“Do you know that I even gave up my name? Names are important, you know. They’re a label. I was christened Margaret. Mother stills calls me Margaret, even though I’ve asked her not to. Jack always called me Peggy. I think he called me that because Margaret was too fine for him. He said Margaret was a name for an old person. And Peggy was young and full of dreams. I wanted to leave my old life behind, to start a brand new life. By marrying Jack, I’d have a new last name and, golly, I got a new first name, too.”
Peggy checks to see if Frank is still there.
“Peggy suited me then, but it doesn’t suit me now. Peggy’s are young and vivacious, without a care. I guess I’m back to being a Margaret again. Stiff and straight. Old and corseted. A version of Mother.”
Frank is now on the floor, peering under the sink.
“Enough of that, Peggy. There’s no sense moaning. It won’t fix your plumbing.” He scrabbles his old bones off the floor and plants his feet firmly apart, one hand on his hip and one hand upstretched, his head raised. “Sometimes ‘a single battle decides everything and, sometimes too, the slightest circumstance decides the issue of a battle. There is a moment in every battle at which the least maneuver is decisive and gives superiority, just as one drop of water causes overflow’.”
Peggy stares open-mouthed at the theatrics. Frank bows. “Or in this case, the lack of one drop of water. If you have the tools, we can win this particular battle. I can walk you through fixing the plumbing. You still have your husband's tools, don’t you?” Frank removes his jacket, hangs it on the back of a kitchen chair, and then rolls up his shirt sleeves.
Peggy hesitates. Looking after chores like the plumbing was always Jack’s job, something she’s always hired a man for. “On the back porch. I'll get them.”
After turning off the water supply and fetching the tools, Peggy pushes back the gingham skirt around the sink, then sits on the floor “It’s all a mystery to me. What do I do first?”
“Take the wrench and loosen the valve on the supply.”
Peggy looks into the box of tools beside her. Which one is a wrench? Her hand hovers over the tools.
“For goodness sake, the metal one with the crescent end. You twist the screw in the middle to make it get bigger and smaller,” he says.
Slowly and methodically, Frank walks her through the repair. There’s a piece that blocks the water flow; the plumber should have removed it instead of letting it keep sliding—damming the pipe. At one point Peggy has her foot braced against the leg of the sink, using the force to turn the wrench.
Peggy makes a final, satisfied twist of the wrench and puts it back in the toolbox. Wiping her hands on a towel, she rises with a great sense of accomplishment.
“Well?” asks Frank. “Shall we see whether it works?”
Peggy turns the tap and water gushes out. “I did it! I did it!”
Delighted, Peggy claps her hands and then raises them in a boxer’s victory salute. With sparkling eyes and a grin, she opens her arms wide and steps toward the Inspector to give him a hug. He raises his arms and steps back. He celebrates instead with a grin.
“Yes, you did,” he says proudly. “I couldn’t have done it better myself.” Frank unrolls his sleeves and puts his jacket on. He waits at the table while Peggy puts the tools away.
“You know, Peggy, watching you work, I’ve realized that Jack was right. You’re definitely not a Margaret. A Margaret wouldn’t have crawled under the sink. And a Margaret certainly wouldn’t have used that language when the wrench slipped.”
Peggy blushes.
“But, I don’t think a Peggy would have done it, either. A Peggy would have waited until her young man could look after it. She would have wrung her hands and moaned about not being able to wash her hair or some such thing.” Peggy snaps her dish towel at him. “And a Peggy certainly wouldn’t have done that.”
Grinning, she snaps it again.
“No,” Frank continues, “I think that a modern, independent woman who fixes her own plumbing, looks after her son and a house full of lodgers, pays her bills, and still has time to glance in the mirror to fix her hair is definitely a…”
The towel dangles between the two of them.
“…definitely a Maggie.”
“Maggie?” She tries out the new name. “Maggie. I like it.” The towel becomes a flag; she waves it in the air. “Well, since I’m changing my life, maybe it’s time I changed my name again. Maggie Barnes, landlady.”
“In a Maggie, there's a Margaret's spine and a Peggy's bounce. Yes, you're definitely a Maggie.”
“A new name for my new life. Not Father’s daughter or Jack’s wife. A person in my own right, steering my own course.” Maggie laughs delightedly. “Maggie Barnes. I think I’ll keep it!”
Chapter 22
M aggie had made the big announcement of the name over dinner the night before, still flush with excitement over her achievement of fixing the tap. Though she was Mrs. Barnes to her lodgers, and Mother to Tommy, she had felt they all needed to know, and once they knew, and smiled about it, she extended an invitation to call her Maggie.
Joe announced that if she was going to get a new name, then she would have to drop the formality and start calling him Joe all the time, not just sometimes. Archie and Eugene insisted on being on a first name basis as well. Of course, the new familiarity in the house didn’t extend down the ranks to Tommy. The barrier between adult and child was still firmly in place.
