High Time (19 page)

The red-head worked for two evenings in the shed, and the third night wheeled out an attractive and practical bar. The wheels were on the front end and the back end rested on two feet. The bar was pushed along by handles at the back end like a refreshment cart. He painted it blue and yellow to match the awning stripes. Someone else bought an old ice-chest for fifty cents and painted it blue and yellow also. They could not be bothered emptying the ice-drips all the time, so they attached a piece of garden hose to the drain, bored a hole in the wall down near the floor, and ran the hose out into the garden to drain—that chest would hold lots of beer.

When Jasper cut the running water into the toilets, two seatless affairs that had seen better days, he installed a pipe for running water just behind the bar.

‘Need it to wash the glasses,’ he said.

‘Gawd!’ Mrs. Feeley exclaimed, ‘who’s gonna bother about that? That’s the nice part about our club—we don’t have to worry about sterilizin’ no glasses, on account o’ we’re all pure, or we couldn’t be givin’ blood to the bank! Sure simple-izes dishwashin’!’

The radio was installed ready to be hooked up when the boys tapped the electricity. Oscar said he’d help the red-head do the job, but it was best to wait till after dark. The public utilities people were pirates, and if they caught anybody snitching a little juice on the side, they would really make things hot!

The club was set for the grand opening Saturday evening.

Friday night Red planned to hook up the electric current—not to Mrs. Feeley’s meter. No sense to that; the light company would never miss it.

Friday morning a bespectacled individual rang the bell at the Ark. He informed Mrs. Feeley that he and his crew of linemen had come to connect the wires for her—at the request of Public Service. They would make a special concession in this case and connect the wires to the light meter of the Ark, as extra meters were unavailable at the moment.

‘Damned if that ain’t noble of you!’ Mrs. Feeley snorted. ‘Where’d you get that fruity-fied voice? Gurgles and drips, it does!’ The rest of her remarks were not calculated to win friends and influence people.

‘The club’ll have to pay the ’lectric bill outa them dues!’ Mrs. Rasmussen announced.

The Noah’s Arkies did not press the issue of the legitimate wiring too far. Best let well enough alone, or the city would be down on them with some ordinance or other.

Friday afternoon Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley put the finishing touches on the club. They painted red curtains on the frames around the windows—very swish and drapy, and they would not need washing or take up as much room as real ones. The desks and round tables were painted red, too. The finished room was cheery and comfortable.

Mrs. Rasmussen was baking cheese-straws and making cayenne potato chips for the opening night. Each club member had pledged himself to obtain a case of beer by fair means or foul. Daphne and Darleen were coming over. Old Timer was giving the red-cement floor a final waxing by the simple expedient of sliding

back and forth across it on a brick wrapped in burlap. Red arrived with a donation: two dozen nice beer-glasses: all alike, too! Miss Tinkham got busy and wrote the names of the club members on the glasses with red nail-polish. Such a personal touch would make them feel right at home. All was in readiness at last and Miss Tinkham declared that the tout ensemble was charming.

‘If you don’t beat all!’ Mrs. Feeley laughed. ‘Who ever heard of a tootin’ cymbal?’

Oscar was elected president of the Four Freedoms Bar and Social Club by acclamation. One of the Four-F Commandos was elected treasurer. They decided that two officers would be plenty. If they needed a bouncer, Old Timer could be it—he had a neat trick of butting people in the stomach with his head. He picked it up when he was cook on the
Star of India
and it ‘sure come handy,’ as Mrs. Feeley said.

The meeting opened with a rising vote of thanks to the ladies of Noah’s Ark—for their good-fellowship, their help, and their tireless efforts on behalf of the poor, lone males. Mrs. Rasmussen was then tendered a flowery oration by the red-head who had never got over the molasses pie. Miss Tinkham was toasted by Oscar for her beauty, her glamour, and her unsurpassed musicianship. Then Jasper proposed a toast to Mrs. Feeley—the Queen Bee, the ruling spirit without whom none of their good fortune could ever have come to pass.

‘You, ma’am, have got the touch that makes the whole world kin!’ Jasper wound up. Shrieks of joy and many a rebel yell filled the air at that sentiment.

The crowd was getting pretty mellow, and some of the boys were beginning to harmonize ‘Down by the Old Mill Stream.’ Then Oscar had a brain-storm.

