The Alley (7 page)

Since the lady still stood there trying to get her bearings and was now looking across the field, Mama gently pointed out that that street up there, on the other side of the athletic field, was Gregory Street."

"Who said anything about Gregory Street?" said the lady. "Mark Street was the name, Madam, M A R K Street."

Mama said, "Well, would you like to have me start you on your way?"

"When I need your help, I'll ask for it," said the lady tartly; and she turned back in the direction from which she had come, where Mark Street used to be. But she continued on beyond it, crossed Library Park, slowly passed the cannon there, and vanished from sight.

"Maybe she used to live in one of the houses that used to be on Mark Street, before they tore them down to make the Mall," said Connie. "Maybe she is all mixed up, wandering around and wondering where her house has gone. Maybe she just wanted to sit on the step a minute and pull up her stockings—look for her old lost cat, maybe."

"Maybe she did," said Mama. Mama wondered if she should run after the old lady and somehow try again to set her straight. But the old lady would not like that—being run after—so she didn't.

"Well, quite a day for encounters," Connie said to Mama happily. And then there came still another one, a third one. This was a day when people felt they must talk to Mama and Connie, except for de Gaulle, who spoke only to people who were not there. The third person was a man, sauntering along, pleasant-looking, hands in his pockets, and he stopped and looked at the athletic field. Then he shouted in sudden passion, waving his hands excitedly, "Used to be mansions, beautiful mansions! Tore them all down! Down they tore them and planted bare grass! Bare grass where beautiful mansions used to be!" (There used to be more rows of houses like the little Alley houses where the athletic field was now, and the man was referring to the snug little gone-away houses. He looked hopelessly at where they had been.) "Bare grass, where the kids can't play. Worse—a fence around the bare grass," he went on, "so the kids can't get in! All this space and the kids can't play! Where can they play, lady?" he said angrily to Mama. "You know what will happen next? They will put a fence around the moon, that's what they will do next. You don't believe that, do you? Well, it's so—it's coming. Oh, the mansions that were here! Perfectly good houses. Tear them down, put up a fence, plant grass, and call it 'private'!"

Off he went, spitting in despair.

De Gaulle, old lady lost, beautiful-mansions man! You would think these were people enough to meet during just one walk with Wags and the cats. But along came another stranger, another talkative stranger.

Mama and Connie had not even seen this man coming. They were laughing and talking about the other three strangers and saying, "What a day this is—everybody stopping to talk—" when suddenly a man—he had a bullet-shaped head, was rather short and quite well-dressed—walked swiftly past Connie and Mama. Connie and Mama were really startled. They had not heard him coming and had seen no one until he passed by. Where had he come from? A few paces on, he stopped abruptly as if he'd had an afterthought. He turned back and very politely, in a well-educated voice, said, "Excuse me, ma'am. What a beautiful dog that is!"

Since the stranger had said something friendly about Wags and since every one of the Ives, Nanny, too, liked praise about Wags or the cats, Mama replied. "Yes," she said. "She is very beautiful."

"What kind of dog is she?" asked the man briskly. "Some sort of spaniel, is she?"

"Yes," said Mama. "A springer."

"Ah, indeed," said the bullet-headed man. "We had a spaniel—not a springer, just a little cocker. We had to get rid of her, though. She bit our little girl. On the hand, yes, she bit our little girl. In her high chair she was, just reaching down, and Goldy—that was her name—bit her."

"Oh," said Mama. "Too bad. But you were wise to give her away."

All this while the man was stretching out his arm and reaching toward Wagsie and saying, "Tluck, tluck." Wags cowered behind Mama—she did not like men, except for Papa. But the man kept right on reaching his hand toward Wagsie, as though he wanted Wags (Connie figured this out later) to smell his hand, to get used to his smell, also no doubt to see if Wags would snap or not.

"Now this dog, ma'am," said the man—Connie could sense that Mama thought the conversation had gone on more than long enough, for she had stepped back a pace or two away from the man as though to hint she was in a hurry to be on her way—"does this dog bite?"

"Oh," said Mama quickly. "This dog! Ts! I'd never trust this dog not to bite. Just let any stranger, grown or child, come up to her! With a jaw that strong? One bite and she could snap off a whole hand!" Again Mama tried to end the conversation.

The man, sensing he had outstayed his welcome, turned away, but he said as though in parting, "Hm, that's surprising. She seems timid." For there was Wags, still hiding behind Mama's skirts.

