Letty Fox (42 page)

Ravishing my handbag, tossing out lighter, cigarettes, compact, letters, and all the rest of it, I produced:

TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN

I heard the guy's wonderful chronica

And in passion wore out my veronica

(
That's a sweatrag to you
)

For I'm all in a stew

(
And what in the heck is his monicker)?

He's seen villages Bessarabi'an

And he's yachted along the Aegean;

He stopped in Epirus

Without ere a virus—

Is he Bert, Cyrus, Shamus or Ian?

Is he Spoffski or Wilson or Ehrlich?

Is it Jones, Brown, Smith, Robinson?

Rarelich I have seen a poor woman

In straits so inhuman—

Is it Murdoch? MacRoy? It's
gefährlich
!

“I gave him a copy. Papa, I could spend a lifetime with him. He walked me home yesterday evening. Of course, Hilda tagged along. We talked about the Whodunit, about Clifford Odets,
Studs Lonigan
, the great American novel, everything. He has a new opinion on everything and so keen. He told me how I should dress. It's a funny thing, but owing to my training, I guess, and I'm not flattering myself, at least I think, I got on much better with him than any of the others, and certainly understand him better than Hilda. But Hilda worries me. I hate to admit it, but she's really pretty. Your offer of a Christmas gift, Papa, is greatly appreciated, but I do hope it will be a substantial one, for if it is just a box of hankies with a card, I shall make more sarcastic allusions to the deity above than all the preachers of Christmas Eve and all the society types, ‘Oh, God—My God,' and the java-joints ‘Jeezes Christ,' and the proletwriters, ‘F'Chrissakes—' Because, seriously, Papa, I need some of dat doe, and I'm askin' you, Lord, not to let me down. I've got a wardrobe that needs replenishing from the Louis-Kans up, and, this time, no joking, I met a man. I'm serious. I met the right man, Papa, I want you to see him, too. What does it matter if I'm only sixteen and a half; that used not to be so funny. There's no regulation age for meeting the right man. This is it! I need some dresses. I'm coming to see you, to see you, and then again for my money. I really need it, Papa. I'll tell you all about my secret life and Pharisees in the spring. I admit I'm discontented. A time comes when you hate school and you feel they're just not trying to teach you about life, but filling in time till you get your graduation. Now, you asked Mamma to find out about my friends, Linda, Celeste. I could not tell Mamma the whole truth and nothing but the truth, for Mamma would think it terrible, but you will understand. You'll be surprised to hear that I'm friendly with both of them, though I think Linda is wrong, domineering, and at times strangely stupid. She reminds me a bit of Jacky—and I don't think Jacky is getting on so well; I never did believe in onesex colleges, but you know that. Anyhow you are right in one way, Linda is just the same and she goes to two-sex institutions. I like her, and I see her occasionally—but that's enough. She wrote a lousy poem for this term's magazine—boy, is it lousy, but I published it, I had the yes-no. Selma is nicer than she ever was, but she is getting in with a crowd of youthful neurotics, who've all turned Lesbians for the fun of it, and several of them have been foiled in attempts to commit suicide. Though Selma's pretty strong, I don't like that influence round her. She's beginning to pose too, and says she could be abnormal sexually if she wanted to, too, and I'm worried for her, because she is a swell kid and I guess the one with the most talent here. None of the girls will ever be as dear to me as Celeste—by the way, her brother Bobby, the one the girls used to hang around, that used to hang around me, was doing party work out in Michigan and then in Alabama, and while distributing leaflets was arrested, beaten up, and sentenced to a year on the chain gang. He was released after local mass protest and is still doing work in Kansas City.

“Well, if you must know, I just received my report card for midterms; my English exam mark is ninety-six, highest in the school, Papa, and my daily mark, ninety-five, history, geometry, physics in the nineties not so hot, but the things I learned in backward old Europe helped me up the ladder. I'm editor of my unit paper and Friday we're putting out an issue on Spain; swell—the opinion of my section Organizer. Well, I mean I am writing and I am normal sexually and meeting the right people. Well, now you know why I want to sting you for expenses, but you can count it out of Grandma's money.”

