Maggie, a Girl of the Streets and Other New York Writings Page 14

  Finally the short man was exasperated to black fury. He decided to end the fight. With low snarls, ominous as death, he plunged at Fidsey.

  Kelcey happened there then. He grasped the short man’s shoulder. He cried out in the peculiar whine of the man who interferes. “Oh, hol’ on! Yeh don’t wanta hit ’im any more! Yeh’ve done enough to ’im now! Leave ’im be!”

  The short man wrenched and tugged. He turned his face until his teeth were almost at Kelcey’s cheek: “Le’ go me! Le’ go me, you——” The rest of his sentence was screamed curses.

  Kelcey’s face grew livid from fear, but he somehow managed to keep his grip. Fidsey, with but an instant’s pause, plunged into the new fray.

  They beat the short man. They forced him against a high board-fence where for a few seconds their blows sounded upon his head in swift thuds. A moment later Fidsey descried a running policeman. He made off, fleet as a shadow. Kelcey noted his going. He ran after him.

  Three or four blocks away they halted. Fidsey said: “I’d ’a licked dat big stuff in ’bout a minute more,” and wiped the blood from his eyes.

  At the gang’s corner, they asked: “Who soaked yeh, Fidsey?” His description was burning. Everybody laughed. “Where is ’e now?” Later they began to question Kelcey. He recited a tale in which he allowed himself to appear prominent and redoubtable. They looked at him then as if they thought he might be quite a man.

  Once when the little old woman was going out to buy something for her son’s supper, she discovered him standing at the side-door of the saloon engaged intimately with Fidsey and the others. She slunk away, for she understood that it would be a terrible thing to confront him and his pride there with youths who were superior to mothers.

  When he arrived home he threw down his hat with a weary sigh, as if he had worked long hours, but she attacked him before he had time to complete the falsehood. He listened to her harangue with a curled lip. In defence he merely made a gesture of supreme exasperation.She never understood the advanced things in life. He felt the hopelessness of ever making her comprehend. His mother was not modern.

  XIV

  The little old woman arose early and bustled in the preparation of breakfast. At times she looked anxiously at the clock. An hour before her son should leave for work she went to his room and called him in the usual tone of sharpness, “George! George!”

  A sleepy growl came to her.

  “Come, come it’s time t’ git up,” she continued. “Come now, git right up!”

  Later she went again to the door. “George, are yeh gittin’ up?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are yeh gittin’ up?”

  “Yes, I’ll git right up!” He had introduced a valor into his voice which she detected to be false. She went to his bedside and took him by the shoulder. “George—George—git up!”

  From the mist-lands of sleep he began to protest incoherently. “Oh, le’ me be, won’ yeh? ‘M sleepy!”

  She continued to shake him. “Well, it’s time t’ git up. Come—come—come on, now.”

  Her voice, shrill with annoyance, pierced his ears in a slender, piping thread of sound. He turned over on the pillow to bury his head in his arms. When he expostulated, his tones came half-smothered. “Oh le’ me be, can’t yeh? There’s plenty ’a time! Jest fer ten minutes! ‘M sleepy!”

  She was implacable. “No, yeh must git up now! Yeh ain’t got more’n time enough t’ eat yer breakfast an’ git t’ work.”

  Eventually he arose, sullen and grumbling. Later he came to his breakfast, blinking his dry eyelids, his stiffened features set in a mechanical scowl.

  Each morning his mother went to his room, and fought a battle to arouse him. She was like a soldier. Despite his pleadings, his threats, she remained at her post, imperturbable and unyielding. These affairs assumed large proportions in his life. Sometimes he grew beside himself with a bland, unformulated wrath. The whole thing was a consummate imposition. He felt that he was being cheated of his sleep. It was an injustice to compel him to arise morning after morning with bitter regularity, before the sleep-gods had at all loosened their grasp. He hated that unknown force which directed his life.

  One morning he swore a tangled mass of oaths, aimed into the air, as if the injustice poised there. His mother flinched at first; then her mouth set in the little straight line. She saw that the momentous occasion had come. It was the time of the critical battle. She turned upon him valorously. “Stop your swearin’, George Kelcey. I won’t have yeh talk so before me! I won’t have it! Stop this minute! Not another word! Do yeh think I’ll allow yeh t’ swear b’fore me like that? Not another word! I won’t have it! I declare I won’t have it another minute!”

