ON SCARS AND BRUISES
A few mornings later Rosie was seated on the front steps, shelling peas,
when Janet passed the gate.
"Aren't you coming in?" Rosie called out.
At first Janet was not, but on Rosie's second invitation she changed her
mind. As she reached the steps, Rosie discovered the reason of her
hesitation. She had a black eye. She carried it consciously, but with
such dignity, as it were, that Rosie could not at once decide whether
Janet expected her to speak of it, or to accept it without comment.
Janet herself, after an introductory remark about the weather, broached
the subject.
"What do you think about the eye I've got on me? Ain't it a beaut?"
It certainly was, and Rosie expressed emphatic appreciation.
"And how do you suppose I got it?" Janet pursued.
"I couldn't guess if I had to!"
Rosie's answer was tactful, rather than truthful. In her own mind she
had very little doubt whence the black eye had come. But it would never
do to say that she supposed it had been given Janet by her father during
one of the drunken rages to which he was subject. With one's dearest
friend one may be frank almost to brutality, but not on the subject of
that friend's family. There are reserves that even friendship may not
penetrate. So, with an exaggeration of guilelessness, Rosie declared:
"I couldn't guess if I had to! Honest I couldn't!"
Janet had her story ready:
"You know how dark the halls in our building are. Well, I was just going
downstairs, when a boy sneaked up behind me, and pushed me, and I
slipped, and hit my face against the banister. And I think I know who it
was, too!"
Rosie was by nature too simple and direct to simulate with any great
success the kind of surprise that Janet was forever demanding of her.
Fortunately this time it did not matter, for, while Janet was speaking,
Rosie's mother had appeared with an armful of darning. Unlike Rosie,
Mrs. O'Brien was always in a state of what might be termed chronic
surprise. She paused now before seating herself, to remark in shocked
tones:
"Why, Janet McFadden, what's this ye're tellin'? Mercy on us, ain't b'ys
just awful sometimes! But I'm thinkin' your da'll soon settle that lad!"
Janet shook her head violently.
"Mrs. O'Brien, I wouldn't dare tell my father that boy's name for
anything! My father'd just murder him--honest he would! It just makes my
father crazy when anybody touches me! He ain't responsible, he gets so
mad--really he ain't! So you can see yourself I got to be mighty careful
what I tell him. Besides, I ain't dead sure it was that boy, but I think
it was."
Mrs. O'Brien's interest in the situation equalled Janet's own.
"I see exactly the place you're in, Janet, and I must say it's wise, the
stand you take."
Mrs. O'Brien bit off a strand of darning cotton, and carefully stiffened
the end.
"You see," Janet continued, "it's this way with me. I'm an only child,
and you know yourself how men act about their only child."
"I do, indeed, Janet, and I feel for you." From her sympathetic
understanding of Janet's problem, one would never have supposed that
Mrs. O'Brien herself was the mother of a large family, and had been the
child of a larger one. She held up a sock impressively. "You're quite
right, Janet. Your da might do somethin' awful. There's no holdin' back
some men when they take it into their heads that their only child has
been mistreated."
Rosie sighed inwardly. She had very little of that histrionic sense that
prompts people to assume a part and play it out in all seriousness. At
first such a performance as the present one wearied her. Why in the
world do people pretend a thing when they know perfectly well that they
are pretending? Then, as the moments passed, she grew interested in
spite of herself, for the acting of her mother and Janet was most
convincing. At last she was not quite sure that it was acting. She was
brought back to her senses by Janet's turning suddenly to her with the
exclamation:
"Ain't they all o' them just awful, anyhow!"
No need to ask Janet of whom she was speaking. It was an old practice of
hers, this glorifying her father in one breath, and in the next
vilifying men in general. Rosie protested at once:
"Why are they awful? I think they're nice."
Janet looked at her in kindly commiseration.
"Well, then, Rosie, all I got to say is--you don't know 'em."
"I don't know them! Well, I like that!" Rosie was indignant now. "I
guess I know them as well as you do!" Rosie paused, then concluded in
triumph: "Don't I know my own brother Terry? I guess he's all right!"
"Terry," Janet repeated, with a significant headshake. "Now I suppose,
Rosie, you think you and Terry are great friends, don't you?"
"I don't think so; I know so."
Janet laughed cynically.
"Yes, I suppose you and him are great friends as long as you run your
legs off for him. But listen to me, Rosie O'Brien! Do you know what he'd
do to you if you was to lose one of his paper customers? He'd beat the
very puddin' out of you! I guess I know!"
"Janet, you're crazy!"
"Crazy? All right, Rosie, have it your own way. But I leave it to Mis'
O'Brien if I ain't right."
That lady, being, as it were, pledged to Janet's support, instead of
vindicating her own son, made the weak admission:
"Well, I must confess there's somethin' in what Janet says."
At Janet's departure, Rosie looked at her mother scornfully.
"Ma, don't you really know how Janet got that black eye?"
Mrs. O'Brien dropped her darning in surprise. At every turn life seemed
to hold a fresh surprise for Mrs. O'Brien.
"Why, Rosie! What a question to ask your poor ma! Do I look like I was
born yesterday?"
Mrs. O'Brien did not; but, even so, Rosie insisted upon a direct answer.
"Well, then, if you really must know, Rosie dear, I'll be glad to tell
you. That brute of a Dave McFadden has been knockin' her down again."
