Tony's Wife
"Gimme fi' cents worth o' candy, please." It was the little Jewgirl who spoke, and Tony's wife roused herself from her knittingto rise and count out the multi-hued candy which should go inexchange for the dingy nickel grasped in warm, damp fingers.Three long sticks, carefully wrapped in crispest brown paper, anda half dozen or more of pink candy fish for lagniappe, and thelittle Jew girl sped away in blissful contentment. Tony's wiferesumed her knitting with a stifled sigh until the next customershould come.A low growl caused her to look up apprehensively. Tony himselfstood beetle-browed and huge in the small doorway."Get up from there," he muttered, "and open two dozen oystersright away; the Eliots want 'em." His English was unaccented.It was long since he had seen Italy.She moved meekly behind the counter, and began work on the thickshells. Tony stretched his long neck up the street."Mr. Tony, mama wants some charcoal." The very small voice athis feet must have pleased him, for his black brows relaxed intoa smile, and he poked the little one's chin with a hard, dirtyfinger, as he emptied the ridiculously small bucket of charcoalinto the child's bucket, and gave a banana for lagniappe.The crackling of shells went on behind, and a stifled sob aroseas a bit of sharp edge cut into the thin, worn fingers thatclasped the knife."Hurry up there, will you?" growled the black brows; "the Eliotsare sending for the oysters."She deftly strained and counted them, and, after wiping herfingers, resumed her seat, and took up the endless crochet work,with her usual stifled sigh.Tony and his wife had always been in this same little queer oldshop on Prytania Street, at least to the memory of the oldestinhabitant in the neighbourhood. When or how they came, or howthey stayed, no one knew; it was enough that they were there,like a sort of ancestral fixture to the street. Theneighbourhood was fine enough to look down upon these twotumble-down shops at the corner, kept by Tony and Mrs. Murphy,the grocer. It was a semi-fashionable locality, far up-town,away from the old-time French quarter. It was the sort ofneighbourhood where millionaires live before their fortunes aremade and fashionable, high-priced private schools flourish, wherethe small cottages are occupied by aspiring school-teachers andchoir-singers. Such was this locality, and you must admit thatit was indeed a condescension to tolerate Tony and Mrs. Murphy.He was a great, black-bearded, hoarse-voiced, six-foot specimenof Italian humanity, who looked in his little shop and on theprosaic pavement of Prytania Street somewhat as Hercules mightseem in a modern drawing-room. You instinctively thought of wildmountain-passes, and the gleaming dirks of bandit contadini inlooking at him. What his last name was, no one knew. Someonehad maintained once that he had been christened AntonioMalatesta, but that was unauthentic, and as little to be believedas that other wild theory that her name was Mary.She was meek, pale, little, ugly, and German. Altogether part ofhis arms and legs would have very decently made another largerthan she. Her hair was pale and drawn in sleek, thin tightnessaway from a pinched, pitiful face, whose dull cold eyes hurt you,because you knew they were trying to mirror sorrow, and could notbecause of their expressionless quality. No matter what theweather or what her other toilet, she always wore a thin littleshawl of dingy brick-dust hue about her shoulders. No matterwhat the occasion or what the day, she always carried herknitting with her, and seldom ceased the incessant twist, twistof the shining steel among the white cotton meshes. She mightput down the needles and lace into the spool-box long enough toopen oysters, or wrap up fruit and candy, or count out wood andcoal into infinitesimal portions, or do her housework; but theknitting was snatched with avidity at the first spare moment, andthe worn, white, blue-marked fingers, half enclosed in kid-glovestalls for protection, would writhe and twist in and out again.Little girls just learning to crochet borrowed their patternsfrom Tony's wife, and it was considered quite a mark ofadvancement to have her inspect a bit of lace done by eager,chubby fingers. The ladies in larger houses, whose husbandswould be millionaires some day, bought her lace, and gave it totheir servants for Christmas presents.As for Tony, when she was slow in opening his oysters or incooking his red beans and spaghetti, he roared at her, andprefixed picturesque adjectives to her lace, which made her hideit under her apron with a fearsome look in her dull eyes.He hated her in a lusty, roaring fashion, as a healthy beefy boyhates a sick cat and torments it to madness. When she displeasedhim, he beat her, and knocked her frail form on the floor. Thechildren could tell when this had happened. Her eyes would bered, and there would be blue marks on her face and neck. "PoorMrs. Tony," they would say, and nestle close to her. Tony didnot roar at her for petting them, perhaps, because they spentmoney on the multi-hued candy in glass jars on the shelves.Her mother appeared upon the scene once, and stayed a short time;but Tony got drunk one day and beat her because she ate too much,and she disappeared soon after. Whence she came and where shedeparted, no one could tell, not even Mrs. Murphy, the PaulinePry and Gazette of the block.Tony had gout, and suffered for many days in roaringhelplessness, the while his foot, bound and swathed in many foldsof red flannel, lay on the chair before him. In proportion ashis gout increased and he bawled from pure physical discomfort,she