"Timid dogs, when they are frightened, are often the most vicious of all dogs," said Mama.

"H-m-m," said the man thoughtfully. He was determined to give Wags a pat on the head, and finally he accomplished this and even gave her a small dog biscuit—a pink one, which Wags enjoyed but had to swallow practically whole because Mama pulled her away. Finally the man tipped his hat, said what a pleasure, and briskly walked down Story Street and out the gate at Larrabee. He was whistling jauntily. He happened to be whistling "On the Street Where You Live," a favorite song that spring.

"He was nice, wasn't he?" Connie said uncertainly as she and Mama watched the man disappear.

"Talked too much," Mama said.

Connie could see that Mama was puzzled. She kept looking after the man—where he had gone, what direction—and she had fallen into a thoughtful and silent mood. To recapture their wonderful "de Gaulle" mood, Connie said, "Wasn't that funny, though? De Gaulle saying, 'Get out! Get out!' stamping his foot, waving his arm?"

Mama laughed again, too. "Yes," she said. "But come on. We better go home and have lunch."

At the word "lunch," Wags, who had been quite dispirited during the talk with the bullet-headed man, revived; she pulled at the leash, and her tongue lolled out of her mouth. She looked waggish, and the name "Wags" suited her. When she was a little puppy, Papa had tried to rename Wags "Heath." He said Heath was a more suitable name for such a noble dog. But everyone soon went back to "Wags." Well, "Here, Heathie. Here, Heathie,"
is
hard to say. Even Papa found it hard.

When Connie and Mama got back to their own little house, Mittens and Punk were crouching, one on each side of the top stoop, waiting for them. The cats were in identical positions, even to the curves of their tails. Everyone went in, and Mama thoughtfully locked the outer green door as well as the inner one. Few people bothered to lock the outside green door—usually never when they were at home or simply out for a few minutes, walking the dog or visiting a neighbor. Now Mama said, "We must remember to keep this outside door locked. Papa is right—it is an invitation to burglars to leave it open," she said.

For some reason, the thought of the bullet-head man popped into Connie's head. She remembered the sound of his voice when he said, "Does this dog bite?" Connie had a flair for imitating people's voices, and she said now in a high-pitched voice, "Does this dog bite?"

Mama smiled. "You got that down to a T," she said, and she began to prepare the luncheon, with Wags, as usual, hugging the stove in case a crumb should fall.

After lunch Connie went outside to swing. Billy Maloon was in the Alley, and he came into Connie's yard, carefully closing the gate so Wagsie would not get out. When Billy got settled in his swing (Billy liked the one near the house, and Connie the one near the glider—but they switched around—that was fair!), Connie told him about de Gaulle, the lady with the loose stockings, the man who said, "beautiful mansions," and last of all the man interested in dogs who asked, "Does this dog bite?"

Billy avidly listened to all.

"Mama said he was like the ancient mariner and would not letteth us go," Connie explained. "Except he had no beard—but did he or did he not have a little mustache? I can't remember; you know, Billy, I just can't remember."

"I sometimes can't remember whether my own father has a little mustache or not," said Billy encouragingly. "Go on."

Billy was a wonderful listener. Connie went on.

"You see, Billy," said Connie. "This man—his head was shaped like a bullet—kept talking and talking to Wags and trying to pet her. He kept holding out his hand and saying, 'There, girlie—what's her name? Wags? Pretty name, pretty dog.' He knows how to flatter dogs. 'There, there, girlie,' he said. 'Such a pretty doggie! I'm sure you wouldn't bite, would you? They are saying mean things about you, aren't they?' Finally, Billy, Wagsie let him stroke her head. It was so funny, I mean it, Billy—Mama saying Wags would bite! Billy, imagine Wagsie biting anybody! You see," Connie explained to Billy, who was enthralled with the anecdote, "Wags is a coward. But since Mama and I were standing right there protecting her, she finally let this man stroke her head. This was very unusual for her; she really does not like strangers, especially men. The man, the
only
man, she likes is Papa. She hates boys, too, you know."

Billy said, "I think she likes me a little."

"Once you are in the house, she likes you all right. But if she is standing on the top step of the back stoop and you are trying to get in, you know very well, Billy, that she growls even at you and bares her teeth."

