The sunlight was dazzling white. High winds during the night had
chased all clouds to remote quarters and had with the morning suddenly
gone, leaving the city to the entire mercy of the sun. It was August
and very dry and in the corners of buildings huddled little heaps of
dust and elusive trash, withered and powdery. On the pavements and
walls the sunlight lay like white-hot gold and the shadows cast by the
awnings of Bessire's department store were sharply chiselled as by a
stencil. Mary Louise paused for a moment in their shelter and drew
breath.
Sometimes work is a fattener. It is when, by virtue of its absorption,
certain phases of the body are allowed to function naturally. It is
true in the case of meddling minds, also in more or less conscientious
natures. Mary Louise's nerves had temporarily ceased to feed upon her.
She was getting plump. The lace frill at the bottom of her elbow
sleeve lay flat against a curve that was full and round. In fact, one
was conscious of a general well-roundedness about her. And her face,
which was flushed, was likewise serene.
The tea room had been making money. With the arrival of the intense
heat had come generous patronage, especially for the noon meal. And
the petty vexations had effaced themselves. For the past few weeks an
atmosphere of expectancy had seemed to hover, such as is felt on
trains arriving after a long journey, or in the completion of a work.
It was the sense of accomplishment. Mary Louise felt her problem
undergoing solution, and nothing else mattered. She now laughed at the
dismay she had felt at paying ten dollars for a cook in Bloomfield.
There was no price to be set on her freedom. And the careless streak
in Maida was something to be accepted with good nature and not to be
allowed to irritate. Maida was at least on the job, eternally on the
job. Not much of a companion truly, nor for that matter a really good
business partner. But she irradiated good nature and that was
something.
A sizzling hot pavement is not much of a place for reflection even if
shaded by a striped awning. So Mary Louise passed on. The bundle of
fresh-printed menus was getting heavy under her arm--she had just come
from the printer's--and the soda fountain at the corner drug store
tempted her. She yielded.
She took a seat alongside a revolving electric fan and let the breeze
play on her heated cheek. She felt suddenly lazy and allowed herself a
delicious relaxation. Behind the counter two boys in spotless caps
and aprons were working with desperate haste to cool the dusty throats
lined up before them. One of them looked like Joe Hooper, except that
he moved faster, was quicker with his hands. Poor Joe! How helpless
and hopeless he had looked that afternoon. He was one of the kind that
could not learn how. The other clerk stopped before her and asked her
for her order. This one looked very much like the new cook Maida and
she had just hired. So intent was she upon her observation that she
forgot he was speaking to her. That new cook--he was a smart,
sharp-looking boy--just out of the army a few months. It had seemed a
bit incongruous having that type in the kitchen, but then----She
watched the face before her, hair sleek and parted in the middle with
ears a little too prominent, features rather regular. The eyes were
set too close together. He slid in and out without friction, made up
almost two drinks to the other one's one--the one who looked like Joe.
Probably made more money even than the real Joe.
A tall frosty tumbler was placed before her. She dipped into it with a
straw. It was delightfully cool and refreshing, with a blend of fruit
odour and flavour beneath the sprig of mint that floated on the top.
Slowly she sipped it. And then for a moment she let her eyes wander
across the faces lined up before the counter beside her. Next to her
was an old woman in a sleazy black dress with a turban-like hat all
swathed with a long black veil hemmed with black. She had looped it
back in anticipation of the drink she would soon get. The old face was
white and limned with wrinkles, and one hand, as it rested timidly on
the edge of the counter, was heavily veined and thin and swollen about
the knuckles. There was a droop to the shoulders and a patient,
haggard look about the eyes. Mary Louise wondered if the mourning were
very real; she seemed so very tired that even a poignant grief might
well be spent. As she looked, the old woman caught her eye and turned
hurriedly away.
Beyond her two young girls were making merry with the cherries in
their glasses. At odd moments they would surreptitiously bid for the
soda-jerker's attention. They had finely plucked eyebrows and were
much powdered about the nose. One of them sat with her back partly
turned to Mary Louise, who could catch the occasional lift of an
alluring eyelash from the glass's brim in the direction of the clerk.