Rosie clucked her tongue impatiently. "Maggie O'Brien, there's one thing
I'd like to ask you. When Janet knew how she got that black eye, and you
knew how she got it, and she knew perfectly well that you knew, why in
the world did you both go pretending something else?"
Mrs. O'Brien looked at her daughter in patient despair.
"My, my, Rosie, what a child ye do be! Wouldn't it be awful of me to go
insultin' poor little Janet by saying: 'Ho, ho, Janet, that's a fine
black eye yir da has given you!'"
Rosie squirmed in exasperation. "But why do you got to say anything? Why
do either of you got to say anything?"
"Why do I got to say anything?" In Mrs. O'Brien, surprise had now turned
to amazement. "Why, Rosie dear, what's this ye're askin' me? Haven't I
always got to say somethin'? Wasn't it for talkin' purposes that the
Lord put a tongue in me head?"
"But couldn't you talk about something else besides that black eye?"
"I could not. Take me word for it, Rosie, that black eye was the one
thing of all to talk about. Don't you see, dear, 'twas that was taking
up Janet's entire attention, for it was on her mind as well as on her
face. So not to make it awkward for the poor child, I simply had to talk
and let her talk."
Rosie still shook her head obstinately. "Even if it was on her mind, I
don't see why she had to go make up that silly story that nobody
believes, and that she don't believe herself. She always does."
Mrs. O'Brien's face broke into a smile of understanding.
"Ah, Rosie, I see now what's troublin' you. You don't see why poor Janet
wants to cover up that brute of a Dave."
This was exactly what was troubling Rosie, as she agreed readily enough.
"And, Ma," she continued, "do you suppose if my father beat me, I'd go
around pretending he was the best ever? Well, I wouldn't!"
"Your poor da, did you say, Rosie? May God forgive you for havin' such a
thought! Why, that poor lamb wouldn't hurt a fly--he's that gentle! Ah,
Rosie, it's on yir knees ye ought to be every night of yir life,
thankin' God for the kind o' father I picked out for you!"
"I am thankful, but I wouldn't be if he was like Dave McFadden. And I
wouldn't pretend I was, either."
"Ah, it's little ye know about that, Rosie, for just let me tell
ye--ye'd be exactly like Janet if ye were in Janet's shoes."
"I bet I wouldn't!"
"Rosie, ye couldn't help yirself. Ye'd have to stand up for him even if
he was a brute."
"Why would I have to?"
"Because he's your da. Is it possible, Rosie dear, that ye don't yet
know 'tis a woman's first duty to stand up for a man if he's her da, or
her brother, or her husband, or her son? Mercy on us, where would we be
if she didn't? Have ye ever heard me, all the years of your life,
breathe a whisper against Jamie O'Brien?"
"I should think not!" To Rosie this seemed a very poor example of the
principle in question. "How could you? Dad never even beats the boys,
let alone you and me!"
Mrs. O'Brien smacked her lips pensively. "No, he don't beat me." She
sighed slowly. "I mean _now_ he don't."
Rosie looked at her mother with startled eyes. "Ma, what do you mean?"
Mrs. O'Brien sighed again, and took up her darning. "Nuthin' at all,
Rosie. I don't know what I'm sayin'. I can't gab another minute, for I
must finish this sock. So run off, like a good child, and don't bother
me."
"But, Ma"--Rosie's voice dropped to a whisper, and a look of horror came
into her face--"do you mean he used to--beat you?"
"Rosie dear, stop pesterin' me with your questions. Far be it from me to
set child against father, and, besides, as you know yourself, he's
behavin' now. What's past is past. I've said this much to you, Rosie,
so's to give you a hint of the ragin' lions that these here quiet,
soft-spoken little lambs of men keep caged up inside o' them. Oh, I tell
you, Rosie dear, beware o' that kind of a man, for you never know when
the lion in him is goin' to break loose and leap out upon you. Ah, I
know what I'm sayin' to me everlastin' sorrow!"
"Why, Ma, are you crazy! Dad has never laid a finger on you, or on any
one else, and you know he hasn't!"
Rosie scanned her mother's face in hope of discovering a little family
joke, but Mrs. O'Brien met her gaze with sad, truthful eyes as guileless
as a baby's.
"All right, Rosie dear, maybe your poor ma is crazy. But I wonder now
ye've never noticed the scar on me right shoulder, nor asked the cause
of it."
"What scar?"
"Have you never seen it, Rosie?"
Mrs. O'Brien began unbuttoning her waist to exhibit the scarred
shoulder. Then she paused, thought a moment, and changed her mind.
"No. As ye've never noticed it, Rosie, it wouldn't be right of me to
show it to you now. The sight of it might make you bitter. But you
surprise me that you've never seen it. It's a foot long at least, and
two fingers deep, and itches in rainy weather."
"Why, Ma!" Rose's eyes were fixed, and her mouth a round, blank question
mark.
"Upon me word of honour, Rosie!"
For a moment Rosie was too shocked to go on. Then she gasped: "How--how
did it happen?"
"How did it happen, do you ask? That, Rosie, is a secret that'll go with
me to the grave. This much I'll tell you--'twas made with a
butcher-knife. But who gave the blow, I wouldn't confess under torture.
Now, Rosie dear, don't tempt me to say another word, for I'm done."
Mrs. O'Brien lifted her head high, took a long breath, and began a
serious attack on the sock.
Rosie questioned further, but in vain.