Evergreen (13 page)

She felt profoundly that he had made a great change in her. She no longer thought of herself as a girl. A long age had passed since the time before his coming. He had enlarged her, so that she had new feeling for the blind man passing in the street and the young men dying in Europe. And yet, in an entirely opposite way, he had made everything but himself so unimportant that she didn’t care what happened anywhere, as long as he was safe.

During the night she often heard Joseph get out of bed to go in to the crib, and she knew that he was listening for the baby’s breathing. No child had ever been more loved than this one! No child was ever more carefully fed and bathed, dressed and played with, than this one.

“Maybe he’ll be a doctor,” Joseph said.

“A lawyer would be fine, too.”

They were able to laugh at their own foolish pride. Yet they meant what they said.

She read to Maury, long before he could possibly have understood the words. But somewhere she had heard that infants can absorb the sound and feel of words even though they do not understand them. So she read peaceful things, poems of Stevenson and Eugene Field.

“Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings—little blue pigeon with velvet eyes.”

In front of the apartment house the mothers sat with
their carriages and strollers, observing, criticizing, counseling each other.

“You need another baby,” they told Anna. “You’re spoiling this one. It’s not good for him or you.”

Of course she wanted more children. And certainly Joseph wanted a large family. But none came. Yet really there was no great need to hurry. These years with Maury, only a few hundred days out of a long life, were too perfect to be wished away. All day long, after Joseph had gone to work before light, until he came home after dark, they had each other, Anna and Maury.

Oh, little Maury, little boy!

Darkness still covered the earth and the street lamps still burned near their bedroom window. It was not quite five o’clock. In another minute Anna would rise and make Joseph’s breakfast. It was hard to get out of bed these winter mornings. The water stopped running in the bathroom; he had finished his shower. Now he would hang the towels back on the rack and wipe the tub, leaving it without spot.

His clothes for the morning were ready on the chair. He did everything with such care and method. His books of appointments and bills owed and money due him were all in order, so that he was always prepared, always on time, and no moment was wasted.

He came from the bathroom now and stood at Anna’s mirror to brush his hair, making an exact center part. The clean overalls that she had washed were in their paper bag by the door with his painter’s cap. He always wore a suit on the way to work. It was not, she knew, that he was ashamed of his work; he took pride in his labor and skill. It was just that he saw this work as a way station on the road to another life. He saw himself, she understood, as a man who went to work wearing a collar and tie.

It seemed to Anna, and had from the beginning, that he was a clear and simple person to understand. Yet lately she had been concerned. He was so quiet. He had always been quiet, true. But now he had almost nothing to say. Often he
fell asleep in his chair after supper, and she would have to wake him to get him to bed. Of course, he was on his feet all day.…

The silence, of itself, did not brother her, for evening was her only time to read in peace. It was the reason, if any, behind the silence that troubled her.

At breakfast he said, “I read your brothers’ letters last night. I woke up around one o’clock; I couldn’t sleep, for some reason.”

“It’s so good to be hearing from them again.” Their letters since the end of the war had been cheerful enough. Dan had emerged unhurt from four years of fighting. Eli had shrapnel in his arm and would never bend the elbow again, but he had been given a medal for valor and his firm had promoted him, the three men ahead of him having been killed.

“If you aren’t killed you can make a good thing out of a war,” Anna said now, “outrageous as it is.”

“It would seem so,” Joseph answered bitterly. “You have only to look at what the war did for Solly.”

Who would have thought that Solly, of all people, would have prospered so? His boss had made a fortune turning out fatigue pants for the army and Solly had gone into the new factory, first as an assistant and then as supervisor. They had moved uptown to five nice rooms on Broadway at Ninety-eighth Street, much nicer rooms than Joseph’s and Anna’s.

“I’m glad for them,” Anna said and meant it. “With all those children, they needed some luck. Ruth told me confidentially that Solly and one of the other men may go in business for themselves. Solly’s saved a few thousand dollars, you know.”

“All you need is luck.”

“You’re not envious of Solly?”

