Letty Fox (34 page)

“That Madame Gouraud,” said Dora soulfully, “there was a good manager! How she kept those girls in order; and even Mathilde— even a good influence for Mathilde.”

“She is a very practical woman and a good manager,” said Grandmother, suddenly wide awake.

“And what do you hear Solander is doing? Mathilde heard he might come here.”

Grandmother sighed, “He may be long away—it is no joke—all alone—”

Dora said, “You can be worse than all alone; Philip is not a good husband, and he is there in the house with me.”

Grandmother gabbled suddenly, “You never know a person if you do not live together. There are plenty of people very nice and very clever because, you know, a too clever man may make a very bad husband. Yes, yes, I know whereof I speak. You should never pick a man who is too clever. I know. Because those men are spoiled by women. Yes, my dear, entirely spoiled.”

“Philip had so many women.”

“I could not tell; I could not. No, my dear. A sealed chapter, as they say. Some change; some never change. They change, yes; but when? When they can do wrong no longer. Don't tell me—once, yes—”

“Yes, they are converted when they are old men.”

“You know even the famous, wealthy author, Tolstoy. He was a military man, a Russian officer. He had women.”

Suavely Dora now egged Grandmother on, “Ah, you mean to say a woman-chaser then?”

“Woman-chaser! Woman-chaser!” scolded Grandmother. “He could not remember them all. He had plenty of legitimate. As for the others! Then he wrote against children when he was old. A nice crook. A famous man, indeed! Too clever by half! So do not trust men, my dear,” said Grandmother in the gentlest voice, “they are all the same. When I was young. Oh, dear! He was very independent and clever! And what he said! But you could not put your trust in it. Sometimes they are clever too, the innocent children; but if they are boys, you cannot trust them. First, what is it? Only a boy, only a child. Ah! what nonsense. It wastes your time. Yes, none so blind as who will not see. I see. I have a lot of experience, my dear. A fine talker, a fine man Tolstoy, indeed! Shakespeare, too! Thoughts are cheap. Words are cheap. All women, or most, are fit for marriage, but no men, very few. A sad, sad waste, yes, indeed; I know.”

Dora's voice became rascally, “Yes, after all, you should not try to control one individual, should you? If they do not want you, you should go on and live your own life.”

Grandmother responded to this with a cautious silence. Dora continued in the same voice, “Now Philip's mother, you know, she liked to have a good time. She is not dyeing her hair now; it is all pure white. But once, I hear—and why was that? Well, we know.”

“Oh,” said Grandmother, dubiously, “I don't like that, do you?” “You know there are many women at Green Acres who dye, and you know they like a good time.”

Grandmother hurried on, “I don't dye; if I don't please people, I can't help it.”

“This is not a good influence,” said Dora.

“If you see an elderly woman with blonde or brown or black hair, you can bet your life it is artificial. Bad taste. They must take me as I am,” said Grandmother.

“And others who do not like a good time,” pursued Dora, in a firmer voice, “are sometimes, under everything, very selfish. They have a selfish life. Or they are weak. They waste themselves on their own troubles. Everyone has troubles.”

Knowing that this referred to Mathilde, Grandmother remained silent. After a moment, Dora sighed, “Poor Mathilde, she does not feel fit for looking after a house and those spoiled children; not their fault, but a fact is a fact.”

Grandmother murmured vaguely, “Will you eat this? No? Then I'll put it away. It keeps better.”

“If she puts him in jail again,” said Dora composedly, “what will I do? Where will I be? For him it will, no doubt, be an improvement. I have no home for my little ones. I am the sort that never cracks. My business training, you see, keeps me at it. I sit straight; I don't lounge. I'm in the best of health, and not even morning sickness, just a little fatigue.”

“Morning sickness,” muttered Grandmother, with distaste, “well, everyone has it.”

“So why not let me stay with her, if he is not coming back?” Grandmother, who understood the whole plan in this moment, murmured, “See this nice little box? I'll keep it for wheatenas.”

“Yes, very nice. I will have a roof over my head, no extra rent, and when baby comes, it will have a home. And I can do everything for Mathilde. She has let things slip. The same rent covers us both. And think of the advantage—she will have no trouble at all. I will look after her, after those three girls now. They need it.”

