PART TWO - CHAPTER VI

by Kathleen Norris

　　Julia found the family as usual in the kitchen, and the kitchen as usualdirty and close. Her old grandmother, a little bent figure in a loosecalico wrapper, was rocking in a chair by the stove. Julia's mother washelpless in a great wheeled chair, with blankets and pillows carelesslydisposed about her, and her eager eyes bright in a face chiselled bypain. Sitting at the table was a heavy, sad-faced woman, with severalfront teeth missing, in whom Julia recognized her aunt, Mrs. Torney. Agirl of thirteen, with her somewhat colourless hair in untidy braids,and a flannel bandage high about her throat, came downstairs at thesound of Julia's entrance. This was Regina Torney.

　　"Well, it's Julia!" Mrs. Cox said. "And the darlin' sweetie—yououghtn't to bring her out such weather, Julie! How's them little hands?"

　　She took the baby, and Julia kissed her mother and aunt, expecting todraw from the former the usual long complaints when she said:

　　"How are you, dear? How does the chair go?"

　　But Mrs. Page surprised her by some new quality in her look and tone,something poignantly touching and admirable. She was a thin littleshadow of her former self now, the skin drawn tight and shining over hercheek bones, her almost useless hands resting on a pillow in her lap.She wore a soiled dark wrapper, her dark hair, still without a touch ofgray, was in disorder, and her blankets and pillows were not clean. Shesmiled at her daughter.

　　"I declare, Ju, you do seem to bring the good fresh air in with youwhenever you come! Don't her cheeks look pretty, Regina? Why, I'm justabout the same, Ju. To-day's a real bad day, on account of the rain, butI had a good night."

　　"She's had an awful week, Julia. She don't seem to get no better," Mrs.Torney said heavily. "I was just saying that it almost seems like sheisn't going to get well; it just seems like it had got hold of her!"

　　Julia sat down next to her mother, and laid her own warm young hand overthe hand on the pillow.

　　"What does the doctor say?" she asked, looking from one discouragingface to another.

　　"Oh, I don't know!" Mrs. Page said, sighing, and old Mrs. Cox cackledout a shrill "Doctors don't know nothing, anyway!"

　　"Emeline sent for me," Mrs. Torney said in a sad, droning voice. "Mammajust couldn't manage it, Julia; she's getting on; she can't doeverything. So me and Regina gave up the Oakland house, and we've beenhere three weeks. We didn't want to do it, Julia, but you couldn't blameus if you'd read your Mamma's letter. Regina's going to work as soon asshe can, and help out!"

　　Julia understood a certain deprecatory and apologetic note in her aunt'svoice to refer to the fact that the Shotwell Street house was largelysupported by Jim's generous monthly cheque, and that in establishingherself and her youngest daughter there she more or less avowedly addedone more burden to Julia's shoulders.

　　"I'm glad you did, Auntie," she answered cheerfully. "How's Muriel? Andwhere's Geraldine?"

　　"Geraldine's at school," Mrs. Torney said mournfully. "But Regina's notgoing to start in here. She done awfully well in school, too, Julia,but, as I say, she feels she ought to get to work now. She's got anawful sore throat, too. Muriel's started the nursing course, but I don'tbelieve she can go on with it, it's something fierce. All my childrenhave weak stomachs; she says the smell in the hospital makes her awfullysick. I don't feel real well myself; every time I stand up—my God! Ifeel as if my back was going to split in two, and yet with poor Em thisway I felt as if I had ter come. Not that I can do anything for Emeline,but I was losing money on my boarders. I wish't you'd come out Sunday,Julia, I cooked a real good dinner, didn't I, Ma?"

　　Mrs. Cox did not hear, and Julia turned to her mother.

　　"Made up your mind really to go, Ju?" Mrs. Page asked.

　　"Oh, really! We leave on the seventh."

　　"I've always wanted to go somewheres on a ship," Emeline said. "Didn'tcare so much what it was when I got there, but wanted to go!"

