The Man Who Loved Children (18 page)

Bert pocketed his pencil helplessly. “You’re right. Isn’t it funny: if you get seven hundred and fifty a year or eight thousand a year, it’s never enough! But—” he looked at her, “Well, what’s the use? You would have all those kiddies.”

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about it,” she cried feverishly. “I didn’t come here to talk about him and my troubles.”

“That’s right, that’s right, that’s a good girl! Here, we’ll have a drop more wine, just to celebrate the transwafting of Samuel the Righteous to parts unknown.”

“If he gives the household money to me in a lump sum,” she said more thoughtfully, “you see I can pay off some of my old debts. When I was so terribly strapped after Ernie came, I just borrowed right and left—I hadn’t the faintest idea how to run a house, and I only had Hazel Moore five months before Samuel quarreled with her. I blush, even in my own room, when I think I never paid Connie O’Meara the hundred. She must think I’m a cheap chiseler! I’ll pay her first.” She laughed excitedly, “Here I am spending it all already. How much do you think I have in my purse?”

“A buck?” His manner was a little less jovial than it had been up to now. She noticed this and flashed a look of contempt at his great curly head, bent over the plate. He was stowing food away in his usual elephantine manner, seeming to have three or four hands which were all in operation, moving quickly in different directions, seizing bread, sugar, cream, and so on. She decided to punish him,

“Ten cents!”

“How come?”

“Ernie tore his pants.
She
had to have new stuff for a dress. I hope I’ll be able to palm her off on Eleanor again this summer, if her own relatives at Harpers Ferry won’t take her.”

“Do they use any propaganda against the stepmother out there?”

“If they did, she wouldn’t know it. I don’t know what passes in that girl’s head, it isn’t anything normal. I just know that if she makes up her mind to do a thing, she’ll do it: and it isn’t just her damned obstinacy, although I yell at her that it is: it’s that she’s deaf.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No, not deaf! She doesn’t know there’s anyone else alive walking this earth but herself. So if she wants to do it, she’ll do it and if you cut her fingers off, she wouldn’t know it, she’d just go and do it. She’s terrible. She’s a horrible sort of beast, it seems to me sometimes. She crawls, I can hardly touch her, she reeks with her slime and filth—she doesn’t notice! I beat her until I can’t stand—she doesn’t notice! When I fall on the floor, she runs and gets a pillow and at that I suppose she’s better than her murderer of a father who lets me lie there. And if she whimpers a bit or bellows, she’ll go right off the next minute with a face like a stone and stare and moon away at some book and forget everything I’ve screamed at her. I show her the veins sticking out on my hands and ask her if she isn’t ashamed. But I’m waiting a bit till she gets a bit older and punishes her father for all he’s made me suffer: or she’ll take it out on some other man. Someone will catch a beauty.”

Bert laughed, “Revenge is a wild kind of justice! Not mine, Lord Bacon’s: I had no idea you were such a vengeful tiger.”

“I’d drink his blood but it would make me vomit,” she said, with pain. “When I think that in a few months I’m going to be the stepmother not of a child but of a woman and a woman with his nature, I want to commit suicide. Why should I go through with it?”

“Say, would you like to take a stroll?” inquired Bert. “Or how about the movies? Then we can take a drink at home after, if you like.”

“Yes, you’re right, Bert. It’s cool there and I can have some quiet. It’s just that he’s painting and scraping and singing and jigging from crack of dawn and he wants to take up my bedroom floor now, so for weeks I’ll have to sleep with a bed full of sand and dirt and a floor covered with old sacks. It’s insane.”

“Thank God I’m not a handy man,” said Bert sighing.

“Yes, you are, handy,” she concluded, with a queer sideways glance. He laughed. When he got up to get his hat, she stood, pulling on her gloves, and looking up at his face which was turned from her. Suppose she lost him by yowling too much? For a moment she had a tinge of real love for the man. He was a queer sort. He would not marry anyone. He went out with, and no doubt lied to, girl after girl—nice romantic girls too; and though such a bounder, he looked like the ideal husband, stalwart, husky, bighearted, a good-time-Charlie, pretty sensible, and easy enough to handle, open to flattery, to pathos. There he was in a crisis, always helping her out in a friendly way. He even lent small amounts of money, showing her the amounts in his little vest-pocket book and saying, with a good-natured but meaningful slap, as she put it away, “It’s there, it’s mounting up: but you’ll pay me off when the dividends come, won’t you, young Henrietta?” She thought today she would get five dollars out of him.

A
T THREE IN THE
afternoon Aunt Josephine Pollit, tall, blue-eyed, with hail-fellow-well-met dental set came through the gate at a lively pace, though she was putting on a hearty middle age. She carried herself as if she were a yellow solid valise cheerfully borne by a successful commercial traveler. She carried other things with her, a light coat, an umbrella, a purse, a book, and a package. When the twins came flying down the path, she shifted the parcel to the other hand and patted them while kissing them heartily.

“Are you glad to see your Auntie, twinnies? Where’s Mother? Is your mother inside?”

