One On The House

by Mary Lasswell

  “Two more,” his friend said. Mrs. Rasmussen and Old-Timer watched silently as the two customers drank their beer.

  “One for the road,” the first man said. “See you tomorrow.”

  “If we ain’t in jail,” Mrs. Feeley muttered, putting the sixty cents in the cashbox. Mrs. Rasmussen grabbed the empty glasses and washed them.

  “I’m sure gettin’ nervous about Miss Tinkham,” she said. The door opened and three workmen lounged up to the bar swinging their dinner pails.

  “Where’s Timmy?”

  “Won’t I do?” Mrs. Feeley grinned.

  “Three beers.” The men drank silently, looking at her over the rims of their glasses.

  “You helpin’ out?” a heavy-set man spoke to Mrs. Feeley.

  “In a manner o’ speakin’. Musta been hot workin’ this evenin’. Want some more beer?”

  “Yeah, an’ not so much foam, Toots!”

  Mrs. Feeley moved to the next spigot. The beer was almost gone and the pressure was producing a lot of thick foam and not much else. She managed to draw three decent glasses at last.

  “Beer’s about out. Can’t get no more till tomorrow. Give you a little re-cap if you come in then.”

  What beer there was left was needed: needed by Mrs. Feeley and her friends. Who knew what ghastly news Miss Tinkham might be bringing? The gruesome details of Timmy’s collapse could only be cushioned by quantities of beer…and there was only a little left.

  “Don’t take no lip from that guy,” a stout man said.

  “That, Buster, is somethin’ I ain’t in the habit o’ takin’ from nobody born o’ woman!” Mrs. Feeley folded her arms across her bosom.

  “Damn if she don’t mean it,” the man said to his companions, “Good luck to you.”

  “See you tomorrow,” one of the men smiled at her. “My old woman will be scourin’ the country for me if I don’t get home.” As they went out, the three men held open the door for Miss Tinkham. Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen came forward quickly and helped her to a chair. Mrs. Feeley closed the door and locked it:

  “No use lettin’ any more in! Just have to do a lot of explainin’! The beer’s out.”

  “Out?” Miss Tinkham prolonged the anguished sound.

  “We saved some for you,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Ain’t enough to sell.” Mrs. Rasmussen came to the table with a large glass carefully drawn. They all pulled up chairs. “Now tell about Timmy.”

  I sometimes wonder what the vintners buy

  One-half so precious as the stuff they sell!

  Miss Tinkham quoted.

  “Skip the poetry! What happened?”

  “He’s very grave,” she said slowly. “Chances about one in five hundred. The poison has spread all through his system. We are to telephone after nine…I have the number here.”

  “Did they ask you questions?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Miss Tinkham nodded.

  “They could see at once that I really had no information about him. But those people are very expert. They got his identification cards out of his wallet and took the facts from that. They don’t hold out much hope for him. He did look dreadful!”

  Mrs. Feeley studied for a moment.

  “Guess they’ll send for his people.”

  “He has no next of kin,” Miss Tinkham said. “For emergencies, they had the name of a priest listed, although he is no relative. I told the secretary there was no use taking the good man away from his parish, since we were looking after things. They were very courteous to me and said we could come to see him…if he lives.”

  “How’d you get back?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “One of the ambulance drivers brought me as far as the main intersection and showed me how to get the rest of the way.” She put the half-dollar on the table.

  “We sold twelve beers,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Some guy’s gonna give us a hard time tomorra…the fellers warned me. The way I figger, it’s the guy from the brewery…maybe the beer ain’t even paid for! The kid’s had his back to the wall, starvin’ hisself to death, most likely.”

  “Yeah.” Mrs. Rasmussen pushed her chair back and went behind the bar. “Ain’t no rats or mice here. They’d starve to death. Ain’t there no kind o’ cupboard or icebox connected with this thing…where he could o’ kept a bottle o’ milk?”

  Mrs. Feeley came to help her look and they discovered the door of a small storage box over the coils. Whatever Timothy Rafferty’s sins were, gluttony was not one of them. The icebox contained half a loaf of sliced bread wrapped in wax-paper, a small package of cheese, half a bottle of milk, and three slices of luncheon meat.

