Maggie Now

by Betty Smith

mile oflf."

  "That's interesting, sir," said Claude. Henny was getting

  nervous at Claude staring at his ear lobe. He moved his

  head. Claude refocused his stare.

  [ 274 ]

 

  "Yep, I can tell by your shoes. A honest, hard-working

  man don't wear thin shoes with thin soles. I always say, let

  me see a man's shoes and I'll tell you what he is."

  "That's very clever, sir."

  "I know you're a college graduate. Come on, now. What

  college? "

  "Shall we say, Oxford?" said Claude.

  "Where's Oxford?"

  "In Mississippi."

  "So you went to college! Born with a silver spoon in

  your mouth. And you end up begging me for work; hard

  work, mind you. Dirty work. Now take me," he went on

  complacently. "Never went to school more than three

  years in me whole life. Would you believe it to look at

  me?"

  "Oh, no, sir!"

  "I learned meself everything I know and I know plenty.

  I came to this country thirty years ago a ignorant mick

  with me trunk on me back. I didn't know nothing. And

  look at me today!"

  "My! " breathed Claude admiringly. He thrust his head

  forward to take a closer look at Henny's ear lobe.

  "What's-a matter?" asked Henny.

  "Nothing."

  "You wait here, now, till I interview them other rah-rah

  boys."

  Henny separated the wheat from the chaff. Then he

  lined up the wheat, gave them instructions, handed out

  shovels and marched them to their work area. He went

  back to his office, which was a rented store, and examined

  his left ear in the lavatory mirror.

  For a nzinz~te, there, he thought, the way that feller was

  looking at me, I thought there was a louse or something

  crawling around me ear.

  The men had been working two hours when Henny

  showed up for the morning pep talk. He chose to address

  his communal remarks to C'laude.

  "Shovel it up, college boy. Shovel it up! We ain't here to

  pick daisies, you know." Some of the men stopped working

  and leaned on their shovels. Penny was waiting for this. "I

  see that the coach called time out. That gives us a chance

  to give out with the old razz-a-ma-tazz, fellers." He took

  a cheer leader's stance and

  ~ 27S ]

 

  chanted: "Raw-raw-raw! Raw-raw-raw! Shovel it up, shovel

  it up, raw-raw-raw! "

  One shoveler guffawed, one grinned, another turned his

  head to spit, some looked astonished, some looked

  sheepish and Claude stared at Henny's left ear lobe. He

  stared until Henny scratched it, then Claude resumed

  piling up the snow.

  A small crowd had gathered to enjoy Henny's

  show mostly old men with nothing to do and marketing

  mothers with small children.

  "Those men went to college," said a mother to her small

  son.

  "How can you tell, Ilissus?" asked a garrulous old man

  who had overheard the remark.

  "Because some ain't got overcoats and because Mr.

  Clynne said so."

  "So they went to college," mused the old man.

  "Yeah.''

  "And what does that prove, Missus? "

  "I didn't say it proved anything. I just said what was a

  fac'. They went to college."

  Late that afternoon, dead tired, but with earned money

  in his pocket, Claude went to keep the appointment with

  Father Flynn that Maggie-Now had made for him. He was

  glad, at the priest's invitation, to sink into a worn,

  brown-leather Morris chair.

  Claude was surprised that the priest's living room

  looked like any room in a comfortable house. He had

  expected it to look a little like a small church. The wintry,

  lemon-colored sun slanted in through a window and shone

  through a clear glass decanter, half full of sauterne (the

  gift of a parishioner). It made a pale golden shadow on

  the polished wood of the table. There was a rack of pipes

  on the desk (each pipe a loving gift), and a humidor of

  tobacco supplied by Van Clees.

  The room smelled good of coffee simmering in the

  kitchen, of mellow, burning tobacco, and the warm,

  ironing smell of freshly lalmdered linen. He saw stunted

  boughs of a bare bush outlined outside a window. He

  knew it was the priest's treasure, the lilac bush.

