Бетти Смит - Maggie-Now

"You must have traveled a lot."

He gave her a quick fool`. He decided she \vasut being sarcastic. She wouldn't know how.

"Quite a lot," he said. "And you?"

"I've never been out of Brooklyn, except. ."

"San Francisco," he said dreamily. "Cincinnati. .

Chicago, Boston. ."

". . except once. When 1 went to Btlston. ' "I'm crazy- about big cities. Denver. . a mile nearer the sky than other cities. ."

Suddenly she knew they weren t in tune with each other.

He w as in a world of his own. She shivered. Someo~e's Stalking offer my grave, she thought.

She stopped walking and he, talking, walked on ahead, not knowing he was alone.

"Good night," she called ahead to hiill.

He whirled around and came back to her. "What happened?"

"I'm home."

"What's the matter with me? Could you overlook my rudeness? "

"There is nothing to overlook. And it \was interesting.

. about the cities."

"But you weren't interested."

"A person must say the» are, anN-ll`3\\!. to be polite. lent I'm 1 it'll not really. I like Brooklyn and. . anyway, I have to go in now." "Not yet. Not yet," he said. He grasped her arms as she stood on the step above him and he spoke rapidly as though time was short. "I wanted to tell you I need to tell you so many things."

He spoke fast and breathlessly. "I want to tell you about the way you smell of good soap and fresh-washed, dried-in-the-sun clothes, and. ."

"Oh, that's only castile soap," she said. "it's cheap. They have blocks of it in the drugstore and you ask for a nickel's worth and they cut off a slice."

"Your good healthy hair smell. And I wanted to tell you hoN`much I like your beautifully simple dress."

"I know it's plain but I made it myself. I make all my dresses the same way because it's the only pattern I can figure out."

"And the classic simplicity of your hair style."

She started to feel uncomfortable. She thought he was making fun of her.

"I know it's old-fashioned. At my hair's so thick and stubborn, I can't make it curl like other girls do."

"If you don't stop belittling yourself, I'm going tO call N'OU my little Chinee."

"Chinee? Why?"

"Because, in China, \vhen you complhllent someone on.

say. a lovely jewel, he'll say it has a flaw in it. Admire a Ming vase and you'll be told it has a crack in it."

"Why do they do that?'' "It's their way of beings modest."

She was about to ask v~dletller he'd been in China.

She decided against it, fearing he'd start talking of far-off places and she would lose him again.

I'm silly, she thought. Here 1' afraid of losing him. When did I ever have him? Ile's just someone / met only a few ho?lrs ago.

"Who's modest? I just happen to know that m! — dress is not in style. That's all."

"It is always in style. A girl in a P`irn~gai village wore one like it a hundred years ago. Tonigllt in l ondon, a duchess is wearing one like yours. Only of white satin.

1: /8'21 "And those shining braids wound around your head: So Ruth wore her hair, perhaps, when she stood in the alien corn…. And Narcissa Whitman. ."

"Who? "

"They opened up the Oregon Trail she and her husband, Marcus. The Oregon trail. ." He waited, his head turned as though straining to hear something from far away.

"You say nice things," she said. "But I know I'm behind the times. I can tell by the way the other girls look at me."

"You are not of any time, past, present or time to come.

You are of all time. You are forever."

Maggie-Now squirmed a bit. She felt uncomfortable. She thought his talk was sort of fancy. Did he mean all those things Or did he just like to talk to fill in time?

She was a combination of child and woman. At sixteen, she had been a mature woman with a woman's grave responsibilities. At twenty-two, she was yet a child waiting to come into her maturity. She waited for the new thing which was just around the corner; she clung to a few modest dreams. The woman and c hild in her walked side by side. In a way, she knew, as the saying goes, all about life. Conversely, she knew nothing about it. But she believed in so much. She didn't love all the people she knew but she believed implicitly that they were as they seemed to be. Her father presented himself as unkind and unloving. She believed he was unkind and unloving. That's the way it was and she accepted him and loved him as a child should love a parent.

She believed that Mr. Van Clees tried to put his hand on the life of everyone he kne\v. Sure, that made him intrusive and tiresome sometimes. But it teas in the open.

He did not try to be otherwise than he was. She liked him and believed what he said.

She believed that Lottie and Timmy had been sweethearts all their life because Lottie told her so. She believed Annie was kind and good because Gus and Van Clees had told her so. She took it all on faith.

Now came the first intimations of maturity. This man holding her arms and looking up at her: Was he to be believed? Was he speaking true? Did he mean all he said? Or did he talk one

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way and think another. He spoke as people spoke in books. Was that natural with him? Was that natural with him or was it something he put on like a coat? How could she know? In her characteristic way, she decided the only way to know was to ask him.

"Mr. Bassett. ."

"My name is Claude and I hereby serve notice," he said severely, "that I will not be called 'Claudia.' " "You want me to call you by your first name?"

"I do."

Why, she thought, didn't he just say, Call me Claude?

"I couldn't," she said. "Not yet. I don't know you long and Mr. Bassett is strange to me. Claude would be even more strange." She paused. "What I started to say: Do you mean everything you say to me?"

"Why not?"

"I could understand better," she said a bit timidly, "if you'd say yes or no."

"Margaret," he said sincerely. "I do. Oh, I use too many words, perhaps. I talk too much. But you see, it's so long since I had someone to really talk to. But I mean what I

say. Believe me, please."

"I'm glad you do," she said, "because the way you talk to me you make me feel like a princess or something. And it's a wonderful feeling."

"Thank you."

"Good night.' "Where you been?" asked her father.

"Now, Papa," she said patiently, "after all, I'm over twentyone."

"I know how old you are. But 1 don't know where you been."

"Good night, Papa." She moved toward her bedroom door.

"Listen," he said to hold her, "did you use up all the house money yet?"

"I don't know," she said. She went into her bedroom.

She acts funny, he thought. Like she's sick. Could it be she met a man was out wits' him? And she, what don't know [184]

nothing about men~what bastids they are? I wonder does she know what she should know' She must. Lottie or somebody must-a told her. He was relieved, then characteristically, he became angry. Sure and they told her.

They couldn't wait. Dam married wimmen always blabbing. Always disthroyi~zg innocence.

Suddenly he felt old. l his made him angry, too. He didn't want to be old or feel old But if he had to be or even feel old, he wasn't going to work any more.

By God, he vowed, I'll go out on pension. That's what I'll do. The old man will stay home all day. I'll get in her way, he thought with satisfaction. That'll fix her. That'll fix everybody. He felt more cheerful.