Maggie Now

by Betty Smith

her father wouldn't hear and wake up. She punched up

  the fire in the kitchen range, threw in some slivers of

  wood and some fresh coal and added half an inch of

  kerosene measured into an empty tomato can. The fire

  took hold. She put on a kettleful of Nvater for coffee and

  put the chickens in the roasting pan.

  "I won't bother making stuffing," she whispered. "It'll

  take them two hours to get done as it is."

  She made him take off his worn, wet shoes and socks

  and she put them in the warming oven to dry. She helped

  him off with his [ 266 ]

  wet coat and her heart contracted as she touched him and

  knew that he had no undershirt under his thin top shirt.

  In the darkness of his bedroom, the sound of the coffee

  grinder penetrated Pat's sleep. Morning already, he

  thought, and still dark out. Must be raining. Oh, God what

  a life, he moaned, having to get up every morning. He

  pulled his pants on over his long woolen drawers which he

  used for pajamas. He opened the door to his son's room

  and called out ringingly: "School!" Hysterically, Denny

  threw all the bedclothes on the floor, tied himself into a

  fetus knot, and went back to sleep.

  Claude and Maggie-Now talked in whispers as he knelt

  before her, took off her sodden felt bedroom slippers and

  dried her feet with a clean dish towel.

  Suddenly, her father was in the doorway. "What the

  hell's going on here?" he asked, more astonished than

  angry.

  "You see, it's snowing out," she started to explain, "and .

  . ."

  "And who the hell are you?" he asked Claude. "And

  what the hell are you doing with her feet in the middle of

  the night?"

  "Why, I'm drying them," said Claude.

  "Papa," said Maggie-Now formally, "I'd like to introduce

  you to Mr. Basset-t."

  "Get up, Mr. Bassett," said Pat. "I'll not hit a man and

  him on his knees before me."

  Claude stood up. Pat balled his hand into a fist and

  stepped back for leverage to throw a punch. Claude

  picked Pat's fist out of the air and pried it open. He fitted

  his palm into Pat's to form a handshake. Claude narrowed

  his eyes and started to press Pat's hand slowly and

  strongly. Pat all but cried out in his pain. He was sure that

  every bone in his hand was broken.

  Holy Mother, thought Pat. He looks like a sissy but he's

  got the strenth of a murtherin' lasted.

  "I've been looking forward for a long time to meeting

  you, old sir," said Claude in his best educated accent.

  . . . a murtherin' educated lasted, amended Pat to himself.

  "I hope we will be friends, old sir," said Claude,

  releasing Pat's hand after one more bone-crushing

  squeeze.

  Pat let his hand hang by his side, using all his will power

  not to flex the fingers to feel if they were still intact. His

  face burned at the idea of being called "old sir." He didn't

  think he was old. He

  [ 267 ]

 

  vvas only i orty-eight. H' turned furiously on his

  daughter:

  "Don't just stand there in your shimmy with your mouth

  open," he told her. "Get him out of here!"

  "Oh, Papa!" She smiled. "Chemises went out with bustles."

  "You know what I mean," he roared. "Don't turn me

  words on me."

  "I think your father wants you to change into dry

  clothes, Margaret. You do that, dear, and give me the

  chance to ask your father for your hand in marriage."

  Pat nearly choked. /'m going to beat the be-Jesz~s out of

  him, Pat promised himself. As soon as me hand gets better.

  Maggie-Now beamed on Claude. He had called her

  dear! She went to her room to dress.

  "Sit down, old sir," said Claude.

  "You telling me to sit down in me own house?" gasped

  Pat.

  "Sit down," said Claude wearily. "I,ife is too short for

  this nonsense. Get done with the sparring. Hang up your

  gloves. Your daughter and I are going to marry. You

  might as well get used to me because you'll have to put

  up with me until you die."

  "I'll bury you first," said Pat bitterly.

  "That may well be. But while you're waiting to do so,

  let's be amiable. It's easier on the liver."

