like as not Mr. Van Clees was on his feet, opened hymn
book in hand, head thrown back and silently mouthing a
galloping hymn of joy everlasting.
He had a habit of leaving,, bt~mping past people's
knees, at the exact time the collection plates were being
passed. People thought he was a cheapskate. He wasn't. It
was that his own private services usually came to a logical
end at the time of the collection.
He had tried going in i-he afternoon and liked it much
better. The church, tln]ess there was a wedding or a
christening, was almost empty then and llr. Van Clees
could sit, stand or kneel as he chose. He could even sleep
if he vdshed.
Father Flyml knew Ma. Van Clees wasn't a Catholic but
he urged him to use the churl h as often as he vished. Mr.
Van Clees accepted the offer with tile pr`Jviso that Father
Flynn make no attempt to convert him.
"Oh, you'll be a Catholic sol of d as, by osmosis, if
nothing else," said Father 1~ lynx.
They liked each other; they vere friends, Father Flynn
and the Lutheran. Or. Van Clees kept the priest's
humidor full of good pipe tobacco. Father Flynil
appreciated this because it ~ as indeed a poor living in
that poor parislZ.
~ ('1~131'ER l 11~1N1 Y-TTI'O ~
IIR. VA;S Gl.t.s vas instri~r,~cntil in bIin:,irlg
.~laggie-lN'ow and the Vernachts together.
August Ve r~nacht had heed a ` i~odcuttcr back in
Germanv. When he cone to' An1el,ca, there was no trade
in Brooklyn knOV~7O as VC30dCtittL1g. (OHS,
h~wecr, divas handy and had an aptitude for working
with Nvf,`>cl. Isle called himself a carpenter but really he
w is a free-iance repair marl. Whell he married Annie
(American born fif German in~inigrants), he got a steady
job in a furniture factor,, that spec ialized in making
rocking chairs.
1 Iffy 1
Gus supported Annie, his wife, and their children on his
small but steady salary. They didn't have everything they
wanted or even that they needed for that matter. But
they were never in actual want. They were contented.
Gus's hobby was woodcarving. For years, now, he'd
been working on a chess set. He kept his bits of wood,
ebony, ash, oak and any other No cod that came his way,
in Van Clees's store. When he had a spare hour, he'd
drop in the store and whittle away while he and Van
Clees engaged in endless, friendly debate on the ways of
the world.
They were pals: Gus Vernacht and Jan Van Clees. They
talked, played checkers and tried to teach each other
chess. Sometimes on a holiday, they went to Glendale
Schutzen Park and shot at targets with rented rifles and
had a few seidels of beer afterward.
Gus knew all about llaggie-Now before he met her. He
knew about the baby. Van Clees made a moving story of
it when he told Gus about hi r. The sentimental German's
heart was touched. Gus happened to be in the store one
Saturday afternoon when Maggie-Now came in with
Dennis to get two clay pipes for her father. After the
introductions, Gus said:
"You must come and be friends with my Ahn-nee. A
little girl like you needs a big woman for a friend. So you
come by my house and be friends."
"Annie's a good lady, Miss Maggie," said Van Clees.
"Ahl-zo a good mutter," said Gus. "We got the boy,
Chamesee, and he has eight years. And the baby, T'ressa,
she is z~vei months younger as your brother, Denn-ty
here. And my Ahnnee, she will be good by you, and give
you to eat cake and coffee, and put you in the bed to rest
and cover you up. And you want to go down on the street
and walk with the other girls? She will mind Denn-ty for
you."
"You go see Annie, Miss Maggie," advised Van Clees.
"I'll ask my father."
She asked him. Pat didn't like the idea. "HONV do I
know who these: people are?"
"They're well known in the neighborhood. And after all,
Papa, I'm eighteen. I know what I'm doing."
"The I [Ouse of the Good Shepherd is full-a girls,
eighteen,
~ ISIS ~1
what knew what they were doing,'' he said darkly.
"What house?"
"Where they put wayward girls."
"I'm not wayward."
"Things happen before you know it," he said mysteriously.
He had a clutch of fear. She Divas growing up. She
Maggie Rose when she had been a year younger than
Maggie-Now. It had been the girl's virtue and her
mother's nosiness and not his inclination that had kept
Maggie Rose virginal.
But that was nearly twenty-five years ago, he consoled
himself. Things is differed' roods. Girls that y OUMg don't
keep steady company nowadays.
Still there is things she Would boom. ,llary, why did you
have to die ~vLen the girl Penis a another so bad to tell her
things? I can't tell her.
No, he couldn't. As levity many fathers, the thought of
sex in his daughter's life -was abhorrent to him. He
couldn't stand the thought of any male lusting after her.
For the first time, he worried about his daughter. He
knew that in some ways the congested neighborhood was
a jungle where men preyed on girls: innocent girls,
susceptible girls and willing girls. He knew of the narrow,
trash~filled back alleys, the dark cellars, tenement
rooftops cluttered with chimney pots, vacant stores where
doors could be forced . . . he knew all of these places
where men took young girls for their purposes.
