The Street (39 page)

She transferred the protection powder from the pocket of her house dress to her coat pocket and then put the comb and brush, a hand mirror, and a towel on the bed near the cross. Mis' Crane would probably be mad because she hadn't come to work today. She got mad easy. Well, she'd tell her there was sickness in the family. It was true, too. Jones was sick;
at least he certainly wasn't what you'd call well and healthy, so he must be sick.

She added her spring coat, a straw hat, and a felt hat to the pile of items on the bed. She brought newspapers from the kitchen to wrap them in. It was going to be a pretty large bundle, and she decided to make two separate packages and wrap the cross and the house dresses by themselves. She would carry that package, because these pushcart men were very careless and sometimes let things slip off the back of their carts.

The closet floor was dusty. She wiped it up with a damp rag and then scrubbed it with scouring powder until the boards had a bleached, new look that pleased her. When she straightened up, she started to wipe her hands on the sides of her dress and halted the motion abruptly. She was still wearing her coat, had the woolen scarf tied over her head.

‘I musta known all along I was going,' she said, aloud. ‘Never even took my hat and coat off.'

The doorbell rang with a sudden loud shrilling that stabbed through her. She jumped and gave a frightened exclamation. Immediately she thought of Jones and her breathing quickened until she was gasping. Then the fear in her died. He never rang the bell. It must be the moving man that Mis' Hedges had sent.

She went to the door. ‘Who is it?' she said. He must be a heavy-handed man, a strong man from the vigorous way he'd pushed the bell.

‘Pushcart man,' the voice was deep, impatient, almost a growl.

She opened the door. ‘Come in,' she said, and led him toward the living room, talking to him over her
shoulder. ‘It's the big table, the canary cage, and a bundle. I'll go get the bundle. The little one I'll carry myself, and how much will it be?'

She brought the big bundle out and put it on top of Jones' desk.

‘This all?'

‘Yes,' she said, and looked him over carefully. He had wide strong shoulders, though he wasn't very tall. His skin was weather-beaten, so that the dark brown of it had a reddish cast as though he had plenty of sun on him. ‘Only the table is heavy. The other things is light,' she said.

‘How far they go?'

She wasn't going to live on this street or very close to it and she searched her memory of other near-by streets. A couple of blocks up near Seventh Avenue she had seen signs in the windows, ‘Lady Boarder Wanted'—she'd try there first.

‘'Bout two blocks.'

‘Three dollars,' he said. And then, as though he felt impelled to justify the price, ‘That there table weighs more than most folks' furniture put together.'

‘All right.'

She held the door open while he struggled through it with the big table on his back. He went very slowly, so slowly that she grew impatient and kept looking up the stairs, afraid that Jones might have finished painting and would come down them before she got moved good. Then the pushcart man got the table out to the street and came back and picked up the big bundle and the canary cage.

‘I'll be right out,' she said. ‘You wait, because I'll be going along with the things.'

He went out the door and she walked over to Jones' desk and laid the doorkey in the middle of it, where he couldn't possibly miss it when he sat down there. She stared at the key. She had held it in her hand when she left for work in the morning, because the last thing she did before she went out was to make sure she had it with her; and at night, too, she'd clutched it tight in her hand when she approached the door on her return. Leaving it here like this meant that she was saying good-bye to the security she had known; meant, too, that she couldn't come back, never intended coming back, no matter what the future held for her.

She ought to be going. What was it that held her here staring at this key? It was only a doorkey. She had her mind full made up to go. It wasn't safe here any more, she couldn't stand Jones any more. She looked around the room impatiently, seeking what it was that held her here while the pushcart man waited outside, while the danger of Jones coming into the apartment increased with every passing moment.

The trouble was she didn't know why she was going. Why was it? There was something that she hadn't satisfactorily figured out, some final conclusion that she hadn't reached. Ah, yes, and as this last full meaning dawned on her, she sighed. It was because if she stayed here she would die—not necessarily that Jones would kill her, not because it was no longer safe here, but because being shut up with the fury of him in this small space would eventually kill her.

