JACKIE
In declaring that Ellen would repay the money she had taken from Rosie's
bank, Mrs. O'Brien had spoken in all sincerity. She was perfectly
convinced in her own mind that every one of her children would always do
exactly as he should do. She was willing to acknowledge that the poor
dears might occasionally make mistakes, but such mistakes, she was
certain, were mistakes of judgment, not of principle. Give them time,
she begged, and in the end they would do the right thing. She'd stake
her word on that!
Ellen's own attitude was one of annoyance, not to say resentment, that
she had been forced to raise money for the curls in so troublesome a
manner. Rosie's reproachful glances and Terry's revilings irritated but
in no way touched her. In fact, she seemed to think that, in
appropriating Rosie's savings, she had been acting entirely within her
rights. She would never have been guilty of touching anything belonging
to an outsider but, like many selfish people, she had as little respect
for the property of the members of her own immediate family as she had
for their feelings. It was quite as though she conscientiously believed
that the rest of the O'Briens had been placed in this world for the sole
purpose of adding to her comfort and convenience. It always surprised
her, often it bored her, sometimes it even grieved her that they did not
share this view. It seemed to her nothing less than stupidity on their
part not to.
So, despite her mother's promises, despite George Riley's hopes, Rosie
knew perfectly well that her savings would never be refunded. They were
gone and that was to be the end of them. Thanks to kind George Riley,
Rosie had weathered the first storm of disappointment and had learned
that, notwithstanding a selfish unscrupulous sister, life was still
worth living. Neither then nor later did she definitely forgive Ellen
the theft--how could she forgive when Ellen, apparently, was conscious
of no guilt?--but she tried resolutely not to spend her time in vain
regrets and useless complainings. The days passed and life, like the
great river that it is, flowed over the little tragedy and soon covered
it from sight.
The school year slowly drew to a close and at last Mrs. O'Brien felt
free to make a request about which she had been throwing out vague hints
for some time.
[Illustration: "Here, baby darlint, go to sister Rosie."]
"Rosie dear," she began with an imploring smile, "now that vacation's
come and you don't have to go back any more to school, won't you, like a
good child, help your poor ma and take care of your little sister
Geraldine? Here, baby darlint, go to sister Rosie."
Mrs. O'Brien held out the baby, but Rosie backed resolutely away.
"Now see here, Ma, you just needn't begin on that, because I won't. I
guess I do enough in this house without taking care of Geraldine: I wash
all the dishes, and that old Ellen O'Brien hardly ever even wipes them;
and I do the outside scrubbing; and I go to the grocery for you six
times a day; and I help with the cooking, too; and I always carry up
Jarge's supper to the cars; and I take care of Jackie. Besides all that,
I got my paper route. I guess that's enough for any one person."
Mrs. O'Brien conceded this readily enough. "Of course it is, Rosie dear,
and I'm not sayin' it ain't. You're a great worker, and a fine little
manager, too. I used to be a manager meself, but after ye've been the
mother of eight, and three of them dead and gone--God rest their
souls!--things kind o' slip away from you, do ye see? What was it I was
sayin' now? Ah, yes, this: now that summer's come, if only ye'd help me
out with Geraldine, p'rhaps I could catch up with me work. Like a
darlint, now."
Mrs. O'Brien, shifting Geraldine from one warm arm to the other, smiled
ingratiatingly; but Rosie only shook her head more doggedly than before.
"No, Ma. The rest of the people in this house don't do things they don't
want to do, and for once I'm not going to either. I tell you I'm not
going to begin lugging Geraldine around!"
"You poor infant!" Mrs. O'Brien crooned tearfully, "and does nobody love
you? Ah, now, don't cry! Your poor ma loves you even if your own sister
Rosie don't!"
Responsive to the pity expressed in her mother's tones, Geraldine raised
a fretful wail, but Rosie, though she felt something of a murderess,
still held out.
"I tell you, Ma, Jackie's my baby. I've taken good care of him, and
that's all you can ask."
Mrs. O'Brien sighed in patient exasperation. "But, Rosie dear, can't you
see that Jackie's a big b'y now, well able to take care of himself?"
"Take care of himself! Why, Ma, how you talk! Don't I have to wash him
and button his shoes and put him to bed?"
"Well, I must say, Rosie, it's high time he did such things for
himself--a fine, healthy lad going on six! Why, yourself, Rosie, hadn't
turned six when you began mothering Jackie!"
It was not a subject Rosie cared to argue, so she retired in dignified
silence. But her mother's words troubled her. In her heart she knew that
Jackie was a well-grown boy even if in many things he was still a baby.
