by Dorothy West
He had gotten in the habit of carrying those self-addressed envelopes in his inner pocket where they bulged impressively. And occasionally he would take them out—on the car usually—and smile upon them. This one might be from J. P. Morgan. This one from Henry Ford. And a million-dollar deal involved in each. That narrow, little spinster who, upon his sitting down, had drawn herself away from his contact, was shunning J. Lucius Jones!
Once, led by some sudden, strange impulse, as an outgoing car rumbled up out of the subway, he got out a letter, darted a quick shamed glance about him, dropped it in an adjacent box, and swung aboard the car, feeling, dazedly, as if he had committed a crime. And the next night he sat in the sitting room quite on edge until Net said suddenly, “Look here, a real important letter come today for you, Pa. Here ’tis. What you s’pose it says?” And he reached out a hand that trembled. He made brief explanation. “Advertisement, hon. Thassal.”
They came quite frequently after that, and despite the fact that he knew them by heart, he read them quite slowly and carefully, rustling the sheet, and making inaudible, intelligent comments. He was, in these moments, pathetically earnest.
Monday, as he went about his janitor’s duties, he composed in his mind the final letter from J. P. Morgan that would consummate a big business deal. For days now, letters had passed between them. J.P. had been at first quite frankly uninterested. He had written tersely and briefly. Which was meat to J. Lucius. The compositions of his brain were really the work of an artist. He wrote glowingly of the advantages of a pact between them. Daringly he argued in terms of billions. And at last J.P. had written his next letter would be decisive. Which next letter, this Monday, as he trailed about the office building, was writing itself in his brain.
That night Millie opened the door for him. Her plain face was transformed. “Poppa—Poppa, I got a job! Twelve dollars a week to start with! Isn’t that swell!”
He was genuinely pleased. “Honey, I’m glad. Right glad,” and went upstairs, unsuspecting.
He ate his supper hastily, went down into the cellar to see about his fire, returned and carefully tidied up, informing his reflection in the bathroom mirror, “Well, J. Lucius, you c’n expect that final letter any day now.”
He entered the sitting room. The phonograph was playing. Daisy was singing lustily. Strange. Net was talking animatedly to Millie, busy with needle and thread over a neat, little frock. His wild glance darted to the table. The pretty little centerpiece of the bowl and wax flowers all neatly arranged: the typewriter gone from its accustomed place. It seemed an hour before he could speak. He felt himself trembling. Went hot and cold.
“Millie—your typewriter’s—gone!”
She made a deft little in-and-out movement with her needle. “It’s the eighth, you know. When the man came today for the money, I sent it back. I won’t need it no more—now! The money’s on the mantelpiece, Poppa.”
“Yeh,” he muttered. “All right.”
He sank down in his chair, fumbled for the paper, found it.
Net said, “Your poppa wants to read. Stop your noise, Daisy.”
She obediently stopped both her noise and the phonograph, took up her book, and became absorbed. Millie went on with her sewing in placid anticipation of the morrow. Net immediately began to nod, gave a curious snort, slept.
Silence. That crowded in on him, engulfed him. That blurred his vision, dulled his brain. Vast, white, impenetrable … His ears strained for the old, familiar sound. And silence beat upon them…. The words of the evening paper jumbled together. He read: “J. P. Morgan goes—”
It burst upon him. Blinded him. His hands groped for the bulge beneath his coat. Why this—this was the end! The end of those great moments—the end of everything! Bewildering pain tore through him. He clutched at his heart and felt, almost, the jagged edges drive into his hand. A lethargy swept down upon him. He could not move, nor utter a sound. He could not pray, nor curse.
Against the wall of that silence J. Lucius Jones crashed and died.
THE FIVE-DOLLAR BILL
Judy could read before she was seven. Mother said that when she was four she could read the weather reports to her father. The only one she fell down on was the variable wind one. Only she didn’t really fall down, for when she came to that difficult word and got it out somehow, the father caught her up in his arms and hugged and kissed her hard.
Judy loved the father. She did not know very much about him. She guessed he was her relative because they had the same name. She would have liked to know if this kinship were closer than an uncle; or was it like a grandfather, for the father was much older than Mother, with the top of his head broken and wrinkles around his kind eyes.
But Judy was a shy child who did not like to ask questions, for either the grown-up people said, run and play, or gave you ridiculous answers with superior smiles.
Judy could answer the little questions herself. It was the big questions about babies and God, and telling a lie for your mother, that grown-up people were never truthful about.
The stork did not bring babies. It was not true about a stork flying over clouds and dropping babies down chimneys. Santa Claus could come down a chimney because he was a man and wouldn’t get hurt. But would God let a stork drop a dear little baby down a dirty chimney?
No, a woman prayed to God very hard for a baby. Then it began to grow in her stomach. When it was quite grown a doctor cut a hole in her side and the baby came out. After that the woman stayed in bed until the hole healed up. In that moment of the baby’s birth the woman became a mother. But how a man became a father Judy did not know.
