The Innocents Part 8

With carbolic acid and soap Mother cleaned away much of the smell of former inhabitants, while Father propped up the rusty stove with a couple of bricks, and covered the drably patternless wall-paper with pictures cut from old magazines, which he bought at two for five cents on Fourteenth Street. One of them was a chromo of a child playing with kittens, which reminded him of the picture they had had in more prosperous days. Mother furiously polished the battered knives and forks, and arranged the chipped china on shelves covered with fresh pink scalloped paper. When she was away Father secretly pursued the vulgar but socially conscious sport of killing c.o.c.kroaches with a slipper.

As the Applebys pa.s.sed along the hopeless streets, past shops lighted with single gas-jets, or through halls where suspicious women in frowsy wrappers peered at them, they were silent. But in their one room they were hopeful again, and they celebrated its redecoration with music energetically performed by Father on the mouth-organ. Also they ventured to go out to dinner, in a real restaurant of the great city, their city. On Fourteenth Street was a n.o.ble inn where the menu was printed in English and Hungarian, where for thirty-five cents each they had soup and goulash and coffee and pudding in three colors, chloroformed beets and vast, pale, uneasy-looking pickles, electric lights in red globes and a tinseled ceiling hung with artificial flowers, the music of a violin and the sight of eager city faces.

"I'm as excited as a boy with his first pair of red-top boots," declared Father. "Pretty fine to see people again, heh? And pretty soon we'll be dining at the Wal-dorf-As-torya, heh?"

"How you do run on!" said Mother, mechanically, placid dreaminess in her face as she listened to the violin that like a river bore the flotsam of Hungarian and Jewish voices.

Alone, jobless, yet they were so recklessly happy that they went to a ten-cent movie and watched the extreme heroism of a young district attorney with the motionless eager credulity of the simple-hearted.

As soon as they had installed themselves, Father edged shyly into his old haunt, the shoe-store of Pilkings & Son.

He found Son brusquely directing the cleaning out of an old stock of hunting-boots which Pilkings, _pere_, had always believed would sell.

Pilkings, _fils_, was bald, and narrow between the eyes. He looked at Father and nodded as though it hurt him.

"I-- Is your father around, Mr. Edward?" Father inquired. "I didn't hear from you again--been waiting--thought maybe I'd get a letter--I hope he has recovered--I know how bad the grippe--"

While he was talking he realized that Edward Pilkings was in mourning.

Young Pilkings looked shallowly grieved and muttered, "The old gentleman pa.s.sed beyond, a week ago Thursday."

"Oh, Mr. Edward, I can't tell you-- It's a blow to me, a very great blow. I was with your father for so many, many years."

"Yes--uh-- Yes."

"Is there-- I wonder if I couldn't send a letter or some flowers or something to your mother?"

"Why, yes, I guess there's nothing to prevent.... Boy, you be careful of those boxes! What the deuce do you think you're trying to do? There, that's a little better. Try to show some sense about your work, even if you ain't got any." Edward Pilkings's voice crackled like wood in a fireplace.

Desperately Father tried again. "Fact is, Mr. Edward, I've given up my tea-room on Cape Cod. Didn't go so very well. I guess my forty, like the fellow says, is sticking to selling shoes. Mrs. Appleby and I have just got back to town and got settled down and-- Fact is, I'd be glad to go back to work."

His hesitant manner invited refusal. It was evident that Mr. Edward Pilkings was not interested.

Shyly Father added, "You know your father promised to keep a place open for me."

"Well, now, I'll tell you, Appleby; it ain't that you aren't a good salesman, but just _now_ I'm--well, kind of reorganizing the business. I sort of feel the establishment ought to have a little more pep in it, and so-- You see-- But you leave your address and as soon as anything turns up I'll be mighty glad to let you know."

For years Father had pityingly heard applicants for jobs disposed of with the request to "leave their addresses."

"No," he said; "no, maybe I'll come in and see you again some day. Good day. Good luck to you, Mr. Edward."

He greeted his old acquaintances among the clerks. They were cordial, but they kept an eye on Mr. Edward Pilkings.

He shivered as he walked out. It was warm and busy in the shoe-store, but outside it was rather chilly for a man with no overcoat--or job. It seemed incredible that he should have found his one place of refuge closed to him.

He walked from shoe-store to shoe-store, hopelessly. "Old-fashioned place," the shoe-men said when he mentioned his experience with Pilkings & Son's. "Be glad to do what we can for you, Mr. Appleby, but just now--"

He had reached the department-store section. Already the holiday rush had begun. Holly was in the windows; Salvation Army solicitors tinkled irritating bells on every corner.

Department stores had always rather bewildered this man of small business, but he inquired for the help-employment bureau in the largest of them, and his shyness disappeared as he found a long line of applicants filling out blanks. Here he did not have to plead with some one man for the chance to work. He was handled quickly and efficiently.

On a blank he gave his age, his experience, how much he expected; and a brisk, impersonal clerk told him to return next day.

On that next day the world became wonderful for Father, wonderful and young again, for some one did actually want him. He had a temporary holiday-help job in the leather-goods department, at eight dollars a week.

