CLAIRE ESCAPES FROM RESPECTABILITY
Claire Boltwood lived on the Heights, Brooklyn. Persons from New York
and other parts of the Middlewest have been known to believe that
Brooklyn is somehow humorous. In newspaper jokes and vaudeville it is so
presented that people who are willing to take their philosophy from
those sources believe that the leading citizens of Brooklyn are all
deacons, undertakers, and obstetricians. The fact is that North
Washington Square, at its reddest and whitest and fanlightedest,
Gramercy Park at its most ivied, are not so aristocratic as the section
of Brooklyn called the Heights. Here preached Henry Ward Beecher. Here,
in mansions like mausoleums, on the ridge above docks where the good
ships came sailing in from Sourabaya and Singapore, ruled the lords of a
thousand sails. And still is it a place of wealth too solid to emulate
the nimble self-advertising of Fifth Avenue. Here dwell the
fifth-generation possessors of blocks of foundries and shipyards. Here,
in a big brick house of much dignity, much ugliness, and much
conservatory, lived Claire Boltwood, with her widower father.
Henry B. Boltwood was vice-president of a firm dealing in railway
supplies. He was neither wealthy nor at all poor. Every summer, despite
Claire's delicate hints, they took the same cottage on the Jersey Coast,
and Mr. Boltwood came down for Sunday. Claire had gone to a good school
out of Philadelphia, on the Main Line. She was used to gracious leisure,
attractive uselessness, nut-center chocolates, and a certain wonder as
to why she was alive.
She wanted to travel, but her father could not get away. He consistently
spent his days in overworking, and his evenings in wishing he hadn't
overworked. He was attractive, fresh, pink-cheeked, white-mustached, and
nerve-twitching with years of detail.
Claire's ambition had once been babies and a solid husband, but as
various young males of the species appeared before her, sang their
mating songs and preened their newly dry-cleaned plumage, she found that
the trouble with solid young men was that they were solid. Though she
liked to dance, the "dancing men" bored her. And she did not understand
the district's quota of intellectuals very well; she was good at
listening to symphony concerts, but she never had much luck in
discussing the cleverness of the wood winds in taking up the main motif.
It is history that she refused a master of arts with an old violin, a
good taste in ties, and an income of eight thousand.
The only man who disturbed her was Geoffrey Saxton, known throughout the
interwoven sets of Brooklyn Heights as "Jeff." Jeff Saxton was
thirty-nine to Claire's twenty-three. He was clean and busy; he had no
signs of vice or humor. Especially for Jeff must have been invented the
symbolic morning coat, the unwrinkable gray trousers, and the moral
rimless spectacles. He was a graduate of a nice college, and he had a
nice tenor and a nice family and nice hands and he was nicely successful
in New York copper dealing. When he was asked questions by people who
were impertinent, clever, or poor, Jeff looked them over coldly before
he answered, and often they felt so uncomfortable that he didn't have to
answer.
The boys of Claire's own age, not long out of Yale and Princeton, doing
well in business and jumping for their evening clothes daily at
six-thirty, light o' loves and admirers of athletic heroes, these lads
Claire found pleasant, but hard to tell apart. She didn't have to tell
Jeff Saxton apart. He did his own telling. Jeff called--not too often.
He sang--not too sentimentally. He took her father and herself to the
theater--not too lavishly. He told Claire--in a voice not too
serious--that she was his helmed Athena, his rose of all the world. He
informed her of his substantial position--not too obviously. And he was
so everlastingly, firmly, quietly, politely, immovably always there.
She watched the hulk of marriage drifting down on her frail speed-boat
of aspiration, and steered in desperate circles.
Then her father got the nervous prostration he had richly earned. The
doctor ordered rest. Claire took him in charge. He didn't want to
travel. Certainly he didn't want the shore or the Adirondacks. As there
was a branch of his company in Minneapolis, she lured him that far away.
