Sun Dried

by Edna Ferber

　　

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There come those times in the life of every woman when she feelsthat she must wash her hair at once. And then she does it. Thefeeling may come upon her suddenly, without warning, at any hour ofthe day or night; or its approach may be slow and insidious, sothat the victim does not at first realize what it is that fills herwith that sensation of unrest. But once in the clutches of theidea she knows no happiness, no peace, until she has donned akimono, gathered up two bath towels, a spray, and the green soap,and she breathes again only when, head dripping, she makes for theback yard, the sitting-room radiator, or the side porch (dependingon her place of residence, and the time of year).Mary Louise was seized with the feeling at ten o'clock on ajoyous June morning. She tried to fight it off because she had gotto that stage in the construction of her story where her hero wasbeginning to talk and act a little more like a real live man, anda little less like a clothing store dummy. (By the way, they don'tseem to be using those pink-and-white, black-mustachioed figuresany more. Another good simile gone.)Mary Louise had been battling with that hero for a week. Hewouldn't make love to the heroine. In vain had Mary Louise strivento instill red blood into his watery veins. He and the beauteousheroine were as far apart as they had been on Page One of thetypewritten manuscript. Mary Louise was developing nerves overhim. She had bitten her finger nails, and twisted her hair intocorkscrews over him. She had risen every morning at the chastehour of seven, breakfasted hurriedly, tidied the tiny two-roomapartment, and sat down in the unromantic morning light to wrestlewith her stick of a hero. She had made her heroine a creature ofgrace, wit, and loveliness, but thus far the hero had not onceclasped her to him fiercely, or pressed his lips to her hair, hereyes, her cheeks. Nay (as the story-writers would put it), hehadn't even devoured her with his gaze.This morning, however, he had begun to show some signs oflife. He was developing possibilities. Whereupon, at thiscritical stage in the story-writing game, the hair-washing maniaseized Mary Louise. She tried to dismiss the idea. She pushed itout of her mind, and slammed the door. It only popped in again.Her fingers wandered to her hair. Her eyes wandered to the Junesunshine outside. The hero was left poised, arms outstretched, andunquenchable love-light burning in his eyes, while Mary Louisemused, thus:"It certainly feels sticky. It's been six weeks, at least.And I could sit here-by the window--in the sun--and dry it----"With a jerk she brought her straying fingers away from herhair, and her wandering eyes away from the sunshine, and herrunaway thoughts back to the typewritten page. For three minutesthe snap of the little disks crackled through the stillness of thetiny apartment. Then, suddenly, as though succumbing to anirresistible force, Mary Louise rose, walked across the room (amatter of six steps), removing hairpins as she went, and shovedaside the screen which hid the stationary wash-bowl by day.Mary Louise turned on a faucet and held her finger under it,while an agonized expression of doubt and suspense overspread herfeatures. Slowly the look of suspense gave way to a smile ofbeatific content. A sigh--deep, soul-filling, satisfied--welled upfrom Mary Louise's breast. The water was hot.Half an hour later, head swathed turban fashion in a towel,Mary Louise strolled over to the window. Then she stopped, aghast.In that half hour the sun had slipped just around the corner, andwas now beating brightly and uselessly against the brick wall a fewinches away. Slowly Mary Louise unwound the towel, bent double inthe contortionistic attitude that women assume on such occasions,and watched with melancholy eyes while the drops trickled down tothe ends of her hair, and fell, unsunned, to the floor."If only," thought Mary Louise, bitterly, "there was such athing as a back yard in this city--a back yard where I could squaton the grass, in the sunshine and the breeze-- Maybe there is.I'll ask the janitor."She bound her hair in the turban again, and opened the door.At the far end of the long, dim hallway Charlie, the janitor, wasdoing