’ stew!’ said Mrs. Feeley, the sea-going.

  ‘I’d try hard if you’d show me!’ Darleen promised.

  ‘Gawdlemighty!’ Mrs. Feeley shouted. ‘It’s three o’clock in the mornin’—an’ that ain’t a waltz! Them twins will be here in four hours!’

  ‘What twins?’ Darleen asked eyeing the ladies closely for signs of approaching parturition.

  ‘Aw, we led with our chins!’ Mrs. Feeley explained wearily. ‘We was a pushover for a coupla twins that belongs to a friend. We gotta do somethin’ to win the stinkin’ war! An’ she can keep on makin’ planes if we take the varmints off her hands in the daytime. Boys! Six months old; an’ we gotta feed ’em, an’ diaper ’em…an’ whatnot.’ Mrs. Feeley was depressed at the prospect.

  ‘Well, I gotta go and let you ladies get some rest! I’m proud of knowing someone like you ladies! And the lovely eats, and the coffee! And all that beautiful music!’ Darleen had not read about the debs for nothing.

  ‘You live near here, or ride a bicycle?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

  ‘I’ve never saw anyone as funny as you, Mrs. Feeley!’ Darleen giggled. ‘Just down Market a piece at the Fleet Rooms is where I live. I’ll be okay!’

  ‘Well, you come back when you can stay longer,’ Mrs. Feeley urged warmly. ‘Walk on the outside o’ the sidewalk, near the gutter…an’ stay away from them dark alleys!’ she warned.

  The three ladies walked back into the house and went to bed, with Mrs. Feeley still muttering:

  ‘She better stay near the curb! With her heels as round as they is!’

  Chapter 3

  THE WAKING HOUR at the Ark was a trifle grim, due in some degree to the feather-edge the ladies felt from the previous night’s frolic and partly due to a feeling of impending disaster. Every time a car even sounded as if it was going to stop, Mrs. Feeley and her friends looked up nervously from their pick-me-up. Miss Tinkham had long ago abandoned the idea that coffee was something people drank the morning after. Her association with Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen had made her into such a seasoned trooper that she could go to the icebox, get out a cold beer, remove the cap, and drink it down without ever opening her gritty eyes.

  ‘Didn’t drink an awful lot last night, but I sure got a gyro touch this A.M.’ Mrs. Feeley remarked. ‘It’s the idea o’ them twins—’cause we ain’t never done nothin’ like that before!’

  ‘I done enough of it in my time,’ Mrs. Rasmussen said, wiping the foam off her upper lip. ‘You an’ Mr. Feeley never had no kids, did you?’

  ‘Neither chick nor child! Mr. Feeley always said what never made you laugh would never make you cry.’ Mrs. Feeley had never cared one way or the other herself. She figgered the Lord could attend to his own business best.

  ‘Oh dear!’ Miss Tinkham choked on her last swallow of beer. ‘There they are now!’

  Lily was just coming up the steps, pushing a wide, canvas double-stroller in which reposed, side by side, two enormous apple-dumpling babies. They were fast asleep, their dimpled arms and little hands like starfish spread out to the breeze. Their eyelashes made lovely shadows on the rosy cheeks.

  Mrs. Rasmussen opened the door and helped Lily lift the carriage up the last step and into the house.

  No one said a word.

  Finally, Lily grinned weakly and said: ‘Here they are!’

  ‘Damn if they ain’t!’ Mrs. Feeley murmured, coming to life at last.

  ‘Rabindranath Tagore! You sang of the sleep that flits on babies’ eyes!’ Miss Tinkham twittered.

  Even Mrs. Rasmussen had to admit they were sure pretty.

  ‘Which is Franklin and which is Winston?’ Miss Tinkham inquired.

  ‘They got ’nitials on their clothes, but it’s hard to tell now on account o’ they just got on diapers—but it really don’t make no difference! They can’t understand what you say to ’em, nohow!’ Lily explained.

  ‘Now, by rights,’ Mrs. Feeley said, coming out of her daze, ‘this here feller oughta be Winston—ain’t nothin’ missin’ but the bow-tie an’ cigar!’

  ‘Does look kinda like him,’ Lily giggled.

  The ladies stared silently at the cherubs while Lily went to the car and came back carrying a huge picnic basket with double handles. In the other hand she carried a large cardboard suitcase and a canvas laundry bag.