  Pat felt a flash of interest. This man might well be an

  enemy worthy of him. Mick Mack always turned the other

  cheek and Timmy had not been a consistent enemy. He'd

  beat up a man and then weep in contrition. But this

  Claude Bassett: Pat knew he would fight to a draw. I le

  decided to test him with what he knew to be a sure-fire

  insult.

  "Why ain't you in uniform, you slacker?" he asked Claude.

  "I was weighed in the balance and one of my ears was

  found vv anting."

  "A real man," said Pat disparagingly, "woulda Bucked

  me in the nose for calling; him a slacker."

  "So?" said Claude. "Old sir, I had hoped we could be

  friends, on account of Margaret. But if it's a lifelong

  enemy that you want, I'll try to be worthy of your Irish

  spleen."

  "Why can t you talk like a man?" said Pat irritably. "All

  them Goddamned educated words!"

  Claude put his hands in his pockets and stretched out his

  legs [ 268 ]

  under the table. He smiled at Pat. "You're enjoying this,

  aren't you?" he said.

  Pat was so confounded by this remark that he had

  nothing to say. Maggie-Now came in dressed and poured

  boiling water over the coffee Claude had ground. They

  spoke in incomplete sentences to each other as if they had

  been living together for many years. Pat couldn't stand it.

  "Now that you're dressed," he told her, "pack your things

  and get out. And take him with you."

  "Now, Papa," she said with a little laugh, "pack in what?"

  "Now, now, old sir," said Claude. "You wouldn't put

  your wonderful daughter out on a night like this in all

  that snow."

  "She can stay," muttered Pat. "But," he turned to

  Maggie-Now and shouted, "get this man out of my house!"

  "My house!" said Maggie-Now sharply. "Mama said you

  were to give it to me when I married." She went to Claude

  and put her hand on his shoulder. "Now, Papa, you stop

  being so mean. This is my man and I want him.'' Claude

  took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. "And if we all

  can be friends together, I'll be glad. If we can't, I'll feel

  bad, but I ll do what I want to anyway. I'm over

  twenty-one and I don't owe you anything, Papa. Except

  love. And that's because you're my father."

  By God, he thought in sincere admiration, she's got

  spunks She stood up to me for once. Then, he felt that he

  had lost the old Maggie-Now. From now on, he knew

  where he stood with her. He felt terribly alone. Where, he

  cried in his heart, is me mother who would have died for

  me? Me wife who loved me so? Timmy who licked me but

  all the time knew how it was with me? Where is t
he little girl

  what held my hand so tight when we walked down the street?

  He wept in his heart.

  "Margaret," he heard Claude say gently, "you mustn't

  speak so sharply to your father."

  "Me daughter can speak to me any damn way she

  wants," said Pat belligerently.

  Maggie-Now went to him and patted his head. "That's

  all right, Papa. You have a cup of coffee with us and then

  you get your sleep; you've got to work tomorrow. Claude

  and I will talk a while and have something to eat, then

  he'll go and tomorrow we'll all sit down together and talk

  things over."

  [ 269 ]

 

  At first, he refused the coffee. Then he reasoned that,

  after all, he'd paid for the coffee and the milk and the

  sugar and he might as well drink it. He had three cups.

  He cast about in his mind for something to say that would

  make Claude angry but wouldn't make Maggie-Now

  angry. He thought he had it. Jealousy! He cleared his

  throat.

  "Maggie-Now, dear, did you hear from Son Pheid

  lately?" he said.

  "Who?" asked Maggie-Now. "Oh, Sonny! No," she said.

  "He's a plumber," said Pat to Claude. "In business for

  himself."

  "That so?" commented Claude politely. He turned to

  MaggieNow. "You didn't tell me," he said, "whether you

  lost interest in dancing after that or . . ."

  I got to think of some way, thought Pat desperately. I

  can't beat hell cut of him because he's younger and stronger

  than me. I got to lick him with me mind. I can't throw him

  out. She'll go with him. She's that loony about him. Yes,

  she'd go with him and that's just what he wants. Then he

  could have her without marrying her and that's what he's

  working for. He's not the marrying kind. I know them kind.

