A Harlem Tragedy

by O. Henry

　　

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Harlem.Mrs. Fink had dropped into Mrs. Cassidy's flat one flight below."Ain't it a beaut?" said Mrs. Cassidy.She turned her face proudly for her friend Mrs. Fink to see. One eyewas nearly closed, with a great, greenish-purple bruise around it.Her lip was cut and bleeding a little and there were red finger-markson each side of her neck."My husband wouldn't ever think of doing that to me," said Mrs.Fink, concealing her envy."I wouldn't have a man," declared Mrs. Cassidy, "that didn't beat meup at least once a week. Shows he thinks something of you. Say! butthat last dose Jack gave me wasn't no homeopathic one. I can seestars yet. But he'll be the sweetest man in town for the rest of theweek to make up for it. This eye is good for theater tickets and asilk shirt waist at the very least.""I should hope," said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, "that Mr.Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me.""Oh, go on, Maggie!" said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing and applying witchhazel, "you're only jealous. Your old man is too frapped and slowto ever give you a punch. He just sits down and practises physicalculture with a newspaper when he comes home--now ain't that thetruth?""Mr. Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home,"acknowledged Mrs. Fink, with a toss of her head; "but he certainlydon't ever make no Steve O'Donnell out of me just to amusehimself--that's a sure thing."Mrs. Cassidy laughed the contented laugh of the guarded and happymatron. With the air of Cornelia exhibiting her jewels, she drewdown the collar of her kimono and revealed another treasured bruise,maroon-colored, edged with olive and orange--a bruise now nearlywell, but still to memory dear.Mrs. Fink capitulated. The formal light in her eye softened toenvious admiration. She and Mrs. Cassidy had been chums in thedowntown paper-box factory before they had married, one year before.Now she and her man occupied the flat above Mame and her man.Therefore she could not put on airs with Mame."Don't it hurt when he soaks you?" asked Mrs. Fink, curiously."Hurt!"--Mrs. Cassidy gave a soprano scream of delight. "Well,say--did you ever have a brick house fall on you?--well, that's justthe way it feels--just like when they're digging you out of theruins. Jack's got a left that spells two matinees and a new pair ofOxfords--and his right!--well, it takes a trip to Coney and sixpairs of openwork, silk lisle threads to make that good.""But what does he beat you for?" inquired Mrs. Fink, with wide-openeyes."Silly!" said Mrs. Cassidy, indulgently. "Why, because he's full.It's generally on Saturday nights.""But what cause do you give him?" persisted the seeker afterknowledge."Why, didn't I marry him? Jack comes in tanked up; and I'm here,ain't I? Who else has he got a right to beat? I'd just like to catchhim once beating anybody else! Sometimes it's because supper ain'tready; and sometimes it's because it is. Jack ain't particular aboutcauses. He just lushes till he remembers he's married, and thenhe makes for home and does me up. Saturday nights I just move thefurniture with sharp corners out of the way, so I won't cut myhead when he gets his work in. He's got a left swing that jars you!Sometimes I take the count in the first round; but when I feel likehaving a good time during the week or want some new rags I come upagain for more punishment. That's what I done last night. Jack knowsI've been wanting a black silk waist for a month, and I didn't thinkjust one black eye would bring it. Tell you what, Mag, I'll bet youthe ice cream he brings it to-night."Mrs. Fink was thinking deeply."My Mart," she said, "never hit me a lick in his life. It's justlike you said, Mame; he comes in grouchy and ain't got a word tosay. He never takes me out anywhere. He's a chair-warmer at home forfair. He buys me things, but he looks so glum about it that I neverappreciate 'em."Mrs. Cassidy slipped an arm around her chum. "You poor thing!"she said. "But everybody can't have a husband like Jack. Marriagewouldn't be no failure if they was all like him. These discontentedwives you hear about--what they need is a man to come home and kicktheir slats in once a week, and then make it up in kisses, andchocolate creams. That'd give 'em some interest in life. What I wantis a masterful man that slugs you when he's jagged and hugs you whenhe ain't jagged. Preserve me from the man that ain't got the sand todo neither!"Mrs. Fink sighed.The hallways were suddenly filled with sound. The door flew open atthe kick of Mr. Cassidy. His arms were occupied with bundles. Mameflew and hung about his neck. Her sound eye sparkled with the lovelight that shines in the eye of the Maori maid when she recoversconsciousness in the hut of the wooer who has stunned and draggedher there."Hello, old girl!" shouted Mr. Cassidy. He shed his bundles andlifted her off her feet in a mighty hug. "I got tickets for Barnum& Bailey's, and if you'll bust the string of one of them bundles Iguess you'll find that silk waist--why, good evening, Mrs. Fink--Ididn't see you at first. How's old Mart coming along?""He's very well, Mr. Cassidy--thanks," said Mrs. Fink. "I must begoing along up now. Mart'll be home for supper soon. I'll bring youdown that pattern you wanted to-morrow, Mame."Mrs. Fink went up to her flat and had a little cry. It was ameaningless cry, the kind of cry that only a woman knows about, acry from no particular cause, altogether an absurd cry; the mosttransient and the most hopeless cry in the repertory of grief. Whyhad Martin never thrashed her? He was as big and strong as JackCassidy. Did he not care for her at all? He never quarrelled; hecame home and lounged about, silent, glum, idle. He was a fairlygood provider, but he ignored the spices of life.Mrs. Fink's ship of dreams was