CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Dad! Hey, dad! You all right?"
"Huh? Why, yes, Harry, I'm all right. Better go back and shut the front door. You're letting in an awful draft."
"Are you sure, dad? You kind of scared me for a minute the way you were sitting there."
"Shut the front door tight, son. Then we'll talk."
"Okay, dad."
"Now, how was school today?"
"Okay, I guess. You sure you're all right, dad?" Your eyes are watering pretty bad."
"Yes, they are. They've been doing tat for at least two hours. Can't seem to stop them."
"Working too hard, huh?"
"Not really...been doing more thinking than work."
"Can I get you something to take the fever from them. Maybe a cold washrag or something? Maybe a couple of asprins -- "
"No thanks, son. They'll clear up now. Just watch and see."
"Okay, dad. If you say so."
"Now, how was school today?"
"Aw...the usual stuff. Pretty boring, really, I couldn't keep my mind on the work for worrying and all. I guess I was tryin' to figure something to do about getting the groceries for tonight."
"Son, I told you not to worry about that. Didn't I tell you I'd think of something before the day was over? That's what being an optimist is all about. We'll eat tonight."
"You mean it? We ain't all going over to the Salvation Army again like we did a couple of weeks ago, are we?"
"No, son. I promised you then that we would never do that again, and I meant it. We'll eat right here at home."
"But what? We haven't got any stuff left to cook."
"We will have when someone goes and gets it."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding."
"How'd you do it, dad? Come on. Tell me."
"A fellow stopped by from the water company to shut off our water. He kind of took a liking to the radio, so I sold it to him."
"Aw, dad, you didn't. You liked that radio so much, and now you won't have nothin' to listen to at all."
"I'll get along. People can't eat radios, son. When we get straightened out, we can always get a new one. That one was getting old, anyway."
"Yeah! But it was a good one. How much did you get for it?"
"Five dollars."
"Aw...it was worth more then five bucks."
"Maybe. But sometimes a person can't press things too hard when he's bargaining without a bankroll."
"I guess your right, dad. Want me to go on up to the store and get some stuff for supper?"
"No. Better wait until Alice gets here and both of you can figure out how to stretch it into a good meal. Tell you what, though, why don't you take a dollar and run down to the corner confectionery and get a loaf of bread and something for sandwiches to tide us over until supper."
"Sure, dad. Gim'me the money."
"Here you are. Don't lose any of it."
"Aw, dad, you sure fooled me. I thought you were spoofing me, but I wasn't sure. I knew you were too smart to let the radio go for five bucks. Boy! you had me believing it there for a while."
"What are you talking about, Harry? There are only five bills there, aren't there?"
"Sure. A ten, three fives, and a one."
"That's funny. I guess the water fellow made a mistake. Must have been too dark in here this afternoon for him to see good."
"Boy! dad, your must be feeling better than I thought. That was some joke. Do you think we can have a really big meal tonight? You know like fried chicken or something?"
"Sure we can, son. Heck, yes! We'll have a real party, a first class party with all the trimmings. But right now, run on down to the confectionery and get the stuff for sandwiches. We'll plan things out when the rest of the kids get home. I imagine they'd like to be in on it too."
"Okay, dad. Here you hold these so I won't lose them. I'll just take the dollar bill. See you in eight minutes."
"Okay, Harry. But don't knock yourself out running. There is plenty of time."
------
Thinking of Edie there like I was kind of got me way off on a tangent. When Harry came busting in like he did, I was caught with the strangest feeling. It was as though nothing was real, and I was in another world where people were only detached faces, and I had passed through a gray and black prism as something detached and dimensionless myself. I have that feeling too much these days. I can't seem to shake it.
But I always return and find that I am real, because I feel the pain of knowing that I am alone, and that the wolf is here now, and it's all going to get worse. I know that I must try to get on with everything, because yelling "quits" only admits that I have succumbed to the darkness -- the brutal, frank darkness where drums chant the one-note dirge of failure; and that is not like an optimist who realizes that tomorrow the sun always shines; there will be light then and color and happiness. Light then tomorrow, because today is shot to hell with the night.
I wish I had the words to explain why I must keep trying when my whole body says "quit," when my whole mind says "why not just quit;" it's futile to attempt the impossible, but without the impossible to accomplish, there is no hope, no tomorrow, no dawn for my children, so they won't worry, and I won't worry, and at least we can have a start in the right direction.
