Chapter 18

While the wind of late September hurled in dreary gusts about them, the two stood in the chill of the next morning before the brownstone front of the house on Redding Street. They were walking up wet granite stairs strewn with blown leaves. Ellen rang the bell. The woman who opened the door was tall and narrow-shouldered. Her eyes were dark, and like a dog’s seemed to beg. Her hair was a brown mane, piled sleek. She put her hands on her hips. “Hi. You must be Chicken’s niece. I’m Violet. Come out of the wet.” She was preceding them into the living room. The old green carpet was shoddy. The trivia of ornaments that had burdened the mantle and end tables had been taken away. The oval dining room table had been moved into this room and the drapes replaced with white ruffled curtains that drooped as the starch wore out.

“This room’s bright now,” Ellen said.

“I like ruffles and trimmings. Is this Simon? Chicken told me about you. I’m Aunt Vi. Sit down. I’ll get some lunch.” She bustled out.

“I’m tired, Ma.”

“So am I, Simon.”

“Are we e’er going back to Granddaddy’s?”

“Maybe some day.” She was pushing aside the curtains, looking down into the street where traffic moved.

“Will we live in this rich house?”

“For a spell, I reckon.”

“How do I call that lady?”

“Aunt Violet, you say. And be mannerly.”

“I’m not hungry, Ma.”

“Take off your shoes. I’ll give you dry socks from the bag.” They waited until Garland’s wife returned with a tray of hot milk and coffee, slices of poundcake and a plate of bananas.

“You like bananas?” she asked. “I do. I feel like one of the quality when I have bananas around.”

“Where’s Uncle Garland?”

“He’s at one of the restaurants. He’s got two, you know. He gets home about four-thirty and goes back till late at night. Have a banana, Simon. They’ll rot before you can snap your fingers.”

“I don’t want any. Go away.”

“Simon.”

The boy began to weep softly, laying his head on the arm of the chair. “I’m hot.”

“He doesn’t look good, Ellen. Let’s put him to bed.”

“Pay no mind to his talk, Aunt Violet.”

“I don’t,” she said cheerfully. “Nerts, I forgot to make up your beds. Wonder where I stored the sheets this time?”

Upstairs in a little room, Simon was undressed and put to sleep. He drowsed uneasily. The bedstead was of black-enameled iron. There was a battered wood bureau and a cane-bottom chair. Simon awoke, whimpering, “Ma? Did Anse take back his ball?”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know, Ma. What did I say?”

She felt the dry heat of his forehead. Violet came in the doorway. “Hi, Simon. Brought you some ice cream.” She offered him the little dish.

He sat up, his blue eyes darkening. “I ne’er meant what I said, lady.”

“I don’t mind, Simon. Eat before it melts.”

“Do you have any tonic in the house?” Ellen whispered.

“I think Chicken would say call the doctor.”

“My pa ne’er had one. Only satchel doctor I knew let a friend of mine die.”

“Didn’t you have one when he came?” Violet was nodding at Simon.

“No.”

The boy finished the ice cream, laid the dish on the faded bedspread. He stroked the sheet, closing his eyes. “Sing about that William, Ma.”

She waited until Violet had gone.

It was in the merry merry month of May When the meadows were fresh and gay Sweet William hung his bugles round about his neck And he went riding away

He slept. Ellen went downstairs to help with the housework. Violet knew little about it, made simple chores tedious, and in her careless way laughed it off. “Chicken says, I’ve got a niece at least that’s a model housekeeper.”

“I like things to be in the place they live.”

“You take last night. The soup was ready but I forgot and put the potatoes in late. They weren’t done. Nerts. Good thing Chicken brings things home from the restaurant.”

While she was talking, Ellen busied herself. She boiled starch for the wilted curtains. “How long have you and Uncle been married?”

“I’m what they call a common-law wife. I guess I can tell you, being Chicken’s family so to speak. We’ve lived on the east side ever since thirty-two. Or was it thirty-three? Last year Chicken gave me a box of stationery with Mrs. Garland Gaddy on it. He says, we’ve got a checking account, you and me, the National Trust.”

“That sounds like Uncle.” Ellen stopped scouring the bronze-trimmed icebox, wiped her hands.

“All the time he’d had it in his head. I’ve never written a check, I don’t know how. Let him do that. But there’s my name with that bank.”

“My.”

“He told me your husband died, Ellen.”

“I’ve got to look at Simon.” She was going upstairs. The covers were thrown back, the boy’s face reddened. When he opened his eyes, they stared at her bloodshot.

“Penn didn’t want that ball,” he breathed.