‘And a body's got the right to live,' she said softly.

When she walked away from the desk, she didn't look back at the key. But she paused in the doorway
filled with a faint regret that there wasn't anyone for her to say good-bye to, because a leave-taking somehow wasn't complete without a friend to say farewell, and in all this house she didn't know a soul well enough to say an official good-bye to them.

But there was Mis' Hedges. She walked briskly out of the door at the thought. Once outside, she verified the safety of the big varnish-shiny table. The pushcart was drawn up close to the curb and the table was slung atop of it. The ornate carved feet were up in the air. She saw with satisfaction that practically every woman who walked past paused to admire it; their eyes lingered on the carving, then they drew closer as they enviously estimated its length.

If she hadn't put a dark cover over Dickie-Boy's cage, everyone passing could have seen that, too, and their mouths would have watered. Too bad she had covered it, but if she hadn't he would have been excited by his strange surroundings and probably stopped singing for a week or more.

She turned toward Mrs. Hedges. ‘I come to say good-bye,' she said.

‘You goin', dearie?' Mrs. Hedges looked at the large newspaper-wrapped bundle under Min's arm.

Min nodded. ‘Prophet kept me from being put out, but I don't want to stay no more.' Then her voice dropped so low that Mrs. Hedges had to strain to hear what she was saying. ‘Jones really ain't bearable no more,' she said apologetically. She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was louder. ‘Well, good-bye now,' she said, and smiled widely so that her toothless gums were revealed.

‘Jones know you're leavin'?'

‘No. I didn't see no point in telling him.'

‘Well, good-bye, dearie.'

‘See you,' Min said. And then loudly, clearly, very distinctly she said again, ‘Well, good-bye now.'

She walked near the curb, following the table's slow progress up the street. The table was heavy and the man had to lean all his weight on the handles of the cart in order to push it. With his legs braced like that, he looked like a horse pulling a heavy load. Well, he wouldn't have far to go, just a couple of blocks or so.

As she trudged along beside the cart, her thoughts turned to Jones; maybe if he'd had more sun on him he would have been different. After that time he'd tried to pull Mis' Johnson down in the cellar, he just got worse and worse. That was a terrible night, what with Mis' Johnson screaming and that long skirt all twisted around her and so dark near the cellar door that the two of them looked like something in a bad dream the way you'd remember it the next morning when you woke up.

Actually today was the first time Jones had gone for her since she went to the Prophet, because of course with the kind of protection she had it was only natural that he wouldn't try to put his hands on her. She gripped the bundle more tightly, searching for the shape of the cross through the softness of the dresses, felt for the protection powder in her coat pocket.

She looked at the pushcart man again. A woman living alone didn't stand much chance. Now this was a strong man and about her age from the wiry gray hair near his temples; willing to work, too, for
this work he was doing was hard.

No, a woman living alone really didn't stand much chance. Landlords took advantage and wouldn't fix things and landladies became demanding about the rent, waxing sarcastic if it was even so much as a day behind time. With a man around, there was a big difference in their attitude. If he was a strong man like this one, they were afraid to talk roughly.

Besides, when there were two working if one got sick the other one could carry on and there'd still be food and the rent would be paid. It was possible to have a home that way, too—an apartment instead of just one hall room and with the table her money would always be safe.

This was a very strong man. His back muscles bulged as he pushed the cart. She moved closer to him.

‘Say,' she said, and there was a soft insinuation in her voice, ‘you know anywhere a single lady could get a room?' Then she added hastily, ‘But not on this street.'

JONES laid the big calcimine brush down on top of the ladder, pulled his watch out of the pocket of his overalls. It was two-thirty, way past the time when he usually ate. He climbed slowly down the ladder, feeling for each step. He was so damn tired that even his feet hurt.

