The little contact added some excitement and imagination to Margy’s day. She met so few people and spoke to no man outside of Frankie, her parents and the tradespeople. She got interested in trying to visualize the peddler’s private life.

  I bet he was quite a guy in his young days, she thought, when he was keeping company. I can just see him going to his girl’s house all decked out and full of swell ideas about himself and the world. And probably she thought he was wonderful. Maybe he never told her he was a peddler but made out like he was a big shot and let her believe he was a regular florist. She must have thought that would be nice—living in back of the flower store and, between the times of minding a baby or two, helping him fix up graduation and wedding bouquets.

  Probably he always wanted a flower shop himself. So he started out first with the wagon and thought that was only temporary—the wagon, and the first thing you know he’d have enough money saved up to buy a store. But I guess that never happened.

  Or it could be that he started out selling bunches of flowers in a pail of water on a street corner and worked up to the wagon. Maybe he thinks owning his own horse and wagon is tops and he doesn’t want to go higher. I wish I really knew. I could have asked him, I suppose, but that would have taken too much nerve.

  She stopped at the corner bakery and bought two charlotte russes. She paused on the stairs out of old habit, hoping for familiar sounds; her mother’s quick step behind the closed door, the thump of the lard hitting the frying pan, the smell of onions beginning to fry and the small clean sound of eggs cracked on the rim of the pan. For a moment she wanted things to be as they had been. Her days at home had not been happy but they had been full of hope. Everything good had seemed to be in hand’s grasp just around the corner. In marrying she had turned a corner. While she wasn’t sorry for having turned it, she was a little sad having it behind her instead of before her. She had one less thing to dream about.

  “Hello, Stranger,” said Flo, emphasizing the stranger.

  “Now, Mom,” came Margy’s automatic protest.

  “So you finally found the time to come see your mother.”

  “Why I was here a little less than a week ago.”

  “I could be dead and buried in my grave in a week,” said Flo.

  “It’s such a nice day, Mama,” pleaded Margy obliquely. “Almost like spring.”

  After considering that fact briefly, her mother said, “Sit down and stay a while.” She started the kettle of water to boiling.

  “I brought you some . . . I mean a pansy plant.”

  Flo accepted the box and buried her nose in the three blooms on the plant. A look of tender pleasure almost showed in her face. As if embarrassed by being pleased, she said, “You shouldn’t waste your money.”

  “Only a dime,” explained Margy.

  “Dimes grow into dollars.”

  “Oh, no,” smiled Margy. “Dollars melt down into dimes.”

  She watched her mother set the box on the window-sill garden where the plant looked very modest among a Boston fern, a rubber plant and a rose geranium.

  “How’s Papa?” asked Margy.

  “Your father,” said Flo, as though disclaiming all relationship to the man, “ain’t doing so good. He was laid off two days last week.”

  “Why?”

  “They didn’t say. All they did was give an excuse. Times is hard, they told him.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” soothed Margy.

  “You wouldn’t,” agreed Flo. “But I got to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I don’t worry, who will? I imagine they’re getting ready to let your father out but he’s been working there so long they haven’t got the nerve to fire him outright. They’ll keep on laying him off more and more until finally he’s laid off altogether.”

  “He’ll get another job.”

  “Where? A man his age.”

  “Papa’s still young—only forty-three.”

  “A workingman’s old when he gets past forty. The bosses are always looking for younger men. If he’d only studied and passed Civil Service then he’d have a pension in his old age. How much did these Charley Ruches cost?”

  “Ten cents.”

  “They’re nothing but air. There’s more on a coffee ring for the same money.”

  “All right. Next time I’ll bring a coffee ring. But don’t worry, Mama. If Papa loses his job maybe Frankie and I can help out.”

  “We’re not asking help from nobody,” stated Flo. “Only we might have to move to a cheaper flat. Drink your tea while it’s hot.”

  “It won’t come to that,” protested Margy, wondering how any flat could be cheaper than her parents’ home.

