“It makes you a snob.”
“So I’m a snob now?” she said angrily.
“Certainly you’re a snob,” he said. They were at the door and going out to the street. As they walked in the sunlight, in the crowd moving slowly down the street, he was groping for words to describe the secret thoughts he had always had about her. “I’ve always known how you’d feel about people I like who didn’t fit into your private world,” he said.
“You’re a very stupid person,” she said. Her face was flushed now, and it was hard for her to express her indignation, so she stared straight ahead as she walked along. They had never talked in this way, and now they were both quickly eager to hurt each other. With a flow of words, she started to argue with him, then she checked herself and said calmly, “Listen, John, I imagine you’re tired of my company. There’s no sense in having a drink together. I think I’d better leave you right here.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “Good afternoon.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
She started to go, she had gone two paces, but he reached out desperately and held her arm, and he was frightened, and pleading. “Please don’t go, Grace.”
All the anger and irritation had left him; there was just a desperate anxiety in his voice as he pleaded, “Please forgive me. I’ve no right to talk to you like that. I don’t know why I’m so rude or what’s the matter. I’m ridiculous. I’m very, very ridiculous. Please, you must forgive me. Don’t leave me.”
He had never talked to her so brokenly, and his sincerity, the depth of his feeling, began to stir her. While she listened, feeling all the yearning in him, they seemed to have been brought closer together by opposing each other than ever before, and she began to feel almost shy. “I don’t know what’s the matter. I suppose we’re both irritable. It must be the weather,” she said. “But I’m not angry, John.”
He nodded his head miserably. He longed to tell her that he was sure she would have been charming to his father, but he had never felt so wretched in his life. He held her arm as if he must hold it or what he wanted most in the world would slip away from him, yet he kept thinking, as he would ever think, of his father walking away quietly with his head never turning.
SILK STOCKINGS
Dave Monroe went into a department store to buy silk stockings as a birthday present for his landlady’s daughter, Anne. Many times he hesitated as he walked the length of the hosiery counter, and he smiled shyly at the salesgirl who was trying to help him. He was a rather stout young man, dressed conservatively in a dark overcoat with a plain white scarf, but he had such a round, smiling face that he looked more boyish than he actually was. He blushed and kept on smiling as he tried to look at many pairs of stockings very critically. He wondered whether it would help if he explained to the lady that he was getting the stockings for a girl who was very dainty and stylish, as smart as any girl anyone ever saw hurrying along the street in the evening. But all he said was: “I wonder if these mesh hose would look good with a black seal jacket and a little black muff? She has so many different dresses that you can’t go by them. I want something good. I don’t care whether they’re expensive.”
At last he paid for a pair of gun-metal mesh stockings that were so fine he could squeeze them into a ball and conceal them in his hand. When he went out to the lighted streets that were crowded with people who were hurrying home, he began to scrutinize all the well-dressed women to see if one of them had on a pair of stockings as nice as those he had in his pocket for Anne. He was anxious about the way the stockings would look on her because he had been wondering for a week what he could give her that would suggest his intimate interest in her, that would indicate he didn’t want to be just a friend. He hurried, wanting to get home to the boarding house before Anne did.
His house was like most of the other boarding houses in the quiet neighbourhood except that the woodwork always looked clean and freshly painted. As soon as he opened the door he bumped into Anne’s mother, Mrs. Greenleaf, a steady-eyed widow who had always been motherly and patient with Dave. They spoke cheerfully, as if they liked each other. The only time Dave ever saw a harsh, stern expression on Mrs. Greenleaf’s face was in the evenings at eleven-thirty when she was walking up and down in the hall waiting for Anne to come home. If Anne happened to be only a few minutes late, her mother argued with her bitterly, as if she alone understood there was a blemish in the girl’s nature. The trouble was that Mrs. Greenleaf was a prude and didn’t want Anne to go out with men at all, and every time Dave heard her arguing with her daughter in the hall, he thought: “What does she think the girl’s doing?”
