Maggie Now

by Betty Smith

  "It's only a face," said Maggie-Now.

  Little Chime. She remembered his voice. Remembering

  still made her feel a little sad but it didn't hurt much any

  more.

  She mentioned getting her hair cut to Lottie.

  "Don't," said Lottie, horrified. "Don't cut your hair off."

  "Why not, Aunt Lottie? All the girls are doing it. It

  would be easier to manage."

  "Listen, if a woman ain't got hair, what has she got?"

  asked Lottie.

  Maggie-Now decided against bobbing it.

  Pat settled into the routine of taking his Sunday dinners

  at Mrs. O'Crawley's boardinghouse. She had three regular

  men who roomed and boarded there and a few transients

  like Pat. She had been married and widowed twice. Her

  first husband left a thousand dollars in insurance. She

  never did get around to telling her second husband about

  that. Her second husband died and left her two thousand

  dollars in insurance and the narrow house.

  She converted the basement dining room into a

  millinery shop. (She made all the hats she sold.) She took

  in three somewhat elderly men as boarders. They lived

  upstairs. She had no children, no relatives. When she

  started the venture, her friends advised her to take in

  women boarders; they said "people would talk" if she took

  in men. She said, "Let them." She took in the men. She

  didn't want women boarders because she said they washed

  their pants in the sink and asked for hot tea in the middle

  of the night when they had cramps.

  She cast an eye on Pat. He was fairly young' worked for

  the city. His widow would get a pension when he died.

  That was almost as good as insurance.

  Pat cast an eye on her real estate. He asked her if the

  house was hers, free and clear, and she asked him, coyly,

  wouldn't

  [ USE ]

 

  he like to know! She didn't tell him, though.

  Pat took an interest in her house. He asked Mick Mack

  how much he paid for room and board and he multiplied

  that by three and thought, thirty dollars a week wasn't a

  bad income plus what she got from making and selling

  hats. Although a lazy man, he went to the trouble of

  doing some odd-job repairs around her house, saying: "We

  don't want the place to run down, do we?"

  She said: "No, I don't."

  He brought Denny around once, for Sunday dinner. He

  knew Maggie-Now loved children dearly, and his wife had

  loved children. He thought Mrs. O'Crawley felt the same

  way.

  "Denny," he said, "how'd you like Mrs. O'Crawley for a

  mother? "

  Denny sized her up and decided he wouldn't like her

  for a mother. He said: "I don't care."

  Pat said: "Mrs. O'Crawley, how'd you like a son like

  Denny?"

  Mrs. O'Crawley had nothing against children. She just

  didn't like them. "He seems like a nice boy," she said. "If

  you like children."

  Pat thought it best to postpone his courting until he

  could think of a better angle. He nurtured his bitter

  friendship with Mick Mack. They spent the long summer

  and early autumn afternoons and evenings in footless

  arguments.

  "If I didn't have two kids to support," said Pat, "I'd go

  and enlist."

  "And sure, you're the one would wipe out the Germans

  in no time a-tall," said his admirer.

  "The Germans?" asked Pat, astonished. "Why, I'd enlist

  in the German army."

  "What for? You ain't German."

  "I'd enlist in the German army just the same to lick hell

  out of the English."

  "What do you want to lick them for?"

  "Because of what they done to Parnell."

  "What did they do to Parnell?" asked Mick Mack in all

  innocence.

  "You don't know?" asked Pat, shocked.

  "I was a boy in Dublin at the time."

  "You ignorant mick!" Mick Mack looked hurt but he said

  noth

  [ 259 ]

 

  ing."And you call yourself a man," sneered Pat, aching for

  a fight.

  "And I am so," said Slick Mack with unexpected dignity.

  "Not if you take all this gulf offs me," said Pat.

  "I take it," said the little fellow quietly, "because you're

  my friend all the same."

  "And sure, you're the one is hard up for a friend, then,"

  said Pat. "Taking all the gulf from me."