  “Now that I don’t have your money coming in every week, it’s hard to raise the rent. I was thinking that if you and Frankie moved in with us—you could have the front room and the bedroom next to it—we could share the rent and the cost of cooking. You and Frankie could save a lot that way. Us, too,” she added honestly.

  “That wouldn’t work out, Mama, and you know it.”

  “I wouldn’t interfere,” said Flo humbly. “You’d be private.”

  “It’s just that Frankie wants his own home.”

  “If his mother wanted you to live with them, you’d run.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t,” said Margy too quickly.

  “You mean you and his mother don’t get along?” asked Flo sharply.

  “We get along fine,” lied Margy. “It’s just that every couple likes their own home. Maybe someday Frankie and I will buy a little house out on the Island,” she dreamed. “And we’ll live downstairs and you and Papa can live upstairs.”

  “No, thank you,” declined Flo proudly. “I’ve always had my own home even though it was only a few cheap rooms. It would be terrible if I couldn’t have my own home in my old age after working hard all my life. Is that too much to ask? A home of my own in my old days? No. Besides, I always said I’d never live with my daughter and son-in-law.”

  “But you want us to come live with you.”

  “That’s different. I’d still be in my own home.”

  AS MARGY WAS leaving, Flo said, “Don’t stay away so long the next time.”

  “I won’t. But you must come see me.”

  “I haven’t got the clothes to go anywhere.”

  “You don’t have to dress up to see me. You ought to know me pretty well by now. I’m the girl you once gave birth to. Remember?”

  Flo’s heart turned over when she saw the old familiar smile of aching archness come to her daughter’s face. She knew it was a time to say something memorable or tender. But all she said was: “As if I could forget. Such a hard time I had.”

  Her mother called after her as she went down the stairs. Margy turned and looked up. “Are you all right?” asked Flo. Margy knew she was asking whether she was pregnant.

  “I guess so,” she called back.

  “You guess! You guess!” Her mother’s voice was full of sudden panic. “Don’t you know?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Yes, I know I’m all right,” she called up the stairs. She heard her mother expel a sigh of relief.

  WALKING HOME, MARGY came to the decision that there was no use worrying about her father. He’d never liked that job anyhow. When he first took it he said it would do until something better turned up. Nothing better had turned up in fifteen years. He had never dared leave that stopgap job to look for a better one. Now if he got fired he might have a chance to find that better job. He was still young, Margy assured herself vehemently, and there was nothing at all to her mother’s idea that a workingman was washed up at forty.

  But somehow it didn’t seem like such a nice day any more. The sun had got lost behind some clouds and the wind blew damp and chill.

  26

  IT WAS SATURDAY morning. As usual, Frankie was fretting about being late. Margy was dressing up to go to New York. Reenie and Sal were being married at City Hall at eleven o’clock. Margy was to be her friend’s witness. Margy asked Frankie, please, as a favor to knock off work an hour earlier since Saturday’s a half-day anyway, and be best man.

  Frankie refused. It wasn’t only that he didn’t want to take off from work, he told Margy, but he didn’t like the combination; a Wop and a girl like that. By a girl like that, he meant that Reenie was already six months pregnant.

  “I know it’s terrible,” admitted Margy. “But think how much more terrible it would be if he wouldn’t marry her. That’s why I think we ought to stand by; kind of make it all seem normal and ordinary so’s he won’t feel that he’s doing her such a big favor.”

  “He is,” said Frankie. “And she’s lucky. That’s all I can say. She’s lucky.”

  “He’s lucky, too.”

  “He’s a sucker,” pronounced Frankie.

  “A man never gets blamed. It’s always the woman who has the disgrace.”

  “A loose girl hasn’t the guts to feel disgraced.”

  “Still and all, Reenie’s a good girl,” said Margy.

  “Hah!”

  “Can she help it that she loved him so much and their folks wouldn’t let them marry?”