became light-hearted, and moved about the shop with real,brisk cheeriness. He could not hit her then without such painthat after one or two trials he gave up in disgust.So the dull years had passed, and life had gone on pretty muchthe same for Tony and the German wife and the shop. The childrencame on Sunday evenings to buy the stick candy, and on week-daysfor coal and wood. The servants came to buy oysters for thelarger houses, and to gossip over the counter about theiremployers. The little dry woman knitted, and the big man movedlazily in and out in his red flannel shirt, exchanged politicswith the tailor next door through the window, or lounged intoMrs. Murphy's bar and drank fiercely. Some of the children grewup and moved away, and other little girls came to buy candy andeat pink lagniappe fishes, and the shop still thrived.One day Tony was ill, more than the mummied foot of gout, or thewheeze of asthma; he must keep his bed and send for the doctor.She clutched his arm when he came, and pulled him into the tinyroom."Is it--is it anything much, doctor?" she gasped.Aesculapius shook his head as wisely as the occasion wouldpermit. She followed him out of the room into the shop."Do you--will he get well, doctor?"Aesculapius buttoned up his frock coat, smoothed his shining hat,cleared his throat, then replied oracularly,"Madam, he is completely burned out inside. Empty as a shell,madam, empty as a shell. He cannot live, for he has nothing tolive on."As the cobblestones rattled under the doctor's equipage rollingleisurely up Prytania Street, Tony's wife sat in her chair andlaughed,--laughed with a hearty joyousness that lifted the filmfrom the dull eyes and disclosed a sparkle beneath.The drear days went by, and Tony lay like a veritable Samsonshorn of his strength, for his voice was sunken to a hoarse,sibilant whisper, and his black eyes gazed fiercely from theshock of hair and beard about a white face. Life went on prettymuch as before in the shop; the children paused to ask how Mr.Tony was, and even hushed the jingles on their bell hoops as theypassed the door. Red-headed Jimmie, Mrs. Murphy's nephew, didthe hard jobs, such as splitting wood and lifting coal from thebin; and in the intervals between tending the fallen giant andwaiting on the customers, Tony's wife sat in her accustomedchair, knitting fiercely, with an inscrutable smile about herpurple compressed mouth.Then John came, introducing himself, serpent-wise, into the Edenof her bosom.John was Tony's brother, huge and bluff too, but fair and blond,with the beauty of Northern Italy. With the same lack of racepride which Tony had displayed in selecting his German spouse,John had taken unto himself Betty, a daughter of Erin,aggressive, powerful, and cross-eyed. He turned up now, havingheard of this illness, and assumed an air of remarkable authorityat once.A hunted look stole into the dull eyes, and after John haddeparted with blustering directions as to Tony's welfare, shecrept to his bedside timidly."Tony," she said,--"Tony, you are very sick."An inarticulate growl was the only response."Tony, you ought to see the priest; you mustn't go any longerwithout taking the sacrament."The growl deepened into words."Don't want any priest; you 're always after some snivelling oldwoman's fuss. You and Mrs. Murphy go on with your church; itwon't make YOU any better."She shivered under this parting shot, and crept back into theshop. Still the priest came next day.She followed him in to the bedside and knelt timidly."Tony," she whispered, "here's Father Leblanc."Tony was too languid to curse out loud; he only expressed hishate in a toss of the black beard and shaggy mane."Tony," she said nervously, "won't you do it now? It won't takelong, and it will be better for you when you go--Oh, Tony,don't--don't laugh. Please, Tony, here's the priest."But the Titan roared aloud: "No; get out. Think I'm a-going togive you a chance to grab my money now? Let me die and go to hellin peace."Father Leblanc knelt meekly and prayed, and the woman's weakpleadings continued,--"Tony, I've been true and good and faithful to you. Don't dieand leave me no better than before. Tony, I do want to be a goodwoman once, a real-for-true married woman. Tony, here's thepriest; say yes." And she wrung her ringless hands."You want my money," said Tony, slowly, "and you sha'n't have it,not a cent; John shall have it."Father Leblanc shrank away like a fading spectre. He came nextday and next day, only to see re-enacted the same piteousscene,--the woman pleading to be made a wife ere death hushedTony's blasphemies, the man chuckling in pain-racked glee at theprospect of her bereaved misery. Not all the prayers of FatherLeblanc nor the wailings of Mrs. Murphy could alter thedetermination of the will beneath the shock of hair; he gloatedin his physical weakness at the tenacious grasp on his mentality."Tony," she wailed on the last day, her voice rising to a shriekin its eagerness, "tell them I'm your wife; it'll be the same.Only say it, Tony, before you die!"He raised his head, and turned stiff eyes and gibbering mouth onher; then, with one chill finger pointing at John, fell backdully and heavily.They buried him with many honours by the Society of Italia'sSons. John took possession of the shop when they returned home,and found the money hidden in the chimney corner.As for Tony's wife, since she was not his wife after all, theysent her forth in the world penniless, her worn fingers clutchingher bundle of clothes in nervous agitation, as though theyregretted the time lost from knitting.
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