by Betty Smith
"What can I do with you, the both of you?" said
Maggie-Now in pretended despair.
"Nothing. Just smile and put up with us."
She gave him her big smile. "You make everything seem
so special," she told him.
"Ah, no, Margaret. You do. You're the one. You make
the simple ordinary things of life seem good and new and
wonderful. You put a shine on life."
Denny couldn't stand any more. "When you go," he said
to Claude, "don't forget your package. It's on the lounge
in the front room."
"Denny!" she said, horrified at the broad hint.
"What's the matter with me?" exclaimed Claude. "I
forgot to give you the little present I got for you." He got
up from the table. "Come on, Denny." To Maggie-Now, he
said: "I hereby give notice that I'm not the type of man
who helps with the dishes."
"And I give notice," she said, "that I can't stand a man
fussing around my kitchen."
The package contained an Easter gift for Denny, a beau-
tiful little kite made of paper-thin red silk as transparent
as a bubble, with a dragon design picked out in gold
thread. The sticks were thin bamboo, lacquered black, and
the tail was of jade-green and turquoise-blue strips of
paper. Maggie-Now said it was too beautiful to fly and
that it ought to be framed and hung on the wall. Of
course Denny had to go right out and fly it.
Left alone in the house with Claude, Maggie-Now
worried. Suppose her father came home and found her
alone in the house with Claude! She suggested that they
take a walk. But he begged to be allowed to sit and talk
with her for a while.
He told her how much he'd enjoyed the dinner how
much it had meant to him that she'd let him share for a
while a part of her family life. He spoke of Denny with
fondness and understanding and seemed genuinely
disappointed that her father hadn't been
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with thern. After that, he fell silent. She stole a look at
him and saw a muscle twitching in his cheek.
She thought: He 5 It yi??g to figure out a Fly to ask ?Z?e
SOlMethi?zg important.
"Margaret," he said. "About religion."
"Yes?" There was a faint warning bell in her mind.
"The services this morning . . ."
"Yes? You mean the Mass?"
"The .Iass, then. It was wonderfully beautiful with the
pageantry and the chancing and the glorious Latin. A
revealing experience to me. The stately progress of the
ritual . . ."
"High Mass is always like that," she said, uncomfortable
because he used words like "pageantry" and "chanting" and
"ritual" words that nice outsiders used when they spoke
of a Class.
"Do you understand it?" he asked.
"Not all of it."
"Aren't you curious about the things you don't
understand'" "Why, no. I believe. I don't have to
understand."
"How can you believe without understanding? "
"Oh, I believe that my heart beats and that I breathe,
but I don't understand a thing about how those things
happen. Well, let me say it this way: I believe without
understanding it but I k~zoqv, that when the priest
elevates the Host, the wine changes into the blood of
Christ and the bread into His body."
"But you can't explain it."
"No. A convert might be able to explain it. They're the
ones vho understand every small thing about the Catholic
religion. I don't know why."
"Do you know any converts?"
"No. Yes, I do. She never said she was a convert, hut I
kilos. she is."
"How do you know "
"By the way she talks."
"How does she talk?"
"Well, she lives down the block and sometimes I walk
home from church with her and this lady will tell me how
she went to confession the night before and what penance
she got and how she went to bed early so that she
wouldn't forget and take a drink of water after midnight.
Then she'll say she took communion.
~ 2]4 1
(I always say, I received.) And she'll talk a long time about
hoNv wonderful she feels after confession and
communion."
"Don't you feel wonderful afterward?"
"I've been going to confession and communion ever
since I was six; before I could read. It's . . . it's always
been there the feeling about it. I never think that I have
to talk about my penance or my receiving."
"Perhaps she's more talk. rive than you, Margaret."
"Oh, I talk enough," acknowledged Maggie-Now. "It's
just that u e talk ciii jerent about our faith."
"She may be different from you the kind of woman
who likes to analyze everything."
Maggie-Na,w thought that over. "No," she decided. "She
only talks that way about the faith. Not about other
things." She paused while she searched her mind for an
illustration. "Like, well, she lives down the block and she
washes her hair like I do; she sits in the yard on a nice
day and lets the sun dry it and then she brushes it and
braids it like I do. But all she says is, 'Well, I washed my
hair today.' And I say, 'So did 1.' And that's all. She
doesn't tell me how much the soap costs and what time it
was and how she felt and how her hair felt and how it's a
good thing to wash your hair once a week. Because she's
used to washing her hair the way I'm used to 'teeing a
Catholic."
"Margaret, have you ever thought what it would be like
to have another religion? A simple one where the minister
doesn't wear robes, and lives like other men with a wife
and children, and understands people's problems because
he has the same problems, and who conducts the service
in clear English and everything is clear and
understandable?"
"Why, no. I've never thought about how it would be to
have a different faith."
"Why not?"
"Well, I vvas born white. I never sit around and think
how it would be if I had been born a colored person. I'm
a woman. I never think about how it would be to be a
man."