“Mother’s out.”

“Out! Didn’t anyone tell her your Auntie Jo was coming? Oh, isn’t that too bad! I must see her! I must see Samuel! Where is your father? Come inside, chickies, Auntie has something for you—later on.”

“Ooch!” they shrieked dutifully, and “What?”

“In a minute, must wait for Auntie to get her things off. Where’s Auntie Bonnie? Is she out too? Now, who’s going to get their auntie a glass of water?”

“Me, Auntie!” said Little-Sam.

“ ‘I,’ you mean, Sammy: ‘I will, Auntie.’ ”

He grinned bashfully and started towards the house.

“Where’s your father? (‘I will, Auntie!’) Now!”

“I will, Auntie,” he shouted from the door as he fled into the house.

“On the roof painting the roof,” said Saul.

“On the roof! On Sunday afternoon! Tell him I’m here! Sam! Samuel! Tell him I’m here!” She sniffed grandly and marched into the house. But Sam had spied her from the roof top and now he cringed and whined at Saul, over the guttering.

“Ask Josie did she bring me a little bit of choc? She always brings me sumpin.”

“Oo Taddy!” said Evelyn, going scarlet.

“Go on, kids,” whined Sam piteously, “ask Josie if she’s got anyfink for pore little Sam; I won’t come down unless. En I might fall on my head, I might get sunstroke, anyfink might happen to me up here!”

“Oo, Taddy, you said never to ask for anything,” Evie said very gravely.

“Gwan, kids,” squeaked Sam, “tell her she’s got to bribe me. Oh, oh, I’m falling: vertigo’s going to get me, my head’s going round. All because of no choc. Got to have some!”

“Don’t say it,” Louie ordered them fiercely from the veranda, “don’t you go and say that.”

“Gwan, boys,” urged Sam more miserably and shamefully than before, “want a little bit o’ choc, even one little tablet, I’ll even take a crumb. She’s got to send me up a bit: or she’s got to send out and buy a bit.”

Louie rushed out and planted herself in view of her father. “I won’t let them,” she shouted. The children hung about, not knowing what to do.

Jo had gone inside and taken off her hat. She shook back the dazzling yellow furze of curls that could never be smoothed down and powdered her nose. She beamed at the discussion outside, but when they came to this impasse, she strode to the veranda and shouted,

“I’ve got some chocolate for you, Samuel; come down! I’ve got to talk to you!”

“You bring it up,” whined and scraped Sam, perilously over the guttering; although he suffered from vertigo and vertigo’s nausea, he could never resist a comedy.

“Come down and don’t be a fool,” trumpeted Jo. “I have to talk to you!”

Sam grinned and started to come down the ladder,

“Josie used to yell that from the back window in Lombard Street; when I used to drag home carcasses and fishbones to make fertilizer—you remember, Jo? Phew! What a stench! Josie would bang up the window and yell down the street, ‘Father, speak to that boy! Sam, don’t be a fool!’ And bang went the window again.”

“Come down to earth,” cried Jo impatiently, “Samuel, stop acting the goat!” She started to frown, but a smile broke through. She went up to her youngest brother and kissed him, saying more gently than before,

“Come in and get your chocolate and Louie will make us some coffee. Louie dear, come here, come and kiss Auntie, dear!” She looked her up and down, ran her hand through Louie’s helpless waterfall of hair and proclaimed, “Louie’s getting to be a big girl now: she’s going to be just like me. Only straight hair! I was something like you at your age, dear! You’re going to be just like me. I hope!” she sniffed cheerfully and laughed aloud. “Run along, dear!” And now this Juno frowned and demanded, “Is Bonnie here?”

“I think Bonniferous is snoozing,” Sam replied.

“A most disgraceful thing,” said Joe, “absolutely preposterous. Sam you must insist, absolutely insist, that she stop seeing this wretched man, that card-trick horror: it’s disgraceful! To think that a sister of mine should go out with a man like that, and a married man! You must stop it! I insist upon it, Samuel!”

Sam became very grave, laid his hand on his sister’s arm, and led her away from the children into the sunroom, which ran south and north and was entered from the long dining room. This was a beautiful, quiet room, with a high conservatory window looking out on the orchard, lined with books and containing Henny’s piano. The children stayed outside to play, for they were tired by the heavy painting job of the day. Louie made coffee. From time to time they heard the upright Jo and austere Sam in a passionate discussion somewhere in a corner of the house, or saw her stalking up and down in the sunroom, taking off her pince-nez, putting them on, tossing her head like a draft horse, sniffing, the sun shining through her loofah hair as she paused between the curtains, to give her nephews a good-natured look.

“Right is right, and wrong is wrong,” she proclaimed through the window, “and any man, woman, or child with a sense of decency would refuse to speak to him. I won’t hear any more about it; and there’s an end of it. It must and will be stopped! He has a wife. If I had ever imagined that anyone in my family could so much as think of such a thing as attacking the holy bonds of matrimony—there’s no excuse whatever. Be sure that sin will find you out! And if she persists, you must send her away. I am sure Henny agrees with me. I myself will speak to Henny. When I heard of it, to my face, I nearly died of shame. And it was Miss Critchmar who told me! Suppose they want to elect me to the chapter—and a rumor like that gets round? What will I say? How could I show my face?”

