Authors: Dorothy Parker,Colleen Bresse,Regina Barreca
Complete Stories (44 page)
The New Yorker,
June 30, 1934
June 30, 1934
Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street
That summer, the Colonel and I leased a bungalow named 947 West Catalpa Boulevard, rumored completely furnished: three forks, but twenty-four nutpicks. Then we went to an employment agency, to hunt for treasure. The lady at the employment agency was built in terraces; she was of a steady pink, presumably all over, and a sky-wide capability. She bit into each of her words and seemed to find it savory, and she finished every sentence to the last crumb. When I am in the presence of such people I am frequently asked, “And what’s the matter with Sister today? Has the cat got her tongue?” But they make the Colonel want to tell them what he done to Philadelphia Jack O’Brien.
So the Colonel did the talking for our team. The lady at the employment agency was of the prompt impression that I was something usually kept in the locked wing; she gave me a quick, kind nod, as who should say “Now you just sit there quietly and count those twelve fingers of yours,” and then she and the Colonel left me out of the whole project. We wanted, the Colonel said, a man; a man to market, to cook, to serve, to remember about keeping the cigarette-boxes filled, and to clean the little house. We wanted a man, he said, because maids, at least those in our experience, talked a good deal of the time. We were worn haggard with unsolicited autobiographies. We must insist, he said, that our servant be, before all things, still.
“My wife,” said the Colonel—the lady and I waited for him to add, “the former Miss Kallikak”—“my wife must never be disturbed.”
“
I
see,” the lady said. She sighed a little.
I
see,” the lady said. She sighed a little.
“She writes,” the Colonel said.
“And pretty soon now,” the lady and I inferred, “we must look around for someone to come in a couple of hours a week and teach her to read.”
The Colonel went on talking about what we wanted. It was but little. The simplest food, he said. The lady nodded compassionately at him; surely she pictured him standing with extended dish trying to coax me in from eating clay. The quietest life, he said, the earliest hours, the fewest guests—it was a holiday, really, to live with us. We asked only someone to stand between us and the telephone, someone to flick from the doorstep young gentlemen soliciting subscriptions to magazines, someone to keep, at other times and in so far as possible, his face shut.
“Don’t you say another word!” the lady said. She smacked that “say” as if it had been delicious with salt and onion. “Not one other word. I’ve got just the thing!”
Horace Wrenn, she said, was the thing. He was colored, she said, but fine. I was so deeply pondering the selection of “but” that I missed several courses in her repast of words. When next I heard her, a new name had sprung in.
“He’s been with Mrs. Hofstadter off and on,” she said. She looked triumphant. I looked as if all my life I had heard that anybody who had ever been with Mrs. Hofstadter, either off or on, was beyond question the thing. The Colonel looked much as usual.
“Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street,” the lady explained. “That’s our loveliest residential district. She has a lovely home there. She’s one of our loveliest families. Mrs. Hofstadter—well, wait till you see what
she
says!”
she
says!”
She took from her desk a sheet of notepaper spread with a handwriting like the lesser rivers on maps. It was Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street’s letter of recommendation of Horace Wrenn, and it must have been a sort of blending of the Ninety-Eighth Psalm with Senator Vest’s tribute to his dog. Whatever it was, it was too good for the likes of us to see. The lady held it tight and slipped her gaze along its lines with clucks and smacks of ecstasy and cries of “Well, look at this, will you—‘honest, economical, good carver’—well!” and “My, this
is
a reference for you!”
is
a reference for you!”
Then she locked the letter in her desk, and she talked to the Colonel. He is to be had only with difficulty, but she got him, and good. She congratulated him upon the softness of his fortune. She marveled that it was given him to find, and without effort, the blue rose. She envied him the life that would be his when perfection came to house with him. She sighed for the exquisite dishes, the smooth attentions that were to be offered him, ever in silence, by competence and humility, blent and incarnate. He was to have, she told him, just everything, and that without moving a hand or answering a question. There was only one little catch to it, she said; and the Colonel went gray. Horace could not come to us until the day after the next one. Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street’s daughter was to be married, and Horace had charge of the breakfast. It was touching to hear the Colonel plead his willingness to wait.
“Well, then I guess that’s all,” the lady said, briskly. She rose. “If you aren’t the luckiest! You just run right along home now, and wait for Horace.” Her air added, “And take Soft Susie, the Girl Who Is Like Anybody Else Till the Moon Comes Up, with you. We want no naturals here!”
We went home, sweet in thought of the luxury to come; though the Colonel, who is of a melancholy cast, took to worrying a little because Horace might not go back to New York with us when the summer was over.
Until the arrival of Horace, we did what is known as making out somehow, which is a big phrase for it. It was found to be best, after fair trial, for me to stay out of the kitchen altogether. So the Colonel did the cooking, and tomatoes kept creeping into everything, which gave him delusions of persecution. It was also found better for me to avoid any other room. The last time I made the bed, the Colonel came in and surveyed the result.
“What is this?” he inquired. “Some undergraduate prank?”