something to the floor with a mop and a great deal of sloppywater, whistling the while with a shrill abandon that had announcedhis presence to Mary Louise."Oh, Charlie!" called Mary Louise. "Charlee! Can you comehere just a minute?""You bet!" answered Charlie, with the accent on the you; andcame."Charlie, is there a back yard, or something, where the sunis, you know--some nice, grassy place where I can sit, and dry myhair, and let the breezes blow it?""Back yard!" grinned Charlie. "I guess you're new to N' York,all right, with ground costin' a million or so a foot. Not muchthey ain't no back yard, unless you'd give that name to anash-barrel, and a dump heap or so, and a crop of tin cans. Iwouldn't invite a goat to set in it."Disappointment curved Mary Louise's mouth. It was a lovelyenough mouth at any time, but when it curved indisappointment--ell, janitors are but human, after all."Tell you what, though," said Charlie. "I'll let you up onthe roof. It ain't long on grassy spots up there, but say, breeze!Like a summer resort. On a clear day you can see way over 's far's Eight' Avenoo. Only for the love of Mike don't blab it to theother women folks in the buildin', or I'll have the whole works of'em usin' the roof for a general sun, massage, an' beauty parlor.Come on.""I'll never breathe it to a soul," promised Mary Louise,solemnly. "Oh, wait a minute."She turned back into her room, appearing again in a momentwith something green in her hand."What's that?" asked Charlie, suspiciously.Mary Louise, speeding down the narrow hallway after Charlie,blushed a little. "It--it's parsley," she faltered."Parsley!" exploded Charlie. "Well, what the----""Well, you see. I'm from the country," explained Mary Louise,"and in the country, at this time of year, when you dry your hairin the back yard, you get the most wonderful scent of green andgrowing things--not only of flowers, you know, but of the newthings just coming up in the vegetable garden, and--and--well, thisparsley happens to be the only really gardeny thing I have, so Ithought I'd bring it along and sniff it once in a while, and makebelieve it's the country, up there on the roof."Half-way up the perilous little flight of stairs that led tothe roof, Charlie, the janitor, turned to gaze down at Mary Louise,who was just behind, and keeping fearfully out of the way ofCharlie's heels."Wimmin," observed Charlie, the janitor, "is nothin' butlittle girls in long skirts, and their hair done up.""I know it," giggled Mary Louise, and sprang up on the roof,looking, with her towel-swathed head, like a lady Aladdin leapingfrom her underground grotto.The two stood there a moment, looking up at the blue sky, andall about at the June sunshine."If you go up high enough," observed Mary Louise, "thesunshine is almost the same as it is in the country, isn't it?""I shouldn't wonder," said Charlie, "though Calvary cemeteryis about as near's I'll ever get to the country. Say, you can sethere on this soap box and let your feet hang down. The lastjanitor's wife used to hang her washin' up here, I guess. I'llleave this door open, see?""You're so kind," smiled Mary Louise."Kin you blame me?" retorted the gallant Charles. And vanished.Mary Louise, perched on the soap box, unwound her turban,draped the damp towel over her shoulders, and shook out the wetmasses of her hair. Now the average girl shaking out the wetmasses of her hair looks like a drowned rat. But Nature had beenkind to Mary Louise. She had given her hair that curled in littleringlets when wet, and that waved in all the right places when dry.Just now it hung in damp, shining strands on either side of herface, so that she looked most remarkably like one of thoseoval-faced, great-eyed, red-lipped women that the old Italianartists were so fond of painting.Below her, blazing in the sun, lay the great stone and ironcity. Mary Louise shook out her hair idly, with one hand, sniffedher parsley, shut her eyes, threw back her head, and began to sing,beating time with her heel against the soap box, and forgetting allabout the letter that had come that morning, stating that it wasnot from any lack of merit, etc. She sang, and sniffed herparsley, and waggled her hair in the breeze, and beat time, idly,with the heel of her little boot, when----"Holy Cats!" exclaimed a man's voice. "What