  Maggie-Now had told him about it.

  Father Flynn knew the purpose of Claude's visit. After

  a few preliminary remarks about the weather, the state of

  the world and

  [276]

 

  the war, and after both had agreed that the boys wouldn't

  be out of the trenches by Christmas, Father Flynn filled

  his pipe, lit it and settled back in his chair.

  "I understand," he said, "that you wish to marry

  Margaret and have agreed with her to a Catholic marriage

  ceremony."

  "Yes, sir."

  "What is your faith?"

  "Oh, I'm a Christian at large," said Claude airily. Too

  late, he realized he'd said the wrong thing. He saw the

  priest's kindly expression go stern and he waited

  apprehensively for the priest's reply.

  "If I asked your political affiliation, no doubt you'd say

  you were a citizen at large. Is that correct?" He saw

  Claude shift his eyes. "I mean," said Father Flynn, trying

  again, "what is your denomination? "

  "I'm not a Jew, if that's what you're getting at," said

  Claude.

  "That statement," said Father Flynn, coldly minting each

  word, "should be made with humility and not with

  arrogance."

  "Sorry," mumbled Claude.

  "For our Lord was a Jew," said the priest.

  Father Flynn thought: '4s an ordained priest, I nzast love,

  u~Zdersta~zd and forgive him. But as private citizen

  Joseph Flyer`, I calZ't stand the sight of him. God forgive

  me.

  Thought Claude: He hates me, the way her father Ed her

  godmother hate nze. The way everyone who loves her hates

  me.

  "What was your parents' religion?"

  "I don't know."

  "You, a non-Catholic, have come to nze," said Father

  FlyrIn sharply, "to plead for the privilege of marrying a

  Catholic. I will refuse you that privilege unless . . ."

  "I do not know who my parents were," said Claude quietly.

  Father Flynn put his pipe down very carefully. He put

  his finger tips together, leaned back in his chair and

  waited. He waited. He waited a long time.

  Finally, he urged: "Yes, my son?"

  "I was brought up in a nondenominational institution. A

  very good one. Someone paid for me. I was given a good

  education. Someone paid for it."

  1 277 1

 

  "I see,' said the priest. And he did see. He understood

  now why Claude was the way he was.

  "Have you told Margaret?"

  "No. I have told no on
e in the world, except you."

  "Tell her."

  "If I choose not to tell her, will you tell her?"

  "As a priest, I cannot violate a confession. As a man, I

  will not violate a confidence."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Father," prompted the priest.

  "Father," said Claude.

  "But tell her, my son. She is worthy of knowing it."

  "I think she knows," said Claude.

  Claude had a feeling of immense peace. He felt a great

  warmth toward the priest; almost a feeling of tenderness.

  That's why he wanders, thought the priest. He goes to a

  new place, thinking there he will find a flit of the piece that's

  missing from his life.

  They talked further. (Claude said he would like to be

  converted to Catholicism. Father Flynn said he couldn't

  become a Catholic merely by requesting it. He'd have to

  take instructions, learn the history and theology of the

  church. It would take time.

  "And there is the question of faith. It cannot be taught

  you, you cannot have it by announcing that you have it. It

  must come from something within you. There is no

  formula. You will know when you have it. Only then can

  you become a Catholic."

  "How soon?" asked Claude. "For Margaret's sake. I

  want to be one with her in all things."

  "To some, faith comes soon and to others, late. And to

  many, it never comes at all."

  It was dark in the room now. The housekeeper came in

  to turn on the lights. She spoke bitterly and said she

  couldn't keep Father's supper warm much longer. It was

  drying up. Father Flynn apologised and asked her

  indulgence five minutes longer. He stood in some fear of

  his housekeeper. She left the room muttering.

  "I always have a glass of sauterne before my supper,"

  said the priest. "Will you join me?"

  Claude said he would. He stood up when the priest did.

  He was relieved that, for once, someone didn't say: "Keep

  seated."