I guess maybe, now as I look back, I was kind of derelict in my responsibilities to the children right after Edie died. But, hell, I was derelict in everything. I was lost, hopelessly trapped in remorse -- knew it, yet could not find the key to snap out of it. Then one day Marty, just a baby then, crawled up on my lap with his bottle and crooked himself in my arms and looked up into my face. With eyes so innocent and features so frank and the air hissing through the nipple of his empty bottle, he said, "Mommy don' -- "
I looked down at his dirt stained face, his runny nose, and felt his chilly little hands, as though a mute must touch a flower to explain what it is that he sees.
"Mommy don' -- ?"
I looked once again at Edie's eyes in my baby son's face and felt the sudden, knotting feeling of sadness now mixed with pity.
"Mommy don'! Dada here!"
I couldn't answer Marty then. I clutched him close and warmed his tiny body and rocked him to sleep. I found myself begging Edie's forgiveness for allowing things to fall apart. This was her son! This was my son! It was time to take care of him. It was time.
I had lost my job, because I hadn't reported-in for days. There was some money left after the expenses of Edie's funeral, but I knew that it wouldn't last long without some kind of job.
I had to go to work, but where? When? Then I was faced with the biggest and most persistent problem of being a father with no wife and five children to watch after. Who was to take care of them while I worked?
I turned first to the state authorities and got my first taste of social workers and hated them, as I still do. They seemed to belong to a lot known as imperfect idealists who will tell you that they mean to cure all the evils of poverty and, yet, will throw up their hands in desperation and surrender in a thousand excuses when a problem is presented to them that doesn't already have a solution. The usual answer was: "Our hands are tied. You have a problem, Mr. Smith, but it's not quite in our territory," was the usual line of verbiage they handed you.
In Chicago, it took three weeks to find out that I was not an Illinois problem. I was a Missouri problem. I wasn't a resident of Illinois. I only lived there. I was all but licked. I didn't have enough money left to afford a move back to St. Louis. I did the next best thing. I sold everything at one-eighth of its value, and took my children and our one big problem back to Missouri.
I might as well have stayed in Chicago. Hunting a place to rent with five children and no income is like running for the end of a rainbow after a spring shower; the end is hardly ever attainable, but then. there is always the shadow of the rainbow; the tenement, where nobody cares about broken plaster or porch rails or filth or desperation or hears any music save the rattle of garbage cans in the alley and the cacophony of the teeming streets, everyone's problem is the same: survival.
The social workers in St. Louis were more polished than those in Chicago. They were more idealistic, more maudlin, quicker to point you toward another office where your problems would be looked after, as an automobile engine sputters on even though there is no one in the car.
After a thousand embarrassing conversations to explain my circumstances, when I felt that I was a public debacle, a pervert, humbly bowing before the majesty of ten-thousand type-writers with inanimate faces, I was finally directed to the office of Mrs. Political Number 99, prig-faced and sterile, more man than woman, more stone than human, who would kindly review my premises and solve my domestic problem.
I'll never forget that day. I was there at 8 a.m. surrounded by my kids, surrounded by a hundred negro people who stared at me as though I had invaded a forbidden jungle, but stared with sympathy and compassion. Perhaps, it was because I felt blacker than they, less white inside, and a hundred times more dismal for feeling the way I did; for I had never learned to live with despair, only optimism and the cry of the hungry wolf.
By nine o'clock, Mrs. Prig-face had not yet kept our appointment. The children were getting restless and out of hand. Then three of the negro ladies detached themselves from the main mass and came to my rescue. "Does yuh mind if us folks gives yuh a hand with 'yo young 'uns, mistah." their spoksman said.
I didn't really know how to talk to them. I just nodded my head affirmative.
The next thing I knew, the three of them had my five children on their laps. They were heavy women; their laps were big enough to accommodate bushels of children without discomfort. I remember feeling both repulsed and thankful, as I stared at my children's white shapes, clinging innocently and unconcerned against those three black negresses who by nature and instinct knew exactly what to do at every instant about the needs of impatient children.
One woman opened a crushed brown paper sack and removed a conglomeration, which she described as sweet potato pie, and divided it among the kids. It was an appallingly obnoxious sight, the pie, but the children took to it like they had had sweet potato pie all their lives. The taste of it glowed on each smeary face.