He had thought his daughter was safe in the home and
where else did she go? To the store and sometimes to
Lottie's house. But was she safe? This m in who invited
her to his home to meet his wife: Maybe he didn't have a
wife; maybe that was a comeon. Something else came to
his mind.
A month before, the upstairs had been rented to a
mother and father who worked and their son, about
twenty, who didn't have a job and loafed around the house
all day. After they had examined the empty rooms and
had announced when they'd move in, the woman Ad
commented Otl the fact that Pat's daughter was young to
be married and have a two-year-old baby.
"She ain't married,' said lilac.
1 151 1
The woman exchanged a surprised look with her
husband and their son grinned.
"That's why the baby has her maiden name for his last
name."
"He has Sty name. He's my son. His mother died in
childbirth."
"I see. Well, that's all right." She exchanged another
look with her husband.
Pat wondered how many men, strangers to the
neighborhood newcomers believed that Maggie-Now
had an illegit
imate son. Did those kind of men think she
was available? He recalled the fellow upstairs how he
had been standing on the stoop one time when
Maggie-Now had gone out to the store and how the young
man had looked after her as she walked down the block.
He was angry with his daughter because she made him
concerned about her and spoiled the even tenor of his
days. So he shouted at her, not realising that she couldn't
know what he had been thinking: "And I don't want you
making free with that loafer upstairs, either."
"Papa! Where'd you ever get the idea . . ." She stopped
abruptly. She had had some contact with the boy upstairs.
A week ago, he'd come to the door and asked politely
if the upstairs tenants had the privilege of the yard. She
said they did and she let him go through her rooms
because there vvas no other way to reach the yard. He
explained that he wanted to get a little tan. He pulled his
shirt off in the yard and bounced a ball against the
wooden fence. She watched him through the kitchen
window, admiring his manly torso and wishing she could
go out and play handball with him.
She decided he must never walk through their rooms
again. Suppose her father came back during the day for
some reason or other and he found the young man in the
kitchen! He wouldn't accept any explanation she could
make. Thereafter, she kept her door locked when she was
in the house alone w ith Denny and didn't answer when
he knocked.
One evening in the time between after supper and dark,
she was sitting on the stoop with Denny. She was restless.
She dreaded the evening ahead. She'd put Denny to bed
and then what? She'd ovals about the house looking for
something to do
~ 1521
to kill the long evening. She and her father seldom
conversed with each other at any length. She was not an
avid reader and what was there to do but go to bed?
She didn't want to go to bed. She wanted to be out
walking these summer nights with some girls her own age.
wanted some boy to call for her and take her for a walk;
treat her to a soda. She wanted to ride on an open car to
Coney Island with a bunch of boys and girls and laugh
with the girls at the way the boys cut up. She wanted to
ride side saddle on a merry-go-round horse with a nice
young man standing at her side, his arm about her waist,
pretending he had to hold her so's she wouldn't fall off.
She closed her eyes and dreamed the scene: The blend of
merry-goround music and the voices of barkers and the
hum of talking voices and laughter and the sound of the
sea. The smells mixed of hot corn and cotton candy and
candied apples on a stick and over all the heavy salt smell
of the sea. And the breeze and the motion of the
merry-go-round making her hair blow back and the
delicious reaching out for a grasp at the gold ring and the
nice-looking young man looking up to smile at her and his
arm tightening automatically about her waist when the
horse went up . . .
That was her sudden dream. She closed her eyes to see
the reality. She got up at seven each morning to get
breakfast for her father. She did the housework. The
rooms were few and the furnishings sparse. She had it
neat and shining in an hour. She drew out her shopping as
long as she could. The storekeepers were her only social
contacts. At ten, save for getting a simple lunch for herself
and the baby and preparing a simple supper for the three
of them, her work was done. The long day and evening
stretched out interminably.
She washed her hair and filed her nails and washed
clothes that were already clean and pressed things that
needed no pressing and did piecework when she could get
it. On nice days she wheeled Denny to the park, first
walking down the block and asking the neighbor wo nen
if they would let her take a preschool child along as long
as she had Denny anyhow. She usuall
took three or four small children to the park with her.
But all this wasn't enough. She was strong and healthy and
vital
~ `'y3 1
and full of energy. She wanted to work hard. She wanted
to go to places. She wanted friends her own age. She
wanted to talk and laugh with young people. She wanted
to work in a factory; she Nvanted to work in a store
measuring cloth or wrapping up dishes. Most of all, she
wanted to "go out."
She thought of Annie Vernacht. When Gus had told her
about his Annie, Maggie-Now had thought how wonderful
it vould be to be friends with Annie; to have someone
pour her a cup of coffee, cut her a piece of cake. And
Gus had said Annie would mind Denny.... Maggie-Now
had planned that, for each hour Annie would mind Denny
while she, Maggie-Now, went out, Maggie-Now would
mind Annie's children three hours to pay back.
But her father didn't v ant her to visit the Vernachts.
And that was that.
The young man from upstairs clattered down the stoop.
He touched the brim of his hat and said it was a pleasant
evening. She agreed, turning her head away as she spoke
in case her father was watching from the window.
