John Passos - Manhattan transfer

‘Oh mother I hate going out Sundays.’

‘He’s a perfect baby about staying home.’

‘But Sunday’s the only day I get at home.’

‘Well it was this way: I was having tea with the Harland girls at Maillard’s and who should sit down at the next table but Mrs Burkhart…’

‘Is that Mrs John B. Burkhart? Isnt he one of the vicepresidents of the National City Bank?’

‘John’s a fine feller and a coming man downtown.’

‘Well as I was saying dear, Mrs Burkhart said we just had to come up and spend Sunday with them and I just couldn’t refuse.’

‘My father,’ continued Mr Wilkinson, ‘used to be old Johannes Burkhart’s physician. The old man was a cranky old bird, he’d made his pile in the fur trade way back in Colonel Astor’s day. He had the gout and used to swear something terrible… I remember seeing him once, a redfaced old man with long white hair and a silk skullcap over his baldspot. He had a parrot named Tobias and people going along the street never knew whether it was Tobias or Judge Burkhart cussing.’

‘Ah well, times have changed,’ said Aunt Emily.

Jimmy sat in his chair with pins and needles in his legs. Mother’s had a stroke and next week I’ll go back to school. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday… He and Skinny coming back from playing with the hoptoads down by the pond, in their blue suits because it was Sunday afternoon. Smokebushes were in bloom behind the barn. A lot of fellows teasing little Harris, calling him Iky because he was supposed to be a Jew. His voice rose in a singsong whine; ‘Cut it fellers, cant you fellers. I’ve got my best suit on fellers.’

‘Oy oy Meester Solomon Levy with his best Yiddisher garments all marked down,’ piped jeering voices. ‘Did you buy it in a five and ten Iky?’

‘I bet he got it at a firesale.’

‘If he got it at a firesale we ought to turn the hose on him.’

‘Let’s turn the hose on Solomon Levy.’

‘Oh stop it fellers.’

‘Shut up; dont yell so loud.’

‘They’re juss kiddin, they wont hurt him,’ whispered Skinny.

Iky was carried kicking and bawling down towards the pond, his white tearwet face upside down. ‘He’s not a Jew at all,’ said Skinny. ‘But I’ll tell you who is a Jew, that big bully Fat Swanson.’

‘Howjer know?’

‘His roommate told me.’

‘Gee whiz they’re going to do it.’

They ran in all directions. Little Harris with his hair full of mud was crawling up the bank, water running out of his coatsleeves.

There was hot chocolate sauce with the icecream. ‘An Irishman and a Scotchman were walking down the street and the Irishman said to the Scotchman; Sandy let’s have a drink…’ A prolonged ringing at the front door bell was making them inattentive to Uncle Jeff’s story. The colored maid flurried back into the diningroom and began whispering in Aunt Emily’s ear. ‘… And the Scotchman said, Mike… Why what’s the matter?’

‘It’s Mr Joe sir.’

‘The hell it is.’

‘Well maybe he’s all right,’ said Aunt Emily hastily.

‘A bit whipsey, ma’am.’

‘Sarah why the dickens did you let him in?’

‘I didnt let him, he juss came.’

Uncle Jeff pushed his plate away and slapped down his napkin. ‘Oh hell… I’ll go talk to him.’

‘Try and make him go…’ Aunt Emily had begun; she stopped with her mouth partly open. A head was stuck through the curtains that hung in the wide doorway to the livingroom. It had a birdlike face, with a thin drooping nose, topped by a mass of straight black hair like an Indian’s. One of the redrimmed eyes winked quietly.

‘Hullo everybody!… How’s every lil thing? Mind if I butt in?’ His voice perked hoarsely as a tall skinny body followed the head through the curtains. Aunt Emily’s mouth arranged itself in a frosty smile. ‘Why Emily you must… er… excuse me; I felt an evening… er… round the family hearth… er… would be… er… er… beneficial. You understand, the refining influence of the home.’ He stood jiggling his head behind Uncle Jeff’s chair. ‘Well Jefferson ole boy, how’s the market?’ He brought a hand down on Uncle Jeff’s shoulder.

‘Oh all right. Want to sit down?’ he growled.

‘They tell me… if you’ll take a tip from an old timer… er… a retired broker… broker and broker every day… ha-ha… But they tell me that Interborough Rapid Transit’s worth trying a snifter of… Doan look at me crosseyed like that Emily. I’m going right away… Why howdedo Mr Wilkinson… Kids are looking well. Well I’ll be if that isn’t Lily Herf’s lil boy… Jimmy you dont remember your… er… cousin, Joe Harland do you? Nobody remembers Joe Harland… Except you Emily and you wish you could forget him… ha-ha… How’s your mother Jimmy?’

‘A little better thank you,’ Jimmy forced the words out through a tight throat.

‘Well when you go home you give her my love… she’ll understand. Lily and I have always been good friends even if I am the family skeleton… They dont like me, they wish I’d go away… I’ll tell you what boy, Lily’s the best of the lot. Isn’t she Emily, isn’t she the best of the lot of us?’

Aunt Emily cleared her throat. ‘Sure she is, the best looking, the cleverest, the realest… Jimmy your mother’s an emperess… Aways been too fine for all this. By gorry I’d like to drink her health.’

‘Joe you might moderate your voice a little;’ Aunt Emily clicked out the words like a typewriter.

‘Aw you all think I’m drunk… Remember this Jimmy’… he leaned across the table, stroked Jimmy’s face with his grainy whisky breath… ‘these things aren’t always a man’s fault… circumstances… er… circumstances.’ He upset a glass staggering to his feet. ‘If Emily insists on looking at me crosseyed I’m goin out… But remember give Lily Herf Joe Harland’s love even if he has gone to the demnition bowbows.’ He lurched out through the curtains again.

‘Jeff I know he’ll upset the Sèvres vase… See that he gets out all right and get him a cab.’ James and Maisie burst into shrill giggles from behind their napkins. Uncle Jeff was purple.

‘I’ll be damned to hell if I put him in a cab. He’s not my cousin… He ought to be locked up. And next time you see him you can tell him this from me, Emily: if he ever comes here in that disgusting condition again I’ll throw him out.’

‘Jefferson dear, it’s no use getting angry… There’s no harm done. He’s gone.’

‘No harm done! Think of our children. Suppose there’d been a stranger here instead of Wilkinson. What would he have thought of our home?’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ croaked Mr Wilkinson, ‘accidents will happen in the best regulated families.’

‘Poor Joe’s such a sweet boy when he’s himself,’ said Aunt Emily. ‘And think that it looked for a while years ago as if Harland held the whole Curb Market in the palm of his hand. The papers called him the King of the Curb, dont you remember?’ ‘That was before the Lottie Smithers affair…’

‘Well suppose you children go and play in the other room while we have our coffee,’ chirped Aunt Emily. ‘Yes, they ought to have gone long ago.’

‘Can you play Five Hundred, Jimmy?’ asked Maisie.

‘No I cant.’

‘What do you think of that James, he cant play jacks and he cant play Five Hundred.’

‘Well they’re both girl’s games,’ said James loftily. ‘I wouldn’t play em either xept on account of you.’

‘Oh wouldn’t you, Mr Smarty.’

‘Let’s play animal grabs.’

‘But there aren’t enough of us for that. It’s no fun without a crowd.’

‘An last time you got the giggles so bad mother made us stop.’