But why shouldn't he still be a baby? The truth was Rosie wanted him to
be a baby; it delighted her to feel that he was dependent on her; it was
her greatest pleasure in life to do things for him. And if she was
willing to serve him, why, pray, should other people object?
Unfortunately, though, certain disturbing changes were coming over
Jackie himself. Within a few months he had burst, as it were, the
chrysalis of his babyhood and come forth a full-fledged small boy with
all a small boy's keenness to be exactly like all other small boys.
Rosie's interest in his welfare he had begun to resent as interference;
her supervision of him he was openly repudiating; and, worst of all, he
was showing unmistakable signs of becoming fast friends with Joe
Slattery, youngest member of the family and neighbourhood gang of the
same name. Rosie had done her best to check the growing intimacy, but in
vain. So long as school continued, Jack could meet Joe in the
school-yard, and Rosie had been helpless to interfere. But now, for the
coming of vacation, she had a project carefully thought out. In her own
mind she had already arranged picnics at the zoo, excursions to the
woods, jaunts to the park, that would so occupy and divert the attention
of Jack that he would soon forget Joe and the lure of the Slattery gang.
What time, may one ask, would Rosie have for this work if she burdened
herself with Geraldine? None whatever. No. Geraldine was her mother's
baby, and if her mother didn't insist on Ellen's relieving her a little,
why, then she would have to go on alone as best she could. With her
everlasting excuse of business college, Ellen did little enough about
the house anyway. Rosie hardened her heart and, as the family gathered
for midday meal, was ready with a plan for that very afternoon.
She broached the subject at the table. "Say, Jackie, do you want to come
with me this afternoon? I'm going somewheres."
"Oh, I dunno."
Rosie's heart sank. But a short time ago he would have jumped down from
his chair and rushed over to her with an eager: "Oh, Rosie, where you
going? Where you going?" Now all he had to say was an indifferent, "I
dunno."
Rosie made one more effort to arouse his old enthusiasm. "Me and Janet
are going up to Boulevard Place."
She waited expectantly, and Jack finally grunted out in bored
politeness: "That so?"
A moment later his indifference vanished at a vigorous shout from
outside: "Hi, there, Jack! Where are you?" It was Joe Slattery's voice.
"I'm th'u," Jack announced, gulping down a last bite. "I got to go."
"Where you going, Jackie?" Rosie tried not to show in her voice the
anxiety she felt.
"Oh, nowheres. Don't you take hold o' me, Rosie, 'cause I'm in a hurry."
Rosie went with him to the door, still keeping her hand on his shoulder.
"Please tell me where you're going."
"You just let go my arm! I'll kick if you don't!"
Jack struggled violently, broke away, and, escaping to a safe distance,
scowled back at Rosie angrily. "'Tain't none o' your business where I'm
going! Guess I can go where I want to!"
"Oh, Jackie, Jackie! Is that the way to talk to your poor Rosie?"
Joe Slattery, who had, of course, instantly espoused his friend's cause,
now spoke: "He's goin' in swimmin'! That's where he's goin' if you want
to know it!"
"Swimmin'! You mustn't, Jackie, you mustn't! You'll get drownd-ed! Sure
he will, Joe! He don't know how to swim one bit!"
Joe grinned mockingly. "Guess he can learn, can't he?"
Rosie paused distractedly, then clutched at the only straw that floated
by. "See here, Jackie, you can go with Joe and you can look on, but
listen: if you promise me you won't go in, I'll give you a whole
nickel!"
Jack looked at Joe and Joe looked at Jack. Then with the eye farthest
away from Rosie, Rosie thought she saw Joe screw out a small wink.
Thereupon Jack turned to Rosie with a frank, guileless smile.
"All right, Rosie. You give me a nickel and I won't--honest I won't."
"You promise me faithfully you won't go in?"
"Sure I won't, Rosie! Cross my heart!"
Rosie drew out one of her hard-earned nickels and gave it to him. He
and Joe promptly hurried off.
"Now, remember!" Rosie called after them, beseechingly; but they seemed
not to hear, for they made her no answer.
Rosie went back to the table almost in tears. "Jackie's gone off with
that Joe Slattery and they're goin' in swimmin' and I just know he'll
get drownd-ed!"
"You don't say so!" ejaculated Mrs. O'Brien. "Why didn't you tell me,
Rosie dear, before they got started?"
"Tell you!" Rosie's tears changed to scorn. "Why'd I tell you? You know
very well how much you'd do! You always let every one do just what they
want!"
