High Time (3 page)

‘Just like I thought!’ she shouted, and straightened up from the floor with a roll of bills in her hand. ‘Dirty liar!’ she yelled, shaking the money in his face. ‘Ain’t you the stinker! Ain’t you ashamed o’ yourself? Had it all the time! An’ you was tryin’ to shake her down!’ Mrs. Feeley’s voice rose as she warmed to her subject.

The man had resumed an upright position after the ladies dropped him with scant ceremony at Mrs. Feeley’s first gloating shriek. He muttered something about must have tried to put it in his pocket and it went in his shirt by mistake, or some such rot. He looked sheepish and was about to efface himself silently when Mrs. Rasmussen grabbed him by the sleeve.

‘No, you don’t!’ she droned. ‘What about the lady’s feelin’s? Ain’t you got no ’couth at all?’

‘I ’pologize,’ the fellow mumbled.

‘You’ll have to do better’n that,’ his tormentor continued. ‘Take at least a sawbuck to soothe her wounded feelin’s!’

The man peeled off a ten-dollar bill and threw it in front of the girl. He was sweating and glad to leave.

‘Whew!’ Mrs. Feeley said, sitting down in the booth. ‘Guess you’re glad we come along,’ she said brightly. ‘I don’t know what would of happened without you,’ the girl smiled gratefully. ‘We all need a drink after that! You ladies sit down, all of you!’ she invited graciously.

‘I am Miss Agnes Harriet Tinkham and this is Mrs. Rasmussen. The lady beside you is Mrs. Feeley,’ said Miss Tinkham, ever mindful of the amenities.

‘I’m Darleen, and I’m sure pleased to become acquainted with you. Will you have some more of the same?’ she inquired, as the waiter stood ready to take their order. The ladies nodded.

‘Three large beers and a limeade!’ Darleen ordered. ‘I don’t never drink nothing but Seven-Up, but I feel the need of something a little stronger after all that struggle. He wouldn’t of had the crust if my boy-friend was here. He don’t approve of me working here, but I get lonely looking at the four walls with him away so much.’

‘He in the Navy?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

‘Unh-huh!’ The girl shook her head—‘merchant marine. He’s awfully nice. I don’t have nothin’ to do with any of my gentlemen friends at all when Johnny’s in port. I tell them flat out: don’t go calling me up at all. I’m out of circulation.’

Miss Tinkham cleared her throat.

‘Your fiancé, I take it?’

‘Not exactly,’ Darleen replied.

‘You an’ him fixin’ to marry?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think we’re the marrying type. Seems like so many couples get along like love-birds in a cage, but the minute they get married they start fighting and arguing! Besides, I kinda like to play the field, myself. Seems like in this business I meet so many nice-looking fellows, and I get kinda sentimental thinking about them being shot at and killed, and I suppose I just listen to them a little too much!’ Darleen stirred her limeade and looked dreamy.

No one spoke for a while. Then Mrs. Feeley asked:

‘This here Johnny: don’t you think about him gettin’ shot at none?’

‘Oh, sure! He’s been torpedoed three times already! He was bringing me a silver fox fur from Russia and it was lost with the ship. It was just as well, though, like I was telling him, one isn’t stylish any more. They wear a pair now!’

‘Does he know you got other fellers?’ Mrs. Rasmussen asked.

‘Yes, he knows. I told him all about me. It’s like this, see: when he’s here I’m strictly true to him. Only he isn’t here much.’ That seemed to settle the issue pretty definitely.

Miss Tinkham was reminded of a Biblical lady who was forgiven much. The ladies looked at each other and wonder was written on their faces: Darleen had apparently never got the word about right and wrong.

‘Well,’ Mrs. Feeley said at last, ‘I guess it’s all in how you look at it.’

‘Yeah.’ Mrs. Rasmussen was in a brown study. ‘Times has changed! But you sure couldn’t do it in the old country!’

‘The inferiority complex manifests itself in many forms,’ Miss Tinkham remarked to no one in particular.

Mrs. Feeley lifted her glass to that sentiment, even if she didn’t know what it meant.

‘You know what?’ Darleen said suddenly. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Y’are?’ Mrs. Rasmussen queried. ‘Well, this ain’t no place to eat,’ Mrs. Feeley said. ‘Get the hog cholera eatin’ in a pig-sty like this.’

‘It isn’t at all appetizing, is it?’ Miss Tinkham agreed.