Solander said, “Yes, it's as clear as mud.”

Persia shouted, stolidly, “Dinner's ready.”

I can never stand frustration. I looked at my two enemies, my eyes shining petulance. I thought, I'd like to sink them both in the sea—but how? I'm a helpless minor. And if I weren't a helpless minor what could I do if the money didn't exist? I didn't even know where it was. I said angrily, “Where is it, in a safe-deposit, or a bank, or just where?”

But I was ashamed and even afraid. I ate my dinner gloomily, while my father teased me about my expenditures and my love affairs; and I at last flung at him, “I'm taking riding lessons, if you must know. Clays's family has an estate, and he's never even heard of a girl who can't ride. I've got to have a habit. Clays wants to go riding with me. Well, I might as well be frank. He's invited me to some relatives of his, who live at Chappaqua and I wanted to go for the week end. It's quite all right, I assure you, they're not the kind of people to put up with any monkey business. But I've simply got to have the trimmings. And I want to learn golf.”

Persia and my father burst out into good-natured laughter. This was all a lie, this story, which I had made up during dinner, outraged at my failure to get what was mine; but the exaggerated absurdity of it, I suppose, touched them, for after some conversation in the kitchen, while they were fixing up the dishes (I never helped with such things; I hated all domesticity), my father came in and said very seriously, “I'll give you one hundred dollars and I don't give a damn what you do with it, but let this be the last. I don't know what you want it for; I just know you're a crazy nut, utterly spoiled, but I'll give it to you anyhow. But remember it comes out of your grandmother's money.”

“One hundred dollars,” I said. “Why, the program I just outlined to you would cost much more than that. My teeth have to be fixed and I've nearly contracted for some reducing lessons and lessons in deportment; it's a course. I went and saw the man and he said he would undertake to make me over completely, manner, voice, figure, style of dress, for four hundred and fifty dollars. Add that to what you want to give me, and I'd barely have enough.”

Solander gave me a shrewd look and said tartly, “Think yourself lucky at your age to get one hundred dollars.”

He looked green about the gills and would not give it to me then, but fixed a date the same week when he would meet me in the Café Lafayette and give me the money.

I went away in a sober mood, thinking how much more than that I needed, but I was calmed, and able to think of my father with good sense. Of course, if he gave a spendthrift like me one thousand dollars, I'd certainly throw it all in the gutter, or give it to Clays, just to buy him away from Hilda. Hilda had not much money. She was supposed to be studying at N.Y.U. but had decided to become an artist, and she spent the money on art classes and just wasted it. It occurred to me, as I walked down the street, that I would soon need the money for college, anyhow, and that it might suit me to go away to the country, say Ithaca or Wisconsin, so that they would have to give me a proper allowance.

Then I thought, What about Clays? The best thing is to tell them, If you want to keep me in the city, give me an allowance; it will be much less than it will have to be at any women's college, and I can dress worse in New York than in any other place. In this town the girls wear ordinary street clothing; at those other places, the bird-brained flibbertigibbets wear anything that's advertised in the slick magazines. I didn't like the company, either. I wanted to be metropolitan, that was the crux of the matter. But, for example, Barnard horrified me, although I could make the grade there or elsewhere. As soon as I got home, I sat down and thought over my career.

What would I do at college? I could do anything. The high-priced careers attracted me, since I could insist upon handling the money myself, and the prestige was so great; but the women became so dreary. On the other hand, I was besieged by the temptations of Vanity Fair—throw college away, and go in for the arts, or for journalism. Clays was a man who, even if I married him, would not worry too much about keeping me; I'd have to keep myself. I had not one preoccupation, but three: an allowance, my career, and getting married early. I intended to put behind me, as soon as possible, the danger of being on the shelf; that would be one step forward. An allowance would be number two; a career was then called for, but what about the family? I wanted a family, too. I didn't want to be done out of anything. Any such loss makes you feel such a fool, and I couldn't endure the idea of simple and awkward girls doing better than I in the ordinary things of life. “Love should be taken like a drink of water.” Everyone who has even kissed a boy knows that is an absurdity. But there's a place in Zurich where wine pours out of a faucet in the automat; mountain wine, local wine. In a sense, all the good things should be on tap like that. That's how life appeared to me—the big rock candy mountain, if you only knew how to approach it.