  "'Tis better," said Mick Mack, "to have a mean friend

  than no friend a-tall."

  Summer went into fall. Denny went back to school. Pat

  went to his superintendent and asked how soon could he

  retire on pension. He'd put in more than twenty-five years

  cleaning streets and Pat thought that was more than

  enough.

  "Men are dying in the trenches," said the super, "so that

  men like you can live."

  "Live to shovel up horse manure," mumbled Pat.

  "And you want to quit! Come around again sucking for

  retirement and I'll put you on the ashcan detail and you

  can retire after five years with a hernia. Now get out of

  here!"

  Maggie-Now had a long letter from Sonny. There was

  talk, he wrote, of the fellows getting out of the trenches

  by Christmas. He asked her to marry him. He wrote he'd

  like to settle down and raise a family. He'd written to his

  folks and his father wrote he'd give him half the profits of

  the business. And his mother and sister and brothers were

  crazy about her, Maggie-Now, he wrote.

  She made up her mind. I want children, lots of them, and

  a home for them. Sonny would be a good father, a good

  provider, a good husband, like Uncle Timmy was. Of course,

  he wouldn't sit around and talk. He'll have his bowling

  nights and his lodge meeting and one night a week to play

  cards with the boys and maybe fishing at Canarsie like other

  men do. I'd be lonesome the first year, then I'd have the

  children and my life would be full. I like him. I respect him.

  I'm proud that everyone thinks so well of him. And that

  must a,ld up to love if not now, someday. At least he wants

  me. It's nice to be wanted. And I want a husband.

  [ 260 ]

 

  I want children. I don't want to wait....

  She made up her mind to marry him and she felt at

  peace after her decision.

  Then she heard from C laude Bassett!

  ~ CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX ~

  HER father, as always, intercepted the postman on the

  stoop. Pat was leaving for work. She saw the postman

  hand him a card. She saw her father's face tighten as he

  read the message and she knew! She came out on the

  stoop and held out her hand. Pat made no move to give

  her the card. She took it from him. The message was

  simple:

  Dear M: Wait for me. I'm coming back. Love, C. B.

  Her face went radiant. She pressed the card to her

  breast and smiled up at her father. "Oh, Papa!" she said<
br />
  happily.

  "Where'd it come from?" he asked in a thick voice.

  "You smudged the postmark with your thumb," she cried

  Otlt. "Now I'll never know. Oh, Papa!"

  "What about that plumber?" he asked.

  "What plumber?"

  "If you got to throw yourself away, throw yourself away

  on the plumber, not that damn Claude Bastid."

  "Bassett," she corrected him. Then she gasped. "How do

  you know about Sonny Pheid?"

  "I got ways of finding out things what people think

  they're hiding from me."

  "Papa! You read my letters in my top drawer!"

  "If you don't want people to read them, don't leave

  them, then, where people can find them.'' He left for

  work.

  ~ Hi ]

  She sat at the kitchen table and gloated over the card.

  She thought his handwriting was beautiful; like engraving

  on a wedding announcement. She smiled fondly at the

  picture: mountains and sky and river bathed in rose light.

  The title said: Western Sunset.

  She erased the smudge with a moistened eraser but the

  postmark got erased along with the smudge. She looked

  at the crumbs and thought sadly that now she'd never

  know what city it had been mailed from.

  And he'll never tell me either, she thought.

  Even though she had no idea when he'd be back, she

  started getting ready for him. She washed her hair and

  was so happy she hadn't had it bobbed because she felt

  that he wouldn't like it.

  She held the card and pressed it to her cheek, thinking:

  His hand rested on it when he wrote it. He pressed the stamp

  down with his fingers. She envisaged him standing at a

  mailbox in some strange city, reading the card once more

  before he dropped it in the slot.

  After she had braided and pinned up her hair, she sat

  down and wrote to Sonny.

  . . . honored. But I must tell you there is someone else

  and . . .