Billy nodded forlornly. It meant there were two to get by, sometimes, in order to play with Connie—Nanny and Wags! "Wags really hates Ray," said Billy.

"Oh, I know it," said Connie. "And Ray is terrified of her. Serves him right. When Ray comes banging out of his kitchen door, Wags barks at him. Then Ray, thinking he is safe on his side of the fence, imitates Wags. 'Aowf! Aowf!' he says. This upsets Wags still more, and she tears up and down the fence, barking her head off. Well, even though she is on the other side of the fence, Ray looks out of the corner of his eyes at Wags to make sure that Wagsie's big mouth can't get him."

"Once he threw something at her," said Billy. "An old piece of brick I think it was."

"Ts! Cruel, cruel and stupid! Wags will never, never as long as she lives forgive or forget that. Well, at least the bullet-head man, even though he did talk too much—I could tell Mama didn't like it—had the right idea about how you get to be friends with a dog."

Billy Maloon listened thoughtfully to Connie's entire account of her expedition to the field with Mama and Wags. "Very interesting," he said, "very interesting." He nodded his head; his lips were pressed tightly together, as they always were when he was thinking. His eyes were bright. Connie could see he had been fascinated by the story—it was like one of his stories of Oldenport, except that his stories were scary. And what was scary about hers?

"When we got home," she said, "Mama locked the outside green door. We almost never do that. But you know what Mama said? She said, 'That outer door is an invitation to burglars. It must be kept locked!' So she locked it. Oh, we know that man was just a dog lover—not a burglar—and the old loose-stocking lady, the angry mansion-man, de Gaulle ... none of them, burglars! Imagine de Gaulle being a burglar, Billy!"

Billy turned his head slowly toward Connie. His eyes were wide and thoughtful. Billy was a very brave boy; but thoughts of burglars did scare him. All he said, however, was "Yeh. Just incidents on a college campus, that's all."

Time passed. The day of de Gaulle, the lost lady with the loose stockings, the beautiful-mansion man, and the dog-loving man with the bullet head seemed weeks ago now. Nanny had gone south for a little visit before the weather got too hot. She wasn't here to leave the green door open to make things easy for the mailman. Sometimes, Mama herself began to forget again to lock the outer green door. She began to forget about its being an invitation to burglars. Of course, she locked it if she were going to be away for some time, down at A. & S. shopping or in town having lunch with her friend and the owner of her picture gallery, Melinda Mcintosh. But just to go to Myrtle Avenue, to the A. & P. or to the More Better Food Store? Well, she didn't bother.

It was around the middle of May, on a day called "Alumni Day." Thoughts of a burglary were not in the minds of anyone in the twenty-seven little houses. Their minds were on the festivities. People who had graduated from Grandby College a year or more ago had come back to meet old friends, hear speeches, and wander around the campus. The campus was very pretty; a huge green-and-white-striped tent had been set up on the lawn of the Libary Park, and at first Connie thought a circus had come to the campus. She couldn't believe her eyes, and she wondered where the elephant was. But Mama said, "No, it's not a circus. The alumni are going to have lunch, the professors, too, under that tent. They will all, including the president of the college, have lunch there, make speeches, say 'Hello' to the old alumni, and see how the recent ones, last year's, say, are getting along—what they are doing, where they're working, are they being a credit to the college, are they married."

"Oh," said Connie. "Is Papa there?"

"Yes," said Mama. "Papa is there. Most of the professors are there."

So—that meant that practically all the fathers of the Alley were under the tent eating lunch with the alumni. The only father home in any one of the twenty-seven little houses was Mr. Fabadessa, who thought two dollars and a half too much for lunch. A few mothers had gone, too, joining the fathers under the tent, so the Alley was very quiet. Mama did not go because she had too much to do, getting some pictures ready for an exhibition.

"First, we'll go to the A. & P.," Mama said to Connie. "And then I'll get to work." They got out their squeaking cart. "I must oil this," said Mama for the hundredth time. But she didn't oil it; and they remembered not to forget the list. They told Wagsie, "Backson." (They had gotten this word from
Winnie-the-Pooh,
and they always told Wagsie, "Backson," whenever they had to leave her to go to the store or anywhere.) When Wagsie heard that word, she looked totally forlorn. She sat sadly in her tight little corner between the piano and the clothes closet and hung her head. Connie and Mama tried not to think how unhappy Wagsie was, being left. They tried uselessly to cheer her up.