J. Powers - The Stories of J.F. Powers

“No, but I’ve seen her. Once she waved.”

“She’s nice. Tied down with children, though.” Mrs Hancock nodded to the right. “How about old Mrs Mann?”

“I don’t think anybody’s there now.”

“The Manns are away! California. So you don’t know anybody yet?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t met some of them at the Cashway.”

“I never go there,” Ethel said. “Ralph — that’s my husband — he wants me to trade at the home-owned stores.”

“Oh?” Mrs Hancock’s stomach cut loose again. “I didn’t know people still felt that way.” Mrs Hancock looked down the street, in the direction of the little corner store. “Do they do much business?”

“No,” said Ethel. The old couple who ran it were suspicious of her, she thought, for buying so much from them. The worst of it was that Ralph had told her to open a charge account, and she hadn’t, and she never knew when he’d stop there and try to use it. There was a sign up in the store that said: In God We Trust — All Others Pay Cash.

“I’ll bet that’s it,” Mrs Hancock was saying. “I’m afraid people are pretty clannish around here — and the Wagners have so many friends. They live one-two-three-five houses down.” Mrs Hancock had been counting the houses across the street. “Mr Wagner’s the manager of the Cashway.”

Ethel was holding her breath.

“I’m afraid so,” said Mrs Hancock.

Ethel sighed. It was Ralph’s fault. She’d always wanted to trade at the Cashway.

Mrs Hancock threw back her head, inhaling, and her eyelids, like a doll’s, came down. “I’m afraid it’s your move, Mrs Davicky.”

Ethel didn’t feel that it was her move at all and must have shown it.

Mrs Hancock sounded impatient. “Invite ’em in. Have ’em in for a morning coffee.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Ethel said. “I’ve never been to a coffee.” She’d only read about coffees in the women’s magazines to which Ralph had subscribed for her. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Nothing to it. Rolls, coffee, and come as you are. Of course nobody really does, not really.” Mrs Hancock’s stomach began again. “Oh, shut up,” she said to it. “I’ve just come from one too many.” Mrs Hancock made a face, showing Ethel a brown mohair tongue. She laughed at Ethel. “Cheer up. It wasn’t in this neighborhood.”

Ethel felt better. “I’ll certainly think about it,” she said.

Mrs Hancock rose, smiling, and went over to the telephone. “You’ll do it right now,” she said, as though being an older woman entitled her to talk that way to Ethel. “They’re probably dying to get inside this lovely house.”

After a moment, Ethel, who was already on her feet, having thought that Mrs Hancock was leaving, went over and sat down to telephone. In the wall mirror she saw how she must appear to Mrs Hancock. When the doorbell had rung, she’d been in too much of a hurry to see who it was to do anything about her lips and hair. “Will they know who I am?”

“Of course.” Mrs Hancock squatted on the white leather hassock with the phone book. “And you don’t have to say I’m coming. Oh, I’ll come. I’ll be more than happy to. You don’t need me, though. All you need is confidence.”

And Mrs Hancock was right. Ethel called eight neighbors, and six could come on Wednesday morning, which Mrs Hancock had thought would be the best time for her. Two of the six even sounded anxious to meet Ethel, and, surprisingly, Mrs Wagner was one of these.

“You did it all yourself,” said Mrs Hancock.

“With your help,” said Ethel, feeling indebted to Mrs Hancock, intimately so. It was as if they’d cleaned the house together.

They were saying good-bye on the front stoop when Ralph rolled into the driveway. Ordinarily at noon he parked just outside the garage, but that day he drove in — without acknowledging them in any way. “Mr Daveechee,” Ethel commented. For Mrs Hancock, after listening to Ethel pronounce her name for all the neighbors, was still saying “Davicky.”

Mrs Hancock stayed long enough to get the idea that Ralph wasn’t going to show himself. She went down the front walk saying, “’Bye now.”

While Mrs Hancock was getting into her car, which seemed a little old for the neighborhood, Ralph came out of the garage.

Mrs Hancock waved and nodded — which, Ethel guessed, was for Ralph’s benefit, the best Mrs Hancock could do to introduce herself at the distance. She drove off. Too late, Ralph’s hand moved up to wave. He stared after Mrs Hancock’s moving car with a look that just didn’t belong to him, Ethel thought, a look that she hadn’t seen on his face until they moved out to Blue Island.

During lunch, Ethel tried to reproduce her conversation with Mrs Hancock, but she couldn’t tell Ralph enough. He wanted to know the neighbors’ names, and she could recall the names of only three, Mrs Wagner, one of them, was very popular in the neighborhood, and her husband…

“You go to the Cashway then. Some of ’em sounded all right, huh?”

“Ralph, they all sounded all right, real friendly. The man next door sells insurance. Mr Nilgren.”

Ethel remembered that one of the husbands was a lawyer and told Ralph that. He left the table. A few minutes later Ethel heard him driving away.

It had been a mistake to mention the lawyer to Ralph. It had made him think of the shooting they’d had at the Bow Wow, one of the joints. There had been a mix-up, and Ralph’s home address had appeared in the back pages of one of the papers when the shooting was no longer news. Ethel doubted that the neighbors had seen the little item. Ralph might be right about the lawyer, though, who would probably have to keep up with everything like that.

Ralph wouldn’t have worried so much about such a little thing in the old days. He was different now. It was hard to get him to smile. Ethel could remember how he would damn the Swedes for slapping higher and higher taxes on liquor and tobacco, but now, when she pointed out a letter some joker had written to the paper suggesting a tax on coffee, or when she showed him the picture of the wife of the Minnesota senator — the fearless one — christening an ore boat with a bottle of milk, which certainly should’ve given Ralph a laugh, he was silent.

It just made Ethel sick to see him at the windows, watching Mr Nilgren, a sandy-haired, dim-looking man who wore plaid shirts and a red cap in the yard. Mr Nilgren would be raking out his hedge, or wiring up the skinny little trees, or washing his car if it was Sunday morning, and there Ralph would be, behind a drape. One warm day Ethel had seen Mr Nilgren in the yard with a golf club, and had said, “He should get some of those little balls that don’t go anywhere.” It had been painful to see Ralph then. She could almost hear him thinking. He would get some of those balls and give them to Mr Nilgren as a present. No, it would look funny if he did. Then he got that sick look that seemed to come from wanting to do a favor for someone who might not let him do it.

A couple of days later Ethel learned that Ralph had gone to an indoor driving range to take golf lessons. He came home happy, with a club he was supposed to swing in his spare time. He’d made a friend, too, another beginner. They were going to have the same schedule and be measured for clubs. During his second lesson, however, he quit. Ethel wasn’t surprised, for Ralph, though strong, was awkward. She was better than he was with a hammer and nails, and he mutilated the heads of screws. When he went back the second time, it must have been too much for him, finding out he wasn’t any better, after carrying the club around the house for three days. Ethel asked about the other beginner, and at first Ralph acted as though she’d made him up, and then he hotly rejected the word “friend,” which she’d used. Finally he said, “If you ask me, that bastard’s played before!”