“Of course I am! He’s a decent fellow—you know what I’ve always thought of him—but, my God, he’s no brain, is he? He’s a humdrum plodder and now he’s way ahead of me. Haven’t I got a right to be envious?”

“We’re doing fine, Joseph,” Anna tried to coax him.

“Fine!” He slapped the table. “I’m twenty-eight years old, thirty before you know it, and I’m exactly nowhere. Living in a dump!”

“It’s not a dump! Nice people live here, good solid people!”

“Sure! Department store clerks, bus drivers, postmen. Poor wage slaves living from hand to mouth. Like me.” He stood up and began to pace the kitchen. “And when I get older and can’t work ten or twelve hours a day anymore, what then? With prices rising while you’re looking at them? Well have even less than we have now, that’s what then.”

That part was true. Since the war everything was becoming more and more expensive. True, too, that they were not advancing.

“Anna, I’m scared. I look into the future and for the first time I’m scared,” he said.

There were small veins at his temples. One of them jumped when he talked. She hadn’t noticed that before. His hands were spotted with paint. They looked like the spotted hands of an old man. She thought, He looks older than twenty-eight. And she, too, was suddenly afraid.

One day Joseph came home and began to talk in a bright, excited voice. “You know what Malone the plumber told me today? He knows an apartment house near here that you can buy for almost nothing. The owner lost a pile in some business and on top of that both his kids have asthma. One of them almost died with it in the winter. So he’s got to move west and he wants to sell the house fast.” He walked up and down the room, as was his habit when he was tense. “Malone and another guy want me to go in with them. I need two thousand cash. Where can I get two thousand cash?”

He left the food on his plate. He picked up the newspaper and let it fall.

“Your magazine is on the table,” Anna said.

He always read the
Saturday Evening Post;
it was all he
ever read, except for the evening paper. He had no time for the morning paper.

Now he leafed through the magazine and put it aside. She saw that he was entirely intent on his idea. But nothing will come of it, she thought pityingly, and began to mend Maury’s overalls. The silence needed to be broken but she didn’t know how to do it.

Presently Joseph said, “Anna, I’ve thought of something.”

“Yes?”

“You know, when you were at the Werners’, they were very good to you. Maybe, if you asked, maybe they’d lend us some money.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure not!”

“Why? I would pay interest. They might just be willing to do it, rich people like them. I’ve heard of such things before.”

She felt weak with dread. What was he asking of her?

“It can’t hurt to try, can it?”

“Joseph, please, I’ll do anything for you, only don’t ask me to do that.”

“But I’m not asking you to do anything wrong! Are you too proud to ask for a loan, is that it?”

“Joseph, you’re shouting, you’ll scare Maury.”

They went to bed. She felt his anger and it frightened her. He was so seldom angry. “Joseph, don’t make me,” she whispered, and moved to touch him, but he drew away and pretended to be asleep.

In the morning he began again. “Damn it to hell, I could do so much with that money! I know I could! Malone and I could fix that place up, raise the rents, then sell it. Don’t you see, this is the start I’ve been waiting for and it may never happen again!”

He will wear me down, Anna thought.

“I’d go myself, but I don’t know the people. They’d listen to you.”

And on the third day she gave in. “Enough, for God’s sake! I’ll call Mrs. Werner on the telephone tomorrow.”

*  *  *

She climbed the steps of the Seventy-first Street house on Saturday morning. It was a warm day for March, but not warm enough to cause the sweat on the back of her neck.
That woman
, Anna thought. “How well you look, Anna,” she will say. “And so you have a son, how lovely!” She will write out the check (will she, possibly?). And hand it to me with her little smile and all her dignity.

The bell tinkled through the house. A moment later Paul Werner opened the door. He was wearing his topcoat and he had a package in his hand.

“Why, Anna,” he said. “Why, Anna.”

“I have an appointment with your mother.”

“But Mother’s in Long Branch for the week. The whole family’s there.”

“She told me to come at ten o’clock.”

“She did? Let’s go look on her desk. She might have left a message there.” And as Anna waited at the foot of the stairs, “Come up, Anna.”

The morning room was the same. The flowered chaise and the embroidery basket were still there. There was a new photograph on the desk, a large professional portrait of a baby. His baby?