  Well, I'll think of something. You can catch more lilies with

  Elgar than with vinegar, he concluded vaguely.

  He got up and scratched his ribs. "Like Maggie-Now

  said, I'm a working man and I got to get me sleep."

  Claude stood up. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "but I got to

  talking with Margaret and . . . '

  "That's all right," said Pat. "Good night, all."

  "Good night, Papa," she said.

  "Good night, old sir."

  "Good night," Pat paused, "old son." He stood in the

  doorway. "I Nvish I wasn't such a light sleeper," he said

  with a significant look at Claude. He went to his room,

  leaving the kitchen door a) ar.

  Claude went over and closed the door. He came back

  to Maggie-Now. "How soon can we get married?"

  She straightened the cup in her saucer before she said:

  "You know I'm a Catholic."

  "No!" he said in mock surprise.

  [ 270 ]

 

  "But I told you," she said seriously.

  "I was joking," he said.

  "I didn't really know...."

  "Ah, Margaret, you know so much about so many things

  and so little about so many things. Now: When can we be

  married?"

  "In a month five weeks. I'd have to ask Father Flynn."

  "Do you love me?"

  "Yes."

  "How much?"

  "There's no measure. I loved you when I first met you

  in the dentist's office, I guess. I loved you when you left,

  even though I thought you'd never come back. And if I

  had married someone else, I still would have loved you

  somewhere in the back of my mind. When you sent that

  card and told me to wait for you, I thought everything was

  all right, even though I was a Catholic."

  "Don't belittle your religion, my little Chinee. It's a

  grand faith. But could you love me enough to give it up?"

  He saw her hand on the table tremble. She put it in her

  lap. She lowered her head and he saw her face work in

  anguish.

  Look at me, he told himself scornfully, a vagabond.

  That's classy f or slum. What have I got to give her?

  Nothing. I know how she is about her religion. What

  dil~erence does it make? No faith means anything to me.

  So I ask her to give it up. Why? Just to own all of her? To

  prove I'm a man?

  But he h. d to go through with it. "Will you, Margaret?"

  Silence. "Will you give up your religion for me?" No

  answer. "Please say you will. I need you to say it."

  "I will," she said finally.

  "Thank you, Margaret." A pause. "But you don't mean

  it, do you? "

  "No," she whispered. Then she burst out: "Why did you

  make me say it? How could I fix my mind to mean it? Is

  it a crime to be a Catholic?"

  She put her head down on her folded arms on the table

  and wept. She cried noisily and her whole body shook. He

  went to the door to see if it was tightly shut. He didn't

  want her father to hear. Then he went to her, pulled her

  to her feet and put his arms around her.

  "Why, I wouldn't have you give up your faith for me. I

  only

  t27, ]

 

  wanted to hear you say, just once, that you would."

  sobbed louder. "There, Margaret, there! Stop crying.

  There, Margaret, there!" I le stroked her hair. "There,

  there, Margaret now. There, Maggie. There, Maggie-Now.

  "Listen! You got me around to calling you Maggie-Now.

  And you can call me Claudv, if you want to." She shook

  her head and continued sobbing. He shook her roughly.

  "Stop it, you little fool. Don't you know that I'm anxious

  to marry you in the Catholic faith? And you know why?"

  She held back a sob to listen. "Because there's no divorce

  in the Catholic Church. I want my marriage to be that

  way: no divorce. After we're married awhile, you'll find

  out I'm nothing but a bum and you'll want to divorce me.

  But you won't be table to. And I'll have you safe for

  always. Now dry your eyes and tell me how to go about

  things."

  She wiped her eyes. "You'll have to see Father Flynn.

  He'll give you instructions. I'll make an appointment for

  you and I think the chickens are done novv.77

  He couldn't help it. He started to laugh. He laughed

  until he was weak.

  "What's the matter?'' she asked.

  "You," he said. "You're the matter. Oh, Margaret! Oh,

  IIaggieNow, my practical love!"