Horace arrived in the afternoon, toward the cool of the day. No bell or knocker heralded his coming; simply, he was with us in the living-room. He carried a suitcase of some leathery material, and upon his head he retained a wide white straw hat with drooping brim, rather like something chosen by a duchess for garden-party wear. He was tall and broad, with an enormous cinder-colored face crossed by gold-encircled spectacles.
He spoke to us. As if coated with grease, words slid from his great lips, and his tones were those of one who cozens the sick.
“Here,” he said, “is Horace. Horace has come to take care of you.”
He set down his suitcase and removed his hat, revealing oiled hair, purple in the sunlight, plaided over with thin, dusty lines; Horace employed a hair-net. He laid his hat upon a table. He advanced and gave to each of us one of his hands. I received the left, the middle finger of which was missing, leaving in its stead a big, square gap.
“I want you to feel,” he said, “that I am going to think of this as my home. That is the way I will think of it. I always try to think the right thing. When I told my friends I was coming here, I said to them, I said, ‘That is my home from now on.’ You are going to meet my friends; yes, you are. I want you to meet my friends. My friends can tell you more about me than I can. Mrs. Hofstadter always says to me, ‘Horace,’ she says, ‘I never heard anything like it,’ she says. ‘Your friends just can’t say enough for you.’ I have a great many friends, boy friends and lady friends. Mrs. Hofstadter always tells me, ‘Horace,’ she says, ‘I never seen anybody had so many friends.’ Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street. She has a lovely home there; I want you to see her home. When I told her I was coming here, ‘Oh, my, Horace,’ she said, ‘what’m I ever going to do without you?’ I have served Mrs. Hofstadter for years, right there on Josephine Street. ‘Oh, my, Horace,’ she said, ‘how’m I going to get along without Horace?’ But I had promised to come to you folks, and Horace never goes back on his word. I am a big man, and I always try to do the big thing.”
“Well, look,” said the Colonel, “suppose I show you where your room is and you can—”
“I want you,” Horace said, “to get to know me. And I’m going to get to know you, too; yes, I am. I always try to do the right thing for the folks I serve. I want you to get to know that girl of mine, too. When I tell my friends I have a daughter twelve years of age in September, ‘Horace,’ they say, ‘I can hardly believe it!’ You’re going to meet that girl of mine; yes, you are. She’ll come up here, and she’ll talk right up to you; yes, and she’ll sit down and play that piano there—play it all day long. I don’t say it because I’m her father, but that’s the brightest girl
you
ever seen. People say she’s Horace all over. Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street, she said to me, ‘Horace,’ she said, ‘I can’t hardly tell which is the girl and which is Horace.’ Oh, there’s nothing of her mother’s side about
that
girl! I never could get on with her mother. I try never to say an unkind thing about nobody. I’m a big man, and I always try to do the big thing. But I never could live with her mother more than fifteen minutes at a time.”
you
ever seen. People say she’s Horace all over. Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street, she said to me, ‘Horace,’ she said, ‘I can’t hardly tell which is the girl and which is Horace.’ Oh, there’s nothing of her mother’s side about
that
girl! I never could get on with her mother. I try never to say an unkind thing about nobody. I’m a big man, and I always try to do the big thing. But I never could live with her mother more than fifteen minutes at a time.”
“Look,” the Colonel said, “the kitchen’s right in there, and your room is just off it, and you can—”
“Why, do you know,” Horace said, “that girl of mine, she’s taken for white every day in the week. Yes, sir. I bet you there’s a hundred people, right in this town, never dreams that girl of mine’s a colored girl. And you’re going to meet my sister, too, some of these days pretty soon. My sister’s just about the finest hairdresser
you
ever set
your
eyes on. And never touches a colored head, either. She’s just about like what I am. I try never to say an unkind thing, I don’t hold nothing against the colored race, but Horace just doesn’t mix up with them, that’s all.”
you
ever set
your
eyes on. And never touches a colored head, either. She’s just about like what I am. I try never to say an unkind thing, I don’t hold nothing against the colored race, but Horace just doesn’t mix up with them, that’s all.”
I thought of a man I had known once named Aaron Eisenberg, who changed his name to Erik Colton. Nothing ever became of him.
“Look,” the Colonel said, “your room’s right off the kitchen, and if you’ve got a white coat with you you can—”
“Has Horace got a white coat!” Horace said. “Has he got a white coat! Why, when you see Horace in that white coat of his, you’re going to say, just like Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street says, ‘Horace,’ you’re going to say, ‘I never seen anybody look any nicer.’ Yes,
sir,
I’ve got that white coat. I never forget anything; that’s one thing I
don’t
do. Now do you know what Horace is going to do for you? Do you
know
what he’s going to do? Well, he’s going out there in that kitchen, just like it was Mrs. Hofstadter’s lovely big kitchen of hers, and he’s going to fix you the best dinner
you
ever et in
your
life. I always try to make everybody happy; when people are happy, then I’m happy. That’s the way I am. Mrs. Hofstadter said to me, sitting right there in her lovely home on Josephine Street, ‘Horace,’ she said, ‘I don’t know who these people are you’re going to’s,’ she said, ‘but I can tell you,’ Mrs. Hofstadter said, ‘they’re going to be happy.’ I just said, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Hofstadter.’ That’s all I said. I’ve served her many years. And you’re going to see that lovely home of hers, some of these days; yes, you are.”