  ‘These here oughta go right on the ice,’ she said, opening the picnic basket and removing the bottles of formula, boiled water, and orange juice. ‘The clean diapers is in the valise an’ the bag is for the dirty ones. Now, to heat the bottles, you just stand ’em up in a pan o’ warm water an’ let ’em…’

  ‘Aw, go teach your grandmother how to suck eggs!’ Mrs. Rasmussen grinned, shoving Lily out the door. Lily took one lingering glance at her progeny.

  ‘They ain’t bad! Honest, they ain’t!’

  ‘Do you suppose I dare pick one up?’ Miss Tinkham asked before the door of Lily’s jaloppy had slammed.

  ‘Let sleepin’ dogs lie!’ Mrs. Feeley advised grimly.

  ‘They’ll wake soon enough,’ Mrs. Rasmussen said from the icebox where she was putting away the twins’ food. ‘We might’s well lie down a minute till they do start howlin’—didn’t get near enough sleep last night! That was sure a pleasant girl, though. I like her hair.’

  ‘Yeup. One o’ them incendiary blondes! I feel kinda sorry for them little ole trollops—never had much chance. She’s sure a dope, foolin’ around with them other guys ’long as she has a steady feller. But they ain’t got no brains! Outa sight, outa mind!’ Mrs. Feeley yawned.

  Miss Tinkham stretched herself and said: ‘The immortal Robbie said,

  “Then gently scan your brother man,

  Still gentler sister woman,

  Ta da dee da, da da ta ta,

  To step aside is human,”’

  she finished triumphantly.

  ‘Who’s Robbie?’ Mrs. Feeley pricked up her ears at such a sensible-sounding poem.

  ‘Robert Burns, the great Scottish poet, the most tender and understanding songster of them all,’ Miss Tinkham replied.

  ‘It means you don’t should talk hard of nobody, don’t it?’ Mrs. Rasmussen added.

  ‘Oh dear! My memory is wretched these days! But he was a lovely man! Last night, when Darleen was telling us about her little temptations, I kept thinking of this poem. I do believe it will come back to me in time!’ Miss Tinkham wrinkled her brow and folded her lips tightly in concentration.

  ‘We sure wanna hear it, if you remember it…better’n the radio!’ Mrs. Feeley said.

  ‘It is from an address to the Unco’ Guid—that’s Scotch for rigidly righteous. It is about people who are too insipid and lacking in vitality to have any temptations sitting in judgment on warm-hearted, thoughtless people who are guided by their emotions,’ Miss Tinkham explained. All at once she had it:

  ‘Ye high exalted virtuous dames,

  Tied up in godly laces,

  Before ye give poor Frailty names,

  Suppose a change of cases;

  A dear-loved lad, convenience snug,

  A treacherous inclination—

  But let me whisper in your lug,

  Perhaps you’re no temptation!’

  Mrs. Feeley’s cackle rent the air.

  ‘Ain’t that somethin’! Gawd, did he get ’em told! Them ol’ busybodies was so ugly, wouldn’t nobody make a pass at ’em!’

  Miss Tinkham glowed. Darling Robbie with his never-failing appeal to the heart!

  ‘Then gently scan your brother man,

  Still gentler sister woman;

  Though they may go a little wrong.

  To step aside is human.

  One point must still be greatly dark.

  The moving wh
y they do it:

  And just as lamely can you mark

  How far perhaps they rue it.

  Who made the heart, ’tis He alone

  Decidedly can try us,

  He knows each chord—its various tone;

  Each spring—its various bias:

  Then at the balance let’s be mute,

  We never can adjust it:

  What’s done we partly may compute,

  But know not what’s resisted.’

  Mrs. Rasmussen wiped her eyes. Then she blew her nose thoroughly and said: ‘Makes me feel like church at Easter. We didn’t mean no bad about Darleen!’

  ‘Gawd, no!’ Mrs. Feeley cried. ‘But our duty’s plain as the nose on your face: we gotta make her think more of herself! She wouldn’t be bad if she knew she was disappointin’ somebody! Bet she figgers Johnny is doin’ the same way—an’ what the hell! We gotta get her somebody to believe in! People won’t let you down if you expect a lot from ’em!’

  ‘At any rate, hers is not the sin of coldness and indifference,’ Miss Tinkham remarked.

  ‘Hell, no!’ Mrs. Feeley said. ‘Too damn good-hearted for her own good! Can’t say “no”!’

  ‘I’ll say this for her,’ Mrs. Rasmussen put in, ‘she’s clean as a new pin. I took notice o’ them shoulder-straps on her slip an’ they was clean—ironed, too!’ Cleanliness and godliness walked abreast for Mrs. Rasmussen.