Then I felt more revulsion, not because of the pie or the negro ladies, but because I suddenly knew that I had more of an ax to grind than I thought. A man trying to adapt himself to the natural domain of a woman is more vulnerable than an octopus with a heart in each arm. I sat there suddenly numb, smaller than a pebble in front of three mountainous negroes who now cuddled my children to the healthy fat of large bosoms, a stranger in a world of misunderstanding, watching human understanding and kindness unfold before me with the very warmth of charity. I envied those women. I secretly thanked them.
It was eleven o'clock before I finally gained m audience with Mrs. God-Almighty herself. The moment I saw her I knew that I had wasted my time. That particular public defender was much too busy with fiscal budgets to listen long to my simple problems, let alone, solve them.
I remember sitting gingerly down across the shiny football field of her desk. Not so much as a speck of lint marred its uncluttered surface. I had to look into an insolently wrinkled face that had squinted across too many banquet tables, a face that wiggled constantly with the pre-stroke shudders, with the casual smile of someone who had learned the trick of cordiality by rote and not my manner. She was dressed in a hard gray tweed suite, and, by God! She wore a polka dot tie. Her glasses were a cumbersome, jeweled nuisance, which hung around her neck on a rhinestone chain. Her cheeks were both smooth and coarse, depending on the particular spot of your glance. Her makeup was a sallow yellow, crusted and caked on the down of her upper lip. Her chin receded almost to the hollow of her neck. And, of course, her hair was a natural gray with a tinge of purple dye.
When she spoke it was the rasp of a social alcoholic, and I felt like laughing, because I knew what she was, despite her disguise, and she had no idea who I was; but, at least, we were on equal footing, because I think we both understood that neither cared.
She said, "Now, Mr. Smith, what is it that you came to see me about?"
I was quick to notice that she never started the conversation with a "what can I do for you" approach.
"I'm trying to secure some help with managing my children." I said.
"Everyone has problems with children these days," she said. "I see you came here from Chicago." Her eyebrows lifted and fluttered.
"Yes, I did."
"Why did you come to St. Louis? Why didn't you stay in Chicago?"
"My children were born here. I guess it seems more like home to me."
"Are you registered to vote?"
"No, not right at the pre --"
"You should have stayed in Chicago, Mr. Smith. The authorities there might have been able to help you, don't you see?"
"But they said --"
"I know, I know. But curtain pressures could have been brought to bear, don't you see?"
"Not exactly. Hasn't St. Louis got some pressures?"
"We have our hands tied here, don't you see. We haven't received our new fiscal allocation. I'm not sure we would be able to help then."
"But all I'm asking for is someone to come in and watch the children while I go out to work."
"We're not a babysitting agency, Mr. Smith, don't you see? If you were a woman, perhaps we could pull some strings and get you on the aid rolls. But you're not, don't you see?"
"Yeah! I can see that."
"That's right. Now, have you thought about a private agency? I have a friend who is --"
"Thank you! But I haven't time! I've seen enough of you goddamn people to last me a lifetime!"
And right about then, old wood leg Smith stomped out of that office, picked up his five kiddies form the laps of the negro women and stomped out with the avowed purposes of getting things done. My optimism had reached feverish intensity. And I thought if I was a man, and Mrs. Prig-face was a representation of what woman had become in this world, then God help the pussycats.
------
"Hey, dad! Is it true? Is it really true?"
"I guess you mean the party. That right, Marty?"
"Yeah, pop! Is Harry spoofing us or is it?"
"Yeah, dad, make him tell the truth."
"Tell them I'm not lying, dad. Just go ahead and tell them."
"Whoa. One at a time, you guys. Let's slow down a little bit. No, John, Harry isn't spoofing you. Yes, Marty, we're going to have a party. And is that telling them what they want to hear, Harry?"
"Sure is, dad. Tell them about how you sold the radio."
"Harry and me get 'ta buy the cake and stuff, don't we, Harry?"
"If dad says so, John."
"Whooee...a real party! Our own private celebration before Miss Owens gets here."
"What's all the commotion?"
"Well, good afternoon, Wonderland. Did you get everything settled at school? We were just beginning to plan a party for tonight."
"You're not serious, dad? We can't afford it."
"Hi, dad. Hi Alice. Hi, Harry. Hi, John. Hi, Marty."
"Good afternoon to you, too, Laurie."