‘C’mon, fellers! What we need is the piano!’ Six of them ran to the Ark, and in a few minutes came puffing back with the piano. Miss Tinkham was thrilled silly and soon the entire group was bellowing away in a lung-shattering fashion:

‘A wild sort of devil,

But dead on the level.

Was m-y-y-y-y!

Ga-a-a-a-a-a-a-l!

Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-l!’

The red-head asked Miss Tinkham if she would just sort of chord along with him and he launched into a ballad the burden of which was:

‘Please don’t wait for me, Darlin’!

We’d never be happy, I know!

’Cause I’ll always be a ex-convick!

An’ branded wherever I go.’

The gathering cheered him wildly and he promised more later.

Mrs. Feeley decided that the salon needed culture, that’s what, and suggested: ‘Miss Tinkham whyn’t you play some o’ that rumbly kinda music from Shizzeroo, an’ recite some o’ them verses about Omaha, the Tent Maker?’

Miss Tinkham was just at the loaf of bread and jug of wine stage about that time and was delighted to oblige. Mrs. Feeley’s pronunciation of Sheherazade was every bit as accurate as Miss Tinkham’s rendition of the music, but it did not matter, as it was only a background for the poetry—and besides the club members didn’t know the difference. The audience went wild. Miss Tinkham always maintained that it was a mistake to talk down to people and here was proof of it.

‘And now, Mrs. Feeley,’ Miss Tinkham said, with gracious intent to share the limelight: ‘it’s your turn! How about the charming Irish ditty you sang for me not so long ago?’ And Miss Tinkham began to play the rollicking tune.

‘Mi-mi-mi!’ Mrs. Feeley wanted to make sure her pipes were in good shape, then began with a colossal wink:

‘At McCarthy’s party

Everyone was hearty,

Mike hit Maloney on the nose!

Wit’ the handle o’ the broom

O’Hara cleared the room,

And then a riot arose.

‘Timmy Murphy and his cousin

Paryylized a half a dozen,

For they struck both long and hard!

Sure a number of the slain

They will never rise again,

For they’re sleepin’ in the ould churchyard!’

Into the deafening din and applause walked Danny Malone, of the United States Navy.

‘Jesus God! It is really you?’ Mrs. Feeley shrieked, throwing herself upon him. ‘Where’s Katy?’

‘If you’ll unclutch my throat, Dracula, I’ll be glad to tell you!’ Danny grinned.

Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham had hold of him now bussing him with beery vigor.

‘This is Danny, my nephew! An’ this is the Four Freedoms Bar an’ Social Club—our war-boarders, Danny!’

Danny shook hands all around. Darleen and Daphne goggled at actually seeing the legendary Danny in the flesh.

‘Why ain’t you wrote an’ where’s Katy?’ his aunt insisted.

‘Been busy as hell, got new orders! I’m on my way now—can’t say where! And Katy is in no condition to travel with the trains the way they are these days!’ he answered.

‘She’s not sick?’ Mrs. Feeley sobered up at once.

Danny shook his head and grinned: ‘She’s nesting,’ he said.

Mrs. Feeley sat down with a thud.

‘Thank God for that! The darlin’! Why didn’t you tell us?’ His aunt looked reproachful.

‘She wanted to surprise you when you come up!’

‘Up where?’ Mrs. Feeley asked suspiciously.

‘New York,’ Danny said.

Mrs. Feeley looked at her friends.

‘He sounded just like he said “New York”!’

‘I did. Katy can’t have the baby all by herself up there! I’m goin’ to sea for God only knows how long! She says she can’t face the ordeal without the four of you!’

At that Old Timer broke into a solemn clog-dance all by himself over in one corner.

‘Gawd! It’d be a picnic! But where’d we get the money?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

‘We’ll get the tickets for you,’ Danny said.

‘Who’ll take care o’ the boarders?’ Mrs. Rasmussen asked.

‘We’ll cook for ourselves, if you’ll let us! Won’t we, fellers?’ Oscar asked.

Miss Tinkham was already planning her wardrobe—and counting her money! She had heard of the marvelous thrift shops in New York.