  ‘She bought us, anyways, six beers apiece: she ain’t tight!’ Mrs. Feeley reminded.

  Suddenly the silence made itself felt.

  ‘Gawd, we been sittin’ here chattin’ out loud nice as you please, an’ not a peep outa them boogers!’ Mrs. Feeley pointed over her shoulder to the baby-buggy.

  Mrs. Rasmussen got up and cast a professional eye over them.

  ‘We can still have a beer an’ a nap: they’re good for another two hours yet!’

  Mrs. Rasmussen had not misjudged the sleeping powers of the twins. It was exactly two hours and ten minutes before the air was rent with the shrill and jagged squealing of the two hungry infants. The three ladies leaped to their feet as if a time-bomb had gone off under their beds.

  ‘Gawdamighty! Whadda we do now?’ Mrs. Feeley cried.

  ‘Just keep your shirt on an’ light that fire under the pan o’ water on the stove. It’s their ten o’clock bottle they’re yellin’ for!’ Mrs. Rasmussen explained.

  ‘Hell, much more o’ that music an’ I’ll be screamin’ for mine, too! Scare a body outa a year’s growth! Sure bloodcurdlin’!’ Mrs. Feeley muttered.

  ‘Dear Lily has no cause to worry about the condition of her children’s lungs,’ Miss Tinkham said, fingers in her ears.

  Mrs. Rasmussen slipped practiced hand under the rosy rumps and looked up with confirmation of the worst written on her face.

  ‘Hand me that v’lise full o’ diapers, Miss Tinkham, please!’

  Miss Tinkham hurried forward with the suitcase and the canvas bag, and Mrs. Feeley left the stove where she was watching the bottles of formula that were heating in a pan of water.

  Mrs. Rasmussen lifted one of the babies onto the table. He stopped yelling immediately, but his brother continued to make the morning hideous with his yells.

  Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham crowded close around the ministering angel, watching all that went on.

  ‘Lily went an’ forgot their powder!’ Mrs. Rasmussen fumed.

  Miss Tinkham flipped into her room and came back carrying a cylinder full of Ardent Night Talcum. She leaned over Mrs. Rasmussen’s shoulder and began sprinkling the reeking talc carefully into the baby’s pink creases.

  ‘That’s fine, Miss Tinkham,’ Mrs. Feeley said.

  ‘Yeah. But I wouldn’t stand so close if I was you,’ Mrs. Rasmussen warned. ‘If I’m any judge o’ babies, this feller’s liable to let fly any minute!’ Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley stepped back out of the baby’s range until Mrs. Rasmussen had him safely trussed up in a dry diaper.

  ‘Now, the other feller!’ she cried, handing the dry baby to Miss Tinkham to hold. The wet baby stopped yelling as soon as he felt Mrs. Rasmussen’s safe, comforting touch. Miss Tinkham was standing in the middle of the floor holding Franklin or Winston, as the case might be, at arm’s length, straight out in front of her. Gentleman that he was, the baby never made a sound, but regarded her with great violet eyes, intrigued by her bobbing earrings, or perhaps by her face.

  Mrs. Rasmussen turned to see what went on.

  ‘Sit down! Sit down an’ take him on your arm!’ she yelled, laughing. ‘Don’t stand there holdin’ him like he was a lighted firecracker! He won’t bite you!’

  Miss Tinkham collapsed into a sitting posture in the nearest chair. She clutched the baby to her breast and he squalled in protest.

  ‘Now, now, baby! Now, now! Be a nice little boy!’ Miss Tinkham admonished without much conviction.

  Mrs. Rasmussen had his brother changed, so she came over and sat near Miss Tinkham, who was rocking tentatively with her charge.

  Mrs. Feeley strode over and ordered:

  ‘Give him to me! You go fish them bottles outa the hot water. They’d oughta be warm by this time!’

  Miss Tinkham handed the baby over with ill-concealed relief.

  ‘There! My laddie-buck!’ Mrs. Feeley cried, jouncing the baby violently on her knee. ‘Mrs. Feeley’s gotcha now!’

  ‘That’s okay before they eats—but not after,’ Mrs. Rasmussen warned.

  Miss Tinkham came back, holding the two bottles gingerly. Mrs. Rasmussen took one and squirted a drop on her wrist with a knowing air.

  ‘Speck too hot,’ she said. ‘Be all right in a minute!’

  The twins, at the sight of the bottles, had tuned up and were roaring their rage, fortissimo, at these women who tantalized them so cruelly.

  Mrs. Rasmussen could stand the din no longer. She nodded to Mrs. Feeley to begin feeding her baby and they began.