“I don't know,” murmured Grandmother; “she does not like company.”

“So I wrote to Solander, you see,” said Dora, with composure; “and I am waiting to hear what his reaction will be. And believe me, if he agrees—for it will save him money too, you know—”

“How save him money?”

“Well, you know Mathilde cannot see my little ones starve, and she helps us out, and so she is obliged to get extra from Sol. This is only because Philip is a bad father and does not work. You see, I would never beg. I can work. I know my way about.”

Grandmother had become a trembling, old leaf standing on end in the dark room. She pottered to the window, and waved at a little boy across the court. He was peering from the dark bedroom opposite. She smiled and then frowned, “Sweet; yes, but when he grows up—another one—” She had mastered herself and came back to Dora, “You see, my dear, I know nothing about all this. I am all alone. No one bothers about me. They tell me nothing. I cannot advise you.”

Tactfully, she got the conversation away from Mathilde and Solander. But as soon as the corpulent, red-headed woman had gone, Grandmother began to shake all over; for she had been hoping all along that Mathilde would ask her to live with her, and that she could send Edie, the English girl, to a hostel. She muttered as she arranged her pillows for a sleepless night, “I am dying, on my last legs and she, a stranger, Mrs. Nobody-knows, from Nowhere, she is to stay there.” She continued, “I'll leave my money to Jacky and Letty, and what will happen to it? She will grab it. Mathilde is asleep on her feet. Sol is away—a fine rogue he is to me—I'm all alone—Lily Spontini—an idiot—she hopes too, she hopes, she's hanging on for it—pooh! I'm too old for such disgusting people. I see everything. None so blind as him who will not see. I see.”

After a quarter of an hour, she hurriedly pulled on her outer things, took the bus, and arrived after dinner at Mathilde's. There she had a serious talk with Mathilde. She found her daughter-in-law in a weak state of mind; “I can't look after them,” she said fretfully, “why shouldn't Dora? I hate her; but she's strong and capable. And I owe her something, because Philip's my brother.”

“All she wants is my money. What am I talking about? What money have I? Just nonsense—I'm getting old. But suppose Solander comes back! He will say, You don't want me! He does not care for this woman. She's a thief!” suddenly cried Grandmother, twisting her hands in a frenzy. “She told me, Sol can give his money to me and you can give your money to me, I'll manage it for the whole family.”

Mathilde stared at her superciliously. Meanwhile, the poor old woman, in her decline, went on imagining fresh terrors and giving them utterance.

The doorbell rang, and I admitted Aunt Dora, who gave a flash of triumph at the two uneasy women sitting in the lamplight. She cried, “Dear Mother Fox! You should be tucked in by this. The world traveler! What a brave little woman! But you wanted to see Mattie about something!”

“About what? I have no business; I am too old,” exclaimed Grandmother. It was easy to see that Grandmother Fox was bent upon protecting our five thousand dollars. But Dora Morgan was not upset. She said, “Where are you going to live, dear Mother? A woman of your age cannot live in a hotel. You're so used to your own home and your own things.”

“I don't know,” said my grandmother, most worried, and looking askance at Mattie. “What does Edie know? She doesn't know anything about this city. I can't go anywhere. She's used to a fine home.”

“I will find you a place,” said Dora; “naturally, I shouldn't be running about too much, but I carry well, very well. I never have morning sickness; I'm made to have a dozen children, Mother Fox. I love them, I love children. And a woman's made to bear children. I feel nothing, not a qualm. And the last one, darling Tony—only one hour labor pains! Just born for it, eh? So it won't upset me at all to look for a place for you. Now why don't you stay with dear Mathilde for tonight, and I'll ring Edie, and by tomorrow we might have found you a place; and if not tomorrow, then the next day. And I promise you, dear Mother, I won't overstrain myself, at all.”

Aunt Dora then handed Grandmother over to my mother, who was put out of countenance, for she could not say no, and bustled away to work on, or with, Edie.

The next day she had really found an apartment suitable for my grandmother's resources (she had a little money from Solander and Edie was willing to pay something weekly). It was up in the new district of George Washington Bridge, in Audubon Avenue.