　　"So have I," contributed Mrs. Torney. "I was real like you at your age,Julia, and I used to think I'd do this and that when the children wasbig. Well, some of us are lucky and some of us aren't—ain't that it,Ma? I was talking to a priest about it once," she pursued, "and he said,'Well, Mrs. Torney, if there was no sorrow and suffering in the world,there wouldn't be no saints!' 'Oh, Father,' I says, 'there isn't much ofthe saint in me! But,' I says, 'I've been a faithful wife and mother, ifI say it; seven children I've raised and two I've buried; I've worked myhands to the bone,' I says, 'and the Lord has sent me nothing buttrouble!'"

　　"Ma, ain't you going to put your clothes on and go to the store?" Reginasaid.

　　"I was going to," Mrs. Torney said, sighing, "but I think maybe now I'llwait, and let Geraldine go—she'll have her things on."

　　"I suppose you haven't got any milk?" Mrs. Page said. "I declare I getto feeling awfully gone about this time!"

　　"We haven't a drop, Em," Mrs. Torney said, after investigating a smallback porch, from which Julia got a strong whiff of wet ashes anddecaying cabbage leaves.

　　"How much milk do you get regularly?" Julia asked, looking worried.

　　"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Torney said, from the sink, where she was attackinga greasy frying pan with cold water and a gray rag worn into holes, "youforget we ain't rich people here. We don't have him leave milk, but ifwe want it we put a bottle out on the back steps."

　　"You ought to have plenty of milk, Mama, taking those strong, depressingmedicines!" Julia said.

　　"Well, I ain't got much appetite, Julie," her mother answered, with thatnew and touching smile. "Now, last night the girls had cabbage and cornbeef cooking—I used to be real fond of that dinner, but it almost mademe sick, just smelling it! So Geraldine fried me an egg, yet that didn'ttaste good, either! Gettin' old and fussy, I guess!"

　　Julia felt the tears press suddenly behind her eyes as she answered thepatient smile. "Mama, I think you are terribly patient!" said she.

　　"I guess you can get used to anything!" Emeline said.

　　Regina coughed, and huddled herself in her chair.

　　"But I thought since we had the air-tight stove put in the other roomyou were going to use it more?" said Julia, as Mrs. Torney shook downthe cooking stove with a violence that filled the air with the acridtaste of ashes.

　　"Well, we do sometimes. I meant to clean it to-day and get it startedagain," her aunt said. "I'm sure I don't know what we're going to do fordinner, Ma," she added. "Here it is getting round to five, and Geraldinehasn't come in. I don't know what on earth she does withherself—weather like this!"

　　Mrs. Cox made no response; she was nodding in the twilight over thelittle relaxed figure of the baby; a fat little white-clad leg rolled onher knee as she rocked. A moment later Geraldine, a heavy, highlycoloured girl, much what her sister Marguerite had been ten yearsbefore, burst in, cold, wet, and tired, with a strapful of wet bookswhich she flung on the table.

　　"My Lord, what do you keep this place so dark for, Ma!" said Geraldine."It's something awful! Hello, Julia!" She kissed her cousin, pickedJulia's big muff from a chair, and pressed the soft sables for a momentto her face. "Well, the little old darling, she's asleep, isn't she?"she murmured over the baby. "Say, Mamma," she went on more briskly,"I've got company coming to-night—"

　　"You!" said Julia, smiling, and laying an affectionate hand on her youngcousin's shoulder, as she stood beside her. "Why, how old are you,child?"

　　"I'm sixteen—nearly," Geraldine said stoutly. "Didn't you have beauswhen you were sixteen?"

　　"I suppose I did!" Julia admitted, smiling. "But you seem awfullyyoung!"

　　"I thought—maybe you'd go to the store for me," said Mrs. Torney.Geraldine glared at her.

　　"Oh, my God! haven't the things come?" she demanded, in shrill disgust."I can't, Mamma, I'm sopping wet, and I've got to clean the parlour.It's all over ashes, and mud, and the Lord knows what!"

