Margaret Millar - Wives and Lovers

Any seed, however small, could grow in Mrs. Freeman’s fertile brain. She returned now to her interrupted letter to a third cousin in Michigan. The ink flowed over George and he became a close relative of the Andersons who made that celebrated split-pea soup.

From where she sat, at the round walnut dining-room table, Mrs. Freeman could hear the angry rise and the defensive fall of George’s voice. The combination of attack and appeasement in his tone reminded Mrs. Freeman of her husband, Robert. Robert had been gone for nearly three weeks now and she was beginning to worry and to wonder whether she’d better go to the police. This harsh practical thought of going to the police annihilated Mrs. Freeman’s writing mood. She put down her pen. She had hoped to finish her letter before making herself a bite to eat, but now she couldn’t concentrate on it and for this she blamed George. He had no right to come forcing himself into the house (Mrs. Freeman had no recollection of opening the door for him), using profane language (she couldn’t actually distinguish his words but his tone was profane), and browbeating defenseless little women (making them accept money, probably tainted). For the moment, Mrs. Freeman was on Ruby’s side. Ruby might be sly, evasive, she might even be a downright liar, but she was a woman, and women should stick together.

In union is strength, thought Mrs. Freeman, who liked an aphorism as well as the next one.

She heard the thud of the evening paper as it struck the porch, and she rose to fetch it. When she passed through the hall she made her step good and loud, a cunning device that didn’t escape notice.

“You’d better go,” Ruby said. “She’s doing that on purpose.”

“All right.” George got up from Mrs. Freeman’s mohair sofa, aware that he had made a fool of himself. He had done what he set out to do, he had apologized for firing Ruby and losing his temper. But the apology had gone wrong. There had been nothing contrite or apologetic about it. He had forced it on her, he had apologized at the top of his lungs.

The apology had a curious effect on Ruby. She lost her air of frightened timidity. She looked composed, even a little ironic.

“She doesn’t like men callers to stay too long,” Ruby said.

“Do you have other men callers?”

“I can’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“It isn’t. I just want to know.”

“Well then, sure. Sure I have.”

“I don’t believe it,” George said.

Ruby put her hands on her hips in an exasperated manner. “Well, I like that! I certainly like that, Mr. Anderson! You, you just get out of here and don’t come back!”

George smiled painfully. “You’re not such a bunny after all.”

“I certainly don’t have to stand here and be insulted.”

Thump, thump, thump, Mrs. Freeman’s implying feet went down the hall again.

“Why did you leave the other place and move over here all of a sudden?” George said.

“That’s my affair.”

“Was it the rent? Do you need money?”

“Now I suppose you’re thinking that I skipped out without paying my rent! Well, let me tell you one thing, Mr. Anderson. If I were broke I could always go home. You seem to have gotten the wrong idea about me. I’m no orphan. I’m not alone in the world. I can go back to San Francisco any time. My mother and father have a beautiful home there and they’re always begging me to come back. But I told my dad, I’m tired of this sheltered life, I want to earn my own way.”

“Why?”

“Because. Because I do, that’s all. In the modern world a girl has to be able to look out for herself.”

“You’re not thinking of going home, then?”

“I haven’t made up my mind. It all depends.”

“I wouldn’t like you to leave town.”

“That’s funny. Someone else told me today that I’d be better off if I did. There are more jobs down south.”

“There are jobs here, too. If you don’t want to come back to the Beachcomber, maybe I can find something else for you. I’ve got some connections around town.”

Ruby’s face lit up. “That would be wonderful. Do you really think you could?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“A receptionist, maybe. I’ve always thought I’d like to be a receptionist.”

“I don’t know about that,” George said cautiously. “There’s not much call for receptionists in a town this size.”

“Still, it’s possible, isn’t it? — with your connections?”

“Yes.”

“Gosh, it’d be nice, sitting instead of standing all the time, and wearing pretty clothes and keeping my nails decent.” Her eyes were soft and her cheeks seemed to have already fattened on this dream of pretty clothes and half-inch nails. “I’d have to get a new permanent, though. My hair is a mess.”

“It looks fine to me.”

“No, it’s a mess.” She twisted a strand of it between her fingers. “Why should you do me a favor, Mr. Anderson?”

“Because I want to. There’s nothing, well, personal in it. I know you need a job, and you’re just a kid. In fact — well, to tell you the truth, I’m old enough to be your father.”

“You are?” Ruby giggled nervously. “My goodness, you certainly don’t look it. You don’t look a day over forty.”

George, who was forty, thanked her and pulled in his stomach. He knew by her expression that she had meant the remark as a compliment and that she probably thought he was at least fifty.

He felt a little sick, but he smiled and said, “I’ll do the best I can for you.”

“Oh, I know you will.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come out and have some dinner with me.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t.”

“Oh.”

“I really can’t. I’m so tired. All this excitement, getting fired first and then having you appear out of the blue with a wonderful new job—”

“I haven’t found you one yet.”

“But you will, with all your connections and everything.”

“I hope so... Meanwhile, you’d better come back to the Beachcomber. At least it’s a living.”

“All right, if you say so, Mr. Anderson.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“All right.”

They shook hands, in a friendly way, and George opened the parlor door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Freeman descending on him from the dining room. He walked rapidly in the opposite direction to avoid a meeting.

“In a hurry, isn’t he?” Mrs. Freeman commented.

“He’s a very important businessman,” Ruby said. “He’s got things to do.”

“I knew it the minute I looked at him. A businessman, I said to myself. What business?”

“He owns the Beachcomber.”

“All by himself?”

Ruby nodded. Though she knew that George had only a quarter interest in the Beachcomber she didn’t think it worthwhile to mention this to Mrs. Freeman. It was a small point, and Ruby believed that it was ridiculous to keep to the strict facts when a few variations served a better purpose. In this respect she was a true spiritual daughter of the house.

“He’s got an eye for you,” Mrs. Freeman said, with a satisfied nod. “I could tell it the minute I saw him.”

“Oh, that’s silly, I never heard anything so silly.”

“Mark my words, he’s a goner.”

Ruby colored. “Well, I certainly didn’t encourage him.”

“Why, I bet you could have him in a minute if you just snapped your fingers. Mark my words, I know men and he’s got that look.” It occurred to Mrs. Freeman at this point that possibly George was a married man and that she had gone too far in encouraging Ruby. She added, “If he’s married, well, that’s a horse of another color. I believe in the sanctity of the home and I think that any woman who comes between a man and his wife ought to be horsewhipped.”