"Hey, Laurie, we're gonna have a party tonight."
"Oh, John! Don't be so corny."
"No kidding, Laurie. Ask dad. He sold the radio today."
"John is right, Laurie. We're going to have a real smash party tonight...ice cream and cake, candy, soda pop, and anything else you want."
"Gee, dad, Miss Owens might not like it. How come you're splurging on all the junk? You always said we shouldn't stuff ourselves with much of that stuff."
"Once in awhile doesn't hurt, Wonderland. After all, we haven't had a party in a long time. Let's make the best of it."
"What else are we gonna have, dad?"
"Whatever you want, Harry."
"How about fried chicken."
"Let's let the majority rule. John what would you like?"
"Fried chicken."
"Marty?"
"Pizza."
"Laurie?"
"Fried chicken."
"Wonderland?"
"Who's going to do the cooking?"
"Nobody! We're going to buy everything."
"Fried chicken and lots of it."
"I want pizza. I lost my tooth today, and I won't be able to chew the chicken."
"Sure you will, Marty. You know you're out voted, anyway. Majority rules."
"Aw, gee...it ain't fair."
"Don't be a sorry loser."
"Oh, all right. But if the good fairy brings me a quarter, can I save it and spend it on what I want to ...even if Miss Owens tries to take it away from me?"
"She won't take it away from you, Marty."
"I know she won't. I'll fight her if she does."
"My...you're getting terribly ferocious in your old age, young man."
"Me and Harry gotta buy the cake."
"Just a minute, John. Let's line it all out so everybody does his share. Now, first -- say, Harry did you get the stuff for sandwiches?"
"Sure did, dad. bread and a whole pound of salami."
"Uuk! Yuk!"
"Now, Laurie."
"Salami! Yuk!"
"Cut it out, Laurie!"
"Pooey on you, Alice. You know I hate salami."
"Young lady, you can just start learning to like it."
"Yes, dad."
"Now, after you've all had a sandwich, Alice and Laurie ca go get the chicken. Harry, John, and Marty can get the cake, soda, and candy. Does that suit everybody?"
"I don't want to go with Alice. She' too bossy. I want to get the candy."
"Well, I guess we can let you do that, Laurie."
"I want to go with Alice."
"Maybe Alice doesn't want you to tag along with her, Marty."
"It's all right, dad. I'd just as soon have him as Laurie."
"Okay. It's all settled. But first I want all of you to have a snack. You had all better go with Alice first, so she can get some change and divide the money up."
"Whoopee! Let's go everybody. Last one to get a bellyache tonight loves Miss Owens."
"Settle down, John. Act civilized."
"Okay, pop."
"Wonderland --"
"Yes, dad."
"Come here for a second, before you get started."
"Okay."
"Bend over so I can whisper."
"Yes, dad, what is it?"
"Make sure you bring back a quarter tonight so the good fairy can pay for Marty's tooth."
"Sure, dad. I'll take care of it. He'll never know the difference."
"That's fine. Now, on with you."
"Okay, daddy,. I guess we'll sure show that wolf a thing or two after all, won't we?"
"We sure will, honey. We sure will."
------
In those first few faltering months of adjusting to my role as a working housekeeper, I learned much about people I had never suspected. I had grown up with the resolute opinion that all human beings are at all times kind and understanding -- and they are occasionally, when their imaginations are prodded. But kindness is difficult to dispense to the bum next door whose problems are often just juice for the gossip grinder. Neighborhoods are neighborhoods. A cluster of chattering women discussing the merits of a man hanging out the weekly washing is worse than the stench of an un-cleaned hen house. There are the artists, the scientists, and the moralists, and each must express her opinion at least fifteen times in fifteen minutes. To a man who must stand off at a distance with a pair of soggy underwear in one hand and a clothes pin in the other and bear the scathing with apparently closed ears, it is an indignity more excruciatingly painful than a bloody knife fight among a bunch of teenagers. The rather redundant ejaculations are: "He must be nuts!" or "You'd think he'd do something!" and, of course, there is always the beauty with a mop in one hand, a dustpan in the other, and her hair decorated with perforated curlers who sniffs with her nose high in the air and avows, "At least my John works everyday!"
It didn't take me long to learn to do the laundry late in the day and hang it out in the evenings when the biddies were busy in their own roosts fixing supper for their families.
