Бетти Смит - Maggie-Now

She dropped the broom and ran down the street in her nightgown, bathrobe and felt slippers. She threw herself with such force at the hatless man that she all but knocked him off his feet.

"What took you so long?" she asked, as though he had merely gone to the store.

"Margaret!" he said. "Oh, Margaret! Here." He tried to give her the lumpy, sodden paper bag he was carrying, but she was shaking him by the shoulders the way a mother shakes a stubborn child. The bottom fell out of the damp bag and two naked chickens fell in the snow and lay there, breast to breast.

"What's that?" she asked, startled.

[265] "I thought you could cook them and we could have a sort of late supper."

"Oh, (Claude!" She laughed and then she started to cry.

"Don't, Margaret! Don't!" He kissed her gently. "You knew I'd come back, didn't you?"

"Yes," she sobbed. "And you'll never go away again, will you? " She waited. He stood silent. "Will you!" she insisted.

Typically, he wouldn't say yes, he wouldn't say no. He said: "But I did come back, didn't I?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He got a soggy handkerchief from his pocket and tried to wipe the mixed tears and snow from her face. He succeeded only in spreading the wetness.

"You waited for me, Margaret, didn't you? Because you knew I'd come back."

She thought of Sonny for a second, then said: "Yes, I

waited. I waited all the time."

They stood on that quiet, empty street, holding each other tightly, and the snow fell on them and flakes lingered briefly in the interstices of her braids.

He said: "You'll catch pneumonia."

Simultaneously, she said: "You'll get pneumonia."

They walked toward the house. He carried the chickens by their feet in one hand, and put his other arm about her waist.

"After your father spanked you for dancing in the street, did you give up dancing for good?"

"In a way. You see. ."

And they resumed talking where they had left off seven months ago.

She installed him in the kitchen and closed the door so her father wouldn't hear and wake up. She punched up the fire in the kitchen range, threw in some slivers of wood and some fresh coal and added half an inch of kerosene measured into an empty tomato can. The fire took hold. She put on a kettleful of Nvater for coffee and put the chickens in the roasting pan.

"I won't bother making stuffing," she whispered. "It'll take them two hours to get done as it is."

She made him take off his worn, wet shoes and socks and she put them in the warming oven to dry. She helped him off with his [266]

wet coat and her heart contracted as she touched him and knew that he had no undershirt under his thin top shirt.

In the darkness of his bedroom, the sound of the coffee grinder penetrated Pat's sleep. Morning already, he thought, and still dark out. Must be raining. Oh, God what a life, he moaned, having to get up every morning. He pulled his pants on over his long woolen drawers which he used for pajamas. He opened the door to his son's room and called out ringingly: "School!" Hysterically, Denny threw all the bedclothes on the floor, tied himself into a fetus knot, and went back to sleep.

Claude and Maggie-Now talked in whispers as he knelt before her, took off her sodden felt bedroom slippers and dried her feet with a clean dish towel.

Suddenly, her father was in the doorway. "What the hell's going on here?" he asked, more astonished than angry.

"You see, it's snowing out," she started to explain, "and.

"

"And who the hell are you?" he asked Claude. "And what the hell are you doing with her feet in the middle of the night?"

"Why, I'm drying them," said Claude.

"Papa," said Maggie-Now formally, "I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Basset-t."

"Get up, Mr. Bassett," said Pat. "I'll not hit a man and him on his knees before me."

Claude stood up. Pat balled his hand into a fist and stepped back for leverage to throw a punch. Claude picked Pat's fist out of the air and pried it open. He fitted his palm into Pat's to form a handshake. Claude narrowed his eyes and started to press Pat's hand slowly and strongly. Pat all but cried out in his pain. He was sure that every bone in his hand was broken.

Holy Mother, thought Pat. He looks like a sissy but he's got the strenth of a murtherin' lasted.

"I've been looking forward for a long time to meeting you, old sir," said Claude in his best educated accent.

. . a murtherin' educated lasted, amended Pat to himself.

"I hope we will be friends, old sir," said Claude, releasing Pat's hand after one more bone-crushing squeeze.

Pat let his hand hang by his side, using all his will power not to flex the fingers to feel if they were still intact. His face burned at the idea of being called "old sir." He didn't think he was old. He [267]

vvas only i orty-eight. H' turned furiously on his daughter: "Don't just stand there in your shimmy with your mouth open," he told her. "Get him out of here!"

"Oh, Papa!" She smiled. "Chemises went out with bustles."

"You know what I mean," he roared. "Don't turn me words on me."

"I think your father wants you to change into dry clothes, Margaret. You do that, dear, and give me the chance to ask your father for your hand in marriage."

Pat nearly choked. /'m going to beat the be-Jesz~s out of him, Pat promised himself. As soon as me hand gets better.

Maggie-Now beamed on Claude. He had called her dear! She went to her room to dress.

"Sit down, old sir," said Claude.

"You telling me to sit down in me own house?" gasped Pat.

"Sit down," said Claude wearily. "I,ife is too short for this nonsense. Get done with the sparring. Hang up your gloves. Your daughter and I are going to marry. You might as well get used to me because you'll have to put up with me until you die."

"I'll bury you first," said Pat bitterly.

"That may well be. But while you're waiting to do so, let's be amiable. It's easier on the liver."

Pat felt a flash of interest. This man might well be an enemy worthy of him. Mick Mack always turned the other cheek and Timmy had not been a consistent enemy. He'd beat up a man and then weep in contrition. But this Claude Bassett: Pat knew he would fight to a draw. I le decided to test him with what he knew to be a sure-fire insult.

"Why ain't you in uniform, you slacker?" he asked Claude.

"I was weighed in the balance and one of my ears was found vv anting."

"A real man," said Pat disparagingly, "woulda Bucked me in the nose for calling; him a slacker."

"So?" said Claude. "Old sir, I had hoped we could be friends, on account of Margaret. But if it's a lifelong enemy that you want, I'll try to be worthy of your Irish spleen."

"Why can t you talk like a man?" said Pat irritably. "All them Goddamned educated words!"

Claude put his hands in his pockets and stretched out his legs [268]

under the table. He smiled at Pat. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he said.

Pat was so confounded by this remark that he had nothing to say. Maggie-Now came in dressed and poured boiling water over the coffee Claude had ground. They spoke in incomplete sentences to each other as if they had been living together for many years. Pat couldn't stand it.

"Now that you're dressed," he told her, "pack your things and get out. And take him with you."

"Now, Papa," she said with a little laugh, "pack in what?"