‘Well, I ain’t sayin’ we’ll not go, with Katy needin’ us,’ Mrs. Feeley announced. ‘But a poor bunch o’ wanglers we’d be if we couldn’t raise our own passage for a little jaunt like that!’ Mrs. Feeley was a poor judge of distance, but not of her own capabilities.

‘You can argue about that later,’ Danny said. ‘But you will go, won’t you? I can’t sail with an easy mind unless I know I can count on you—her room is all engaged at the hospital!’

‘Gawd! We wouldn’t miss it for the world!’ Mrs. Feeley cried. ‘Just imagine me a grandmother!’

‘Grandmother?’ Mrs. Rasmussen queried, raising one eyebrow.

‘Gawd! I’m not your mother, am I, Danny?’ his aunt sighed. ‘But I couldn’t love you a bit more if I was!’

‘It’s Grandma you are, Prissy Britches!’ Danny consoled her. ‘Katy’s got nobody and the infant wouldn’t be legal without at least one grandparent—so you’re elected!’

‘Well, lads,’ Mrs. Feeley rose and prepared to go, ‘just leave one or two of the walls standing by way of souvenir! Outside of that, you can write your own ticket!’ And she went into the Ark for a confidential talk with Danny.

D
ANNY
left early next morning to join his new ship at San Francisco. Before he left, he made Mrs. Feeley promise to accept the money for the railway tickets if she could not raise it herself within the next few weeks.

The tax-money for the year was safe in the jar, and the ladies each had about fifty dollars saved. Mrs. Rasmussen said she could have made a lot more out of the boarders if she had resorted to dirty commercial tricks and fillers, but she did not think it would be cricket because the blood-bank would suffer.

The dues from the club took care of the light and water bills, with a nice margin left for beer and improvements. The club members voted to allow guest privileges to a few hand-picked friends on Saturday and Sunday nights only. They were also allowed to pay dues. Some nights there were as many as thirty fellows jammed into the little club room. The record-player did noble service, but Miss Tinkham’s community-singing sessions broke all records.

‘There ain’t nothin’ left to sell—nothin’ we could even raffle off!’ Mrs. Feeley lamented, thinking of ways and
means of getting to New York.

Mrs. Rasmussen got the same ugly squint in her eye that she developed when she set her heart on a thing.

‘I’m aimin’ to ride clear to the top o’ that Empire State Building,’ she said calmly.

‘Cooney Island! That’s where I’m goin’!’ Mrs. Feeley said excitedly, ‘on the Rolly Coasty!’

Miss Tinkham said she wanted to make a tour of the thrift shops on Fifty-Seventh Street and then hear the Goldman Band.

‘I thought we was goin’ for the birthin’,’ Mrs. Feeley giggled.

The ladies grinned sheepishly.

‘Well, we’ll have to give the lad a proper christenin’—but we can’t make a long jaunt like that just for one thing!’ Mrs. Feeley meant to take advantage of every opportunity. ‘You know, Danny said a peculiar thing: he said we’d oughta give them tin cans in the wall to the scrap-drive. Never seemed to me like a bunch o’ thin little tin cans would be no use to ’em—an’ I’d hate like hell to see the fence go!’

‘But they do need the cans!’ Miss Tinkham said. ‘They save them all over the city—all flattened out! It seems they are vitally important.’

‘Just supposin’ we did give ’em the cans—how’d we get it tore down? I put that up good an’ solid,’ Mrs. Feeley said.

‘The club would wreck it for us,’ Mrs. Rasmussen offered.

Mrs. Feeley nodded and pondered.

‘Seems like there’d oughta be somethin’ in it for us! I’d kinda hoped somethin’ would break for us so we could raise a coupla hundred dollars to send Christmas boxes to all our fellers in Japan—them prisoners ain’t gonna get much! But that dame on the radio says you gotta be genuine relatives! Seems kinda hair-splittin’ not to let anybody send presents that wants to!’

‘Maybe we could give a kinda Bazaar—an’ sell things like cakes an’ pies, an’ raffle a case o’ beer—if we could get it!’ Mrs. Rasmussen suggested.

‘Let’s sneak out to the club an’ snitch a beer!’ Mrs. Feeley said. ‘Maybe somethin’ll come to us then!’

The sweetness of stolen fruit lived up to its reputation. In a few minutes Miss Tinkham said: ‘Why can’t we give a benefit?’