But the laundry was only one of many problems in those days because the wolf was always near. There were times when the meals were so scrimpy that they were more smell than solid. Looking back now, I still can't tell you how we survived. But we did. At least, I think we did. I'm not so sure now.
Food, the kids, babysitters, and eighteen-hour workdays were about all there was no one to watch the children. I had to take whatever was available whenever I could find a woman willing to spend an hour or two babysitting for me. At one time during the first year, I had as many as twenty-five different women coming in to watch the kids while I went out to dig ditches or mop a building or run errands for an office or take tickets in a moving picture show or wash dishes in one restaurant and cook short orders in another or a thousand and one other chores that most people find disgusting. The pay was small, but the long hours made the difference. I was gradually able to swing the battle against the wolf in my favor.
My optimism began to pay off. I got to building things up for the kids again, until I was finally able to afford a full time woman to live-in and take care of the household chores. But that almost beat me too. I guess I went through about eight or nine months with a bunch of thieves and alcoholics, before I finally latched on to Mrs. Murphy.
Now there was a woman for you. Mrs. Murphy...
------
"Hey, pop! Here's the cake. I gotta go help Harry with the soda pop and surprise."
"What surprise, John?"
"The one Harry swore me to secrecy on."
"What one is that, John?"
"I ain't supposed to tell you, pop. There are two of 'em. Me an Harry dreamed 'em up just for you."
"Two surprises, huh?"
"Yeah, pop. Can I go now? Can I. pop?"
"All right, son. But don't take too long. The girls will be back anytime now, and we want to get an early start on the party."
"Okay, pop! be right back!"
You can't beat Harry and John. Turn them loose with one idea and they'll come up with a whole data processing machine before you know it. I sure hope they get half a chance to prove themselves when they get older. They've sure got the makings of something.
------
Like I said, Mrs. Murphy was quite a woman. I never could remember her first name, because it was one of those real long foreign things that twisted the heck out of your tongue to say it. You know, something like Anlebranzleiwekstmpksits. So I called her mom all the time. So did the kids, with the exception of Marty, who called her mommy.
Mom Murphy was just about the nicest old woman I ever met. She was a Jew and looked like an Italian who married an Irishman and talked like a Swede. She came to live with us because she couldn't stand not taking care of children. Hers had all grown and moved away. She missed them.
Mom Murphy was also a swell housekeeper and a tremendous cook. A guy just didn't have to worry about the wolf barking when she took to the kitchen. There was only one thing I didn't like about her cooking, and that was her fondness for duck. If I didn't watch her, she's cook a duck everyday -- roast duck, baked duck, stewed duck, duck with dumplings, cold duck sandwiches -- it got so bad there for a while that I had to duck past the poultry market every time we went shopping just to get a beef roast.
Then as Mom Murphy got to running the household, she got to prodding me into looking for another wife. "It ban no goot for young man wit out woman. You go find young woman, by golly." Was her daily message to me. And she wouldn't let up until she stood me up against the front door for inspection, straightened my tie, and kissed my cheek. "I put children to bed and vait for you, by golly. You have goot time vile you catch one woman, by golly."
I never could make her understand that it wasn't that easy After about a year of looking I gave up and told her it was no use. But she was persistent. She'd just say, "Goot fish no run in shallow vaters. You ban looking vere day bite bite better. You catch soon, by golly."
So I kept at it. I looked in churches and bowling alleys and bars and even went out to the park a couple of times, but lightning sure never struck in the same place twice for me. I met all kinds of eligible woman, but the minute I'd mention five children was the minute I'd have to go looking for another girlfriend. There is something about the thought of five children under one roof that drives most women right out of their satin lined pocketbooks. They look at you like you're some kind of sex maniac or antiquated nut-cruncher, especially when you've got a wood leg to support their theory.
I did meet one real swinging chick that had possibilities. She was pretty and smart. She liked the kids, and the kids liked her. I guess that was the closest I ever came to remarrying. But she had too much of a nervous temper to get along with me and my brood. Besides, she worried a lot about money. When she found out I didn't have any, she fell in love with some guy that did and went away forever. I guess people like her have a different kind of wolf to worry about than the monster who's been stalking me so long.
