Tomorrow About This Time (21 page)

“Pristina!” called Grandma from the sitting room. “Come here quick and tell me which one this is.”

Pristina hurried from the kitchen where she was making cake, a flour sifter in her hand.

“That’s number one,” said Pristina assuredly. “She was the fat one with the painted face. I wonder why the other one didn’t go, too. They are going to play golf.”

“Seems to me that’s rather frivolous to begin with—golf,” said Grandma. “Seems as if for a man of his years he ought to be getting settled and getting out his work. If he’s really so great as they say, writing books and all, why don’t he write ‘em? I have no patience with people trying to keep from growing up. Golf! H’mmph!” sniffed Grandma.

“All great people do it nowadays, Grandma,” assured Pristina. “They talk in the magazines about it’s keeping you in shape.”

“Shape! Fiddlesticks! If he’d get out and do a little digging in his own garden it would keep him in shape enough. What was that, Pristina, that your Uncle Ned said the last time he came down from New York? It was something very fitting about this golf.”

“Oh, Uncle said he had no time for knocking a pill around a ten-acre lot. But Grandma, that wasn’t original. I’ve heard it since and read it in the joke column.”

“Very likely they got it from your uncle Edward,” said Grandma reprovingly. “You have a way of discounting your relatives that is very disappointing, Pristina. Your own family are as good as any you’ll find anywhere. Don’t go yet, Pristina. Who is that coming up from the post office? She’s met them. Perhaps she’ll be coming here. She’ll be able to tell us something, and then we shall know what to think. I declare it’s very embarrassing not knowing what to think, nor how to act.”

“That’s Lizette Weldon, Grandma, and she’s bringing back the cup of yeast she borrowed last week. I see a cup in her hand.”

Lizette had seen Greeves and his daughter start out.

“My soul!” said Lizette and hastened to grab her brown cape and get the cup of yeast that she might not miss this great opportunity. She met them as they were passing the gate.
Yes, that’s the one! My, ain’t she coarse!
she commented inwardly.
Now, does he think he’s going to pretend he don’t know me? Well, I rather guess not
. “Good morning, Mr. Greeves. We’re pleased to see the old house lighted up.”
There, now
, she thought to herself.
That’ll make that fat thing understand that I saw her last night, and perhaps she’ll be more careful when she cuts up her antics
.

Patterson Greeves, startled into recognition, lifted a belated hat. “Oh, yes, good morning. It is a long time since it was. Thank you. I hope you are quite well!”

He didn’t know me from the man in the moon
, she thought to herself as she hastened up the street with the yeast.
What a man! I

don’t wonder she divorced him. Mercy, but that girl is fat! And her clothes looked like my patchwork quilt with the rising sun pattern. I wonder he lets her go out that way. He knows what’s expected in this town, he lived here long enough, goodness knows. But perhaps he doesn’t care what we think
.

Pristina hastened to the door. Ordinarily Lizette was not overly welcomed, but a common cause does a great deal to bring folks down to a common level.

“Well, what do you think of Patterson Greeves’s daughters?” she asked almost before she had her breath from coming up the steps.

“Daughters?” chorused the Vandemeeter girls, all present but Harriet who was hastening down from the third story as fast as possible, having left a pillow in midair as she was making the bed, when she heard Lizette’s voice at the front door.

“Daughters!”
reiterated Lizette sitting down complacently with the cup of yeast still in hand. “Sort of startling, ain’t it? I never heard of them before, did you? Strange that Mrs. Truesdale or someone never let it out, but land! She’s as closemouthed as Miss Lavinia Silver was, every bit, and a thousand times more aristocratic. Well, I met one of ‘em face-to-face, and I don’t think much of her. She’s fat and coarse and dresses outlandish. I was just thinking on my way down she looked as if she had on my rising sun bed quilt, all odd stripes and stitches over her skirt and sweater.”

“Daughters!” echoed the Vandemeeters again and looked at one another. “We must tell Arden’s wife!”