‘It’s two o’clock now—an’ them brats comin’ in the momin’! What say we take her home with us an’ scrapes her up a bite?’

They thought it was a fine idea—hadn’t realized how hungry they all were.

Darleen went over to the cashier, turned in the checks from the drinks that had been bought for her during the evening, and counted her dance-ticket stubs for her percentage on the evening’s work. She pulled out a small notebook from a white leatherette bag shaped like a toy drum; in this notebook the cashier recorded the figures and initialed them.

‘Okay! We can go now,’ Darleen said to the ladies, who were standing by watching the transaction with interest.

After a five-minute walk Noah’s Ark hove into view, the beer-can wall shimmering like gold in the moonlight.

‘This is where we lives at!’ Mrs. Feeley said.

Miss Tinkham recited:

‘Who enters through this friendly gate,

Comes never too early nor stays too late!’

‘It ain’t always nasty-neat, but it’s a grand house for eatin’!’ Mrs. Rasmussen put in.

‘Gee! It’s sure swell, isn’t it?’ Darleen was awe-struck by the rose-velvet draperies that formed the private rooms of the ladies. ‘Sure cozy, isn’t it?’

‘Neat but not gaudy!’ Miss Tinkham agreed.

Darleen strolled over to the piano and began to beat out, ‘I Love Coffee, I Love Tea,’ with one finger. Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen looked at each other and their faces suddenly looked as if they had just bitten into a piece of overripe fish.

‘Look, dear!’ Mrs. Feeley said. ‘What would you want to drink? On account o’ we see you don’t drink no beer! Mrs. Rasmussen’ll fix whatever you want, but get away from that pie-anna an’ let somebody play that can!’

Darleen realized she had rushed in where angels fear to tread.

‘Oh, coffee! I just love coffee! Isn’t it swell that we don’t have to have no stamps no more?’

‘Yeah. How you want it, weak or strong?’ Mrs. Rasmussen demanded.

‘Strong! Strong and black!’ Darleen said.

Mrs. Rasmussen nodded approvingly. Even if Darleen did drink limeade in preference to beer, she had sense about some things.

Mrs. Feeley turned to Miss Tinkham.

‘Would you be too tired to play some real music for Darleen, ’long’s she likes it?’

‘Not at all!’ cried Miss Tinkham graciously; she rolled up her angel sleeves and carefully adjusted the creaking stool to the correct height, although no one ever used it but herself.

‘I think the Tschaikowski Romeo and Juliet theme would be appropriate,’ she beamed in a beery glow. The poignant melody with its aching love burden could not be totally obliterated even by Miss Tinkham’s fumbling rendition on the battered instrument.

‘Why, that’s
“Our Love”!’
Darleen cried. ‘Only you don’t play it in swingtime! Sounds nice, though!’

‘Darleen!’ Mrs. Feeley trumpeted, ‘the way Miss Tinkham plays it is the way it had oughta be played! An’ if she says it’s “Romeo and Juliet,” “Romeo and Juliet” it is—an’ not “Our Love” nor no such baloney! That there’s classical! Pretty, too!’

‘Yes, ma’m,’ Darleen said, by now thoroughly squelched.

Miss Tinkham soared to the heights of passion; she threw back her head and caroled unsteadily:

‘Lovely night, come!

And with thy beauty hide our love!’

Miss Grace Moore could have listened to Miss Tinkham with complete equanimity and little fear of competition.

‘Gawd!’ Mrs. Feeley cried admiringly. ‘Gives me duck-bumps up an’ down my arms! Don’t it you?’

‘It’s sure nice!’ Darleen agreed.

Miss Tinkham turned around to accept their homage; her face was ecstatic.

‘Miss Tinkham, do you know “Pistol-Packin’ Mama”?’ Darleen asked shyly.

‘I can’t say that I do, but I’ll try it,’ Miss Tinkham, the ever-obliging, conceded graciously and was about to launch into her conception of the theme of an artillery-bearing mother when Mrs. Rasmussen yelled:

‘Chow down!’

Miss Tinkham left the piano with more haste than dignity. Mrs. Feeley needed no urging either, and Darleen streamed along in her wake. Mrs. Rasmussen had set out the remains of the peppery cheese-mix, a green salad, rye hardtack, and a few of the rapidly dwindling roll-mops; she really did admire Darleen’s flaxen hair!