  She thought of writing: I hope we can still be friends, but

  she discarded the idea immediately. She knew they

  couldn't be friends. It had to be love between them or

  nothing.

  But I wish I could keep him as a friend, she thought

  sadly. Someone to talk to, to smile at, to like the way I

  talk, smile at and like Father Flynn and Mr. Van Clees.

  His answer came. She read it through her tears.

  . . . so, like we say in France, Ah Reservoir. But honest,

  MaggieNow, dear, I wish you all the luck in the world....

  She put this last letter with his other letters and his

  picture, and tied them up with a piece of blue baby

  ribbon from a discarded petticoat, and put the little

  packet in the box with her mother's rhinestone combs.

  Sonny never wrote again. She missed getting his letters.

  [262]

 

  ~ CHAPTER THIRTY-SE VEN ~

  IN November, Maggie-Now got a job as night ticket seller

  in a neighborhoodmovie house. When Pat went out

  nights, Denny sat in the back row of the cheater and

  watched the movies. He liked his sister's job fine.

  ILlaggie-Now had an agreement with her father that he

  go out on Friday nights so Denny wouldn't have to stay

  up until ten on school nights.

  Maggie-Now earned twenty dollars a week and saved

  most of it. She knew Claude was coming back and she

  knew they'd be married and she wanted to buy a dress for

  her wedding and some household things for their home.

  She liked selling tickets and chatting with the customers.

  When the weather got cold (there was no heat in the

  ticket booth), she brought a filled hot-water bottle from

  home, took her shoes off and rested her stockinged feet

  on the hot bottle. That kept her warm all evening.

  Pat ate Thanksgiving dinner at Mrs. O'Crawley's with

  Mick Mack. Since he was spending the evening there,

  Maggie-Now took Denny to work with her. He'd seen the

  picture and didn't want to see it again. He stood in the

  booth and Maggie-Now let him tear the tickets off the

  roll. He got sick of that and said he was cold. She gave

  him a dime and told him to get a hot chocolate to warm

  up. He made three trips that night to warm up. The last

  trip, he brought two wafers back to Maggie-Now.

  "I thought maybe you vitas hungry," he said.

  The Sunday after Thanksgiving, it started to snow as

  evening came on. When llaggie-Now closed her booth at

  ten o'clock, the streets had a covering of snow. She

  looked in on her father. He was rolled up in his blankets

  and snoring warmly. She checked on Denny. I lis blankets

  Nvere on the floor and he slept with his knees drawn up

  to his chin and his arms wrapped around his

  [ 26:3 ]

 

  chest. She covered him securely, leaving only his head

  exposed. His head still looked like a baby's head: tender

  and vulnerable.

  She looked down at him and thought: I want all my

  children to look like Claude, except the next-to-last one. I

  want him to look like Denny, and the last one of all I want

  to look like me.

  She undressed but didn't feel like going to bed. She put

  her Navaho-blanket bathrobe over her warm flannel

  nightgown and got into her felt bedroom slippers. She

  went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. After

  she'd had the tea, she banked the fire in the kitchen

  range, got her hairbrush and sat by the window in the

  front room to brush her hair. The room was comfortable.

  I here was still some fire left in the parlor stove.

  That's one thing you can say for Papa, she thought. He

  does keep the fires up. I hope the snow doesn't get too deep.

  How he hates to shovel snow! He'll go on sick leave if it's

  deep and I'll have to go down to the section office and lie

  and say he's sick and the super will say, like always, sure

  he's sick sick of working, and whoever is standing around

  will laugh....

  She wanted him to go to work the next day because she

  planned to start making a new green challis dress to wear

  for Claude's return and she didn't want him hanging

  around the house. He'd spoil her pleasure in the making

  of the dress by making remarks like:

  "Another new dress?"

  "Closet's full of dresses already."

  "Think money grows on trees?"

  And she'd say, "Oh, Papa!"

  She smiled and decided she wouldn't let her father

  bother her if he were home the next day. I'll just think of

  Claude, she decided, and how happy I am because he's

  coming back.