Being rootedly of Brooklyn Heights, Claire didn't know much about the
West. She thought that Milwaukee was the capital of Minnesota. She was
not so uninformed as some of her friends, however. She had heard that in
Dakota wheat was to be viewed in vast tracts--maybe a hundred acres.
Mr. Boltwood could not be coaxed to play with the people to whom his
Minneapolis representative introduced him. He was overworking again, and
perfectly happy. He was hoping to find something wrong with the branch
house. Claire tried to tempt him out to the lakes. She failed. His
nerve-fuse burnt out the second time, with much fireworks.
Claire had often managed her circle of girls, but it had never occurred
to her to manage her executive father save by indirect and pretty
teasing. Now, in conspiracy with the doctor, she bullied her father. He
saw gray death waiting as alternative, and he was meek. He agreed to
everything. He consented to drive with her across two thousand miles of
plains and mountains to Seattle, to drop in for a call on their
cousins, the Eugene Gilsons.
Back East they had a chauffeur and two cars--the limousine, and the
Gomez-Deperdussin roadster, Claire's beloved. It would, she believed, be
more of a change from everything that might whisper to Mr. Boltwood of
the control of men, not to take a chauffeur. Her father never drove, but
she could, she insisted. His easy agreeing was pathetic. He watched her
with spaniel eyes. They had the Gomez roadster shipped to them from New
York.
On a July morning, they started out of Minneapolis in a mist, and as it
has been hinted, they stopped sixty miles northward, in a rain, also in
much gumbo. Apparently their nearest approach to the Pacific Ocean would
be this oceanically moist edge of a cornfield, between Schoenstrom and
Gopher Prairie, Minnesota.
* * * * *
Claire roused from her damp doze and sighed, "Well, I must get busy and
get the car out of this."
"Don't you think you'd better get somebody to help us?"
"But get who?"
"Whom!"
"No! It's just 'who,' when you're in the mud. No. One of the good things
about an adventure like this is that I must do things for myself. I've
always had people to do things for me. Maids and nice teachers and you,
old darling! I suppose it's made me soft. Soft--I would like a soft
davenport and a novel and a pound of almond-brittle, and get all sick,
and not feel so beastly virile as I do just now. But----"
She turned up the collar of her gray tweed coat, painfully climbed
out--the muscles of her back racking--and examined the state of the rear
wheels. They were buried to the axle; in front of them the mud bulked in
solid, shiny blackness. She took out her jack and chains. It was too
late. There was no room to get the jack under the axle. She remembered
from the narratives of motoring friends that brush in mud gave a firmer
surface for the wheels to climb upon.
She also remembered how jolly and agreeably heroic the accounts of their
mishaps had sounded--a week after they were over.
She waded down the road toward an old wood-lot. At first she tried to
keep dry, but she gave it up, and there was pleasure in being defiantly
dirty. She tramped straight through puddles; she wallowed in mud. In the
wood-lot was long grass which soaked her stockings till her ankles felt
itchy. Claire had never expected to be so very intimate with a
brush-pile. She became so. As though she were a pioneer woman who had
been toiling here for years, she came to know the brush stick by
stick--the long valuable branch that she could never quite get out from
under the others; the thorny bough that pricked her hands every time she
tried to reach the curious bundle of switches.
Seven trips she made, carrying armfuls of twigs and solemnly dragging
large boughs behind her. She patted them down in front of all four
wheels. Her crisp hands looked like the paws of a three-year-old boy
making a mud fort. Her nails hurt from the mud wedged beneath them. Her
mud-caked shoes were heavy to lift. It was with exquisite self-approval
that she sat on the running-board, scraped a car-load of lignite off her
soles, climbed back into the car, punched the starter.
The car stirred, crept forward one inch, and settled back--one inch. The
second time it heaved encouragingly but did not make quite so much
headway. Then Claire did sob.
She rubbed her cheek against the comfortable, rough, heather-smelling
shoulder of her father's coat, while he patted her and smiled, "Good
girl! I better get out and help."
She sat straight, shook her head. "Nope. I'll do it. And I'm not going
to insist on being heroic any longer. I'll get a farmer to pull us out."