“What’s her name?” asked Pristina.

“Well, he didn’t name her when he introduced her,” evaded Lizette. “Perhaps that’s the fashion now. But the fact is I don’t believe he remembered my name, although he pretended he was awful pleased to see me.”

“Well—it’s only natural—after all these years—” said Mother comfortably.

“No ‘tain’t natural, you know ‘tain’t. Why, I’ve spanked him for stealing my cherries!”

“That’s probably the reason,” said Pristina. “One can’t be dignified in the face of a spanking. How old is that girl anyway?”

“Well, I hardly know, Pristina. She looked older, an’ younger, ‘n she oughta be. I couldn’t quite describe it. Kind of as if she was an old woman that hadn’t growed up, or a baby that had lived a hundred years. One thing I know, she had smut under her eyes, and them lips never grew red like that. It ain’t natur’.”

“Is she the oldest or the youngest?” asked Mother, biting off her thread and holding up her needle to the light.

Well, ‘deed I can’t really tell you, Mis Vandemeeter, but I shud judge she might be the youngest. But then I ain’t seen the other so you can’t tell. This one wears pants, regular pants like the boys, if that’ll tell you anything. But laws! The other one may, too, for all I know. She keeps herself mighty close.”

“She went out with Pat—with her father, I mean—yesterday afternoon,” contributed Harriet. “She looked to me like a real modest-appearing girl. She has pink cheeks, not too pink, and light hair, a real girl. I liked her looks.”

“I’m sure I don’t see how you could tell at that distance, Aunt Harriet,” said Pristina coldly.

“Well, her dress seemed quiet,” defended Harriet.

“Well, they may wear dresses that scream for all me,” said Pristina crossly. “I’m going back to my angel cake.”

Lizette’s languidly alert eyes followed her mournfully, and when the click of the flour sifter could be heard she lowered her voice somberly: “Wasn’t Pristina rather interested in Mr. Greeves at one time?”

“Mercy, no!” clamored Mother so audibly that her voice could be heard in the kitchen. “Pristina was a babe in arms when he went away from here. Just because she did her duty by honoring a fellow citizen in her essay at the club, everybody has jumped to the conclusion that she’s in love with him. I wish to pity’s sake you’d turn your attention to someone else, Lizette, and not carry gossip around about my child.”

“Well, now Lucy, I certainly think you’ll have to take that back. I don’t know what you mean. I only asked a simple question, didn’t I? And I don’t originate all the questions in this town, do I? If I give you a little hint of what’s passing, isn’t that only kindness?”

Mrs. Vandemeeter pursed her lips around a pin and looked angry.

“Well, all I’ve got to say,” said Lizette rising offendedly, “is, if you don’t ever find any worse things said about you than I say, you can count yourself well off. There’s your yeast. Don’t trouble to get up. I’ve got to run right back. I thought you’d be interested to know, but of course if you’re not I’ll keep the rest to myself. Good-bye.”

She shut the door with a slam and swished down the front walk.

“Cat!” said Pristina from behind the pantry door.

“There, now Lucy, I’m afraid you’ve done it. She’ll tell something a great deal worse. It never does to make an enemy mad, especially if she’s got a tongue. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’ the saying is, and it’s very true,” said Grandma. “Something about it being better to have even a dog your friend, too, what is it? Don’t any of you know? It bothers me so to have something like that I can’t remember. Now I shall lie awake all night tonight thinking of that, and it will worry me like anything that you gave her a chance to talk about Pristina, Lucy. She’ll talk, I know she will.”

“Let her talk!” said Mother with her head in the air. “I guess Pristina can stand it. Pristina’s a lady.”

“Well,” said Pristina, “I’d like to know what those girls are named. You can tell a whole lot by names.”

“You’ll know soon enough,” said Grandma. “Get back to your cake. I wonder if Arden’s wife knows about their being daughters! Well, I must say, it’s a relief to know they’re daughters. The neighborhood has always been so respectable.”