becalmed. Her captain ranged betweenplum duff and his hammock. If only he would shiver his timbers orstamp his foot on the quarter-deck now and then! And she had thoughtto sail so merrily, touching at ports in the Delectable Isles! Butnow, to vary the figure, she was ready to throw up the sponge, tiredout, without a scratch to show for all those tame rounds with hersparring partner. For one moment she almost hated Mame--Mame, withher cuts and bruises, her salve of presents and kisses; her stormyvoyage with her fighting, brutal, loving mate.Mr. Fink came home at 7. He was permeated with the curse ofdomesticity. Beyond the portals of his cozy home he cared not toroam, to roam. He was the man who had caught the street car, theanaconda that had swallowed its prey, the tree that lay as it hadfallen."Like the supper, Mart?" asked Mrs. Fink, who had striven over it."M-m-m-yep," grunted Mr. Fink.After supper he gathered his newspapers to read. He sat in hisstocking feet.Arise, some new Dante, and sing me the befitting corner of perditionfor the man who sitteth in the house in his stockinged feet. Sistersof Patience who by reason of ties or duty have endured it in silk,yarn, cotton, lisle thread or woollen--does not the new canto belong?The next day was Labor Day. The occupations of Mr. Cassidy and Mr.Fink ceased for one passage of the sun. Labor, triumphant, wouldparade and otherwise disport itself.Mrs. Fink took Mrs. Cassidy's pattern down early. Mame had on hernew silk waist. Even her damaged eye managed to emit a holidaygleam. Jack was fruitfully penitent, and there was a hilariousscheme for the day afoot, with parks and picnics and Pilsener in it.A rising, indignant jealousy seized Mrs. Fink as she returned to herflat above. Oh, happy Mame, with her bruises and her quick-followingbalm! But was Mame to have a monopoly of happiness? Surely MartinFink was as good a man as Jack Cassidy. Was his wife to go alwaysunbelabored and uncaressed? A sudden, brilliant, breathless ideacame to Mrs. Fink. She would show Mame that there were husbands asable to use their fists and perhaps to be as tender afterward as anyJack.The holiday promised to be a nominal one with the Finks. Mrs. Finkhad the stationary washtubs in the kitchen filled with a two weeks'wash that had been soaking overnight. Mr. Fink sat in his stockingedfeet reading a newspaper. Thus Labor Day presaged to speed.Jealousy surged high in Mrs. Fink's heart, and higher still surgedan audacious resolve. If her man would not strike her--if he wouldnot so far prove his manhood, his prerogative and his interest inconjugal affairs, he must be prompted to his duty.Mr. Fink lit his pipe and peacefully rubbed an ankle with astockinged toe. He reposed in the state of matrimony like a lumpof unblended suet in a pudding. This was his level Elysium--to sitat ease vicariously girdling the world in print amid the wifelysplashing of suds and the agreeable smells of breakfast dishesdeparted and dinner ones to come. Many ideas were far from hismind; but the furthest one was the thought of beating his wife.Mrs. Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in thesuds. Up from the flat below came the gay laugh of Mrs. Cassidy. Itsounded like a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the faceof the unslugged bride above. Now was Mrs. Fink's time.Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading."You lazy loafer!" she cried, "must I work my arms off washing andtoiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you akitchen hound?"Mr. Fink dropped his paper, motionless from surprise. She fearedthat he would not strike--that the provocation had been insufficient.She leaped at him and struck him fiercely in the face with herclenched hand. In that instant she felt a thrill of love for himsuch as she had not felt for many a day. Rise up, Martin Fink, andcome into your kingdom! Oh, she must feel the weight of his handnow--just to show that he cared--just to show that he cared!Mr. Fink sprang to his feet--Maggie caught him again on the jaw witha wide swing of her other hand. She closed her eyes in that fearful,blissful moment before his blow should come--she whispered his nameto herself--she leaned to the expected shock, hungry for it.In the flat below Mr. Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face waspowdering Mame's eye in preparation for their junket. From the flatabove came the sound of a woman's voice, high-raised, a bumping, astumbling and a shuffling, a chair overturned--unmistakable soundsof domestic conflict."Mart and Mag scrapping?" postulated Mr. Cassidy. "Didn't know theyever indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge holder?"One of Mrs. Cassidy's eyes sparkled like a diamond. The othertwinkled at least like paste."Oh, oh," she said, softly and without apparent meaning, in thefeminine ejaculatory manner. "I wonder if--wonder if! Wait, Jack,till I go up and see."Up the stairs she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above outfrom the kitchen door of her flat wildly flounced Mrs. Fink."Oh, Maggie," cried Mrs. Cassidy, in a delighted whisper; "did he?Oh, did he?"Mrs. Fink ran and laid her face upon her chum's shoulder and sobbedhopelessly.Mrs. Cassidy took Maggie's face between her hands and lifted itgently. Tear-stained it was, flushing and paling, but its velvety,pink-and-white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched,unbruised, unmarred by the recreant fist of Mr. Fink."Tell me, Maggie," pleaded Mame, "or I'll go in there and find out.What was it? Did he hurt you--what did he do?"Mrs. Fink's face went down again despairingly on the bosom of herfriend."For God's sake don't open that door, Mame," she sobbed. "And don'tever tell nobody--keep it under your hat. He--he never touched me,and--he's--oh, Gawd--he's washin' the clothes--he's washin' theclothes!"

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