  “Luncheon meat!” Mrs. Rasmussen cried. “No wonder he’s got gangrene. All them ol’ unborn calves an’ cow’s udders ground up!”

  She slammed the door in disgust and went into the back room. She turned on the light and began rummaging. Mrs. Feeley came in and found her on her hands and knees in front of the box that held the gas-plate.

  “Package o’ macaroni an’ a can o’ tomatoes,” she said. “Won’t be good, but it’ll be somethin’ hot in our stomachs. There’s coffee for the mornin’.”

  Miss Tinkham went into the lavatory and washed herself. Mrs. Feeley polished up the bar and noted down the number of beers they had consumed. Then she searched around for odds and ends of dishes to eat their supper out of. She found two old chile bowls and two coffee mugs. There was one cracked plate and five tin spoons.

  “He sure didn’t live fancy,” she said.

  “That’s how it is when they batch,” Mrs. Rasmussen agreed. “They use the clean corner o’ the fryin’ pan an’ only wash it about once a year. I’d rather be dead than pig it like that. Tomorrow mornin’ if God spares, I’ll find a racket store o’ some kind an’ get us some plates fit to eat off. These here oughta have ‘Fido’ printed round the edge.” She held the pot of boiled macaroni under the tap over the big dishpan that was Timmy’s sink and rinsed it well. She added the can of tomatoes, sprinkled in salt and pepper. She searched in vain for an onion or a bit of garlic. Not a wisp of seasoning on the place.

  “I’ll cut up that piece o’ cheese when it’s ready an’ sprinkle it in just before I dish up. We sure won’t have no nightmares from high-seasoned food tonight!” she grinned.

  Mrs. Feeley put the last four glasses of beer on the table. Mrs. Rasmussen set out two bowls and two mugs full of macaroni. “All I can say for it, it’s hot an’ there’s more in the pot.” The events of the day, the unexpected shelter and food, the beer, or perhaps the whole combination made the simple dish taste good.

  Mrs. Feeley picked up her glass. “Let’s drink to Timmy, our rescuer.”

  “I must not forget to call after nine. The poor boy needs all our good wishes, and our prayers,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Here he is keepin’ us off the streets…”

  “Perhaps from a fate worse than death!” Miss Tinkham broke in.

  “We gotta get our Indian sign workin’ on him,” Mrs. Feeley continued. “We’re gonna make him get well by actin’ just like he was comin’ back next week. We gotta write Darleen for our checks in the mornin’…air mail. Then we gotta give this joint a shot o’ high-life!”

  “It will be a slow pull if he makes it,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “He’s gotta make it! Dodged them bullets on them beachheads an’ then come home to get starved an’ neglected to death? That ain’t nice,” Mrs. Feeley stared off into the distance, brooding over the short memory of the world.

  Miss Tinkham squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

  I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,

  The publican ’e up an ’sez, We serve no red-coats ’ere.

  The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,

  I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:

  O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ Tommy, go away;

  But it’s Thank you, Mister Atkins, when the band begins to play!

>   Mrs. Feeley banged the table in agreement.

  “There’s no bull to that, my lady! Somethin’s goin’ to be did! Tomorra we gotta take our half-buck an’ borrow a dollar from Timmy…this place gotta be cleaned an’ livened up. We gotta eat to keep our spirits up, big job ahead of us. Did you see any stores or shoppin’ centers on your way home?”

  “Three blocks down to the left,” said Miss Tinkham. “It isn’t exactly what one might call exclusive…”

  “Blessed be God who won’t let the poor die!” Mrs. Feeley said. “You gotta go where the poor buy to get anything to eat…at a price honest people can afford.”

  “Bon Ami…that’s what we need for them windows.” Mrs. Rasmussen was indulging her third passion in life: making a list.

  “Time to telephone,” Miss Tinkham said. Mrs. Feeley got a nickel from the box and marked it down on the paper.

  Mrs. Rasmussen rinsed out the dishes and brought the blankets in from the back room. Miss Tinkham came back from the phone looking very sad.

  “He is on the critical list.”

  Mrs. Feeley shook her head.

  “Them didn’t seem like bad fellers that was in,” she said. “Seem prosperous, too. Bet they don’t even know Timmy ain’t makin’ ends meet. Them quiet, deep types is proud; they just keep everythin’ bottled up inside an’ would die before they’d let on things wasn’t goin’ first-rate.”