Athalie was a different creature on the golf course, alert, strong, skillful, full of eagerness, like a boy. She whistled and talked slang and patronized her father till he began to feel like a small boy himself, and all the time as he walked silently from point to point studying his amazing child, he was seeing himself in all her actions and then seeing Lilla in her waywardness between and realizing more and more that he was responsible for this strange tantalizing creature. Part of the time also he was wondering why he had been persuaded to come out on the golf course with this child of whom he disapproved, whom he did not want to be with, and why he was trying with all his might to control his temper and make her have a good time. It was all Silver’s doing. “Silver-Alice!” he said it over and over to himself. “Silver-Alice! Silver-Alice! Silver-Alice!” And the name sounded sweet to his soul. Why had he not known what sweetness there was in fatherhood?

On the way home it almost appeared from something Athalie said that she had been trying to make him have a pleasant time. He felt strangely touched and chagrined. Not that he liked to have her put herself out for him. It went against the grain to find her doing such a thing. But the justice in his soul cried out for her due. He found himself promising that the morning should be repeated and then groaning within himself over the interruption to his life this was going to be.

But when they reached the house and Anne told him that the minister had called up to ask if they would like to take a drive that afternoon, he found himself entirely willing to be interrupted still further.

There was a struggle in his mind about taking Athalie along on the drive. He felt she would be a disturbing element. But when he asked her finally if she would like to go she asked suspiciously: “Is
she
going?” And when he answered in the affirmative she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Thank you, no. I told you how I felt about that. You can’t expect me to come when you take her.”

He was relieved. It made things easier. He felt sure Bannard would be even more pleased.

Silver, too, was relieved. He could see that. Yet there was a cloud in her eyes, a weight, a weight on her heart. Her conscience was overactive. It troubled her that there should be enmity between her father’s daughter and herself.

But the day was gorgeous, one of those caressing days in spring when June seems to have anticipated herself and Earth’s tuning has begun. Little warm scents flitted about and tiny melodies of living creatures moving: the whir of a bee’s wings, the grumble as he worked, the stir of things growing, budding, blossoming, grass blades like rockets shooting everywhere, sharp emerald sounds broadcasting only to those whose ears attuned to their pitch, a meadowlark’s note, high, clear above it all.

And then the three seemed so congenial. There was so much to see and talk about, so much in which all were interested.

Bannard was the guide, Greeves the historian, Silver the audience, eager, questioning.

They started up the road past the schoolhouse where Greeves had been a student, out the old Pike, across the covered bridge and curving back of the village along the beach of silver beside the sparkling stream, down toward Frogtown. Bannard wanted to show them his mission and to point out a good location for the proposed building.

They drew up in front of a row of old stone hovels crazily jostling each other facing the road and the creek. Bannard pointed to a vacant lot not far away, and he and Greeves were discussing whether it would be better farther up the hill. Silver sat watching the children playing on the path, dirty little things, yet beautiful beneath the dirt. Wonderful starry black eyes set in faces that might have been the models for some of the angel faces in the paintings of great masters, tumbled curls, and rosy cheeks, tiny earrings glittering sharply under the dirt and tousle, little bodies scantily clad, little savages unaware of their soil and nakedness. Clamoring, fighting, throwing mud, the older girls carrying babies too large sized for their backs, the younger babies huddled to watch the automobile.

A woman hurried out from one of the houses, a curious three-corner shawl of bright colors thrown over her head and folded back like a headdress. She had an air of excitement. Bannard called to her: “Good morning, Nuncie, all well at your house?”

“Oh, it’s the maister!” cried the woman, her voice full of agitation, her dark-lined face working with emotion. “It’s the baby, little Mary, Angelo’s Mary. Vary seek. I go for the doctor. He come two times yesterday. I tink she got the pneumonias. She turn all black. Her heart stop—”