He'd gone up and down the stairs until he'd lost track of how many times it was and all because he'd been fool enough to stick a note in the bell ‘Super Painting in 41,' and it looked like everybody in the house had immediately discovered something wrong that had to be fixed right away—sinks and faucets on the third floor, a stopped-up tub on the second floor. He mimicked the old woman who lived on the second floor, ‘Clothes in the tub soakin', soakin', soakin', and the water ain't runnin' out, and what
am I goin' to do with them wet pieces that need rinsin'?' On top of that, he'd gone down in the basement to fire the furnace.

He slammed the door of the apartment behind him, then turned and locked it. He'd better catch a breath of air before he fixed himself something to cat, because the smell of the paint was in his nose, looked like it had even got in his skin.

Min was home today. She was in the apartment right now. His steps slowed on the stairs as he remembered how he'd almost got his hands on her this morning. Had she made the sign of the cross or had he imagined it? Even now he didn't really know. There must be some way he could get over his fear of that cross just long enough to choke her good; and she'd leave so fast it wouldn't be funny. And she had to get out, because even without the cross being involved, he couldn't bear to look at her any more. Much as he hated Lutie Johnson, every time he looked at Min he thought of Lutie.

Once in the hall downstairs he walked swiftly past the door of his apartment, forcing his thoughts away from Min and Lutie, concentrating on how good the air would feel once he was out on the street.

The first thing he noticed when he got outside was that the sun had come out. He leaned against the building, breathing deeply, watching the people who walked past. He sniffed the air appreciatively. It was cold, but it smelt fresh and clean after the paint smell. Not much warmth in the sun, though, and the sky was grayish as though there was snow building up in it. Yes, it would snow tonight or tomorrow.

‘Min's gone,' Mrs. Hedges said blandly.

He clenched his fists as he turned toward her window. She was always interfering with him. He had been quietly studying the sky and enjoying the clear, cold air, and then that voice of hers had to interrupt him. He took another step toward the window and stood still, remembering the white man Junto who protected her, the white man who had a drag with the police and who had taken Lutie Johnson away from him. Some day he would get so mad he would forget that she had protection and he would pull her over that window sill and big as she was, he would beat her and go on beating her until she was all pulp and screams and then—His mind echoed her words. She had said something about Min.

He looked directly at her. ‘What?' he said.

‘Min's gone, dearie,' Mrs. Hedges repeated.

‘Gone?' He walked closer to the window, not understanding. ‘What you mean she's gone? Gone where?'

‘She's moved out. Took her table and the canary and left about eleven o'clock.'

‘That's fine,' he said. ‘I hope she don't come back. If she tried to come back I'd—I'd—' The words twisted in his throat and he stopped talking.

‘She won't be back, dearie.' Mrs. Hedges' voice was calm, placid. ‘She's gone for keeps.' She leaned toward him, established her elbows in a comfortable position on the window ledge. ‘Now what was it you said you was going to do if she tried to come back?'

He turned away without answering her and went inside the house. It could be that she was lying, had made the whole thing up to see what he was going to
say. It was probably a trap, some kind of trap, and the quicker he found out what it was all about the better.

The instant he opened the door, he knew that Mrs. Hedges had told the truth. Min had gone. The living room was deserted, empty. She was never home at this time of day, and he looked around him wondering what it was that made him so sharply aware that she had gone; trying to determine what the difference was in the room.

The wall in front of him was bare, blank. That was it—that long empty space was where the table used to stand. He pushed the easy-chair over against the wall and stared at it, dissatisfied. It couldn't begin to take the place of the table; instead it emphasized the absence of the gleam and shine of the table's length; made him remember how majestic the claw feet had looked down near the floor. He hadn't realized how familiar he had become with all the detail of that table until it was gone. It was only natural he should miss it, because he had stared at it for hours on end when he sat there on the sofa.