  “We shall probably find out the worst tomorrow,” Miss Tinkham said, “when the beer delivery comes.”

  “You mean the brewery’s gonna find out the worst!” Mrs. Feeley said. “They’re gonna find out they’re dealin’ with a different breed o’ cats! Somethin’ tells me I’m gonna have to lower the boom on a coupla guys! I’m gonna relish it, too! Just spoilin’ for a good fight!”

  “The situation may call for diplomacy,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Irish diplomacy!” Mrs. Feeley laughed, “See a head, punch it!”

  Mrs. Rasmussen took a blanket from the small heap. “I’m sleepin’ on that shelf under the bar. They’s room for two more.”

  Miss Tinkham crawled under and spread a blanket for herself.

  “On top o’ the bar for me,” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “Kinda keep my eye on things.”

  “Won’t you be afraid of falling off?” Miss Tinkham asked.

  “When I’m tired I could sleep on top of a rail fence…besides, I’m well padded ’case I do fall. We gotta get some rest…it’s gonna be tough sleddin’!”

  “Why?” Miss Tinkham murmured sleepily.

  “No snow!” Mrs. Feeley chuckled.

  Chapter 11

  THURSDAY MORNING MRS. RASMUSSEN CRAWLED stiffly from her improvised berth under the bar. Miss Tinkham still slept and Mrs. Feeley lay face down on top of the bar. Old-Timer snored quietly in a corner of the back room.

  I’ll put on the water for the coffee before I wash, she said to herself. Sure feel gritty, sleepin’ in my clothes.

  She went to her suitcase in the other room for a washrag, a cake of soap, and a small Turkish towel. In a few minutes she came out scrubbed and shining, her hair neatly combed. She made the coffee and while she waited for it to drip, searched around until she found a small brown paper bag with some sugar in it.

  “I smell coffee,” Mrs. Feeley said from the other room. Mrs. Rasmussen got the bread from the icebox and tried to toast a slice or two by holding it over the flame on a fork, but it was not successful.

  Miss Tinkham came in stretching and rubbing her shoulders. “Just think of the thousands of people who pay good money every year to go camping! Here we get it for nothing!”

  “Too early to call the hospital?” Mrs. Feeley asked.

  “We had better wait until after seven,” Miss Tinkham said. “Don’t you think we had better change our clothes and rinse out what we have on while we have the chance?” Miss Tinkham had heard of sailors going into battle in clean clothes in case of wounds.

  “Good idea,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but we ain’t leavin’ here. You gotta show Mrs. Rasmussen the stores…me an’ Ol’-Timer will do what we can, but we need more soap an’ Bon Ami. It’s so dingy an’ gloomy it don’t seem like a saloon at all!” She stomped around the room, trying to find a solution. “It’s them goddam Phoenician blinds!” She grabbed the cords and hoisted the blinds as high as they would go: “God’s own sunshine! Place looks better already!”

  Miss Tinkham came in carrying Aphrodite and placed her in front of the mirror back of the bar.

  “If we had a ten-cent extension, we could plug her in long side o’ the radio…damn if she don’t give the place a tone!”

  “I’m ready,” Mrs. Rasmussen announced. She had a large net shopping bag with leather handles folded under her arm.

  “First, phone the hospital, then buy the things!” Mrs. Feeley fished in the cashbox. “Can’t borrow more’n two dollars, ’cause I might have to make change. Stretch it as far as you can.”

  “Seven cents for an air-mail envelope,” Miss Tinkham said, folding the note she had written Darleen asking to have the checks forwarded. “And a nickel for the telephone call.” In a few minutes she joined the group at the bar.

  “Doing as well as could be expected, but still unconscious.”

  “He’s in for a shock when he does come to,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Four people he never saw in his life, moved in an’ livin’ off him! Gotta break it to him easy.”

  “We shall be back as soon as we possibly can,” Miss Tinkham said. “I feel so guilty leaving you to face that beer man alone…no moral support.”

  “Don’t worry, dearie. If anybody needs moral support, it ain’t gonna be me!” She shoved a pail of hot water and the remains of the yellow soap into Old-Timer’s hand: “The chairs an’ tables, then the bar. But good!”