She was rushing down the long echoing staircase. “Call Uncle’s doctor, Vi. Simon’s really sick.”

She went back. The voice met her, wheedling, “I didn’t wet the quilt, Da.”

“Don’t talk, Simon.”

“I saw that burying-beetle. He made a grave for the speckled thrush. He dug all about the body till it settled in the earth.”

She laid a wet cloth on his forehead. Her hand was pushed away strongly. Now God, shall I give up my first-born for my transgression? The doctor arrived. The watch began. For nearly three days the fever would possess Simon’s body. Garland came and went but Ellen didn’t notice him, that he was changed, his hair whitened, his figure grown portly, his mustache shaved so his face had lost its sharpness. His blue eyes looked out shrived. Ellen saw only Simon. She sat in the cane-bottom chair and watched. Simon was laying his hand on his breast, “Now there’s that pain. I won’t tell Mama.” His voice rose, “Granddaddy clobbered old Jess.”

Ellen asked the doctor, “How come he grabs at his chest? I’ve seen him do that before but he said it didn’t hurt.”

“He might be afraid of something, Mrs. Gaddy, that he’s not aware of. Some anxiety. It’s possible.”

Late in the night, Ellen was sitting alone in the glare of the small overhanging bulb. The doctor had said that only time would reveal the extent of the child’s malady and his strength to combat it. Gusts were rattling the house eaves, rain drummed insistent on the glass behind the stained brown shade. Her eyes sought patterns in the striped wallpaper. “Gaddy brat. Bastard Gaddy.” Simon was crying in the way of the young, without effort, his tears wetting the pillow.

Violet came in, her brown hair hanging to the waist of her dressing-gown and bound with a clasp. “I had a brother,” she said, “was sick like that as a child. He came through. The doctor thinks Simon’s getting better. He told me when he went out.”

“Don’t cry. Why does he cry, Aunt Violet?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s thinking thoughts we can’t know of.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Ellen sighed.

“I know one way to stop it, but you might think it improper.”

“What, Aunt Violet?”

“I doubt the quality ever heard of it. It’s a way people did where I was brought up. Even with babies. We lived in the slums, all in one room. Mom would stroke my brother’s privates. She was forced to hush him so Dad could get his sleep. And it quieted him right off.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ll just use the wet cloth.”

“How is he?” Garland’s rasp sounded from the door. “Just closed up the restaurant. Busy tonight. It’s after midnight.”

Ellen didn’t turn. “He’s better, it seems.”

“He is, Chicken. The first time he’s resting good. I’ll go make your tea. You want some too, Ellen?”

“Sure she does, Vi.”

She pattered away down the hall. “Won’t be long.”

Garland was coming in by the bed. “Poor fellow. He’s a fine kid, puss.”

“I know it.” Tears began to flow down her tired face. “You-all been so good. Taking us in, Uncle.”

“Chrissake, hon. It’s Anton, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Was he mistreating the kid?”

“No.”

“Hell, then he was lording it over you?”

“Not that, I don’t mind that.” She was whispering, weeping. “Seemed he didn’t care for Simon’s good.”

“Hell, that’s An. Wish there was some way to make him see the light.”

“Only to have him do his bidding.”

“What makes that bastard that way? I’m fed up with him. I’m done.”

“To make Simon a part of him like his own son would be.” Ellen was looking up. She saw that Garland was old. He had always seemed young, vigorous. “When I got your letter, Uncle. Saying we could come here. It was like a way opened up.”

“Your letter to me was pretty plain. I thought I knew what the trouble was. I suspected Anton then.” His small angry eyes cooled. “You know how tickled Vi is with you both?”

“I like her.”

“We’ve been married a long time. Since about thirty-two, I think.”

“Like I wrote,” she looked at Simon who breathed evenly in sleep, “I want to get a job right away, though.”

“How old is he anyway?”

“Nine, now.”

“Frankie told me she thought your husband had died.”

“Yes.” The wind rushed, pushing rain sharply against the pane.

“Frankie said what a nice kid Simon was. She’ll be glad to see him, too. We’ll have her over.”

“I’m so tired, Uncle.” She looked at him, vacant. “I can’t think so good. Does Frankie live near here?”

“Just you take it easy.” He put his hand at Simon’s forehead. “Feels cool to me.” The humming of Violet who was mounting the stairs came, and then dishes were rattling in an adjoining room. “Let’s go have some hot tea and ginger-bread. Do you good, sweet.”

“I’d better stay here.”

“You can come back. In a little while.” He jerked the chain dangling from the overhead light. He drew her from the darkened room.