  “They could have been married any time without asking anybody,” he said.

  “They just didn’t have the nerve.”

  “They had the nerve for the other thing.”

  “Well, that just happens. Two people together so much. It stands to reason . . .”

  “A baby three months after marriage. The poor kid will never live it down.”

  “Not if people like you put one strike against it before it’s born. Sure, it will be hard the first year. Everyone will know and talk. But he’ll be too young to know anything. Then they can move to Jersey or somewhere. So when he’s, say, five years old, who’ll remember, or if they remember, care? Nobody will throw it up. Only the people who should love and protect him. The family on both sides are the only ones who’ll throw it up when they fight with each other.”

  “You know all the angles,” he said. “I’m surprised you didn’t get in the same fix.”

  “I never had that chance.”

  “Chance?” echoed Frankie. And his voice went into a squeal at the end of the word.

  “I never had to fight off temptation,” said Margy, knowing she was sticking her neck out, “because I was never cute or pretty or full of pep like Reenie.”

  “Lucky I came along,” said Frankie, almost sarcastically.

  “I thank my lucky stars every day,” said Margy, almost bitterly.

  “If I didn’t know better . . . if I didn’t know I was the first one, I’d think you were no better than your friend.”

  She wanted to say, Don’t worry, there was never anyone I was crazy enough about. But she didn’t say it. Instead she said, “Is that meant as a compliment?”

  “Aw, Margy, cut it out, will you? First thing you know I’ll be late for work.”

  “Got your money?” she asked. He jingled a few coins in his pocket to prove it and started for the door. “You forgot something.”

  “What?” He looked around the room.

  “Forgot to kiss me.”

  “Oh, Margy,” he moaned nervously. He put a quick kiss on her cheek. She hung on to him.

  “We’re so lucky, Frankie,” she said. “We have the same religion and you have a job and we’ve got a nice home and we’re young and have the future before us . . . and . . . don’t be late for work, now.” She pushed him out of the door.

  Frankie was relieved that she hadn’t fussed more over his refusal to attend the wedding. And he was relieved that what might have been a nasty quarrel had been averted. He wanted to reward her.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Wait over in New York for me. I’ll meet you outside City Hall and we’ll eat at Childs’. A date?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes. Oh, Frankie, I want to love you so much.” It was a change. Before that morning she had always said: “I love you so much.” But he didn’t notice.

  SALVATORE TOOK HIS hat off the block, looked inside it, then dented in the crown with a nod of approval.

  “Okay, Boss?” asked the hat blocker. Sal made a circle with his thumb and middle finger and gestured toward the blocker. The swarthy young man smiled in pleasure. “Tried to clean it good—for your wedding day,” he said.

  Sal climbed into the end chair. The head shoeshine boy finished thanking a customer for a tip, then came over to work on Sal’s shoes. A third boy rushed in from the street holding aloft a freshly pressed suit on a wire hanger.

  “Made it, Boss,” panted the boy. Sal nodded his thanks and the boy hung the suit behind a curtain at the back of the store.

  With the bored but alert eye of the professional, Sal watched the shoeshiner slap pungent-smelling polish on his pointed perforated-tipped tan shoes. Then his eyes traveled to the window of his small hole-in-the-wall store and saw the lettering in reverse: SUPERIOR SHOESHINE PARLOR. HATS BLOCKED. Underneath in small letters were the words: S. DE MUCCIO. PROP.

  The Prop. meant that Sal was in business for himself. True, after he paid off three boys, paid for materials and for the rent on his cubbyhole, his profits were no larger than the salary of a clerk or factory hand. The bonus was that he didn’t have to take orders from anybody. He was his own boss and that was worth a lot.

  The heat caused by the friction of the rapidly moving shine cloth came through his shoes. He looked down on the bent head of the shoeshine boy and noted with approval that the boy was doing a good job—polishing the heel counters of the shoes as thoroughly as he polished the toes.