As she put Denny to bed, she made up her mind. She
would go and visit Annie Vernacht and she wouldn't tell
her father.
The following Sunday afternoon, she dressed Denny in
his nicest rompers, slicked down his hair, dressed herself
up and told her father she was going out and would be
home in time to cook his supper. I le grunted without
looking up from the paper he was reading.
"Come in! Come in!!' boomed Gus. " I his is my
Ahn-nee. ' He grabbed his hat. "I go now by Jan's cigar
store and leave the ladies to talk lady talk." He left.
Annie was hospitable but bewildered. Gus, like many
another man before him, had forgotten to tell his wife he
had invited Maggie-Now for a visit. In fact, he had
forgotten to tell her anything at all about the girl.
Annie smiled. Maggie-Now smiled. "Sit down," invited
Annie.
The room was neat, warm and peaceful. The boy,
Jamesie, leaned against his mother's knee. The baby,
Theresa, slept in her nrother's arms. Another baby, soon
to come, lay quietly in the womb.
[ 151
Dennis struggled to get out of his sister's arms. "Can I
put him down?" asked Maggie-Now.
"Sure, sure."
She put Denny on the floor. He staggered around
frantically for a few seconds, then crawled under the table
and composed himself for sleep. He slept during the entire
visit.
"What's her name?" asl~ed Jamesie.
"Sh! " said Annie. Smiling a
t Maggie-Now, she said: "I
ant Annie."
The girl smiled back. '1 know."
"And you?" Gus had forgotten to tell his wife the girl's
name.
"I'm Margaret Moore. ~ ou know. Maggie-Now?"
Again they exchanged smiles. The girl sat with her hands
in her lap waiting for the friendship to begin. Annie
wished there was some tactful way in which she could ask
the young girl what was the object of the visit. Annie
cleared her throat.
"You are young to be a mother."
"Oh, he's my brother. Iffy mother died when he was born."
"I think maybe I saw her on the street. Some ladies was
telling me about her baby COlrling. Your father: He is the
street sweeper? "
"Yes. Street cleaner. He's home,'' she added.
"He's got good work. Steady. My man, he makes tile
rocking chairs."
"I know. Mr. Van Clee. told me."
"Ah, that Jan!" Annie smiled mysteriously.
Maggie-Now, half child, half woman, wondered: lilill she
ask me if I'd like her to mind DenrZy sometime, like Mr.
I~eriZacht said, so I car go out by myself sometime?
Annie thought: What must I say to her flow?
Annie was good and kind but inarticulate and shy. If
Gus had only thought to tell her about Maggie-Now! She
would have been so happy to take the girl into her heart
and her warmth. Gus would have denied that he had
forgotten to tell his wife all about Maggie-Now. It was that
they had so much wordless and perfect understanding
together that he thought somehow Annie knew as much
about Maggie-Now as he did. Annie sat there trying to
draw on this unspoken understanding. The most she could
get was that something was expected of her; that Gus
~ ~ i'; 1
had prepared the girl for something and the girl now
expected it. But what?
"Did Gus say I should do something? 'she asllied gently.
Maggie-Now's face flushed with embarrassment. So Gus
had said nothing to his Annie and she, Maggie-Now, had
come there so brash expecting . . .
"No," she said. "Nothing."
There was a little more forced conversation and then
llaggieNow prepared to leave. The good-by-s were
effusive because both were ill at ease and the good-bye
were something they could get their teeth into.
"You come again when you can stay longer,' said Amlie.
"And you come to my house some afternoon," said
MaggieNow. "I'll make coffee."
Annie did not return the visit. Some weeks later,
Maggie-Now saw Gus in the cigar store and told him she
hoped Annie would come for a cup of coffee sometime.
"Ahn-nee, she don't go out now," he explained. "The
baby comes soon. But you come by our house."
"I will," said Maggie-Now. I3ut she didn't. And Annie
never did come to see her.
Van Clees told Maggie-Nov when Annie's baby, a boy,
was born. He had been named Albert August.
Maggie-Nov.~ gave Mr. Van Clees a pair of booties to
give to Gus to give Annie. She gave a verbal message: She
would come to see Annie and the baby as soon as Annie
got over the ordeal of birth. Annie sent a message by Gus,
who gave it to Van Clees, who gave it to llaggie-Now:
Annie would collie and visit ~Iaggie-Now as soon as she
got on her feet.
They never did get together. However, whenever Gus
saw the girl he said: "Ahn-nee sends best regards."
.Maggie-Nov always said: "Likewise."
One day the cigar store was closed. There was a sign in
the window: ('losed on Account of Death in the Faultily.
Gus Vernacht had not been a relative of Van Clees but
the cigar maker had borrowed the sign from the baker
who had bought it two years ago when his wife's father
died. Van Clees could not cross out In the Fancily and
print in Of Friend because
1 ii61
the baker wanted it bacl. He thou,~,ht he might have to
use it again. He had a lot of relatives.
About Gus: It was nothing you could put your finger on;
nothing you could anticipate. He went to bed one night as