　　"Well, I couldn't get out to-day, that's all there is to that," Mrs.Torney defended herself sharply. "My back's been like it was on fire.I've jest been resting all day. And when you go upstairs you won't finda thing straightened, so don't get mad about that—I haven't been ableto do one thing! Regina's been real sick, too; she may have made thebeds—she was upstairs a while—"

　　"She didn't!" supplied Regina herself, speaking over her shoulder as shelighted the gas. They all blinked in the harsh sudden light.

　　"Oh, Lord!" Geraldine was beginning, when Julia interrupted soothingly:

　　"See here, I have the car here; Chadwick was to come back at five. Letme send him for the things! What do we want?"

　　"Well, we don't want to keep you, lovey," her mother began. But Juliawas already writing a list.

　　"Indeed I'm going to stay and have some with you, Mrs. Page," she saidcheerfully. "Chops for the family—aren't those quickest? And a quart ofoysters for Mama, and cake and cheese and jam and eggs—tell meanything you think of, Aunt May, because he might as well do itthoroughly!

　　"Mama and Regina are going to have oyster soup and toast because theyare the invalids!" she announced cheerfully, coming back from the door alittle later, "You like oysters, don't you, Mama?"

　　"Oh, Julia, I like 'em so much!" Mrs. Page said, with grateful fervour.

　　"You can have other things, too, you know, Madam," Julia assured herplayfully. "And why don't you let me push you, so—" She wheeled thechair across the kitchen as she spoke. "Over here, you see, you're outof the crowd," she said. She presently put a coaxing arm about Regina."Do go up and brush your hair and change, dear, you'll feel so muchbetter," she urged.

　　"I feel rotten," Regina said, dragging herself stairward nevertheless.

　　Poor Mrs. Page cried when the moment for parting came. It was stillearly in the evening when Julia bundled up the sleeping Anna, and senther to the motor car by Chester, a gentle gray-haired man, who had beenextremely appreciative of a good dinner, and who had been sitting withhis wet socks in the oven, and his stupid kindly eyes contentedly fixedupon Julia and her mother.

　　"I may not see you again, Julie," Mrs. Page said with trembling lips."Mama ain't strong like she once was, dear. And I declare I don't knowwhat I shall do, when day after day goes by and you don't comein—always so sweet!" The tears began to flow, and she twisted her head,and slowly and painfully raised her handkerchief in a crippled hand todry her eyes. Julia knelt down to kiss her, her young face very sober.

　　"Listen, Mama—don't cry! Please don't cry!" said she. "Listen! I'llpromise you to see you again before I go!"

　　Her mother brightened visibly at this, and Julia kissed her again, andran out in the dripping rain to her car. She took the baby into herarms, and settled back in the darkness for the long trip to her hotel.And for the first time in many months her thoughts were not of her owntroubles.

　　She thought of the Shotwell Street house, and wondered what hadattracted her grandfather and grandmother to it, forty years ago. Shetried to see her mother there, a slender, dark-haired child; tried toimagine her aunt as young and fresh and hopeful. Had the rooms been darkand dirty even then? Julia feared so; in none of her mother'sreminiscences was there ever any tenderness or affection for earlymemories of Shotwell Street. Four young people had gone out from thathouse, nearly thirty years ago, how badly equipped to meet life!

　　Julia's own earliest recollections centred in it. She remembered herselfas an elaborately dressed little child, shaking out her little flouncesfor her grandmother's admiration, and having large hats tied over herflushed sticky face and tumbled curls. She remembered that, instead ofthe row of cheap two-story flats that now faced it, there had been avacant lot across the street then, where horses sometimes galloped. Sheremembered the Chester of those days, a pimply, constantly smokingyouth, who gave her little pictures of actresses from his cigaretteboxes, and other little pictures that, being held to a strong light,developed additional figures and lettering. He called her "MissO'Farrell of Page Street" sometimes, and liked to poke her plump littleperson until she giggled herself almost into hysterics.

　　Still dreaming of the old times, she reached her hotel, and while Elliesettled the baby into her waiting crib, Julia sat down before a fire,her slippered feet to the comfortable coals, her loose mandarin robedeliciously warm and restful after the tiring day.

　　"You want the lights, Mrs. Studdiford?" asked Ellie, tiptoeing in fromthe next room.