She had her legs crossed, and once when she shifted her position Mary
Louise could see the gleam of a bare knee. It made her feel a bit
older somehow, but likewise complacent.
She finished her drink and arose to go. Just then the big, raw-boned
clerk, the one who looked a bit like Joe, dropped a glass on the
counter and immediately there was a widening stain of red and a piece
of glass rolled over the edge and fell to the floor. A woman sprang
up and back from the counter in irritation. And a dull red flush crept
into the boy's face as he quickly produced a rag and began to mop up
the debris. As she walked to the door, the other clerk, the one with
the close-set eyes, was saying something to him in a sharp tone.
She paused a moment. Past her on the sidewalk pressed a steady stream
in each direction. Hot, perspiring faces, flushed and lined with
concentration, worry, or fatigue--all hurrying. She felt curiously
complacent and aloof. Perhaps it was the momentary rest and cooling.
Her thought returned again to Joe, being reminded perhaps by the
little incident at the counter. She recalled Claybrook. She remembered
Claybrook's words that afternoon--that afternoon she had gone to
Bloomfield. It was just a few minutes after they had left Joe Hooper
on the road; they were passing the old Mosby place. She had noticed
the interest with which Claybrook had inspected the place as they
rolled by. He had asked the name of the owner.
"Fine old trees," he had said. And later, "Walnuts," in answer to her
question as to which ones he had meant.
Yes, they had been fine old trees. Something enduring about them. They
added to a place--trees. There was nothing artificial or upstart about
their beauty, but the venerableness of dignity. The Mosby place had
been noted for its walnuts.
"Tell 'em," Claybrook had said, "I'll give 'em a nickle a foot for
those trees right there on the ground. That is, if they are hard up,"
he had added as if seeking to justify himself. She remembered the
incident now with regret, a sort of complacent regret. Claybrook was a
bit crude at times, or at least he was not quite awake to some of the
finer sensibilities. But he was a kindly man and doing well. He was
the sort you could depend on. Business was cruel. You had to overlook
certain things, for instance--Maida. But Joe! Well, it was too bad. He
just didn't have the knack.
She crossed the street. The glare was terrific. Hugging the wall, to
keep as far in the shelter of its shade as possible, she proceeded
north. In spite of the heat the streets were crowded. She looked at
her watch. It was eleven-thirty. She would have to be hurrying to get
her menus back on time. She came to an alley and paused on the curb to
look in either direction for traffic. By the curb at the corner of the
alley stood a bright, shiny, new car. Something about it attracted her
attention. She looked more closely and was conscious of a peculiar
little catch or start somewhere deep down inside her. In the front
seat, behind the steering wheel, sat Joe Hooper, with his arm flung
negligently along the polished patent leather of the top brace. And
such a Joe Hooper! He had on a new straw hat, and while Mary Louise
could not trust herself to a very long inspection, she noticed the
fresh creases in his coat sleeve. He was wearing a "shepherd plaid"
suit that looked "bran spanking" new, and in his collar was knotted a
pale lavender-hued tie. More than that, he seemed positively well
groomed. Beside him sat a woman, back turned toward the curb. It was a
most alluring back, in a soft, shimmering dark-blue dress with a lace
collar and above it a gentle curve of neck with little provoking wisps
of hair curling softly about it. That was all she took in in that
flash of vision, except--as she looked, the creature raised a dainty,
tapering hand and filliped a tiny feather under Joe's nose. He drew
back slightly and smiled--she saw the whole thing--a quite restrained
and, if anything, a condescending kind of smile.
Mary Louise passed on inconspicuously across the alley, into the
sheltering shade, of the shop awnings again. She wondered if he had
seen her. And then she was tempted to turn around and reassure herself
with another look. But she did not.
A singular mixture of emotions surged through her. She felt as if
someone were secretly laughing at her. Joe Hooper, she had decided,
had been one of those people who could never learn how to do things.
And yet, unless her eyes had deceived her, here he had burst
gorgeously from his chrysalis. She was not sure she was glad of it,
either. Charity, especially of thought, is frequently more of a luxury
to the donor than to the recipient.