Ellen slept late into the morning like one drugged. Simon dozed. The fever had disappeared, with it went the constriction in his chest. When he roused, Violet tiptoed up to amuse him, making shadow-pictures on the wall with her thin hands. “I used to do this for my brother.”

Garland came home, stood in the doorway. “There’s nobody like my Vi, Simon.”

“Do the little goat now,” the boy whispered.

Ellen went down to the kitchen in the evening. Violet was in a rocker by the tin-topped table. The radio was blaring.

The music goes round and round O-o-o-o-o-o And it comes out here

The woman snapped it off. “Hi. How is he, Ellen?”

“Fine. I promised him a kitten. Reckon we could find one?”

“I’ll tell Chicken. He’ll get you one somewhere. Have a cup?” They sat in the kitchen room that was littered as in the days of Mrs. Quimby’s reign. Years of neglect and Violet’s efforts had done little to improve it. The chipped sink was touched up, the cupboards were painted cream color, and a square of red-and-white linoleum was on the wood floor. The fireplace was still unused, the opening blocked. “If times get better, we’ll fix the house up, Ellen. Get an electric icebox and a new stove and sink.”

Ellen drank the tea. “Violet, did Uncle look for a job for me yet?”

“He’s watching the want ads. We’d like you to stay here as long as you can. Have you ever worked out?”

“No.”

“I have. Since I was eleven. One place they had a special French toilet in their bathroom. When they finished their business on the regular one, they switched to it. It washed them off with a spray. Now it was outlandish.”

“Those French are tormented clean folks. My great grandsir was one.”

“You don’t say.”

The front door slammed. “Where are you, Vi?”

She bayed, “Here, Chicken.”

Garland was pushing the swinging door. “Home is the sailor, home from the sea. And the hunter from the hill.” He kissed Violet’s cheek. “I’ll have some of that tea.”

“Ellen wants you to find Simon a kitten. He likes pets.”

“I’ll ask Charlie. He’s got cats. Charlie’s my dishwasher. Say, we’re going to have company in a couple of hours. Frankie’s coming.”

“I just remembered supper,” Violet cried. “Nerts, I’ll never get it together.”

“Yes, we will,” Ellen gathered the teacups. “How’s Frankie’s piano-playing now, Uncle?”

“Oh, hon,” Garland was laughing, “when did you see her last?”

At six-thirty, Frankie arrived, Genevieve Wheeler, stout and amiable, just behind her. “How’s the farm, Ellen?”

“It’s fine, Miss Wheeler.”

“Take my coat, Gen, will you?” Frankie’s red hair was long and she wore a pearl comb in it. Her fine features had filled out and she had lost her frailness, was somewhat plump.

“All righty. I’ll go put these chocolate eclairs in the frig.” Genevieve was striding vigorously into the hall.

“Oh sure, Ellie. We’ve been visiting Uncle and Vi ever since Pa tossed me out. We live on the east side.” Frankie’s eyes appraised Ellen. “You’re different. Older, I guess.” She had her hand on Ellen’s arm, was kissing her cheek.

Ellen drew away. “And I am older, so what’s that if I look it?” She spoke sharply from the wound.

“Did Pa make you go? We didn’t believe Uncle when he said you were in the city. And Simon, too.”

“I told Pa I was leaving.”

“Are you raising Simon Catholic?”

“Well, Pa took him to church, but I don’t go. I got weary of the prayers and such.”

“Pa know that?”

“I talked to Father Tompert once and he said I was right. So Pa gave in.”

“I always got a kick out of the way you defied him, Ellie. I never dared. How is he?”

“The same.” It tasted bitter. “It’s us that have got to change.”

“I’m glad you left. But how are you going to get along? Are you staying here?”

“No, I want to find a place on a farm, Frankie. So I can work and Simon can help with the stock.”

Genevieve was in the doorway, hearty-voiced, “I know a farmer might be able to take you, Ellen.”

“Where, Gen?” Frankie was asking.

“Down in the state somewhere. Wasilewski’s the name. One of their cousins works in my office. He was reading a letter yesterday about his aunt getting old and wanting to hire a girl. Sounded nice.”

“Let’s write them,” Frankie cried.

“Wonder if they have cows.” The desire caught in Ellen’s throat to lay her hands on the silken hair and smell the pungent kine breath.

“Sure,” Genevieve said. “I guess. Cows and pigs and chickens. The works. We’ll write them, Ellen.”

“And we’ll call you,” Frankie promised, “as soon as we find out.”

“I don’t get it,” Genevieve said. “Wouldn’t you rather find something here in Chicago? My kind of work’s so much more interesting than the drudgery of a farm. It’s stimulating.”