  She climbed on a chair and pulled down all the old prize-fight notices and calendars with fly-specked Petty girls on them. Then she moved the portrait of General Patton to a more conspicuous place. That done, she took up a swab and began to mop the floor, in front of the bar, and behind it. When she had finished she took a small towel and began polishing the glasses. Does look neat, she thought. The back door opened and a huge creature with the map of Ireland on his face and handfuls of Brillo sticking out all over his chest came bellowing into the bar:

  “Aw right! Cash on the barrel-head, Rafferty! Let’s see the color o’ your money!”

  “Quiet, Fin McCool!” Mrs. Feeley bellowed back at him. “Where was you brought up, to come in shatterin’ the peace an’ residence of a respectable saloon at eight o’clock in the mornin’? Roarin’ like the bull o’ Bashan! What’s your trouble?”

  “Where’s Timmy?” the giant asked in a quieter tone.

  “Gone to his death! Done in by the cruelty an’ injustice of the likes o’ you! The hardhearted indifference o’ blood-suckin’ leeches, more shame to you.”

  “Whadda you mean: gone to his death?”

  “Lyin’ this minute at death’s door, them bustured appendix floatin’ ’round in him like rotten bait! Turnin’ green an’ yellow by the minute. Lucky if they don’t give him the Black Bottle! Now be a good lad an’ take out these empties an’ put the full kegs in. I’m crazy with worry over the poor lad…I wouldn’t advise you to cross me today, my bucko!”

  “I gotta get the money before I can leave the beer. Them’s orders.”

  “You’ll get the money, Judas! Get them kegs workin’, or you’ll get somethin’ you wasn’t lookin’ for. On the double!”

  The giant started out the door and Mrs. Feeley muttered at his departing back:

  “Don’t the damn fool know he’s got it backwards? He’s gotta leave the beer before he can get the money!”

  The young man came back and started towards the basement carrying a half-barrel of beer.

  “Jeez, lady, I had so much trouble gettin’ the money for the last delivery; took him two weeks payin’ me in dribs an’ dabs! They’re gonna fire me if I leave this without gettin’ the money. Y
ou sure you got it?” He wrinkled his two-fingers of forehead in worry.

  “Two more kegs,” Mrs. Feeley said stonily.

  When the three kegs were hooked up to her satisfaction and she had tested the faucets, she turned to the unhappy driver. “Now we all gotta help poor Timmy, lyin’ there near dead! You come back at five an’ I’ll give you every cent o’ the money.”

  The driver let out an injured roar. “Jeez, lady! You promised! I want my thirty-four dollars an’ fifty cents!”

  “You’re gonna get your money, Jack Benny! You musta been a state-side soldier in the war….”

  “Don’t you say that to me! I’ll forget youse is a lady! I was to Anzio same as Timmy Rafferty! See that there?” He started pulling up the leg of his unionalls to show Mrs. Feeley a battle scar, but stopped when she picked up the bung starter.

  “Nobody but a large-mahogany-desker would be so mean! If you was buddies, why’nt you give the guy a break? You got a steady job. Belong to them Teamsters’ Union, makin’ big money, not to mention all the beer you steal on the side. Poor Timmy, fightin’ it out alone! But what else could you expect from dogfaces? No sailor would never take advantage o’ no shipmate thataway! The Navy’s true blue! Once a sailor, always a sailor. Every time they see a white-hat, no matter how long they been retired, they’re all…uh…neck an’ ears. You Army guys is selfish…I always heard you was every feller for hisself.”

  “So you think the Navy’s so hot?” the giant sneered. “Well, you’re not so hot yourself! Timmy’s relative…an’ then throwin’-off like that on his outfit!” He tried to push Mrs. Feeley out of the way to go back to the basement to remove the barrels. She blocked the cellar door.

  “How do you think you’d look with Painless Parkers? I’ll knock every one o’ your teeth down your throat if you come a step closer.”

  “You can’t keep the beer! I gotta have my money!”

  “Gawd, you thick mick! I keep tellin’ you, but it’s too simple to ooze through that layer o’ cold mashed potatoes that serves you for a brain! You’re gonna get your money soon as I sell the beer. Go on now, like a good lad, an’ come back at five.”