“Is Anne home yet, Mrs. Greenleaf?”
“Not yet, but she’ll be here in a minute. I’ve got something nice to eat because it’s her birthday. Goodness, it must be crisp out; you’re just bursting with good health. And here I am driven to bed with my neuralgia all down the side of my face!”
“It’s nippy out, but it makes you feel good. It’s a shame about that neuralgia,” he said. When Mrs. Greenleaf suffered from neuralgia she took many aspirins to try to sleep. As Dave went upstairs he wondered why it was that two people like Anne and her mother, who were so sympathetic in many ways, were never able to understand each other. In his own room he put the stockings carefully under his pillow and sat down on the bed to wait. But he couldn’t help thinking of the stockings on Anne’s legs; in his head he was making little pictures of her hurrying along the street, a slim, stylish girl with tiny feet wearing expensive fashionable hose that anyone ought to notice, especially when she passed under a street light. Then he heard Anne coming upstairs. He could imagine her running with her coat open and billowing back, her toes hardly touching the steps. She seemed to be in a great hurry, as if she wanted to get dressed before dinner so she could go out right after eating. Dave, standing at his open door, said: “Just a minute, Anne, here’s something for your birthday. And Anne, would you ever go out with me some night?”
Pulling off her hat, she held it in her left hand. Her black hair was parted in the middle and pulled back tight across her ears. She dangled the silk stockings in one hand, her expression quite serious. Then her face lit up eagerly and she said: “Oh, aren’t they lovely! They’re just what I wanted. Would I go out with you? I certainly would!”
“They’re yours. I hoped you’d like them.”
“You’re a dear, Dave. I’m crazy about them. I’ll wear them tonight. I could kiss you.” She almost seemed ready to laugh, but her eyes were soft as she looked away bashfully. Then she crimsoned, hesitated, stood up on her tiptoes, took his head in her hands and kissed him, and then ran along the hall, leaving him standing there with a wide grin on his face.
Before she went out that night she called to him: “How do you like them, Dave?” She was standing under the hall light, holding her dress up a few inches so he could see the stockings. She was wearing her seal jacket and carrying her little black muff in one hand, and she looked so smart he said: “You look like a million dollars, Anne,” he said.
“Don’t the stockings look great?” she said. “Bye-bye, Dave.”
He would have liked to ask her where she was going, but the main thing was that wherever she went that night, she would be wearing silk stockings that were his, and for the first time, as he thought of her, he had a feeling of possession.
That night he went to the armoury to see the fights. On his way home he went into the corner store to get a package of cigarettes. When he came out he stood on the sidewalk, lighted a cigarette, and as he looked across the street he thought he recognized the girl with the little black muff who was talking to a fellow wearing one of those long, straight dark overcoats with wide padded shoulders. A small light-grey hat was pulled down over one eye. He looked like a tough guy who had made good and bought himself some sharp clothes. “What’s Anne doing with a mug like that?” Dave thought. He felt like going across the street and pushing the man away. Anne and the man moved un
der the light by the news-stand and he could see the man’s swarthy, bluish cheek. Anne was holding his arm loosely as they argued with each other. Twice she turned to leave and each time went back and said something to him. Dave didn’t actually feel angry till he saw the light shining on her silk stockings, and then he remembered the way she had kissed him and he wanted to shout across the street at her and insult her. But Anne was leaving the man, who was patting her shoulder. Instead of going away himself, the man turned, bought a morning paper at the newsstand, put a cigar in his mouth, and leaned against the post.
Dave, who was following Anne along the street, let her go into the house without catching up to her. In the hall upstairs he heard Anne answering her mother, who was calling sleepily.
“Are you in for the night, Anne?”
“Yes, I’m in, Mother,” Anne said.