  She brushed her hair and watched the soundless

  movement of the snow coming down and her brush

  strokes took the down rhythm of the falling snow. She

  looked at the flames flickering behind the isinglass panes

  of the stove door. She recalled her wonderful delight, as

  a child, at seeing the fire glow through the isinglass.

  What a pity, she thought, that
you get used to things and

  never see them again the way you saw them for the first

  time.

  [ z64 ]

 

  She braided her hair, one braid over each shoulder, and

  tied the ends with rubber bands so the braids wouldn't

  unravel in the night. She leaned forward, idly swinging the

  brush between her knees, grateful for the warmth of the

  fire and aware of the quiet beauty of the night, and she

  had a feeling of peace and blessed relief; the kind of

  humble and thankful relief that comes to an anxious

  parent when a sick child's terrifyingly high temperature

  starts dropping back to normal.

  The fire died down, the room started to get cold and

  reluctantly she decided to go to bed. She checked the

  front door to see if it was locked and noticed that the

  snow had drifted against the doorsill outside. She got the

  broom and swept it away before her as she went out on

  the stoop. She stood in the cleared place, hands resting on

  the broom handle, and absorbed the snowy night.

  Silent night, beautiful night, and for such a little time.

  Tomorrow the loveliness would be ugliness. The snow,

  with all the debris of the street beneath it, would be

  shoveled into hummocks at the curb. It would thaw a

  little, freeze a little and be veined with chimney soot and

  decorated with bits of dirty paper frozen into it and dogs

  would urinate against the peaks and leave behind dirty,

  mustard-colored patches.

  Even now, the lovely baby-blanket look of the snow was

  being defiled by a man walking down the middle of the

  street and leaving dirty holes where his feet had stepped.

  Maggie-Now thought he must be crazy he was wearing

  neither hat nor overcoat.

  Suddenly, in her breast, where she judged her heart to

  be, something clicked out of place and then clicked back.

  She dropped the broom and ran down the street in her

  nightgown, bathrobe and felt slippers. She threw herself

  with such force at the hatless man that she all but

  knocked him off his feet.

  "What took you so long?" she asked, as though he had

  merely gone to the store.

  "Margaret!" he said. "Oh, Margaret! Here." He tried to

  give her the lumpy, sodden paper bag he was carrying, but

  she was shaking him by the shoulders the way a mother

  shakes a stubborn child. The bottom fell out of the damp

  bag and two naked chickens fell in the snow and lay there,

  breast to breast.

  "What's that?" she asked, startled.

  [265]

 

  "I thought you could cook them and we could have a

  sort of late supper."

  "Oh, (Claude!" She laughed and then she started to cry.

  "Don't, Margaret! Don't!" He kissed her gently. "You

  knew I'd come back, didn't you?"

  "Yes," she sobbed. "And you'll never go away again, will

  you? " She waited. He stood silent. "Will you!" she

  insisted.

  Typically, he wouldn't say yes, he wouldn't say no. He

  said: "But I did come back, didn't I?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  He got a soggy handkerchief from his pocket and tried

  to wipe the mixed tears and snow from her face. He

  succeeded only in spreading the wetness.

  "You waited for me, Margaret, didn't you? Because you

  knew I'd come back."

  She thought of Sonny for a second, then said: "Yes, I

  waited. I waited all the time."

  They stood on that quiet, empty street, holding each

  other tightly, and the snow fell on them and flakes

  lingered briefly in the interstices of her braids.

  He said: "You'll catch pneumonia."

  Simultaneously, she said: "You'll get pneumonia."

  They walked toward the house. He carried the chickens

  by their feet in one hand, and put his other arm about her

  waist.

  "After your father spanked you for dancing in the street,

  did you give up dancing for good?"

  "In a way. You see . . ."

  And they resumed talking where they had left off seven

  months ago.

  She installed him in the kitchen and closed the door so