　　"Oh, no, thank you!" Julia said. "I'll just sit here for a while, andthen go to bed."

　　Ellie went softly out; the clock struck nine—ten—eleven. Against theclosely curtained windows the rain still fell with a softened hiss, thecoals broke, flamed up, died down to a rosy glow. Still Julia sat, sunkin her deep chair, musing.

　　She saw the Shotwell Street house changed, and made, for the first timein its years of tenancy, into a home. There must be paint outside, cleanpaint, there must be a garden, with a brick path and rose bushes, wherea little girl might take her first stumbling steps, and where springwould make a brave showing in green and white for the eyes of tiredhomegoers.

　　Indoors there should be a cool little orderly dining-room, with bluechina on its shelves, and a blue rug under the round table, and thereshould be a drawing-room papered in clean tans and curtained in creamcolour, with an upright piano and comfortable chairs. The ugly oldstoreroom off the kitchen must be her mother's; it must have new windowscut, and nothing but what was new and pretty must go in there. And thekitchen should have blue-and-white linoleum, with curtains and shiningtinware; there must be the gleam of scrubbed white woodwork, the shineof polished metal. It was a big kitchen, the invalid might still like tohave her chair there.

　　The basement's big, unused front room must be finished in durableburlaps and grass matting for Uncle Chester; there must be a bathupstairs; two rooms for Aunt May and the girls, one for Grandma, one forJulia and little Anna.

　　So much for externals. But what of changing the tenants to suit thehouse? Would time and patience ever transform Mrs. Torney into a busy,useful woman? Would Geraldine and Regina develop into hopelessincompetents like Marguerite, or pay Julia for all her trouble bybecoming happy and helpful and contented?

　　Time must show. Only the days and the years would answer the questionthat Julia asked of the fire. There must be patience, there must beendless effort, there would be times of bitterest discouragement anddepression. And in the end?

　　In the end there would only be, at best, one family, out of millions ofother families, saved from unnecessary suffering. There would be onlyone household lifted from the weight of incompetence and wretchednessthat burdened the world. There would be no miracle, no appreciation, nogratitude.

　　"But—who knows?" mused Julia. "It may save Geraldine and Regina fromlives like Rita's, and bitterness like Muriel's and Evelyn's. It maysave them from clouding their lives as I did mine. Rita's children, too,who knows what a clean and sweet ideal—held before them, may do forthem? And poor Chess, who has been wronged all his life, and my poorlittle grandmother, and Mama—"

　　It was the thought of her mother that turned the scale. Julia thought ofthe dirty blankets and the soggy pillow that furnished the invalid'schair, of the treat that a simple bowl of oyster soup seemed to thefailing appetite.

　　"And I can do it!" she said to herself. "It will be hard for months andmonths, and it will be hard now to make Aunt Sanna see that I am right;but I can do it!" She looked about the luxurious room, and smiled alittle sadly. "No more of this!" she thought. And then longing for herhusband came with a sick rush. "Oh, Jimmy!" she whispered, with fillingeyes. "If it was only you and me, my darling! If we were going anywheretogether, to the poorest neighbourhood and the meanest cabin in theworld—how blessed I would be! How we could work and laugh and plantogether, for Anna and the others!" But presently the tears dried on hercheeks. "Never mind, it will keep me from thinking too hard," shethought. "I shall be needed, I shall be busy, and nothing else mattersmuch!"

　　She got up, and went to one of the great windows that looked down acrossthe city. The rain was over, dark masses of cloud were breaking andstirring overhead; through their rifts she caught the silver glimmer ofthe troubled moon. Across the shadowy band that was the bay a ferryboat,pricked with hundreds of tiny lights, was moving toward the glitteringchain of Oakland. There was a light on Alcatraz, and other nearer lightsscattered through the dark masts and dim hulks of the vessels in theharbour below her.

　　"It will be bright to-morrow!" Julia thought, resting her foreheadagainst the glass. She was weary and spent; a measureless exhaustionseemed to enfold her. Yet under it all there glowed some new spark ofwarm reassurance and certainty. "Thank God, I see my way clear at last!"she said softly.