  ‘Gawd,’ Mrs. Feeley said, ‘you can feel the suction while this bucko’s got his mouth six inches away from the bottle!’

  ‘Ain’t they pigs?’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed, screwing up her face in distaste at the smacking and gurgling that came out of the twins. The babies were certainly en rapport, for at each down-beat at the finish of each huge slurp of fluid, the boys emitted a happy sigh—in unison.

  ‘I’d ’a’ swore they was hollow to their heels,’ Mrs. Feeley whispered. She made room for the other baby on her capacious lap while Mrs. Rasmussen straightened up the bedding in the carriage for their post-prandial nap. She laid the babies down gently, taking care to put them smack on their tummies and to turn their heads so they could breathe freely.

  Miss Tinkham hovered in the background watching wistfully. Mrs. Feeley said she guessed it was time for their ten-o’clock bottle and went to get it. Mrs. Rasmussen said all that guttin’ had made her hungry and went to spread up some rye bread with her home-made liverwurst to go with the beer. Miss Tinkham stood by the baby-carriage a long time. The twins were sleeping the sleep of the just by the big front window. The shadows of the gardenia bushes played over their heads; she wondered if she should draw the blackout curtain, but decided that the leaves cut the glare just enough—and besides they looked so pretty. She leaned down and planted a moist kiss on the top of each cherubic head, then went happily to join her friends at the table, singing softly, ‘The Sleep That Flits on Babies’ Eyes’ to a tune that not even John Alden Carpenter would have recognized.

  The infants slept all through lunch. Old Timer came in to wash up, tiptoed over to see the new paying-guests, and went out to round up scraps to build a pair of kiddie-cars. The way those boys ate and slept, they would be needing action in a few weeks.

  At two o’clock the slumbering afternoon was shattered by the hunger cries of the lusty babes. Mrs. Feeley remarked that they could just as well throw away the alarm clock. The feeding and changing routine was performed exactly as it had been at ten o’clock. When the twins were bedded down once more, Mrs. Rasmus
sen went ahead with her preparations for supper. Mrs. Feeley went into the garden to weed, and Miss Tinkham sat down to restring some beads. Each was occupied with her own thoughts. At five they congregated in the rockers to discuss the events of the day.

  The radio was playing softly, Miss Tinkham had filled the bowls with fresh flowers, and the odor of Mrs. Rasmussen’s incomparable cooking filled the air. The ladies rocked gently in time to the music.

  Finally Mrs. Rasmussen spoke: ‘We coulda went to town, did we want to!’

  ‘Gawd, you’d never know they was in the house!’ Mrs. Feeley said incredulously.

  ‘And to think we were under such a misapprehension about children!’ Miss Tinkham said. ‘One should never form conclusions on things one knows nothing about!’

  ‘Well, if they ain’t never no worse than they was today, they sure ain’t a mite o’ trouble,’ Mrs. Feeley agreed.

  ‘But lemme tell you they sure ain’t many like them,’ Mrs. Rasmussen spoke from experience. ‘Them’s the best kids I ever seen—they ain’t got a nerve in their body. Eat an’ sleep! Sleep an’ eat!’ She got up to examine the contents of a large iron pot on the fire. In it reposed the big end of the ham-hock, whole peeled onions, scrubbed new carrots, tiny ruby beets, bundles of green beans, and a bouquet of parsley, celery, and hot green pepper. Whole black peppercorns were sprinkled here and there. The tender green cabbage was cut into wedges ready to go into the pot the last fifteen minutes. Mrs. Rasmussen looked at the contents of the pot with the loving care of an artist—she moved one beet that had dropped out of focus in her still-life composition. Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham came over and took a peek.

  ‘Don’t take a bit more work to do it up nice,’ the cook said modestly. ‘Guess I’ll just mix up some hot mustard to go with it!’ She did. Miss Tinkham admired the skill with which she blended the condiments. Nobody ever had mustard like Mrs. Rasmussen’s: it was hot and cold, sweet and sour, fiery and bland—all at the same time. She filled the mustard pot and set it in the icebox. Then she filled a second jar with her own tomato ketchup. At the table she would pour the mustard and fragrant ketchup into individual glass dishes. With one quick swirl of the spoon she could make the scarlet and gold run into a lovely pattern, but never smear or mix. Miss Tinkham loved to watch Mrs. Rasmussen fix the sauce dishes. The Noah’s Arkies would dip morsels of vegetables and ham into the sauce before eating them. It certainly went well with the beer.