"You take your religion for granted, then."
"I guess I can't explain. I can only krZow."
"Tell me this, Margaret. No, don't tell me if you don't
want to."
"I don't mind. What?"
1 -',, 1
'Understand: I'm not asking you all these questions
because I'm curious but because ['m very interested."
"Oh, that's all right," she said.
"Don't you think having to make confession is an
invasion of privacy? "
"Oh, no," she said with a half laugh. "Everybody has sins.
Mine are no different from other people's. When Father
Flynn asks me exactly how many times I told a lie in the
week, I never think it's . . . what d
id you call it?"
"Invasion of your privacy."
"No. I never think that. He's supposed to ask."
"Now, Margaret, you re a Catholic."
"1 know." She smiled.
"Now that's all right for you. But if you had a child,
maybe he wouldn't want to be a ( atholic. Don't you think
he ought to be allowed to choose his own religion when
he's old enough?"
She was so astonished for a moment that she couldn't
answer. Then she said: "Before a child is born, is it
allowed to decide whether it will be a boy or a girl? When
it wants its first nourishment do you let it starve until it's
old enough to decide whether it wants milk or beer? Do
you keep him without a name until he's old enough to
pick out one for himself? When he's six years old do you
let him decide whether he wants to go to school or not?
No. You give him milk, you give him a name, you send
him to school and you give him a faith."
"I see." He got up and walked to the window and stood
there looking out.
"Couldn't we talk about something else?" she asked
timidly.
"Just one thing more, Margaret, and then we'll never
talk about it again as long as we both shall live." He
asked the question very carefully "If you were in love with
a Protestant, w ould you give up your religion to marry
him?"
"I wouldn't have to. We could . . . I mean, a person
could marry a Protestant with a Catholic ceremony. But
he'd have to say that he wouldn't interfere with her
religion and that their children would be brought up in
the Catholic faith."
"But the next morning she'd expect him to go see the
priest and be converted."
"Oh, no," she said quickly. "It's not as easy as that. It takes
a
1 236 1
long time. You have to have the faith."
"How do you mean?"
"I don't know words to explain it. If you have it, you just
know it."
"Margaret, look at me." She got up and went to him and
looked clearly and truly into his eyes. "Do you love me?"
"Yes," she said simply.
"Could you, if we married, take my religion and bring
up our children in my religion? Could you?" She shook
her head dumbly. 'Couldn't you love me enough to do
that?"
"I could want to," she said, "and I could say I would and
mean it w hen I said it. And I could try very hard. But
inside, I couldn't change."
"Like you couldn't change into a Negro or change into a
man."
"You wouldn't like me, would you," she asked
beseechingly, "if I was any other way than the way I am?"
"I don't suppose I woulcl," he said in an offhand way.
She knew it: was all over. Slle had a feeling of numbness.
"Would you like some coffee?" she asked timidly.
"No, thank you." His tone was brusque.
They talked a little while longer about the w ar and
rising prices and the coming of prohibition, and his
language was academic and strained the way it was when
he spoke to strangers.
After a while, he thanked her politely for the nice
dinner and expressed regret that he hadn't met her father.
He said good-by and left without making arrangements
for another meeting. She stood at the window and witched
him until he was out of sight. Only then did she notice
that he had forgotten his book. It was lying on the lounge.
She picked it up. It was The Book of Everythin~r,'. She
opened it. On the flyleaf he had written:
To AiLlargraret, with love, Claurie.
She cried, then.
1 ~,7 1
a<,< CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO A
SHE knew he wouldn't collie back. ~ et, she thought that
if sue admitted the fact and suffered over it she would,
paradoxically, be rewarded by his return. So she bathed
and dressed carefully each afternoon, and, after supper,
she sat at the window and waited. Pat often sat with her
and spoke enthusiastically of .71rs. O'Crawley, Mick
Mack's landlady, who was trim and tidy and forty-two and
owned property. He was lyrical about the Easter dinner
she'd served: baked ham with pineapple slices and candied
sweet potatoes and creamed onions and peach shortcake.
"All home-cooked, you understand," he said. "No bakery
stud and nothing out of a can. And why can't we have
candied sweet potatoes sometime?"
Maggie-Now said, yes, and, no, and that's nice, not
really listening to him but making the sounds of interest
and companionship. Evidently, Denny hadn't told him that
Claude had been there for Easter dinner, for Pat made no
comment.
Although Maggie-Now had not forbidden Denny to tell
of Claude's visit, he probably found it expedient to say
nothing on account of the kite. It was broken the next day
and Denny said his father had broken it, but under
pressure Denov admitted that he himself had broken it.
"Why did you lie, then?" she asked.
"Because I didn't want to get scolded."
"Oh, Denny," she sighed, "you mustn't lie. If it was
broken by accident, I'd feel sorry along with you, but if
you broke it on purpose, you deserve a scolding and
should be man enough to take It."