  Sal, himself, had started as a shoeshine boy in a hotel barbershop after years of apprenticeship on the streets of Brooklyn. He had gotten ahead because he was ambitious and because he tried to polish shoes better than any other kid. He had taught his own apprentices little touches that he had picked up—touches that made a superior shine appreciated by customers.

  That’s the American Way, thought Sal, who had been born in America of Italian-born parents. Do something a little better than the next guy and you’re in. The American Way.

  “Okay, Boss,” said the boy as he untucked the bottoms of Sal’s trousers and let the cuffs down.

  Sal got down from the chair and smiled reassuringly at the anxious boy. The boy was only seventeen, also the son of immigrants and also wanting to make good as an American. The way to do it, thought the boy, was to emulate his boss in all things. Sal knew that emulation wasn’t enough. He often told the boys, “Don’t try to copy me. Try to top me. That’s the way to get ahead.”

  Sal wanted to put his hand on the boy’s head in a gesture of appreciation and affection but he killed the impulse, saying to himself: He’ll only think I’m a Goddamned fairy. He worked it out by pretending to swing a left to the boy’s jaw. The boy, playing the game, grinned and ducked. He understood.

  Funny, thought Sal, changing into his freshly pressed suit behind the curtain, how different nationalities go for different trades and how it starts with the kids. Take a Jewish kid: He buys something and resells it at a profit—like buying pretzels a cent each and selling ’em for two cents apiece in the park. A German kid sells what he makes himself—like lemonade at a ball park or pinwheels made out of wallpaper that he sells to other kids. Greek kids, now: They like to hang out in back of restaurants, waiting for a chance to deliver coffee to offices or factories. They move on up into dishwashing and then cooking. American kids, they go for selling newspapers. They like to be a part of what’s going on. They like to holler out headlines, fold over a paper with a flip while they take the money at the same time. And the Irish?

  The Irish had Sal buffaloed. The kids never seemed to work at anything. They were always fighting—with other kids and with each other. They fought to prove that something was true or to prove that something was a lie. That’s what makes them good politicians, decided Sal.

  Thinking of the Irish, he thought of Reenie. She was half Irish, her father having been the son of Irish immigrants. Her mother was second-generation German-American. But Reenie was mostly Irish the way she was so reckless, not giving much of a damn and always willing to take a chance.

  He’d had other girls before Reenie, daughters of parents like his own, Italian born. But he fell in love with Reenie. She was all American and she had class. He fell in love with her but he hadn’t wanted to marry her especially. She was all right to go dancing with and for “mushing,” as the expression of the day had it. But for a wife?

  He had dreamed of an ideal wife—a beautiful girl, passionate in lovemaking, but only so far as he was concerned, and utterly pure in heart, mind and soul. Oh, well, it had been one of those misty dreams—the kind that couldn’t come true. And Reenie was all right. Maybe she had some kind of dream, too, of an ideal husband—not a shoeshining Wop.

  He had put off marrying Reenie. Why, he didn’t know. Unless he expected marriage to be disillusioning and humdrum and the beginning of getting ready for middle and old age. He would have liked everything to be the way it had started out: In love, dates, stolen hours of passion and utter freedom the rest of the time. He had put off marriage then, using his parents as an excuse. Sure, they wanted him to marry a Catholic. That was their religion. That was the way they’d brought him up. Certainly they wouldn’t be worth a damn if they’d been able to set all that aside. However, they were humble and easily confused. They held Sal in awe and tried always not to offend him. He was American, of age, in business for himself. He could marry whom he pleased and how he pleased. His folks would come around. They were grateful as hell, he knew, that he still lived at home with them.

  There had been four daughters and Sal. The girls had been born in Italy. Three had remained there when the parents—the mother pregnant with Sal—had sailed for America. They remained behind with their husbands and children. The fourth girl had married a naturalized Italian and gone out to California to live. Sal was the only one left to them. They’d agree to anything he said.