In his room, Dave sat on the bed, rubbing his face with his hand and trying to figure out what Anne would be doing with a guy who looked like a gangster. “No wonder her mother tries to keep an eye on her!” he thought. He felt both jealous and humiliated, and his only comforting thought was that she had promised to go out with him, too. Then he heard someone moving softly outside in the hall, tiptoeing downstairs. As he pulled his door open, he saw Anne, who still had on her fur jacket, half-way downstairs. With one hand on the banister she looked up at him, blinking, scared. He walked down toward her.
“Where are you going, Anne?” he said.
“Out for a little while,” she whispered, putting her finger up to her lips. “Please be quiet, or Mother will hear you.”
“You’re going back to that guy you left down at the corner, I know,” he said stubbornly. “I didn’t think you ever sneaked out this late at night.”
“Only when Mother’s had neuralgia and put herself to sleep.”
“Anne, don’t go back.”
“Dave, please; I’m in a hurry.”
He stared at her, shaking his head; all evening while he had been at the armoury watching the fights, he had been dreaming of the way she had kissed him. Now he felt that her delight at his birthday gift meant nothing, her kiss was just a casual incident, and that she was hurrying out, wearing the stockings he had given her as a first intimate gesture, to meet the man on the corner. She tried to push him aside. Stuttering with rage, he said: “I know all about that guy without even speaking to him.” When she didn’t answer, he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her back from the door. He was so full of jealous rage he tripped her and pushed her back on the stairs and tried to hold her there with a forearm across her chest.
“You’re hurting me!” she gasped.
“I’m going to pull those stockings off you,” he said, pushing her back roughly. Then she started to cry, as if he had hurt her badly, and all the energy went out of him. She was sitting on the stairs with one hand on her breast as she tried to get her breath.
“You hurt me, you hurt me,” she whispered, biting her lip.
“I’m so sorry, Anne.”
“You’ve got to watch, you can’t be that rough with a girl.”
“I’m sorry, sorry,” he said, helping her up as if she had become so fragile he hardly dared touch her.
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, Dave,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I know you like me.”
“I’ve always liked you, Anne.”
“I like you, too,” she said, taking a deep breath and looking as if she might cry again.
“Why’s a girl like you going out at this hour?”
“He’s all right, I’ve been going out with him for two years. He’s been good to me, he loves me. I’ve got so I love him.”
“Is he waiting for you?”
“Yes!”
There was a sudden fear in his heart and he said haltingly: “If you want, I’ll leave the latch off the door, Anne!”
“If you want, Dave,” she said, looking away. “Don’t tell Mother, will you.”
“I won’t.”
She went out. He waited, then he hurried up the stairs to put on his hat and coat. Mrs. Greenleaf must have wakened, for she called: “Did I hear you talking to somebody, Dave?” He said: “I guess you heard me coming in. It’s all right, Mrs. Greenleaf.” He tiptoed downstairs and went out to the street.
Anne was quite a way ahead. By the time she reached the corner, he was almost up to her, but on the other side of the street. Seeing her coming, the man who was waiting, leaning against the post, tossed his paper into a refuse can, and without saying a word, took hold of her arm possessively. They went walking along the street. Dave stood watching, increasingly resentful of the man’s long, straight, wide-shouldered overcoat. Then he saw the light flash on Anne’s stockings. At first he felt glad to think that something of his was going with her. The couple turned a corner. Dave hurried after them, following for three blocks till he saw them turn into a brownstone rooming house. There was only one hall light in the house.
Anne was standing behind the man while he bent down and fumbled with a key in the lock. As Dave stood there, clenching his fists and not knowing whether to be angry at Anne or her mother, he was desperately uneasy, for he remembered he had called out: “It’s all right, Mrs. Greenleaf.” Then he saw the man against the hall light holding the door open, and Anne went in, and the door was shut.