Father's first day of work in the leather-goods department was the most difficult he had ever known. His knowledge of shoes and leather had become purely mechanical; a few glances at new stock and at trade journals had kept him aware of changing styles. Now he had suddenly to become omniscient in regard to hand-bags, portfolios, writing-cases, music-rolls; learn leathers which he had never handled--cobra-seal, walrus, ecrase, monkey-skin. He had to appear placidly official, almost pontifical, when vague ladies appeared, poked clippings from holiday magazines at him, and demanded, "I want something like that." "That"

usually depicted articles of whose use he had the most indefinite notions. Other ladies, ponderous ladies, who wanted vast quant.i.ties of free advice before purchasing Christmas presents, desired encyclopedic information about sewing-cases, picnic-sets, traveling pillow-cases, telephone-pads, guest-books, and "a cover for my Social Register, and I want you to be sure it's the very latest thing."

He was defenseless. He could not dodge them. Anybody could come up and ask him anything--and did. And while he could learn something about the new leathers, still it was difficult for him to remember the Long Island Railroad time-table well enough to reply instantly when an irate shopper snapped at him, "Do you know what's the next train for Hempstead?"

The most _difficile_ woman in a shoe-store has at least a definite, tangible foot to fit. But the holiday crowd were buying presents for persons of whom Father knew nothing--though the shoppers expected him to know everything, from the sizes of their wrists to their tastes in bill-folds. They haggled and pushed and crowded; they wanted it to be less expensive, as well as more blessed, to give than to receive. He spent twenty minutes in showing the entire line of diaries to one woman.

She apparently desired to make sure that they were all of them moral or something of the sort. At the end of the time she sighed, "Oh dear, it isn't time for the matinee even yet. Shopping is so hard." And oozed away into the crowd.

Father had started his first day with a superior manner of knowing all about leather and the ways of cranky customers. He ended it with a depressed feeling that he knew nothing about anything, that he couldn't keep up the holiday pace of the younger clerks--and that the a.s.sistant buyer of the department had been watching him. He walked home with strained, weary shoulders, but as he turned into the gloomy hallway leading to their room he artificially brightened his expression, that he might bring joy home to Mother, who would have been lonely and anxious and waiting all day.

He pictured her as sitting there, hunched up, depressed. He would bounce in with news of a good day. He tried the door carefully. Mother stood in the middle of the floor, in a dream. In the dimness of the room the coal fire shone through the front draught of the stove, and threw a faint rose on her crossed hands. Taller she seemed, and more commanding. Her head was back, her eyes sparkling. She was clean-cut and strong against the unkempt walls.

"Why, Mother! You look so happy! What is it?"

"I'm going to help! I'm not going to be a lazybones. I've got a job, too! In the toy-department at Regalberg's. And they are going to pay me nine dollars a week. How's that for your stupid old woman?"

"Why--why--you don't need-- I don't know as I like--" began the conventional old Father to whom woman's place was in the home whether or not there was a home in which to have a place. Then the new Father, the adventurer, declared, "I think it's mighty fine, Mother. Mighty fine. If it won't be too hard on you."

"I'm going to take you to dinner to-night, instead of you taking me.

That is, if you'll lend me a dollar!"

Laughing till they nearly cried, with Father shamelessly squeezing her arm on public thoroughfares, they again plunged into the Roman pleasures of the little tinsel restaurant. And like two lovers, like the telephone-girl in your office and the clerk next door, they made an engagement to meet at noon, next day, in a restaurant half-way between Regalberg's and Father's store.

When she came breathlessly into that beef-stew and paper-napkin restaurant at noon, Mother already had something of the busy, unself-conscious look of the woman who can compete with men. Her cheeks were flushed with walking. Her eyes were young. She glanced about the room, found Father, smiled quickly, and proceeded to order her own lunch in a business-like way.

"They told me to be back in half an hour," she said, "but I don't mind a bit. It's been nice all morning. This is the first time in my life I ever did have all the children to talk to that I wanted. And the sweet toys! Think of me gadding around like this, and enjoying it! I swear to goodness I don't know myself. And what do you think I'm going to do if either of us gets a raise? I'm going to buy you an overcoat!"

Father felt that he didn't know her, either. She did most of the talking at lunch, and hurried cheerfully back to her job, while Father plodded wearily away, speculating as to whether he could keep bustling on tired, stinging feet till six, like the younger holiday help with whom he was in compet.i.tion.

He couldn't seem to please the a.s.sistant buyer of the department at all, that afternoon, though in his eager way he tried to be the perfect salesman.

On Sat.u.r.day morning there was a little note for him in which the superintendent was obsequiously Father's servant, and humbly informed Father that his services wouldn't be needed after that day. Would he, if it was quite convenient, call for his pay the following Tuesday, and not fail to turn in his locker-key before leaving the establishment?

The a.s.sistant buyer came around and unhappily told Father that they were letting him go because the department was overstocked with younger, liver men. "I'm mighty sorry, and I wish you good luck," he said, with flash of the real man under the smooth, steely exterior.

Father scarcely heard him, though he smiled faintly. He read the note many times as he stumbled home. But he couldn't get himself to show it to Mother till Sunday afternoon, so proud was she of helping him and proving herself a business woman--succeeding in a nine-dollar job while Father, who had once been worth twenty-two good dollars a week, hadn't been able to keep an eight-dollar job. Being quite human, Father felt a scornful envy of her for a minute, when she repeated all the pleasant things that had been said to her. But she was so frank, so touchingly happy, that he could not long harden his heart.

When he told her of his ill-fortune she put her hand to her breast and looked desperately afraid. It was only with a dry gasp that she could say: "Never mind, Seth, you'll find something else. I'm glad you don't have to handle all those silly card-cases and all. And so--so--oh, I do hope you find something."

"You won't think I'm entirely a failure?"

"I won't have you use that word! Don't I know--haven't I seen you for years? Why, I depend on you like--it sounds like a honeymoon, but you're just about my religion, Seth."