  L278]

 

  The street seemed cold and lonely after the warmth of

  the priest's living room. Claude went to a bakery

  lunchroom and had several cups of coffee and a couple of

  doughnuts. He was tired to death. The day before he had

  traveled through miles of snow to get to Maggie-Now. He

  had sat up most of the night talking to her and had put in

  a hard day shoveling snow.

  He didn't know how long he had been in the

  lunchroom. A stout woman was shaking him awake.

  "You can't sleep here, Mister. Go home."

  He made his way to the movie cheater where

  Maggie-Now was working. She gave a gasp of pity when

  he loomed up before her outside the glass enclosure. He

  looked so tired and bedraggled. She gave him a ticket and

  told him to wait inside for her; she'd be through in an

  hour and would fix a hot supper for him.

  He stumbled into the theater and collapsed in a

  back-row seat. He slept soundly through the most

  controversial part of The Birth of a Nation.

  ~ CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE ~

  IN SPITE of all Pat's efforts to lick Claude with his

  "mind," plans for the marriage went forward. Pat had

  come to the conclusion that Claude was an ex-convict,

  else why was he so reticent about his past? He knew his

  daughter would not marry an ex-convict. But how to get

  Claude to admit it?

  Pat, knowing how most men babble when they are

  drunk, took him to a saloon to get him drunk. Claude

  spent the evening staring into his untouched shot glass of

  rye. He wouldn't drink; he wouldn't talk. Pat drank too

  much and he was the one who talked. He told Claude the

  complete story of his life and, when he had finished, he

  told it all over again with variations. Then he got sick and

  Claude had to take him to the men's room and hold his

  forehead while he retched. Claude took him home, gave

  him a Bromo

  [ ,79 ]

 

  Seltzer and put him to bed.

  In order to be with llaggie-Now in the afternoon,

  Claude got a job as night clerk in a downtown Brooklyn

  hotel. He wouldn't say what hotel except that it wasn't the

  St. George. Maggie-Now asked no questions but Pat had

  to know. Claude wouldn't name the hotel but Pat got this

  much out of him: that it was a small family hotel catering

  to permanent guests, mostly elderly couples who had just

  enough money to keep out of the poorhouse.

  From this explanation, Pat concluded that the place was

  a brothel, else why should Claude go to so much trouble

  to throw him oflf the track by assuring him that the place

  was so respectable? Now if Maggie-Now had proof that

  Claude was a procurer. . .

  He decided to let Claude compromise himself. He took

  him aside and asked how about their having a fling

  together. He hinted that Claude would be a long time

  married, and . ..

  "Maybe you can dig up two 'skirts' for us from that

  hotel where you work and get us a couple of rooms there

  and I'll bring along a bottle of Four Star Hennessy and

  we'll have ourselfs a high old

  ,,

  time.

  Claude looked at him with distaste and said: "Aren't

  you a bit along in years for that sort of thing, old sir?"

  After the banns had been read for the first time, Pat

  came to another conclusion: that the marriage was

  inevitable; that there was no way to stop it mew. He went

  on to his next project: the house. He knew Claude wanted

  to live there.

  "How much will he pay?" he asked Maggie-Now.

  "How do you mean, I'apa?"

  "I'll rent him the downstairs for twenty-five a month and

  you can have me big bedroom and I'll take your bit of a

  one. Of course, I'll pay for me share of the food and the

  boy's."

  "Now, Papa, must we go all through that again? Mama

  said I was to get the house when I married. You

  promised."

  "It was one of them promises no man has to keep."

  "Oh, shame, Papa. Shame. Grandpapa gave it to Mama

  in the first place. It was never yours."

  "Ha! Me deed says: To Patrick Dennis Moore ate us."

  "And you know what Et Ux means? "

  "Sure. A/l His," he ventured, figuring that she didn't

  know what it meant either.

  ~ 280 ]

 

  "It means bled IVife. I know that much Latin anyhow. If

  you give the house to me after I marry, even if you don't

  want Claude to have it, the deed would have to be in his

  name."