He rummaged through papers. “I don’t see anything. Wait, here’s her calendar. It’s next Saturday, Anna; you’re a week ahead of time.”

My God, she thought, I look like a fool. And Joseph needs the money by Wednesday.

“It’s too bad. They’re down at Cousin Blanche’s farm for the week. There’s a big house party and Mrs. Monaghan and Daisy went, too. Daisy has your old place, Anna.”

She had forgotten his dark, rich voice. Like the deepest notes of a cello, it was.

“Is there anything I can do, Anna? What were you going to see Mother about?”

“I was going to ask whether she would lend us some money.”

“Oh? Are you in trouble? Sit down, tell me about it.”

“But I’m keeping you. You have your coat on.”

“Then I’ll take it off. I only stopped in to pick up a package and then I’ll catch the afternoon train to the shore.”

Her voice murmured, telling Joseph’s short story. The house was very still. The house was a fortress, safe and solid against the world’s attacks, cushioned with soft things: silk curtains, carpets, pillows.

She did not look at his face. With eyes turned down, she saw only the long legs, one crossed over the other, and the fine, burnished leather of the shoes. These strong, lean legs would ride, play tennis, never grow old. Joseph already had varicose veins. From standing so much, the doctor said.

“I didn’t want to ask you,” she cried suddenly, almost angrily. “I didn’t see any reason why you should lend two thousand dollars to a man you don’t even know.”

He smiled. How could eyes be so bright? Nobody else had such eyes, deep and vivid. “You’re right. There isn’t any reason. Except that I want to do it.”

“You want to?”

“Yes. You have a lot of spirit and courage. I want to do it for you.”

He drew a checkbook out of his pocket and took up a pen. Such easy power, commanding life, your own and other people’s!

“What is your husband’s name?”

“Joseph. Joseph Friedman.”

“Two thousand dollars. When you get home have him sign this. It’s an I.O.U. You can mail it to me. No, mail it here in care of my mother. I’m sure she would have done this for you herself.”

“I don’t know what to say!”

“Don’t say anything.”

“My husband will be so grateful. I don’t think he really expected—it was just a last hope. Because we don’t know anybody else, you see.”

“I understand.”

“He’s really such a good man. The most honest, good
man, believe me.” Why did she chatter like this? “But then that’s silly of me to say, isn’t it? What woman would tell you that her husband was dishonest?”

He laughed. “Not many, I imagine. But really, I hope this will accomplish what you hope.”

Anna had unbuttoned the jacket of her suit. She saw now that his glance had gone to the front of her shirtwaist, to the row of spiral ruffling that lay between her breasts. She ought now to stand up, repeat her thanks, and go to the door. But she did not move.

“Tell me, Anna;” he said. “Tell me about your little boy.”

“He’s four years old.”

“Does he look like you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Red hair?”

“No, blond. But probably it will be darker when he grows up.”

“You’re even more beautiful than you used to be. Do you know that?”

“Am I?”

Her hands were limp in her lap. When he came to kneel on the floor beside her chair and turned her mouth to his, she had no strength at all.

There were nine pearl buttons on the shirtwaist. Then the petticoats: first the taffeta, then the muslin with the blue insertion. And the corset cover. And the chemise.

His voice came from far away, as if from another room. It echoed, a voice within a voice. Her eyes closed; her arms were too heavy to move. She was lifted to the flowered chaise.

“You’re cold, my dear,” he said tenderly, and reached for a quilted throw to cover them both. They lay in a bliss of warmth. His lips were pressed into her neck; she felt, and heard, his rising, falling breath. She thought: This is a dream.

She opened her eyes. The room was dim with a pearly
northern light so pink and pale that it seemed like evening light, like evening calm.

Soft, soft. She closed her eyes. His fingers were moving through her hair, loosening the combs and pins. When the freed hair slipped over her shoulders he pulled it back from her temples.

“Lovely,” she heard him say. “Oh, lovely.”

Slowly he moved, not like an eager man in a hurry for his own quick release and then sleep, but slowly, flowing over her skin, beating in her blood, murmuring in her ears.