And about God: Did He really punish people in a fire with a pitchfork? Did He stick them with the pitchfork himself? Why, Judy could not have hurt a fly. She could kill a mosquito all right because it was teenier. Sometimes, though, when you killed a mosquito a lot of blood squished out. That made your stomach feel queer for a minute. But then Mother said beamingly, got him good, didn’t you, darling, and everything was all right.
Mother could kill anything without feeling queer. She killed flies and ants and even big roaches, and put down traps for mice. She said anything that belonged outdoors should stay outdoors if it didn’t want her to kill it. And she would grab a wad of paper and go banging at a fly, which was fun to watch if you did not think too hard about the fly’s family.
God was supposed to be gooder than Mother. God was not supposed to have Mother’s temper. Mother said damn and sometimes Goddamn. If Judy overheard she would frown and have a temper. She would say Goddamn to the father. Then she would have a temper when the father reproached her for saying such words before Judy.
They would begin the queer thing called quarreling. The words would fly between them and it would seem to Judy that her mother’s words hit hardest. Yet at such times, as fond as she was of the father, she would want to run to her mother, saying protectively, there, there, my darling.
Judy often wondered if the father lived with them. She always went to bed while he was still sitting up, and he was never there in the morning like her mother. There were only two bedrooms, hers and her mother’s. And once she heard her mother say to the college man, Jim and I have not lived together as man and wife for months.
Mother was careless with money. She was always losing it. Judy never saw her lose it really, but she would tell Judy about it and after a while Judy would remember exactly how it happened. When the father sat down to dinner, Mother would tell him about it, too, adding, Judy remembers. Judy would say proudly, yes, Mother.
Mother always lost the money on the day the college man came. Mother said he was poor and came to sell things to help him through college. She said Judy had better not tell the father because he was not a college man and got mad if anybody mentioned college men to him.
Judy did not know what the college man sold and she would not ask her mother. It always cost just what the father had left for the gas bill or the milk bill, and once even what the father had left fo
r a birthday frock for Judy.
When the college man came, mother would let Judy take her dolly out in its carriage. But it would not be the same as on other days. She would dress her doll hurriedly, and it would not seem to be a real baby, but just an old doll. She would feel silly, and would just want to get away from the college man and his teasing voice.
Then one night the father and Mother had a terrible quarrel about Mother losing money. You could hear their voices all over the house, only this time it was the father’s words hitting hardest. Neither Judy nor her mother had ever mentioned the college man to him, but he knew all about him just the same, and called himself a fool and the college man a rat, and said he was going to divorce Mother and take Judy away from her.
Judy did not know what divorce meant, but when the father said he would take her away from her mother, she knew that as mad as he was he would take her for keeps, and never let them see each other.
She got out of bed and ran into the kitchen, and threw herself into her mother’s arms. She was sobbing wildly and saying hysterical things. Her mother held her close and began to cry, too, saying, there, there, my precious, just like Judy had always wanted to say to her.
After a long time she felt the father’s hand on her head. She heard him say something about the child’s sake, and knew he meant he would let her stay. All in a moment she fell asleep, with her hand sliding down her mother’s soft cheek.
After that the father did not leave any more money for bills. The college man came once and said, where was the money for his books? He looked very scornful while he said it, and he kept his hat in his hand.
Mother forgot about Judy and cried and clung to the college man. He pushed her away and said she knew where to reach him when she had the money for his books. The outer door slammed after him.
Then Judy knew that the college man sold books and was mad because mother would not pay him. Still it was strange. She had never seen her mother so heartbroken. Even with the father it had not been like that. For she had never heard her proud mother plead. She had never seen her stalwart mother cling to anyone.
Judy had to say it. Give him back his old books.
Her mother stopped in the midst of a sob. You go and play, she said coldly.
After a while Judy almost forgot about the college man and the money her mother owed him. It was only when her mother walked up and down and around the room looking burningly beautiful that Judy felt sick and afraid and saw the college man’s image.
Then it was that Judy, who could read almost anything at seven, read in the Sunday supplement about the moving picture machine. You sent away for some reproductions of famous paintings. When they came you sold them. When you had sold them all you sent the money to Mr. Fisher in Chicago, and he sent you a moving picture machine. If you put up a sheet and charged a penny to all the children in the neighborhood once a week, pretty soon you’d have enough money to give your mother to pay that old college man for his old books.
Judy talked it over with the father, except the part about the college man. He said he was proud of his little businesswoman and helped her write the letter to Mr. Fisher. He took her out and lifted her up to the mailbox so she could post it herself.
In less than a week the pictures came. The father said they were beautiful and made the first purchase himself. There were twenty to dispose of at a quarter apiece.
Judy sold one to her teacher, one to the barber who cut her hair, one to the corner grocer at whose store they had an account, one to kind Mr. McCarthy who ran the poolroom, one to an uncle, one to an aunt, and two to company ladies. The father said she had done simply wonders and took the rest of the pictures to the office building, where he was superintendent, and sold them.
He brought her the money in silver. Judy was very excited. She counted out her money and wanted to have it all changed to a five-dollar bill.
Mother got up and said she would take Judy to the corner grocer’s right now. And tomorrow they would go to the post office, where Judy was to send the money order herself.