Then Mom Murphy had a stroke and died, and I was on my own again. I decided then that my woman hunting days were over for good. Besides, what's-her-name had set the fires burning bad inside of me. That, coupled with Mrs. Murphy's death, kind of crunched in on me until I wanted to scream with the loneliness of it all. I knew then I could no longer afford the luxury of a companion; or, perhaps, it was the loss of a companion that I feared most. There were the kids to think of -- five perfect loves, unquenchable, un-denying, and un-swaying in their sincerity -- and, of course, I still owned my memories of Edie. I guess some people are born to love the abstract, and the senses must always take a backseat to the whimsy of that compulsion. Gone suddenly was the spectral bite of my body's wishes, and the hunger and hope for love became greater than its fulfillment. Night and day were one, and remembered images more real than the hope. But the shell of a love affair burns eternally on, as a charred integument must highlight an old injury. Man digs the grave; God sets the stake; the wolf howls forever.
------
"Hi, daddy. I'm back. Where is everybody?"
"Hi, Laurie. Alice and Marty haven't come back yet. John busted in-and-out awhile ago, saying something about some surprises he and Harry had cooked up."
"Want a bite of candy? I got everybody's favorite kind."
"No thanks honey. After the party, maybe, but not now.
"Daddy --:
"Yes --"
"Can I sit on your lap for a while?"
"Why sure, Laurie. Come on over. Ah, Uuuup you go."
"Do operations hurt much, daddy?"
"I guess some hurt more than others. Why?"
"Just wondering. Did it hurt much when they sawed off your leg?"
"No. I was asleep then. Before and after, it hurt some, but not during the operation."
"How long did the pain last?"
"I just don't remember, honey. Few days, maybe."
"That's all? Just a few days?"
"Maybe it was more than a few. I don't remember. Pain is something most people don't like to remember. But why all the sudden interest in it?"
"Oh, nothing. Just thinking, I guess."
"About what?"
"Oh, daddy! I'm just afraid for you. I don't want you to ever have any pain at all."
"That's a nice thought, Laurie. Now stop sniffling, honey. There won't be any pain."
"Not one tiniest bit?"
"Nothing at all like when I had my leg amputated."
"Will Miss Owens be there?"
"Oh, she'll be around some, I suppose."
"Do all the nurses wear blue uniforms like her?"
"I guess so when they're not working in a hospital."
"I'm not going to be a nurse when I grow up."
"Why not? You used to insist that was the onley thing in the world a girl could do."
"That's before I found out what they do."
"Oh, I see."
"Hey! Here's John and Harry. They're bringing a great big tent."
"A TENT?"
"That's what it looks like. I'll run and open the door for them."
"Harry! John! What's this nonsense about a tent?"
"Tent? What tent?"
"What's that you just plopped down on the floor?"
"Sleeping bags."
"Sleeping bags? Harry, you're joking."
"No I ain't, dad. Roger Waldest said we could borrow them for tonight. Me and John went over to his house and lugged 'em home."
"Yeah, pop! That's one of the surprises. Now you can lay on your own bunk and get some sleep tonight. Me and Harry can use the sleeping bags."
"Well, that's a big surprise all right. I'm afraid to ask what the other is."
"That's easy, dad. Open your mouth."
"Why?"
"It's pretty hard to smoke a cigarette unless you do."
"Oh, goodie. I get to light it for him."
"No you don't, Laurie. Harry does. It's our surprise."
"Oh, John -- "
"Cigarettes! Harry! You didn't!"
"Sure did, dad. Yo haven't had a smoke for over a week now. John and me figured since you were splurgin' on a party for us, it would be okay to buy you a pack of cigarettes."
"You, guys! Well, I sure can't get mad about it. Light it up and let's see how it tastes."
"How is it, pop? How's it taste?"
"Real good, son. I didn't realize how much I've wanted a smoke lately until just now. It was sure thoughtful of you."
"Gee, I wish I had thought to buy you a pack."
"That's all right, Laurie. You can light the next one for me, and that will make it even. But you have to promise not to burn my nose."
"Oh, daddy!"
"Here comes Alice and Marty. Let's go help her carry the stuff in, John."
"Okay, Harry."
"Hi, dad. Hi, Harry. Hi, John. Hi, Laurie. We got the chicken and French fries. Big yummy ones."
"Did you, now? Did you or Alice pick them out?"
"Alice did. But I helped."
"That's fine, Marty. Now you come here and stay out of the way while Alice and Laurie get things together."
"Don't I get to help?"