THE WHITE PONY
It was a very beautiful white pony, and as it went round and round the stage of the village theatre the two clowns would leap over its back or whistle and make it flap its ears and shake its long white mane. Tony Jarvis, like every other kid in the audience that summer afternoon, wondered if there wasn’t some way he could get close to the pony after the show and slip his arm around its neck.
If he could persuade the owners to let him ride the pony down the street, or if he could just touch it or feed it a little sugar, that would be enough. After the show he went up the alley to the back of the theatre to wait for the clowns and the pony. But the alley was jammed with kids – all the summer crowd from the city as well as the village boys – and Tony couldn’t get close to the back door of the theatre. The two clowns came out, their faces still coloured with bright paint; then a big red-headed man, apparently the trainer, led the pony out. It shook its head and neighed, and all the kids laughed and rushed at it.
The big redhead, in blue overalls and an old felt hat that had the brim cut off, yelled, “Out of the way, you kids! Go on, or I’ll pull the pants off you!” He began to laugh. It was the wildest, craziest, rolling laugh Tony had ever heard. The man was huge. His red hair stuck out at all angles under the lopped-off hat. He had a scar on his left cheek and his nose looked broken. Whenever the kids came close he swung his arm and they ducked, but they weren’t frightened – only a little more excited. As he walked along, leading the white pony, a wide grin on his face, he seemed to be just the kind of giant for the job. If the pony started to prance or was frightened by the traffic, the big man would make a clucking noise and the pony would swing its head over to him and lick his hand with its rough tongue.
Tony followed the troupe along the street to the old garage they were using as a stable. Then the redhead yelled, “All right, beat it, kids!” and led the pony inside and closed the door. The kids stood around the closed door, wondering if accidentally it mightn’t swing open. It was then that Tony left the gang and sneaked to the back of the garage. When he saw an old porch there, his heart pounded. He climbed up to the roof and crawled across the rotting shingles to the edge of a big window. At first he could see nothing. Then, with his eyes accustomed to the inner darkness, he saw the two clowns. Squatting in front of mirrors propped up on old boxes, they were scraping the paint off their faces. With a pail in his hand and singing at the top of his voice, the redhead walked over to a corner of the garage. Tony could see the pony’s tail swishing back and forth.
He couldn’t see the pony, but he knew it was rubbing its nose in the redhead’s hand. The clowns finished cleaning their faces. One of them took a bottle
out of a coat that was hanging on the wall and the redhead joined them and they all had a drink. Then the redhead began to talk. Tony couldn’t make out the words, but he heard the rich rumble of the voice and saw the wide and eloquent gestures. The clowns were listening intently and grinning. Day after day he must have talked to them like that and it must have been just as wonderful every time. The white pony’s tail kept swishing, and Tony could hear the pawing of the pony’s hoofs on the floor.
But it was getting dark and Tony had to get home. When he tried to move, he found his legs were asleep. Pins and needles seemed to shoot through his arms. Afraid of falling, he grabbed at the window ledge and his head bumped against the pane. Before he could dodge away, the red-headed giant came over and stared up at him. “Get down out of there!” he yelled. “Get down or I’ll cut your gizzard out!”
They were looking right at each other, and then Tony slid slowly off the roof. As he limped homeward, he felt an intimation of perfect happiness. He kept seeing the swishing white tail.
The next afternoon he went to the theatre with two lumps of sugar in his pocket. At the end of the show, he pushed his way through the crowd of kids and got right up by the door. When the clowns came out, most of the kids started to yell and there was pushing and shoving, but Tony hung back, keeping well over to one side of the door, ready to thrust the sugar at the pony’s mouth before the redhead could stop him.
The big man appeared at the door, the pony clopping behind. In his hands the redhead was carrying two water pails, and the rein that held the pony was in his right hand also. This time, instead of going on down the alley and forcing a path through the kids, he stood still and looked around. Then he grinned at Tony. “Come here, kid,” he said.
“What is it, Mister?”
The New Yorker Stories Page 3