“No, Miss Wheeler.”

“You could live with us,” Frankie offered. “You could do steno work like me.”

“I’ll bet Garland would be tickled silly if you’d stay with them,” Genevieve said.

“Vi’s such a slob,” Frankie giggled.

“She’s not,” said Ellen. “She’s good.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t good,” Frankie was shrugging. “But she’s a slob. She’s perfect for her Chicken.”

“Garland thinks he’s taking care of the downtrodden,” said Genevieve.

“She’s good,” Ellen repeated.

“Why don’t you stay, then?” Genevieve asked.

“They need a housekeeper,” said Frankie.

“I’d rather be on a farm, if I could. Besides, Simon can’t bear to be cooped up.” But Ellen knew she wanted to be away from Garland and his wife, and Frankie and Genevieve Wheeler. She wanted to leave all ties, to start on new ground.

The next day, Frankie called to say they had mailed the letter and when the reply came would let Ellen know without delay. Ellen walked through the park, Simon beside her. Leaves were dropping, scudding into damp niches, mingling with soot particles and bits of paper and debris that gathered in gutters. Sleet sheeted from a dull sky. They returned to the house. Violet was bringing a bowl of popcorn into the living room. Garland urged Ellen, “Top Hat’s at the Acme tonight. With Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Why don’t you come with us, puss?”

“I don’t care to.”

“Make me some fudge, Ma.”

“All right.” When Garland and Violet had left, they went into the kitchen. Simon sat in the rocker while Ellen was hunting through cupboards for ingredients.

“When you reckon Uncle will get my kitten, Ma?”

“Soon, he said.”

“Wonder if Leona’s kid sprouted horns?”

“Uncle says the man that washes dishes at the restaurant has a cat that littered. But they aren’t weaned yet.” She was stirring the hot mixture in the iron pan, the strong odor of chocolate filled the air.

Simon stared at the red-and-white checked linoleum, held the arms of the chair to keep it from movement. “Reckon Sam milks the goats out good?”

She poured the thick fudge on a buttered cold plate. Her body was tense and unyielding. Her braids lay like marble coils about her head. “Uncle says those kits are spotted. Black and white and orange.”

Simon got up and followed her into the living room. He was nibbling at a sweet brown square, his eyes looking past the ruffed curtains to the steady noise of the street. “I say, Ma, I get to honing for them.”

It was two weeks before Frankie came for an evening again. “Why in the world did you and Uncle move from the old flat, Vi?” She was laughing. “It takes us an hour to get over to this side.”

“Did you e’er hear from those people, Frankie?” Ellen asked.

“Who?”

“About that farm.”

“Oh yes. We meant to call you. Gen’s got a letter from them.”

“It’s here somewhere in my bag.” Genevieve searched.

Ellen took it quickly to slit it open.

Mrs. Gaddy.

I hear you want to hire out. Winter work is light here. Can you come say latter part of Jan.? If satisfactory would pay 4 & half dollars per week and board. Child to work according to size. My wife raises chickens. Needs help with them and house. Also garden-stuff. That is all I have to say.

Matthew Paul Wasilewski Hidden Creek, Ill. Rt. 1

“Well?” asked Gen. “Good or bad?”

“They’ll take us. But not till after winter.” She colored. “I know where Hidden Creek is. Penny Dougherty lives near there.”

“Well,” said Violet when she heard the news, “I’m glad it’s not till January at least.”

“It’s that I hate putting you and Uncle out.”

“Nerts, you don’t. We wish you’d stay.”

“Can I have my own horse there, Ma?”

“We’ll see if you can leastwise have a chicken.”

“Let me have it as soon as it hatches. I’ll give it all its feed and raise it for a pet.”

“Never heard of a pet chicken,” Violet said.

“When’s Uncle going to bring me the kitten, Aunt Vi?”

“I’ll get after him again, Simon. He’s always busy.”

“I’d love a spotty kitten.”

Ellen cleaned the house as the weeks flowed. With strong yellow soap she scrubbed into corners, taking a pleasure in the dark lather that would form in the ancient dust. She pulled down drapes, hauled dingy frayed rugs out on the line strung in the yard and set Simon to beating them in the cold autumn sunlight. “You got to polish brass with wood ashes mixed in oil. Hit’s the only way,” she told Violet. “It mars our hands but the brass comes shiny like new.”

Violet, thin arms akimbo, followed, protesting. “Look at you, Ellen. Let it be. We don’t mind. Come on and sit.”

“I’d rather finish this off first, Aunt Vi.” She felt a compulsion to drive her body as if that would make the days shorter.