"You can help eat. Too many hands in the kitchen can ruin things."
"You ought'a know, dad."
"Oh, daddy?"
"Yes, Wonderland."
"There isn't enough water left. One of the buckets had a leak in it."
"Use what's left, and then Harry can run over to one of the neighbors' houses and borrow a bucket full."
"Okay. Do you want breasts or drumsticks?"
"Whatever is left. Fix the kids up first."
"Hey, pop. I'll go get the water."
"No. You lug those sleeping bags upstairs. Better let Harry carry the water."
"I'm just as strong as he is."
"Yes. But you're not as tall. Do as I say, son."
"Okay, pop...Hey, Alice, save me a drumstick."
"Oh, be quiet, John. You'll get your share."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
"Hey, dad. Can I sit on your lap?"
"Sure, Marty. Come on. I haven't had you aboard for a long time."
"Gee, dad. Don't you get tired of sitting here working on your writing all the time."
"Some."
"Why don't you quit then?"
"Quitting never solves a problem, Marty. Nobody should ever lie down on his job."
"A mechanic does."
"Hah, Hah! You're right there, young man."
"Anyway, I didn't mean quit forever. I just meant for a little while."
"Oh, you mean take a rest?"
"Yeah, that's what I meant."
"I'm doing that now."
"But you're still sitting here."
"That's because it's the only chair in the house. I can't sit comfortable on the floor."
"I can."
"You're a mechanic and a lot younger."
"Dad, are you going to make a million dollars writing?"
"That's a lot of money, son. I don't think so."
"Will Miss Owens take it away from you, if you do?"
"Why, no, Marty, she wouldn't do that."
"I bet she will. She takes everything else away."
"You don't like her much, do you, Marty?"
"Oh, she's okay, I guess. Just nosey or something."
"Are you sure, or are you just telling yourself that?"
"I dunno! Maybe it'll snow tonight, and she'll get stuck on an iceberg and won't be able to get here tomorrow."
"She'll be here, son. No sense trying to kid yourself."
"Yeah. I guess so, but --"
"Dad?"
"Yes, Wonderland."
"Where are we going to eat tonight?"
"Right here in what's left of the living room, Wonderland. We're all going to sit together and have a first class family picnic."
"That's a good idea, daddy. If you could get the boys to bring up some boxes from the basement, I'd fix a regular banquet table."
"John and Harry are busy. Why -- "
"I'll get 'em dad. John and Harry get to do everything. I know where they hide the best boxes."
"Okay, Marty. Have Laurie help you if they are too heavy."
"Phooey! I can manage. 'Sides, Alice needs Laurie in the kitchen."
"Okay, son."
"Hey! What's Marty doin'? What's he doing, pop?"
"He's helping the girls, John."
"Do what? How come you didn't call me?"
"You were busy. Anyway, Marty ought to get a chance to do some chores once in awhile. He's getting old enough, now. You just stay put and let him do it his way."
"Okay, pop. Anything I can get you? Another smoke, maybe?"
"No, son. I think I'll wait until after supper."
"Say, pop, do you think Miss Owens will let me keep some of my books when she comes tomorrow?"
"I don't see why not, son. They belong to you."
"I just wished she wasn't comin'."
"You, too, John. I'm surprised. I thought we had it all settled."
"Yeah. I know. I guess I'm just a little afraid."
"No harm in that, son. It wouldn't be normal if you weren't Takes a real soldier to do the right thing, even though he's afraid."
"I'll do it right, pop. You can count on that."
"I know I can, son."
"I'll bet she'll sure be surprised when she finds out we had a party tonight. Don't you think?"
"Sure. No doubt about it."
"Say, pop, before I forget. I put the sleeping bags in your room. It's okay, ain't it? I mean Harry said to put 'em there, 'cause we ought to sleep close to you tonight and keep our eyes open for the wolf. Harry said he wasn't gonna sleep at all, just so you could get in a decent night's rest without worrying about the wolf sneakin' in."
"Sure, John. That's fine. I think I'd like that very much. It'll just be like some of the camping trips we used to take."
"You bet!"
"Dad! I'm going to pull your chair around some, so I can fix the room for the picnic."
"Okay, Wonderland. Let me don one little thing first. Okay?"
"Okay."
------
I'm going to knock off awhile. My family and I are going to sit down to a decent meal for a change. I hope you don't mind the interruption.