She worried a little bit about Dcnny. He was inclined to
tale the easy way out of things. I-le never faced up to an!
of his
1 ENS 1
small problems; he never made a protest when he was
wronged and he was learning that a quick lie was the
easiest way out of a tight spot.
Maybe he needs more love and more understanding, she
thought. I love him and I try to understand him. But maybe
there are some things that only a man can understand about
a boy. He can't look to Papa for much. Papa treats him like
somebody that's visiting here. But Claude, now . . .
Yes, Claude.
The weeks passed and no word from him. She wrote a
careful little letter, thanking him for The Book of
Everything, and addressed it to the Y.M.C.A. and timidly
wrote a small Please Forward on the envelope. It came
back stamped Address Unknown.
She tried to convince herself that he had enlisted or
been drafted. (She knew he had been anxious to get into
the war.) And maybe he had been shipped overseas right
away and now was someplace where he couldn't write to
her. But in her heart she knew that he'd find a way to get
in touch with her if he wanted to.
The hours of her knowing him, five evenings and two
afternoons, had changed her whole life. She was no longer
content to be her father', housekeeper and her brother's
mother. She'd had a glimpse of another way of life; a full,
rich, woman's life. She had known for a bit of time the
wonder of unspoken understanding with another soul, the
/> delight of perfect companionship and the happiness of
exchanging thoughts (and no thought had been too trivial
or silly to exchange) with a sympathetic being. And woven
throughout all this had been the golden anticipation of
physical love to come.
He seemed to like everything about me, she told herself,
but not enough to want me for all of his life. He thought my
religion was beautiful at first, but not beautiful enough to let
it be. Should I have gone against it f or him? Love is so
scarce and so hard to find, especially the love I have for him.
Wouldn't it have been better to give up my church for the
sake of love, marriage and children? After all, Protestants are
Christians, too. I told him I couldn't do it. But if I had
tried tried hard! Maybe . . .
She sighed because now she had another sin to confess
to Father Flynn the sin of thinking of giving up her faith.
~ 239 ]
Now Father Flynn still know, she thought. And he won't
like him. Au?lt Lottie doesn't like him; Mr. Vail Clees
doesn't like him. clod Papa. He doesn't I now qvLat
Claude's religio7? is arid he netter spoke to him blat he
doesn't like him a~7y1~0~v.
If they only flew him the way I k7?0w him, they mould
lo:,e 07?' too.
She needed so much to have someone to talk to some
understanding woman. Oh, if Ald7~7a there only still here,
she grieved. She =~07ui'd urlderstand /10~, it is with me.
Mild she'd say so7llethi
to make me feel better.
About this time, she had a card from Lottie, asking why
she'd stayed away so long and saying that Llama was
failing and asked for her, .'/laggie-Now, a lot.
Maggie-Novv brought a jar of jellied chicken broth over
for 1,ottie's mother. Lottie was touched and greeted
I1agg7ie-Now tenderly. She asked about Claude.
Maggie-Now told her that Claude was gone and had not
written. Lottie's face showed satisfaction at tlZe news and
concern for lIaggie-Now's sadness.
"It's all for the best. Maggie-Now, dear," said Lottie.
"Not the best for me," said ilaggie-Now. 'But I guess it
couldn't be. He was a l'rotestant...."
i'Oh, I had nothing against his religion," said Lottie
quickly. "I just thought he wasn't good enough for y out"
"But you said that as my godmother you couldn't let me
m.ZrrN a Protestant."
"I thought it over after. Sure y ou could, if he got
converted. And sometimes converts are more religious
than these born in the faith. "
"I don't think he'd ever have turned. '
"He would if you went about it right. I ike some night,
if you was alone with him, all you'd have to do is put your
arms around him and kiss him hard. Yo't1 know. And you
could ask him while he was under the influence if he'd
turn for you. And he u70llld.'
"No, he's not that kind. Anyhow, I wouldn't w ant to
trick anybody.... Aunt Lottie, tel] me. Would you have
married Uncle I imply if he hadn't been a Catholic?"
"Oh, that reminds me of something funny," said Lottie.
"when I immy and me was keeping company, he knew I
was a Catholic but I didn't knew vh3t he was. I thought
he wriest he being s
1 24 1
he was Irisll and a cop but I wasn't sure and I didn't like
to ask. So I asked Mama, yO'JI know, just to find out how
she fen about it. I said, 'Mama, should I marry Timmy
even if he ain't Catholic?' And you know what Mama
said?"
"What did she say?"
"She said I shouldn't let religion interfere with love,
being's I was thirty years old already. So Timmy gave me
the ring and we set the day. So I asked him what church he
wanted to be married in and he said St. Thomas-iss. And
I said right out, 'That's a Catholic church,' and he said,
'Sure.' So I came right out with it. I said:
" 'Are you a Catholic?'
" 'Sure,' he said.
"So I got all choked ul, and started to cry and 1 said:
'Oh, Timmy, why didn't you tell me before?' You know