Бетти Смит: Maggie-Now

"Wonderful! Will you have some too-" "Of course. You don't think you're going to have all of it do you, Mr. Bassett?"

"No, Mrs. Bassett."

That night, after tucking him into bed' she undressed.

brushed if 4779 ~

her hair and got in beside him. She put her arm under his shoulder and put his head on her breast.

"Margaret," he said, 'if you happen to see your father, ask him to come over. I'd like to talk to him awhile."

"All right," she said.

Pat came over a couple of mornings later and went into the kitchen where Claude was sitting. Pat closed the kitchen door after him. Maggie-Now went into the bedroom to make up her bed. Pat didn't stay 107lg with Claude. Pat opened the door and paused to say: "I said I would. And I will. In fact, I'll bury youse all!"

Maggie-Now accompanied her father out to the stoop.

"Oh, Papa," she said, and the ready tears came to her eyes.

"Why do you fight with him? And he's so sick."

"Well, I ain't sick," said Pat. "I didn't like him when he was well. Should I insult him by liking him just because he's sick? No! Furthermore," he burst out, "I don't like that damned skinny cat and that lousy canary and that dopey clock. That's why I married the widow," he said illogically, "so's I wouldn't have to put up with all that stuff. And statures of pigeons, too." He stalked down the street.

Claude must have said soz7~ethi~?g to upset him, she thought.

She went in to Claude. He was smiling. "Your father!"

he said. His voice was full of admiration.

THERE was a warm day in February and Claude wanted to sit by the front-room window. Maggie-Now set him up there and then she knelt down and put her arms about his waist.

"Claude," she said, "I always knew when you were going away but I never let you know that I knew. But now I will speak out. My dear darling, don't go away this spring.

You're not well yet.

[4 2 ] Later on in the summer, if you have to go, I won't try to hold you. But don't go! Please, don't go! And if you do, I'll have to go with you. Because now there is no one but you."

"I told you, Margaret, chat's all over. I don't want to go any more. But I would like to sit at the window. I like to see the skv and the street and watch the people go by."

"But the day that wind c omes, you'll go again."

"I promised you. ."

"Could you say it in some way that I could know it's for sure you won't go?"

"I'll tell you why I had to go away and why I don't have to go any more. Once I told you that when we were old and had nothing more to talk about:. ."

"That you'd tell me the story of your life," she interrupted. "But we're not old yet."

"We'll pretend. God know s I feel old. Tonight, when it's dark and we're closed in, I'll tell you. But for the day, let me sit by the window."

That night, she gathered all the pillows in the house and she and Claude sat propped up in bed. She put her arm around him and made him lean against her. She had a moment of uneasiness w hen she felt that his heart was beating too fast.

"If you don't want to tell me, Claude, it's all right."

"No, love. I want to I need to tell you.

"Well," he began, "soon after I was born, I v as placed in a private institution for orphans in Detroit. It was denominational, Protestant, and someone paid for my care. From that, I knew these things about myself: That I was white, a Christian, and that someone had enough of a conscience to pav for my care. Wllo? Father? Mother?

" He was not treated badly at the institution, but with a lot of little boys and an inadequate, overworked staff there was no time for love and understanding.

When he was eight he was sent to a boys' boarding school. Here there was a difference. Some of the boys had parents, though many were orphans placed in the school by an aunt or older sister. A good many were children of divorce. In all his time there. Claude was the only boy who did not have a visitor.

if-!

It was here he learner! to parry questions. "Hey! When's your mother coming?"

"Wouldn't you just like to know!" or, "Hey! You got a mother?"

"How do you think I was born?"

At the age of twelve, he was sent to a modest preparatory school. He had a little surcease there. No one seemed especially interested in his parentage.

Parents or guardians deposited money with the headmaster and, once a week, each boy received fifty cents' pocket money. Claude got his fifty cents along with the rest. There was but one thing different about hell: He was the only boy in the school who never received a letter.

One day he came across a writers' magazine in which was a tiny ad that said: Letters remailed fro7n Chicago.

25› Back. He wrote a letter to himself, starting, Dear Sorl, and signed it Your Father. He addressed it to himself and sent it off in another envelope with the quarter. In due time, his letter came back, postmarked Chicago. From that time on, he got a letter once a month from Chicago.

Once in a while he displayed a letter with elaborate casualness and was not above quoting a pithy sentence or two.

There came a time when he went to the headmaster.

"Sir," he said. "I know someone pays for me here and I

would like to know who. ."

"You want to know who you are. Is that it-" "Yes, sir."

"You may not know who you are, Bassett, but I'll tell you went you are: a very lucky boy. Through no efforts of your own, you are being provided with a good education in a good school. '? He talked on and on.

"Then You won't tell me, sir, who is responsible for me?"

"I can't tell you, Bassett. Your benefactor wishes to remain anonymous."

When (~laude finished prep school, the headmaster told him he had been registered at a small denominational college in upper Michigan. His tuition would be paid and rent on a room in the dormitory and meals at the college cafeteria. There would be a small sum available for textbooks….

[42 ~ 1 Claude matriculated there. After a few months he went to the bursar of the college.

"Sir," he said, "I should like to know who is paying my fees here."

The bursar got up and took a file from the filing cabinet. The folder had two sheets. The bursar read the papers, closed the folder and put his hand on it.

"Evidently-," he said, "your benefactor wishes to remain anonymous. I can tell you this much, however: A small trust has been set up for you. It will terminate when you graduate from here."

"Sir, may I know the name of the bank or firm. ."

"I am not in a position to give you that information."

Claude locked at the folder under the man's hand.

Everything I need to know is in that 1 order, he thought. I

could grab it, ruin oh with it…. But he was not aggressive enough to make a deed out of his thought.

In Claude's sophomore year, the little college won an important football game and some of the boys in his dorm had a beer bust. They all got a little high and someone inadvertently called Claude a bastard. Claude hit the fellow and a free-for-all fight started. They smashed beer bottles over each other's head. Claude woke up in the infirmary with a row of stitches in front of his right ear and they we re picking glass fragments out of his ear.

At graduation, he slipped out of the auditorium as soon as he received his diploma. He stood on the steps and scanned the face of each one who came out. He had a strong feeling that his mother or father had come to see him graduate. He saw a man standing alone and the man's eyes searched the crowd. This is my father, thought Claude, and he is looking for me. The man's eyes rested on Claude and the man's searching look \vas replaced by a smile. He held ou': his hand and Claude started to go to him. Then he found that the smile and the outstretched hand were for a young man standing behind Claude. The father put his arm about the young man's shoulder and they walked away together.