As she let herself down into the ooze, she reflected that all farmers
have hearts of gold, anatomical phenomena never found among the snobs
and hirelings of New York. The nearest heart of gold was presumably
beating warmly in the house a quarter of a mile ahead.
She came up a muddy lane to a muddy farmyard, with a muddy cur yapping
at her wet legs, and geese hissing in a pool of purest mud serene. The
house was small and rather old. It may have been painted once. The barn
was large and new. It had been painted very much, and in a blinding red
with white trimmings. There was no brass plate on the house, but on the
barn, in huge white letters, was the legend, "Adolph Zolzac, 1913."
She climbed by log steps to a narrow frame back porch littered with
parts of a broken cream-separator. She told herself that she was simple
and friendly in going to the back door instead of the front, and it was
with gaiety that she knocked on the ill-jointed screen door, which
flapped dismally in response.
"_Ja?_" from within.
She rapped again.
"_Hinein!_"
She opened the door on a kitchen, the highlight of which was a table
heaped with dishes of dumplings and salt pork. A shirt-sleeved man, all
covered with mustache and calm, sat by the table, and he kept right on
sitting as he inquired:
"Vell?"
"My car--my automobile--has been stuck in the mud. A bad driver, I'm
afraid! I wonder if you would be so good as to----"
"I usually get t'ree dollars, but I dunno as I vant to do it for less
than four. Today I ain'd feelin' very goot," grumbled the
golden-hearted.
Claire was aware that a woman whom she had not noticed--so much smaller
than the dumplings, so much less vigorous than the salt pork was
she--was speaking: "_Aber_, papa, dot's a shame you sharge de poor young
lady dot, when she drive by _sei_ self. Vot she t'ink of de Sherman
people?"
The farmer merely grunted. To Claire, "Yuh, four dollars. Dot's what I
usually charge sometimes."
"Usually? Do you mean to say that you leave that hole there in the road
right along--that people keep on trying to avoid it and get stuck as I
was? Oh! If I were an official----"
"Vell, I dunno, I don't guess I run my place to suit you smart
alecks----"
"Papa! How you talk on the young lady! Make shame!"
"--from the city. If you don't like it, you stay _bei_ Mineapolis! I
haul you out for t'ree dollars and a half. Everybody pay dot. Last mont'
I make forty-five dollars. They vos all glad to pay. They say I help
them fine. I don't see vot you're kickin' about! Oh, these vimmins!"
"It's blackmail! I wouldn't pay it, if it weren't for my father sitting
waiting out there. But--go ahead. Hurry!"
She sat tapping her toe while Zolzac completed the stertorous task of
hogging the dumplings, then stretched, yawned, scratched, and covered
his merely dirty garments with overalls that were apparently woven of
processed mud. When he had gone to the barn for his team, his wife came
to Claire. On her drained face were the easy tears of the slave women.
"Oh, miss, I don't know vot I should do. My boys go on the public
school, and they speak American just so goot as you. Oh, I vant man lets
me luff America. But papa he says it is an _Unsinn_; you got the money,
he says, nobody should care if you are American or Old Country people. I
should vish I could ride once in an automobile! But--I am so 'shamed, so
'shamed that I must sit and see my _Mann_ make this. Forty years I been
married to him, and pretty soon I die----"
Claire patted her hand. There was nothing to say to tragedy that had
outlived hope.
Adolph Zolzac clumped out to the highroad behind his vast,
rolling-flanked horses--so much cleaner and better fed than his wisp of
a wife. Claire followed him, and in her heart she committed murder and
was glad of it. While Mr. Boltwood looked out with mild wonder at
Claire's new friend, Zolzac hitched his team to the axle. It did not
seem possible that two horses could pull out the car where seventy
horsepower had fainted. But, easily, yawning and thinking about dinner,
the horses drew the wheels up on the mud-bank, out of the hole and----
The harness broke, with a flying mess of straps and rope, and the car
plumped with perfect exactness back into its bed.