sir,
I’ve got that white coat. I never forget anything; that’s one thing I
don’t
do. Now do you know what Horace is going to do for you? Do you
know
what he’s going to do? Well, he’s going out there in that kitchen, just like it was Mrs. Hofstadter’s lovely big kitchen of hers, and he’s going to fix you the best dinner
you
ever et in
your
life. I always try to make everybody happy; when people are happy, then I’m happy. That’s the way I am. Mrs. Hofstadter said to me, sitting right there in her lovely home on Josephine Street, ‘Horace,’ she said, ‘I don’t know who these people are you’re going to’s,’ she said, ‘but I can tell you,’ Mrs. Hofstadter said, ‘they’re going to be happy.’ I just said, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Hofstadter.’ That’s all I said. I’ve served her many years. And you’re going to see that lovely home of hers, some of these days; yes, you are.”
He gathered up his hat and his suitcase, smiled slowly upon us, and went into the kitchen.
The Colonel walked over to the window and stood for a while, looking out of it.
I said, “You know, I think if we play our cards right we can find out who Horace used to work for.”
“For whom Horace used to work,” the Colonel said, mechanically.
Horace returned. He wore a white coat and an apron that covered him in front to his shoe-leather. My mind went to Pullman dining-cars, and I remembered, with no pleasure, preserved figs and cream.
“Here’s Horace,” he said. “Now Horace is all ready to try and make you happy. Do you know what Horace is going to do for you, some of these days? Do you
know
what he’s going to do? Well, he’s just going to make you one of those mint juleps of his, that’s what
he’s
going to do! Mrs. Hofstadter of Josephine Street always says, ‘Horace,’ she says, ‘when you going to make one of those mint juleps of yours?’ Well, I’ll tell you what Horace does; he doesn’t care how much trouble he takes, when he’s making people happy. First he goes to work and he takes some pineapple syrup and he puts it in a glass, and then he puts in just a liddle, lid-dle bit of that juice off them bottles full of red cherries, and then he puts in the gin and the ginger ale, and then he gets him a big, long piece of pineapple and he lays
that
in, and then when he gets the orange in and puts that old red cherry on top—well! That’s the way
Horace
does when he fixes a mint julep.”
know
what he’s going to do? Well, he’s just going to make you one of those mint juleps of his, that’s what
he’s
going to do! Mrs. Hofstadter of Josephine Street always says, ‘Horace,’ she says, ‘when you going to make one of those mint juleps of yours?’ Well, I’ll tell you what Horace does; he doesn’t care how much trouble he takes, when he’s making people happy. First he goes to work and he takes some pineapple syrup and he puts it in a glass, and then he puts in just a liddle, lid-dle bit of that juice off them bottles full of red cherries, and then he puts in the gin and the ginger ale, and then he gets him a big, long piece of pineapple and he lays
that
in, and then when he gets the orange in and puts that old red cherry on top—well! That’s the way
Horace
does when he fixes a mint julep.”
The Colonel is from the old South. He left the room.
Horace came at me with his head lowered and a great forefinger pointed at the level of my eyes. I was terrified for only a moment. Then I saw it for gigantic archness.
“Wait’ll you hear,” he said, “wait’ll you hear how that telephone is going to ring, soon as my friends find out this is Horace’s home. Why I bet you right this minute, Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street’s telephone is ringing away, first this one and then that one, ‘Where’s Horace? ’ ‘How’m I going to reach Horace?’ I don’t talk about myself, I always try to be just the way I’d want you to be with me, but you’re going to say you never seen anybody had so many lady friends. Yes,
sir,
and when you meet them, you’re going to say, ‘Horace,’ you’re going to say, ‘why, Horace, I’d take any one of them for as white as I am any day in the week.’ That’s what
you’re
going to say. Wait’ll you hear the fun there’s going to be around this place when that telephone starts, ‘How are you, Horace?’ ‘What are you doing, Horace?’ ‘When’m I going to see you, Horace?’ I’m not going to talk about myself any more than I’d want you to talk about
yourself,
but you wait’ll you see all those friends I have. Why, Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street always says, ‘Horace,’ she says, ‘I never—’ ”
sir,
and when you meet them, you’re going to say, ‘Horace,’ you’re going to say, ‘why, Horace, I’d take any one of them for as white as I am any day in the week.’ That’s what
you’re
going to say. Wait’ll you hear the fun there’s going to be around this place when that telephone starts, ‘How are you, Horace?’ ‘What are you doing, Horace?’ ‘When’m I going to see you, Horace?’ I’m not going to talk about myself any more than I’d want you to talk about
yourself,
but you wait’ll you see all those friends I have. Why, Mrs. Hofstadter on Josephine Street always says, ‘Horace,’ she says, ‘I never—’ ”
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