My brain was active; it was all on account of Clays; it seemed evident to me I had a future. What should I do? I only asked for some occupation in which to expend all my powers. I felt as if my baton were growing out of my corporal's knapsack, just like a tree.

A few nights later I began to fill in the papers for several colleges, and my pen would keep falling from my hands as I suddenly saw life before me. How dull the last year of school had been! I had spent a good year of my life among children, all wasting their time. I put a record on my phonograph and started a letter to Solander.

Papa, what is your profession, professionally speaking? Shipper, broker, wanderer, writer, economist, journalist, plumber, or agitator? Refreshing choice. Kindly underline that which desired and also that which actually had. And don't underline
plumber
in blithesome mood, because, if you want to know, I might want to go in for medicine and they've got professional background considerations now. If your grandpappy and pappy were doctors, then you have, mebbe, a right angle on the profession. This sounds sinister, and it is—hush—to keep out the
J-e-w-s
and the
poor
, they say. I vouch for nothing. But I was not told this by a J-e-w,
Je débine les potins
. Hush! With my teacher, I'm playing a Beethoven minuet, a Brahms waltz, a Bach prelude, and soon begin the
Moonlight Sonata
. I am getting value for the money, so are you. Stop that snickering, Papa; I chose this parlor trick my own self and if you don't like it, it means it doesn't like you. But, smartypants, I also know the whole of FLAT FOOT FLOOGEY and am certain that you don't even know what the hell I'm batting about, to use your expression. I'm eclectic, buddy. Pardon the flippant tone. I'm worrying about
The Man
, my dress needs (which I hope you will look after); I just finished reading Milton's
Lycidas
, and Barbusse's
Stalin
, you'll agree a bit different; and I feel nutty. School tomorrow, and I haven't slept for three days, not since you promised me that money, which won't half cover what I need. I'm not just a wastrel. I mean that literally, I haven't slept. Why? On account I met Mr. Right. I'm going to bring this perfect specimen of manhood along, even before I find out his name. I haven't seen him for three days. I'm serious, Papa. What I want for Christmas, I found out long ago. The most gorgeous book of Diego Rivera murals, some dollars needed—and I can't take this all out of the centum of bucks you have kindly said you'd give me. (And which are greatly appreciated.) My soul opposes this mercenary call—but, oh, Papa, if you were young like me! (Oh, the fine touch! You'll admit I don't crawl on my belly for that $150 bucks I need—yes, that's the sum I really need in earnest. The market has gone up. I am serious about the horseback riding. And the rest—girls' stuff.)

Lots and lots of love,
L
ETTY
-M
ARMALADE
,
always in a jam.

My father put off our appointment, but sent me one hundred dollars, and scolded me for trying to raise the figure. The next day I lent Clays twenty dollars for he badly needed it, and I found out his name—perhaps my name, as it would eventually figure on my tombstone! It was Clays Manning.

I am always truly grateful; I am a goodhearted girl. I wrote a song of gladness to my papa on a piece of pink toilet paper which I got out of Aunt Phyllis's bathroom.

Des sentiments en rose—

Cent fois merci

mon cher ami

plus cher qu'amis
,

mon cher papa

(
tarantara !
)

pour ton chèque-ci

et dans la vie

des soins gentils

à l'infini!

Fin en demi-deuil (comme les ris-de-veau)—

je to caresse

avec tendresse

to peux me croi(re) (faut ici accent de la barriere
)

si quelquefois

mes manigances

et viles tendances

t'attristent, te blessent

sois un brave mec

et cette fille laisse