  "Over me dead body!"

  "All right, Papa. I won't fight with you over it. I'll get

  the house anyway after you die."

  "Knock wood when you say that," he shouted.

  "I will not!" she shouted back. "I don't want to live here

  anyhow. What kind of a married life would I have and you

  always making trouble? We'll get an apartment
."

  "Do so. 'Tis right married people live alone." She got

  her hat. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm going out to rent an apartment."

  "Who's going to cook me meals? Who's going to look

  after the boy?"

  "I'll find you a housekeeper, Papa. Maybe Father Flynn's

  housekeeper knows somebody . . ."

  "How much will it cost?"

  "A very old lady will work for fifteen a month and room

  and board. Only you have to give her so much every week

  for groceries not a dollar whenever you feel like it."

  He did some mental arithmetic; then he started to

  negotiate: He'd give her the upstairs rent free for the rest

  of her life, provided she continued keeping house for him.

  She declined. The downstairs, then; same conditions. She

  said, no. They reached no agreement. Maggie-Now went

  out to look for an apartment.

  When the banns were read for the second time, Pat

  made a deal. Because, and only because, he'd promised

  her mother, he told Maggie-Now, he would turn over the

  house to her. There were provisions. The house was hers

  for her lifetime only; after that, it went to Denny; she was

  to continue keeping house for him and Denny; he was to

  have the upstairs hall bedroom as his own to occupy or to

  rent out he to receive said rent.

  "But why do you want to own a hall bedroom, Papa?"

  "Because I just got to end up with something out of this."

  She agreed. He had the deed made over to her right

  away. She suggested he wait until she and Claude married.

  "It would be a nice wedding present," she said.

  "I don't want it to be Et lJx," he said. ~81 ]

  Claude helped her move Pat's furniture to the upstairs

  room. They painted the walls and ceiling of Pat's old

  room, which would now be theirs, and Maggie-Now made

  new, rose-sprigged, ruffled dimity curtains. She bought a

  new bed and dresser for the room that would be hers and

  Claude's, and a taffeta, green bedspread. She decorated

  the bed with half a dozen tiny, heartshaped lace pillows

  and two French dolls with their legs knotted. This was the

  fashion of the time. Claude raised his eyebrows when he

  saw the decorated bed.

  "I guess you think it's tacky or something, but all my life

  I wanted heart-shaped lace pillows. I like that stuff on my

  bed."

  "Our bed," he said.

  "That's right, Claude, and I'll put the stuff away after

  we're married."

  "Oh, leave it, Margaret. Just so there's room for a

  husband."

  She was ecstatically happy during those waiting weeks,

  but sometimes the thought of Lottie diluted her happiness.

  She put off telling Lottie about her coming marriage as

  long as she could because she knew Lottie would rave.

  She did.

  "A fool! That's what you are, a fool! Marrying this

  nobody when you could have had a man like Timmy; you

  could have married Sonny. Who is this Claude anyway?

  What do you know about him? He might be a jailbird; he

  might be already married to someone in Jersey. What do

  you see in him? "

  "I love him so."

  "You love the grand way he talks to you. And more

  shame to you. Are you not used to grand talkers and you

  coming from the Irish who is the grandest talkers of all?"

  "But you'll come to my wedding anyhow, won't you,

  Aunt Lottie? "

  "No! "

  "Please! Since Mama died, you've been my mother. I

  want my mother to come to my wedding to wish me luck."

  "I use' to think of you as my daughter. Now I'm glad

  you ain't because I' rather see a daughter of mine in her

  casket than married to a man like him." Maggie-Now

  broke down and sobbed. Lottie wasn't moved an inch by

  her tears. "Go on and cry," she said bitterly. "Get use' to

  crying. You'll shed many a tear after you're married to

  him."

  [ 282 ]

  Pat went to Mass with Maggie-Now and Claude the

  Sunday when the banns were read for the last time. He

  half closed his eyes and the church seemed like the little

  church in Ireland. He heard the same names he had heard