With the start of a new day, and with renewed determination, the newly christened Maggie hits the streets as soon as Tommy leaves for school. I have a few more hotels on my list and will visit them, stop by the grocery store, and then be home in time to fix Tommy some lunch. A productive day starts as an organized day.
She likes the change. Maggie Barnes, formerly Peggy Barnes, formerly Margaret Gifford, smiles with satisfaction as she walks along Dock Street, the heart of the wholesale district.
Wagons line the streets. The neighborhood is full of greengrocers with their crates of vegetables and bags of potatoes. Butchers are busy directing workmen with heavy meat carcasses slung over their backs. The chickens squawking in their crates almost drown out the shouts and car horns.
The Alexander Inn is a little off the beaten track, certainly not one of the posh hotels in Philadelphia. Used mainly by out-of-town patrons of the markets, it is definitely a working-class hotel. No fancy pillars or doormen here.
She pushes open the front door. Inside, there is a small vestibule with a caged counter window off to one side. There, a small, squat man in a tattered bowler sits behind the counter. His mustache bristles when he sees Maggie alone; he gives her a long, slow once-over.
“Sorry darlin’, no pro skirts allowed in here.” Maggie takes a step back. Well, that’s the limit. To be mistaken for a prostitute. That’s just too much. Despite her annoyance, Maggie continues with her task.
“Can you help me, please?” she says coolly. “My brother is traveling with my son, and I need to get in touch with them urgently.” Realizing she doesn't sound like the worried mother she's pretending to be, she puts a quaver in her voice and tries again. “Would you check your register, please? To see if a man and young boy, about seven, checked in during the past month?” Maggie gives a small sniffle and dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. She fishes out the photo of Oskar that Alicja had given her from her purse and slides it across the counter. Maggie gives him what she hopes is a worried mother’s smile.
The man briefly glances at the photo, and then looks her over. He gives Maggie a slow leer. “Well now, I may have seen a young boy like that... How tall is he?”
Maggie is thrilled. This could be the lead that they’ve been searching for. She grips the front of the counter. “About this high,” indicating about four feet, “with blond hair and blue eyes.”
“Hmm, why don’t you come back behind the counter so we can look through the register together? I’m sure I saw a boy like that.” The man opens a door le
ading to the area. Once behind the counter, Maggie realizes what a small, tight space it is. They are very close together. Her intuition is firing on all cylinders, but she dismisses it as adrenaline from the possibility that she has discovered a lead to Oskar’s whereabouts.
The man reaches, his arms on either side of her, and takes a journal off the shelf. He’s awfully close. She shrinks into the counter. He places the register near him and asks, “Hmm, could this be your brother?”
As Maggie leans in to look at the name he’s pointing to, he slides his arm around her waist. She shakes him off impatiently and looks again at the list of names.
“Now, darling, is that any way to treat somebody trying to help? Why don't you give me a little incentive to keep looking through this big, heavy ledger?” He leers and grabs her waist again.
“Back off!” Maggie pushes him so hard that he bangs against the wall. Glaring, she takes a step forward and slaps him hard across the face. She stands there for a moment, stunned by what she’s done.
“Ooff,” he gasps, rubbing at his red cheek. “Now darling, there’s no need to be hasty. I was just trying to help.”
“You haven’t seen Oskar. And the bank’s closed, you creep. Keep your mitts to yourself.” She sweeps haughtily out the door. Peggy may have needed rescuing, but Maggie doesn’t.
Back on the street, Maggie brushes her hands and pats her hair. And that’s how it’s done, she smiles. There’s a confident swagger to her step as Maggie the detective walks the several blocks to the next hotel.
She gazes at the ornate façade. This is a bit of an improvement over the Octopus Hotel. The doorman holds the door open for her as she steps inside. Maggie looks around and gazes longingly at the café off the lobby, wishing she had both the time and the money to stop for one of the delicious cream cakes on display. Maybe I’ll bring Tommy here if he does well on his exams. He’ll love all that frosting.
As she crosses the lobby, she sees Fanny.
Fanny, dressed to the nines in a slinky purple dress and fetching beaded hat, clutches the arm of a mysterious gentleman. She leans in, giggling at something he has just said. My, but they certainly look cozy.
When Fanny sees Maggie, she stiffens and pulls her arm away. The color drains from her rouged cheeks. She looks at Maggie nervously, and then turns to the man, patting his arm. “Can you wait just a minute, hon? I see someone I know that I should say hello to.”
Maggie narrows her eyes. “Fanny, what a surprise to run into you. Are you on a break and here for an early lunch? With?” Maggie raises her eyebrow and looks at the man, now standing by the counter. He is glancing at his watch.
“Oh Missus B, please don’t tell anyone you saw me, especially Joe,” Fanny searches Maggie’s face. “Georgie wanted to take me for a special Valentine’s lunch and he’s promised to buy me the most beautiful dress. I need some new glad rags. I want something special to wear the next time Joe takes me dancing.”
“Fanny, do you mean to tell me that you’re with that man over there because he buys you things? Oh, Fanny, that’s just wrong. Does Joe know that you’re seeing other people?”
