Ширли Мерфи - Poor Jenny, Bright As A Penny

Jenny wanted to take it at once, but she didn’t want it dirty. She kept silent while the landlord waited for her decision.

“The rooms need painting,” she said finally.

“For that kind of rent, miss, I’m not handing you a palace.”

“But it does need painting, and the furniture is saggy, and the refrigerator is too small. I guess we could put up with that, though, if you painted it.”

“I can’t paint it for a couple of kids,” Mr. Decker said. He was a small dark man with white streaks in his hair, and a limp. “How do I know your mother’s really in the hospital? How do I know you’re not just runaways?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference where Mama is. I’m of age,” Jenny said coolly. “But,” she said in a softer tone, “if you really do want to find out, you can call county hospital. Now are you going to paint for us?”

Mr. Decker refused to paint—which Jenny had felt sure he would—but he agreed to buy enough white paint to do the inside if they would make a neat job of putting it on. They went away elated, a receipt for a month’s rent clutched in Jenny’s hand.

*

We have painted our own house. At least we have painted two rooms with only the kitchen left to do. Jack loaned us ladders and drop cloths, and showed us how to keep our brushes from dripping. I guess we need more practice though, because we ended up splattered like two leopards—it’s hard to paint ceilings without dripping it in your hair. We scrubbed ourselves before coming home, and cleaned up the floors and windows, then when we got home I soaked in a lovely hot tub. I can hardly wait to be finished and start making it pretty. Georgie has a trunk in the basement she said I could borrow from, and then I’m going to the Goodwill and see what I can find. I want it to be bright and happy, it will be our first house—except for when we were little.

We are in Ben’s area. He promised he’d keep an eye on us. It’s got a big lonely yard and the row of trees behind is tall and black at night.

Could I ask him to stop for his dinner sometime? I’d feel funny asking, though. And what would Mama do? Act snotty, I suppose. Still, it would he nice to make dinner for Ben. I’ve never had a place where I could have a date come to see me. Only it wouldn’t be like a date.

I wish it would be, though.

*

From Georgie’s basement came India-print spreads in beautiful colors, enough to cover the sagging beds, the day bed, and the moth-eaten upholstered chair, a little wooden chair painted red, a turquoise lamp, and a big straw rug that would cover the worn carpet.

Then in the Goodwill Jenny bought a desk, a small chest, and a coffee table, all to be sanded and painted. She found five books that she wanted for a quarter each, some bookends, a blue pot for flowers, and a china elephant glazed blue and red and gold. It was to bring them luck.

By the end of two weeks the furniture was painted and Jenny had made the house beautiful, the colors glowed and the sun seemed to come in even brighter.

An ambulance brought Mama home. Jenny had put the rented hospital bed close to the sunniest bedroom window; it had a trapeze-like affair over the top to help Mama move, and there was an eating tray on legs that would slide over the bed, a dishpan for sponge baths, and a bedpan. The doctor came along soon after Mama arrived, to see that the traction weights were correctly attached, and to give Jenny instructions. Perhaps too he came to inspect the arrangements, but if he did he must have been satisfied.

From her bed Mama could see through the bedroom door to the living room. She looked around it when she was brought in, and she looked out at it again when she was settled.

The day bed where Bingo would sleep and the upholstered chair were covered with India prints in turquoise, red, and blue. The bright red desk stood against the window; it had a blue blotter and held the turquoise lamp, a row of books, and the painted elephant. The straw rug caught the sun. A patch of sun slanted across the day bed and the red coffee table that held a bowl of green leaves. The room sang with color. Jenny loved that room. “Do you like it, Mama?”

“Looks like a hippie pad with all them Persian throws. Where’d you get all them?”

“I borrowed them,” Jenny said tiredly. And she thought, I didn’t expect you to like it. I didn’t do it for you.

“We painted the whole house ourselves,” Bingo said solemnly.

“Painted a rented house yourselves?”

That was the way Mama settled in. She was as comfortable as she could be, and Jenny and Bingo took good care of her, but she was cross and nothing seemed to please her. She complained that they didn’t have a television, and when Mr. Decker loaned them one, she complained about the picture. She grew bored easily, demanded movie magazines, then would throw them aside and sigh deeply. Her appetite was not good, no matter what Jenny fixed for her, and she was short and sarcastic with Jenny. When Jenny made a casserole from one of Georgie’s recipes, Mama said, “What’s this stuff?” Or she said, “Them fancy salads don’t fill a person up.” But when Jenny splurged and bought steak, Mama accused her of extravagance.

When Mr. Knutson came, Mama almost snarled at him. He was polite, he admired the cottage and what Jenny had done to it; he even praised her coffee. And he asked about Crystal, which made Mama more surly still and caused her to say afterward, “What business is it of his?”

That night Jenny cried silently into her pillow. But when she was done crying, she thought contritely, I shouldn’t complain about Mama. Her ribs hurt, she can’t move, she itches under the wrapping where it’s impossible to scratch, and Lud hasn’t even come to ask about her. She’s just so miserable that all her bad habits are worse than ever. And she wants her beer.

But Mama drunk would be more than I could handle. Five more weeks before Mama is out of that bed.

Chapter 16

It grew harder and harder for Jenny to spend all day with Mama and to listen to her complain, particularly when the summer days were so fine. Mama would not let her alone long enough to write, or to think her own thoughts, and her querulousness dragged at Jenny. Mama seemed to have set a heaviness upon the cottage that robbed it of all joy and ate at Jenny until she too felt hateful. The little cottage that had started out with such a bright spirit was now invaded by bitterness, almost as if a battle were taking place between the spirit of the cottage and Mama.

Jenny would sit at her desk, gazing out the window at their old apartment and letting her mind wander edgily until Mama slept and she could write. Or until Mama summoned her. She could see the curtains behind the balcony hanging crookedly, and once she saw the landlady out there shaking a mop. Then Mama asked crossly for a new magazine and fresh water. Jenny plumped her pillows and straightened the covers, but Mama only glowered.

Jenny wanted to be out of there, she wanted to be out in the sun, she longed to be alone in the park; then she thought of being in the park with Ben.

Daydreaming! she told herself angrily. But she was unwilling to stop.

She had to get out of the house sometimes, though, if only for groceries, and then Bingo had to stay with Mama. He didn’t like it any better than Jenny did—until Willy came to visit.

Jenny returned from the store one day to find Willy reciting dirty limericks to Mama, and all three laughing uproariously. Willy spent the rest of the afternoon telling Mama tall tales and making outrageous remarks to her. Mama looked happy for the first time since the accident. Jenny watched them with delight: Willy’s rude vitality was just what Mama needed.