“It wouldn’t be your fault, Jo,” said Sam seriously, “but of course we will stop it.”

“Such an abomination cannot go on. She must be stopped,” Jo said. “It makes me sick. And just when I had discovered that one of our ancestors, Sam, fought in the American Revolution. This genealogist assured me that there were several of our name and one certainly is a relative. And just then this bombshell comes along and hits me amidships! I was so horrified, Sam, I didn’t sleep for five nights! You can imagine the state I was in! Where is the stupid girl?”

“Upstairs. I’ll send for her.”

“I’ll go myself! Don’t move! I shall give her a talking-to she’ll not forget in a hurry. Disgusting. Oh, it’s disgusting! A sister of mine! How could she! What is the matter with her, Sam? Mother was such a splendid character and you and I have never committed a sin in our lives. I believe that. I am not a Pharisee! I wish that you would go to church, Sam, but I must say that for a nonbeliever you lead an exemplary life. But of course, Father’s example—” she stopped, seeing Louie with the coffee, and then continued nobly, “Father could have been a better man.”

“Well, that’s not to the point now,” Sam said quietly. “Perhaps you’d better leave it to me, Jo. I’ll find out how things stand. Don’t accuse without evidence. An evil tongue can do more harm than two foolish people—probably no more than foolish, remember! Make allowance for mere harmless folly, Jo.”

“That’s a lot of bosh and you know it! A married man! What must he be thinking about Bonnie, your sister, Sam? If you think I’m going to put up with it, you’re much mistaken. I’m surprised at your being so weak-kneed, Sam, you so decent; you were always so decent. I always do my duty. Some people don’t like me for it, but I know why.”

Sam interjected, “Jo, you are not the avenging angel, you must be human in these matters. I have more experience than you.”

“More? How more? You mean you’re married. Rubbish! I have to deal with mothers and their problems all day long, too. They confide in me. I have a big following among the mothers. My opinion is objective just because I do not deal with compromise. Not that you do, Sam; I know you’ve always been good—the best; I don’t say that. You’re the best boy that ever was. You’re too soft, that’s all, so you can’t handle this.”

Sam motioned to her to sit down; and she did so, “You see, Jo, I used to be like you, I thought just the same way. I understand how you feel. But you are wrong, believe me; you cannot dragoon human beings even in the name of morality. It is kindness, human love, and patience with human weakness that is necessary. Remember this is your own sister, ten years my junior, and I know little enough how to run my own affairs! Be kind to her. Go and speak to her—I admit it’s a woman’s place: but be kind.”

“I will never be kind to weak wickedness,” cried Jo, bouncing up and tossing back her head; “be sure of that, Samuel.”

“Run out, Looloo,” said Sam, to the little girl who had just brought in the coffee tray.

“And another thing,” cried Jo, more moderately, “I want to ask you about my income tax, Sam, about the deductions. A man came to ask me questions. I’m perfectly sure I’m overassessed; and I can’t sleep at night with the pneumatic drilling in the streets; and I couldn’t get half that price if I really tried to sell it. I’m going to get a loan to put in improvements—but what’s the use really? I ought to lease it to a boardinghouse keeper who would give me my rents regularly and I shouldn’t have to worry. It all keeps me awake and I can’t afford to lose sleep over a lot of irresponsible people. That old woman with the rosary on her bed only comes once a fortnight to get her relief, or when she had a fight with her son-in-law. That nice German, such a decent fellow and a good tenant, is going to his homeland to see his parents. Such a studious man, nice and quiet; and those two awful Italians didn’t work for four days. They went out on a beer party and got stinking drunk and didn’t work. My house is simply going down, and I haven’t time to do it up, put them out, and get decent tenants. That horrible little thing on the first floor is going to have
another
baby and the first one hardly with a tooth, she doesn’t get through washing the dishes till eleven o’clock or twelve and then another bedraggled girl comes with her baby carriage and there they sit in the dark, in the damp, and chatter and cook a bit of spaghetti, and that shiftless tramp with a cigarette stuck between his lips when he hasn’t enough to eat even and the rent not paid. It makes me sick, such shiftless horrible people in the world, and they are the ones the government supports! Can you understand it, Sam? I can’t. And in the house next to mine is a woman with a piece of land in the country, who gets relief. Isn’t it wicked, Sam? Oh, you don’t know what’s going on, Sam, because you’re in a government department and you don’t meet people as I do. I have to meet them face to face, I have to actually speak to these awful creatures, because they are my tenants, and I have to worry about the plumbing for them. Do you think they’re pleased with anything? No, you don’t know a lot yourself, Sam. That’s what I say. Don’t throw it up at me that I’m not married; for I could easily have been married, but I just said, ‘No, no, I’m waiting for Mr. Right.’ What do you think of that, Sam? Another baby, with one nine months old, it just makes me sick.”