“Oh, no. Joe’d never go for that. But you, more than anybody, knows how hard it is for a girl to make ends meet. Even with roommates, a girl just can’t get ahead, Missus B.”
Fanny looks back at George, who is tapping his foot impatiently. She flutters her fingers at him and flashes a smile. Turning back to Maggie, she says, “I’m not like you. If some guy wants to buy me nice things, what’s wrong with that? It doesn’t mean anything, just a bit of fun.” Fanny raises her chin defiantly.
Fun for who? “Well I won’t say anything Fanny, but you’re going to have to tell Joe. He’s head over heels for you. You need to come clean. And if you don’t say something, then I’m going to have to mention it. Joe Kelly is a good man. I won’t have him hurt, or lied to.”
“Oh, thanks, Missus B. That's real swell of you.” Fanny grabs hold of Maggie's hands, nodding. “And I will talk to him. I'm sure he'll understand. It's not like we're serious or anything.”
I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Maggie leans over and, right after she gives Fanny a quick peck on the cheek, she whispers, “Just make sure that you do.”
Chapter 23
L ike much of society, the humble corner grocery store is also in the throes of major change. The local neighborhood anchor, front windows piled high with cans and produce, is being threatened by the larger, self-serve phenomenon that is springing up in larger cities. Traditionalists are reluctant to move away from the single counter and personal service of the grocer who would fetch the items you asked for, while modern folks in a hurry like to be able to wander past shelves filled with a much broader selection of goods, fill their baskets themselves, go through the check-out, and be amazed by the memories of the clerks who have memorized the price of every item.
Even with her new persona, Maggie remains a traditionalist when it comes to her grocery store. She’s been a loyal customer of Howard Lawson’s store since she and Jack moved into the neighborhood. She likes the smells, the dark wood, the familiarity of the products. Why decide what brand of peas to buy? A pea is a pea. Howard’s prices are fair, and Lordy knows he’s carried her through some dark times financially. Half the families in the neighborhood will be listed in the little black “On Account” ledger he keeps under the counter.
But today, with her foot tapping impatiently, she would appreciate the speed and convenience of the new ‘super markets’. Mrs. Neufeld is ahead of her at the counter. And that woman does go on: lumbago, rheumatism, Dr. Quincy’s Miracle Cure, what her daughter’s family is excelling at. Some of us have things to do, Mrs. Neufeld. Wrap it up and move along.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Neufeld’s daughter appears to be very fruitful, and she’s launching into a new story of yet another perfect grandchild.
Maggie glances idly around the store displays. Behind her she can hear the chatter of a group of small boys, eagerly pursuing the latest edition of Boys Own magazine. Tommy loves that magazine. Maybe I should buy a copy for him? I can hold it out as a bribe to study hard on the next test. She’s mulling it over and casually listening in on their conversation.
“Did you hear about Patterson’s warehouse? Gerald and Curly were there on Saturday. They found a case of beer, just left behind it was.”
“What? No way. Nobody leaves a case of beer.”
“Well, maybe it was just a bottle. But we should still go over there and check it out.”
“Why go there? They already cleaned it out. We should go to a different warehouse. Maybe we’ll get lucky, too.”
“Like where?”
“How about that old Ostermeier one? We haven’t been there in a while.”
“Isn’t that the place that Shorty twisted his ankle? Jumping off the loading dock?”
“Yeah, he’s such a girl. Come on. It’ll be fun. And after, we can go over to the tracks and see if there are any hobos.”
Maggie listens closely. The warehouses. She turns to look at the boys. They are younger than Tommy. And in need of a good scrub. She reaches past them and selects a magazine.
“Do you boys play at the warehouses a lot?”
“No, ma’am. We don’t play there.” The boys stare at their shoes.
“But I just heard you talking about it.”
The boys grab each other’s sleeves and high-tail it out of the store.
Maggie smiles. She has another idea. And it doesn’t involve Archie Mansfield.
* * * *
Her errands today also included calling by Alicja’s; there’d been a group of women keeping her company. She’d made her inquiries and dropped off a bag of candies for the children to share. Though many of the women still called her Mrs. Barnes, she mentioned her first name was Maggie. If any of them had known her as Peggy, it wasn’t mentioned. Of course, they were all in a fog. Oskar was still missing.
After the supper dishes are cleared away and the kitchen tidy
, Maggie lays out the maps she’s checked out from the Public Library, as well as several books on city architecture.
Tommy is sprawled on the floor in the living room, listening to the latest detective serial on the radio. “Tommy, can I borrow one of your colored pencils?”
Tommy comes over to the table and hands her a red and a blue one. “What are you doing, Mother? Is that a map of Philadelphia?”
Maggie takes a pencil and starts making small Xs in red. “Hmm. What was that, sweetheart?”
“I asked what you’re doing. What are those Xs for?”
“Oh, I’m just helping a friend with a project.” She makes a few more Xs.
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