is this, anyway?A Coney Island concession gone wrong?"Mary Louise's eyes unclosed in a flash, and Mary Louise gazedupon an irate-looking, youngish man, who wore shabby slippers, andno collar with a full dress air."I presume that you are the janitor's beautiful daughter,"growled the collarless man."Well, not precisely," answered Mary Louise, sweetly. "Areyou the scrub-lady's stalwart son?""Ha!" exploded the man. "But then, all women look alike withtheir hair down. I ask your pardon, though.""Not at all," replied Mary Louise. "For that matter, all menlook like picked chickens with their collars off."At that the collarless man, who until now had been standing onthe top step that led up to the roof, came slowly forward, steppedlanguidly over a skylight or two, draped his handkerchief over aconvenient chimney and sat down, hugging his long, lean legs tohim."Nice up here, isn't it?" he remarked."It was," said Mary Louise."Ha!" exploded he, again. Then, "Where's your mirror?" hedemanded."Mirror?" echoed Mary Louise."Certainly. You have the hair, the comb, the attitude, andthe general Lorelei effect. Also your singing lured me to yourshores.""You didn't look lured," retorted Mary Louise. "You lookedlurid.""What's that stuff in your hand?" next demanded he. He reallywas a most astonishingly rude young man."Parsley.""Parsley!" shouted he, much as Charlie had done. "Well, whatthe----""Back home," elucidated Mary Louise once more, patiently,"after you've washed your hair you dry it in the back yard, sittingon the grass, in the sunshine and the breeze. And the gardensmells come to you--the nasturtiums, and the pansies, and thegeraniums, you know, and even that clean grass smell, and thepungent vegetable odor, and there are ants, and bees, andbutterflies----""Go on," urged the young man, eagerly."And Mrs. Next Door comes out to hang up a few stockings, anda jabot or so, and a couple of baby dresses that she has justrubbed through, and she calls out to you:"`Washed your hair?'"`Yes,' you say. `It was something awful, and I wanted itnice for Tuesday night. But I suppose I won't be able to do athing with it.'"And then Mrs. Next Door stands there a minute on theclothes-reel platform, with the wind whipping her skirts about her,and the fresh smell of the growing things coming to her. Andsuddenly she says: `I guess I'll wash mine too, while the baby'sasleep.'"The collarless young man rose from his chimney, picked up hishandkerchief, and moved to the chimney just next to Mary Louise'ssoap box."Live here?" he asked, in his impolite way."If I did not, do you think that I would choose this as theone spot in all New York in which to dry my hair?""When I said, `Live here,' I didn't mean just that. I meantwho are you, and why are you here, and where do you come from, anddo you sign your real name to your stuff, or use a nom de plume?""Why--how did you know?" gasped Mary Louise."Give me five minutes more," grinned the keen-eyed young man,"and I'll tell you what make your typewriter is, and where the lastrejection slip came from.""Oh!" said Mary Louise again. "Then you are the scrub-lady'sstalwart son, and you've been ransacking my waste-basket."Quite unheeding, the collarless man went on, "And so youthought you could write, and you came on to New York (you know onedoesn't just travel to New York, or ride to it, or come to it; one`comes on' to New York), and now you're not so sure about thewriting, h'm? And back home what did you do?""Back home I taught school--and hated it. But I kept onteaching until I'd saved five hundred dollars. Every other schoolma'am in the world teaches until she has saved five hundreddollars, and then she packs two suit-cases, and goes to Europe fromJune until September. But I saved my five hundred for New York.I've been here six months now, and the five hundred has shrunk toalmost nothing, and if I don't break into the magazines prettysoon----""Then?""Then," said Mary Louise, with a quaver in her voice, "I'llhave to go back and teach thirty-seven young devils that six timesfive is thirty, put down the naught and carry six, and that theFrench are a gay people, fond of dancing and light wines. But I'llscrimp on everything from hairpins to shoes, and back again,including pretty collars, and gloves, and hats, until I've saved upanother five