Mrs. O'Brien blinked reproachful eyes. "Why, Rosie, how you talk! If
you'd ha' told me that Jackie was goin' in swimmin' I'd ha' gone out to
him and said: 'Now, Jackie dear, mind the water! Don't go in the deep
places first!' I give you me word, Rosie, I'd ha' said it if it were me
last breath!"
Rosie lost all patience. "I know very well that's exactly what you'd
say! That's all the sense you got! That's all the sense that anybody in
this house has got! And I suppose by this time Jackie's drownd-ed, and
if he is I want to die, too!"
Mrs. O'Brien looked at her in amazement. "Why, Rosie dear, what a
flutter ye do be puttin' yourself into! Ah, now I see. It's because
Jackie's your first chick! Take me word for it, darlint, when ye're the
mother of eight ye won't be carryin' on so. Come to think about it, I
remember meself over Mickey--God rest his soul!--the first day he went
swimmin'. Mickey was just turned seven, and Terry here was toddlin'
about on the floor, and yourself was in me arms no bigger than poor wee
Geraldine.
"'Where's Mickey?' says I to Mrs. Flaherty, who was livin' next door.
"'Mickey?' says she. 'Why, didn't I see Mickey start off with the b'ys?
They be gone swimmin',' says she.
"'Swimmin'!' says I, and with that I lets out a yell. 'He'll be
drownd-ed!' says I. 'Me poor Mickey'll be drownd-ed!'
"'Be aisy, Mrs. O'Brien,' says she; 'or ye'll be spoilin' yir milk and
then what'll ye do?' And she was right, Rosie, was Mrs. Flaherty, for
Mickey got back safe and sound, to be carried off two years later with
scarlet fever!"
Mrs. O'Brien nodded her head complacently and poured herself another cup
of tea.
Rosie, her face still tragic and woebegone, turned to her brother. "Will
you do something for me, Terry?"
"What?"
"Follow Jackie out and see that he don't get into deep water."
Terry looked at her as if she were crazy. "Sorry, Rosie, but I got
something more to do than trail Jack around. Besides, he's not going to
get hurt. It'll be good for him."
Rosie washed the dinner dishes in silence, thinking to herself what a
cold-blooded family she had. There was poor wee Jackie out there
drowning, for all they knew, and not one of them willing to stretch
forth a helping hand. She escaped as soon as she could to seek the
sympathy of her friend, Janet McFadden.
Another blow was in store for her. Janet heard her out and then said:
"But, Rosie, don't all boys go swimming?"
Rosie was ready to weep with vexation. "What do I care what all boys do?
This is Jack!"
"Well," said Janet, with maddening logic, "even if it is Jack, I guess
Jack's a boy."
Drawing herself up to her greatest height, Rosie looked her friend full
in the face. "If that's all you got to say, Janet McFadden, I guess I
had better be going. Good-bye."
"Don't you want me to help with your papers this afternoon?" Janet
called after her.
"No!" Rosie spoke brusquely, then added lamely: "I'm in a hurry today."
"Oh, very well!" Janet lifted her head and tightened her lips. "I'm sure
I don't want to go where I'm not wanted."
"So she's mad at me, too!" Rosie told herself as she hurried off,
feeling more miserable than before.
She got her papers and went about delivering them, nursing her grief in
her heart, till she came to old Danny Agin's cottage. Then she talked
and Danny, as usual, listened quietly and sympathetically.
At first he had nothing to say. He screwed his head about thoughtfully,
squinted at his pipe, tapped it several times on the porch rail, blew
through the stem, then finally cleared his throat.
"It's just this way, Rosie: I know exactly how ye feel. Jack's yir own
baby, as it were; but, whist, darlint, he can't be always taggin' after
ye, don't ye see? He's a pretty big lump of a b'y now, and if I was you
I'd just let him run and play by himself when the mood takes him. Then,
when he comes back, just talk to him like nuthin' was the matther, and
upon me word, Rosie, he'll love ye all the more for it."
"But, Danny," Rosie wailed, "what if he was to get drownd-ed?"
Danny reached over and patted her on the arm confidentially. "Ah, now,
Rosie, what if we was all to get drownd-ed? You know it happened wance.
Noah was the gintleman's name. From all accounts 'twas a fearful
experience. But 'twas a long time ago, and since then any number of us
have escaped. Why, Rosie dear, I've never yet been drownd-ed meself, and
in me young days I was mighty fond of the wather. So cheer up, darlint,
for the chances are that Jackie'll come out all right."
Rosie dried her eyes listlessly. It seemed to her they were all in
conspiracy against her. Yes, she was sure of it.