Mother held out her hand and was radiant. Judy slipped her small palm into hers. They smiled at each other and shut out the male, their husband and father. In this moment Judy was saying, it is for your sake, my darling. Her mother’s mounting excitement answered, I know it, my sweet, my precious.
They went to the corner grocer’s, still holding hands. Judy skipped along. It was seven o’clock of a winter’s evening. The stars were shining. The snow crunched under her feet. Everything was dear and familiar, the car line, the icicles on the cables, the signboards with their bright illustrations luminous under the electric lights, the vacant lot with the snowmen silent and stout, the fire alarm, the post box. All things good, and best of all her mother’s bright and beautiful face, her mother’s parted, red-lipped mouth, with her breath on the winter night.
The corner grocer rang up No Sale and gave Judy a five-dollar bill. Judy said, you take it for me, Mommy, with the same indulgence that mothers use in saying to small children, you may carry the package, dear.
Mother opened her purse and fished around in it. After a while she looked her amused surprise at Mr. Brady and gave him a lovely, humble smile, full of sweet pleading. She took Mr. Brady into her confidence and said she must make an urgent call. Would Mr. Brady give her a nickel and put it on the bill.
All of a sudden Judy felt sick. She knew her mother’s burning beauty had not been for her, nor was it now for Mr. Brady. She did not want to hear her mother make the telephone call. She went and stood at the door and stared up at a little star snug among its elders. The star began blinking so hard that it made her eyes water.
When she heard the nickel ring in the telephone box, she began to sing shrilly and kept on singing until her mother came out of the booth and bade Mr. Brady a wonderful good night.
All the way home Judy would not look at her mother. She played a skipping game that kept her a pace ahead. Her mother kept saying loving things, but Judy pretended not to hear and would give no loving answers.
At the door her mother reminded her, my precious, don’t bother to mention to your father about the telephone call. I dialed the wrong number and lost my nickel, so I didn’t really make it after all.
When Judy went in she said, good night, Father, with her head hanging down. She hated him, too, and ran off to bed without once begging to stay up.
In the morning Judy made herself believe that last night had been a bad dream. She ran all the way home from school. Her mother greeted her with a hug and kiss. She looked very alive and kept smiling at Judy, with the blood flooding her cheeks and her eyes star bright in her head.
Judy ate her lunch. The table was pretty, but there was unwashed company china in the sink. The plate her mother placed before her was not a company plate.
The lunch was soft things, but they stuck in Judy’s throat. She felt excited and sad. Suddenly her mother was saying, darling, I sent your money off myself. I was passing the post office this morning, and it seemed rather silly to make a second trip this noon. You won’t tell your father, will you? He thought it would please you to send it yourself. But you’re Mother’s big girl, aren’t you, my precious? And you aren’t disappointed, are you?
No’m, said Judy, and she never said no’m. Her heart was standing in her throat. She thought it would burst.
That night she went to bed before the father came for dinner. She said she felt sick in her stomach, and in fact she did. She did not want the light, nor a book, nor her doll. She shut her eyes tight. The father tiptoed into the room. She lay very still. His lips brushed her forehead. He tiptoed out. She put her mouth in the pillow and sobbed herself to sleep.
It was not so bad the first week. After every mail she would make herself believe the moving picture machine would surely come on the next. But the week passed. Another week began. The father said, it ought to come this week anyway. Her mother added cheerfully, oh yes.
The second week ended. The third week beg
an. Then the father said, shall I help you write them a letter, Judy?
Her eyes met her mother’s bright unwavering ones. I forgot the address, she said.
Thereafter the father did not speak of the matter again. He said Judy must just consider it an unfortunate experience and profit by it.
Saturday morning of the fourth week it was Judy who got the mail that the elevator boy had pushed under the doorsill. There was a letter addressed to herself. It bore Mr. Fisher’s return address. The other letters fell from her hand. She stumbled blindly into her room and opened the envelope.
It was not really a letter. It was a newspaper page. There was a picture of a little girl and a story with easy words about how she had kept some pictures that belonged to Mr. Fisher, though he had written her twice to return them. The police had come and taken her to jail, where she had stayed forever and ever. Her mother got sick and died from worrying. Her father lost his job because his daughter was a thief and had to beg on the streets.
Judy was so terrified she could not stir. Her eyes dilated. She could not swallow. She began to itch all over.
After a long time she folded the newspaper page and hid it under her mattress. She flung herself across the bed, quivering and unable to cry. She would suffer like this at the peal of a bell, at an unfamiliar voice, at an unexpected sound, and she would share this pain with no one. For she knew even if she screwed up the courage to go to a grown-up, she would get the untruthful answer, children don’t go to jail, when there was that picture of that little girl which proved that they did.
The doorbell jangled. Judy jumped off the bed, scuttled under it, and drew herself up into a ball, banging her head against the floor, and holding her breath hard.
God, she prayed, let me die.
But children do not die. They grow up to be the strange things called mothers and fathers. Very few parents profit by childhood experiences. When they look back they do not really remember. They see through a sentimental haze. For childhood is full of unrequited love, and suffering, and tears.