hundred, and then I'll try it all over again, becauseI--can--write."From the depths of one capacious pocket the inquiring man tooka small black pipe, from another a bag of tobacco, from another amatch. The long, deft fingers made a brief task of it."I didn't ask you," he said, after the first puff, "because Icould see that you weren't the fool kind that objects." Then, withamazing suddenness, "Know any of the editors?""Know them!" cried Mary Louise. "Know them! If camping ontheir doorsteps, and haunting the office buildings, and cajoling,and fighting with secretaries and office boys, and assistants andthings constitutes knowing them, then we're chums.""What makes you think you can write?" sneered the thin man.Mary Louise gathered up her brush, and comb, and towel, andparsley, and jumped off the soap box. She pointed belligerently ather tormentor with the hand that held the brush."Being the scrub-lady's stalwart son, you wouldn't understand.But I can write. I sha'n't go under. I'm going to make this towncount me in as the four million and oneth. Sometimes I get sotired of being nobody at all, with not even enough cleverness in meto wrest a living from this big city, that I long to stand out atthe edge of the curbing, and take off my hat, and wave it, andshout, `Say, you four million uncaring people, I'm Mary LouiseMoss, from Escanaba, Michigan, and I like your town, and I want tostay here. Won't you please pay some slight attention to me. Noone knows I'm here except myself, and the rent collector.'""And I," put in the rude young man."O, you," sneered Mary Louise, equally rude, "you don'tcount."The collarless young man in the shabby slippers smiled acurious little twisted smile. "You never can tell," he grinned, "Imight." Then, quite suddenly, he stood up, knocked the ash out ofhis pipe, and came over to Mary Louise, who was preparing todescend the steep little flight of stairs."Look here, Mary Louise Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, youstop trying to write the slop you're writing now. Stop it. Dropthe love tales that are like the stuff that everybody else writes.Stop trying to write about New York. You don't know anything aboutit. Listen. You get back to work, and write about Mrs. Next Door,and the hair-washing, and the vegetable garden, and bees, and theback yard, understand? You write the way you talked to me, andthen you send your stuff in to Cecil Reeves.""Reeves!" mocked Mary Louise. "Cecil Reeves, of The Earth?He wouldn't dream of looking at my stuff. And anyway, it reallyisn't your affair." And began to descend the stairs."Well, you know you brought me up here, kicking with yourheels, and singing at the top of your voice. I couldn't work. Soit's really your fault." Then, just as Mary Louise had almostdisappeared down the stairway he put his last astonishing question."How often do you wash your hair?" he demanded."Well, back home," confessed Mary Louise, "every six weeks orso was enough, but----""Not here," put in the rude young man, briskly. "Never.That's all very well for the country, but it won't do in the city.Once a week, at least, and on the roof. Cleanliness demands it.""But if I'm going back to the country," replied Mary Louise,"it won't be necessary.""But you're not," calmly said the collarless young man, justas Mary Louise vanished from sight.Down at the other end of the hallway on Mary Louise's floorCharlie, the janitor, was doing something to the windows now, witha rag, and a pail of water."Get it dry?" he called out, sociably."Yes, thank you," answered Mary Louise, and turned to enterher own little apartment. Then, hesitatingly, she came back toCharlie's window."There--there was a man up there--a very tall, very thin, veryrude, very--that is, rather nice youngish oldish man, in slippers,and no collar. I wonder----""Oh, him!" snorted Charlie. "He don't show himself onct in ablue moon. None of the other tenants knows he's up there. Has thewhole top floor to himself, and shuts himself up there for weeks ata time, writin' books, or some such truck. That guy, he owns thebuilding.""Owns the building!" said Mary Louise, faintly. "Why helooked--he looked----""Sure," grinned Charlie. "That's him. Name's Reeves--CecilReeves. Say, ain't that a divil of a name?"

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