She hurried on. The street was becoming more crowded and the heat, if
anything, more intense. She began to feel just a bit angry with
herself for exposing herself to it. Her face felt as if it were
burning up. It had not been at all necessary. She could just as well
have sent someone else. And here she was plugging along, with her
clothes all sticky, her hair coming down in wisps about her ears, and
her face as red as a beet. Funny, what had come over Joe. She was
certain it had been he but it seemed improbable. And she had been
sorry for him. He was the kind who could not "put anything across."
All her complacency was gone as she opened the tea-room door. She was
hot and tired and hurried. The little clock on the mantelshelf said a
quarter to twelve as she closed the door behind her and then she saw
that there was a customer at a far table in the corner and realized
how late she was. A short, fat little woman was sitting tensely on the
edge of a chair, looking about her with quick, restless, stabbing
glances. She had on an atrocity of a hat that looked as though someone
had plumped down on her head a flimsy crate of refuse blossoms and
vegetables. It was a riot of colour and disorder. And her short,
protuberant bosom rested on the table's edge while the face above it
was marked with stern lines of dissatisfaction. Little folds of flesh
hung down below her jaws.
Giving Mary Louise a momentary appraising glance, us the latter came
in with her bundle, she snapped out: "This place open, you suppose?"
Mary Louise hastily laid down the menus. "Yes," she said, "it is.
Haven't you been waited on?"
"No," said the old lady, stirring in her chair and making as if to
rise, though wild horses could not have pulled her away from even the
prospect of food. "I've been sitting here ten minutes by your clock."
She turned away and stared gloomily into space with her mouth sharply
set in indignant endurance of such mistreatment.
Mary Louise hurried across the room. She pushed open the swinging door
into the passage that led to the kitchen. Everything was quiet. She
wondered at it. As she stood there for an unappreciable instant, she
heard a slight sound to her right, seemingly from the little pantry or
storage room that was tucked in beneath the stairs. The door of it
ordinarily stood open.
She paused a moment then took one step forward and pushed open the
door.
Full beneath the light of the pendent lamp, leaning against the
serving table for support, stretched the billowy form of Maida Jones,
half reclining in the arms of the sleek-haired cook who sat on the
table edge and faced the door. Her head was thrown back in complete
abandonment and her hair was coming down about her shoulders. The
boy's close-set eyes peered up sharply as Mary Louise opened the
door. Then there was an immediate scurry, the lamp was switched off,
and directly Maida emerged flushed and sullen.
Mary Louise was stunned. Her ideas were chaotic and could take no
form. But as they stood there facing each other, she was conscious of
a rising sense of the ludicrous mingled with disgust. The memory of
that momentary scene lingered in her mind like a piece of burlesque
statuary. She stifled a desire to laugh.
Then the other culprit began to stir about among the pans. Maida was
staring at her with lips partly open, her breath still coming short
and thick.
"Turn on the light," said Mary Louise.
And then as Maida made no move:
"Go fix yourself up. There's someone in the room waiting to be
served." Her voice was heavy with the scorn she felt.
Maida recovered. She bit her lip. Then she laughed a short, nervous
laugh. "Shocked to death, aren't you?"
"Not at all," replied Mary Louise pleasantly. "It's quite charming, I
assure you." She turned and entered the kitchen. The other cook and a
maid were quietly attending to their work. She paid them no attention
but went and stood by the back window over which was stretched a heavy
wire screen, and through the thick dust of which she could see a dim,
dusty, narrow courtyard and a pile of discarded boxes.
For a long time she stood there, with her hands folded one upon the
other and resting limply upon a table. The world had taken on a
grotesque slant. It was a strange place in which it was easy to lose
one's way. Her assurance, her satisfaction, her enthusiasm had
vanished. Nothing was well ordered; everything was haphazard. People
did the most unexpected things. And there was ugliness and deceit
parading about in broad daylight. She suddenly felt herself utterly
incapable of passing judgment on anything.
And as she stood staring out through that dingy window, with the
bustle and sounds of feet behind her, two fat round tears welled from
her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.