My grandmother, who hated slums and suburban areas, and would have preferred above everything a flat in Times Square, was not at first displeased. Everyone said this area leading to Jersey would develop and become very modern. Nevertheless, the place she had was a miserable affair, on the ground floor (of which she was very much afraid), unfurnished, and looking upon the street, without an areaway intervening, and upon a court in the back, so that it was easily accessible to burglars.

Grandmother became quite crazed with fear, and muttered continually. She could see that her neighbors were poor and lived from Saturday to Saturday. They were blowsy women, about twenty-eight to thirty, already quite settled in housewifery, poverty, and the mixed ribald-moral views on life with which such unhappy creatures comfort themselves. Mothers, wives, decent women—yes; but Grandmother Jenny Fox was unhappy with them. They were often of Italian, German, or Jewish origin, and they did not even understand her culture; and what is more, she only now realized that to them, to all women, she had suddenly become old, a rag of flesh, carrion, on the dump heap.

Her reminiscences of childbirth made them laugh. So long ago, and only one! Or was it two? The stories did not match up. And where was he, the one? Far away, she said. She had a rich daughter-in-law, she said; and the daughter-in-law had a mother so rich, you couldn't count it, she said; and when the grandmother died, which God forbid, the daughter-in-law so rich and beautiful (with such a pretty face) would come into something, she said. But who lived with her now? A foreigner who couldn't speak American at all; a German probably, the way she talked. This Edie. Edie itself was certainly a German name

My grandmother was very unhappy. She had no furniture, but two iron cots and two old armchairs which Grandmother Morgan had got out of her basement, and an assortment of old kitchen things which various friends had contributed. Grandmother wept about her poverty. This was not calculated to impress the Italian, Jewish, and American wives alongside. It did not go at all with her stories of traveling in Europe. She had been a governess at Bismarck-Schoenhausen? Ha-ha. The old lady was a bluff; crazy, said one, meshuggah, said the other. “But, I'm telling you, absolutely crazy. Old women get like that, and it looks like she has no boy at all. No one comes to visit her. Where is this rich dotter-in-law? It's all a fake, they get that way. A bluff, that's all. Well, maybe she has a boy, who knows, but he never shows up. Something wrong, you think? Who knows, maybe only a loafer, a no good. Either a gangster, eh? In jail? No, no, she is a nice woman. So a nice woman can't have a gangster, eh? Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Poor Grandmother sat at the window above the asphalt, in the hot evenings, fanning her pasty little face, listening, with no lights on. She heard everything, she forgot what she could, and invented stories for the next day. I will tell them—I will tell them—and, at night, she turned on her pillow—why does he leave his old mother alone like this? For a black-haired girl with no children, a nobody, not even money, nothing! Why? What use to have children? A son they say; better, a daughter. A daughter stays with her mother—they understand each other. A son goes off with a black-haired girl who flops her curls at him; she knows nothing, and he's a smart man—or was. A college graduate! But what does it all matter when a girl with long black hair, like a high-school girl—what does she know? She doesn't care because she doesn't know. Young, too young. They don't care for us, and who cares for us? I'm old, I'm old.

A stranger, Edie, nice, but English, cares for me. Mathilde doesn't care for me. Why should she? Look at the trouble my own son caused her! And the children, dear little children—it's no use asking anything from them. They have their life to lead. We lived ours. Let them be. They shouldn't have our tears mingled with their little troubles. Poor little things. No father. Grandmother often wept.

In the next room lived Edie, more and more discontented. Her wiry, brunette type did not appeal to New York men. She did not know the right answers. She had a whining, pert way. She looked about for work, but couldn't join the union till she had a job, nor get a job till she joined the union, so she said. Though she was a legally admitted immigrant, she now wanted to return. She had seen New York at its worst, with its dust, heat, abrupt, rude, overworked men, and painted, rude, overworked women; its sex laxity and roughness. In certain society circles, girls were supposed to kiss men and think nothing of it; it was all a part of their training. Here, girls were supposed to sleep with men and think nothing of it; more than that, provide the bed, sandwiches, and beer; and never expect even a telephone call of thanks.