  Maggie-Now's sobs had not penetrated Pat's sleep, but

  Claude's laughter had. Pat turned over and muttered,

  "Bastid."

  They mended the fire, made more coffee and ate the

  roasted chicken with bread and butter while they

  discussed plans for their marriage. Maggie-Now wanted

  to know where they would live.

  "Here," he said, "if it's all right."

  "But the neighborhood's so rundown...."

  "I love this neighborhood."

  "And this house is so old...."

  "It's wonderful! It's a safe place it's a ho7ne."

  "But Papa lives here...."

  "I like your father," he said. "He has his own special

  kind of integrity
. I'll get a good job and pay all the

  expenses. Your father will be our guest."

  "Papa would pay something for himself and Denny."

  "I wouldn't let him."

  The door opened and Denny, in striped flannel pajamas

  and

  [ 272 ]

 

  with his eyes half closed, stood there. He addressed

  Claude without salutation.

  "You know that kite you gave me?" he said.

  "Yes."

  "Well, it's busted."

  "I'll get you another."

  "But I had a kite. I'd like something different,."

  "I'll get you something different."

  "You mustn't ask for tilings, Denny," said Maggie-Now.

  "Denny," said Claude, "will you be my brother?"

  Denny looked at his sister. She smiled and nodded. "I

  guess so," he said. He yawned and went back to bed.

  "To think-," said Claude happily, "me who never had

  anything; who never had anyone! And now I'll have a wife

  and a father and a young brother and a home life. All this

  to come to me!"

  Maggie-Now had a flash of intuition. "You were brought

  up in an orphans' home, then." She saw his eyes flicker

  but he wouldn't say yes and he wouldn't say no. But she

  knew it was true. "I wish you'd tell me . . ."

  "There is little to tell. I was a boy, I grew up and got a

  fairly good education and I turned into a wanderer. You

  could call me a tramp, except that I worked my way

  around. I've always liked to travel, see different places,

  live in different ways. I'd stay in one place and work

  awhile to get money to go on to a new place. I never

  wanted to be long in one place, to form ties and

  friendships. I liked being a lone wolf. But now my

  wandering days are over. It will be bliss to settle down...."

  He interrupted himself. "Bliss. There's a word, now. Bliss

  to love and to be loved."

  "But there must have been things that happened to

  you someone that you got to know real well...."

  "Do you mean, have I got a past?"

  "I guess so.''

  "You are my past. My past, my present and my future.

  I am making my past now. And it is a good one. Twenty

  years from now, maybe, someone will ask me about my

  past and I'll say: 'My past started one Easter week in

  Brooklyn where I met a girl named Margaret Rose

  Moore, only everybody called her Maggie

  ~ 273 ]

 

  ~ CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT ~

  SOME men don't like to work; they duck work as long as

  they can. When conscience or need drives them to work,

  they're apt to pick the hardest work available, probably as

  penance or to prove they can do hard work. Claude took

  a temporary job shoveling snow for the city.

  The snow was a curse to many but a blessing to jobless

  men and to children. Even in this war year, with so many

  men in the services and well-paid, wartime jobs for nearly

  all, there were still men available for snow shoveling: men

  too old or too young to have steady jobs, college boys

  wanting to pick up a few dollars, and drifters.

  In one of the far-flung neighborhoods of Brooklyn, there

  was a sanitation boss who had seemingly been born just to

  hire college men to shovel snow. Henny Clynne had come

  up from the ranks. He had started as sweeper and by

  taking civil service exams over and over until he finally

  passed, and by pull, he got to be superintendent and

  gained the power, along with his other duties, of hiring

  and firing college men. He liked to hire college men for

  snow shoveling because he couldn't stand the sight of any

  man who had gone to college. When Claude applied for

  work, Henny looked him over and considered him a prize.

  "What college you from?" he asked Claude.

  Claude fixed his stare at the bottom of Henny's left ear

  and said: "The college of hard knocks."

  "Don't get wise with me," snarled Henny. "Though I

  don't blame you for being ashamed to admit you went to

  college. But you can't fool me. I can tell a college man a