Darleen inhaled the fragrance of her coffee while Mrs. Rasmussen piled a huge amount of food on her plate. ‘Don’t you never fix no lunches for your feller?’ she asked, between bites.

‘We generally go down for chop suey,’ Darleen said.

‘Chop suey!’ Mrs. Feeley cried, looking at her friends in horror. ‘How in hell can a man keep up his strength on chop suey? The Navy always wants steak an’ eggs! An’ apple pie, second!’

‘Johnny likes that, too,’ Darleen admitted.

‘Wouldn’t it be delightful if you could master the culinary art before he returns?’ Miss Tinkham mused. ‘Such a pretty domestic scene! Home is the sailor, home from the sea—and the beloved broiling hamburgers!’

‘Yeah. I could learn you,’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.

‘I can fix creamed chipped beef and goldenrod eggs,’ Darleen stated modestly.

A pained expression passed over the faces of the Noah’s Arkies.

‘Every time I see food like that, I wonder if it’s somethin’ somebody’s gonna eat, or has already et!’ Mrs. Feeley stated.

‘Yeah. Kinda chewed-up-lookin’! You had oughta know how to cook any kind o’ meat real good, an’ how to cook eggs so they ain’t leathery, an’ how to cook with cheese. If you could make a real good French dressin’, hot biscuits, an’ a decent apple pie, you could hold your man, I don’t care how big a Ike he thinks he is!’ Mrs. Rasmussen knew the magic formula.

‘Could I learn to make a casserole dish, do you think? Johnny took me to a swell place one time and we had a casserole apiece, smoking hot, and he told me it was his favorite food!’ Darleen said eagerly.

‘Hell, that ain’t nothin’ but galley-sweepin’ stew!’ said Mrs. Feeley, the sea-going.

‘I’d try hard if you’d show me!’ Darleen promised.

‘Gawdlemighty!’ Mrs. Feeley shouted. ‘It’s three o’clock in the mornin’—an’ that ain’t a waltz! Them twins will be here in four hours!’

‘What twins?’ Darleen asked eyeing the ladies closely for signs of approaching parturition.

‘Aw, we led with our chins!’ Mrs. Feeley explained wearily. ‘We was a pushover for a coupla twins that belongs to a friend. We gotta do somethin’ to win the stinkin’ war! An’ she can keep on makin’ planes if we take the varmints off her hands in the daytime. Boys! Six months old; an’ we gotta feed ’em, an’ diaper ’em…an’ whatnot.’ Mrs. Feeley was depressed at the prospect.

‘Well, I gotta go and let you ladies get some rest! I’m proud of knowing someone like you ladies! And the lovely eats, and the coffee! And all that beautiful music!’ Darleen had not read about the debs for nothing.

‘You live near here, or ride a bicycle?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

‘I’ve never saw anyone as funny as you, Mrs. Feeley!’ Darleen giggled. ‘Just down Market a piece at the Fleet Rooms is where I live. I’ll be okay!’

‘Well, you come back when you can stay longer,’ Mrs. Feeley urged warmly. ‘Walk on the outside o’ the sidewalk, near the gutter…an’ stay away from them dark alleys!’ she warned.

The three ladies walked back into the house and went to bed, with Mrs. Feeley still muttering:

‘She
better
stay near the curb! With her heels as round as they is!’

T
HE
WAKING HOUR
at the Ark was a trifle grim, due in some degree to the feather-edge the ladies felt from the previous night’s frolic and partly due to a feeling of impending disaster. Every time a car even sounded as if it was going to stop, Mrs. Feeley and her friends looked up nervously from their pick-me-up. Miss Tinkham had long ago abandoned the idea that coffee was something people drank the morning after. Her association with Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen had made her into such a seasoned trooper that she could go to the icebox, get out a cold beer, remove the cap, and drink it down without ever opening her gritty eyes.

‘Didn’t drink an awful lot last night, but I sure got a gyro touch this
A.M.’
Mrs. Feeley remarked. ‘It’s the idea o’ them twins—’cause we ain’t never done nothin’ like that before!’

‘I done enough of it in my time,’ Mrs. Rasmussen said, wiping the foam off her upper lip. ‘You an’ Mr. Feeley never had no kids, did you?’

‘Neither chick nor child! Mr. Feeley always said what never made you laugh would never make you cry.’ Mrs. Feeley had never cared one way or the other herself. She figgered the Lord could attend to his own business best.