  At first her projected words had slid from his mind as if striking against ice, but at last he heeded her. His face grew sour with passion and misery. He spoke in tones dark with dislike. “Th’ ’ell yeh won’t? Whatter yeh goin’ t’ do ’bout it?” Then, as if he considered that he had not been sufficiently impressive, he arose and slowly walked over to her. Having arrived at point-blank range he spoke again. “Whatter yeh goin’ t’ do ’bout it?” He regarded her then with an unaltering scowl, albeit his mien was as dark and cowering as that of a condemned criminal.

  She threw out her hands in the gesture of an impotent one. He was acknowledged victor. He took his hat and slowly left her.

  For three days they lived in silence. He brooded upon his mother’s agony and felt a singular joy in it. As opportunity offered, he did little despicable things. He was going to make her abject. He was now uncontrolled, ungoverned; he wished to be an emperor. Her suffering was all a sort of compensation for his own dire pains.

  She went about with a gray, impassive face. It was as if she had survived a massacre in which all that she loved had been torn from her by the brutality of savages.

  One evening at six he entered and stood looking at his mother as she peeled potatoes. She had hearkened to his coming listlessly, without emotion, and at his entrance she did not raise her eyes.

  “Well, I’m fired,” he said, suddenly.

  It seemed to be the final blow. Her body gave a convulsive movement in the chair. When she finally lifted her eyes, horror possessed her face. Her under jaw had fallen. “Fired? Outa work? Why—George?” He went over to the window and stood with his back to her. He could feel her gray stare upon him.

  “Yep! Fired!”

  At last she said, “Well—whatter yeh goin’ t’ do?”

  He tapped the pane with his finger-nail. He answered in a tone made hoarse and unnatural by an assumption of gay carelessness, “Oh, nothin’!”

  She began, then, her first weeping. “Oh—George—George—George——”

  He looked at her scowling. “Ah, whatter yeh givin’ us? Is this all I git when I come home f’m being fired? Anybody ’ud think it was my fault. I couldn’t help it.”

  She continued to sob in a dull, shaking way. In the pose of her head there was an expression of her conviction that comprehension of her pain was impossible to the universe. He paused for a moment, and then, with his usual tactics, went out, slamming the door. A pale flood of sunlight, imperturbable at its vocation, streamed upon the little old woman, bowed with pain, forlorn in her chair.

  XV

  Kelcey was standing on the corner next day when three little boys came running. Two halted some distance away, and the other came forward. He halted before Kelcey, and spoke importantly.

  “Hey, your ol’ woman’s sick.”

  “What?”

  “Your ol’ woman’s sick.”

  “Git out!”

  “She is, too!”

  “Who tol’ yeh?”

  “Mis’ Callahan. She said fer me t’ run an’ tell yeh. Dey want yeh.”

  A swift dread struck Kelcey. Like flashes of light little scenes from the past shot through his brain. He had thoughts of a vengeance from the clouds. As he glanced about him the familiar view assumed a meaning that was ominous and
dark. There was prophecy of disaster in the street, the buildings, the sky, the people. Something tragic and terrible in the air was known to his nervous, quivering nostrils. He spoke to the little boy in a tone that quavered. “All right!”

  Behind him he felt the sudden contemplative pause of his companions of the gang. They were watching him. As he went rapidly up the street he knew that they had come out to the middle of the walk and were staring after him. He was glad that they could not see his face, his trembling lips, his eyes wavering in fear. He stopped at the door of his home and stared at the panel as if he saw written thereon a word. A moment later he entered. His eye comprehended the room in a frightened glance.

  His mother sat gazing out at the opposite walls and windows. She was leaning her head upon the back of the chair. Her face was overspread with a singular pallor, but the glance of her eyes was strong and the set of her lips was tranquil.

  He felt an unspeakable thrill of thanksgiving at seeing her seated there calmly. “Why, mother, they said yeh was sick,” he cried, going toward her impetuously. “What’s th’ matter?”

  She smiled at him. “Oh, it ain’t nothin’! I on’y got kinda dizzy, that’s all.” Her voice was sober and had the ring of vitality in it.

  He noted her common-place air. There was no alarm or pain in her tones, but the misgivings of the street, the prophetic twinges of his nerves made him still hesitate. “Well—are you sure it ain’t? They scared me ’bout t’ death.”

  “No, it ain’t anything, on’y some sorta dizzy feelin’. I fell down b’hind th’ stove. Missis Callahan, she came an’ picked me up. I must ’a laid there fer quite a while. Th’ docter said he guessed I’d be all right in a couple ’a hours. I don’t feel nothin’!”

  Kelcey heaved a great sigh of relief. “Lord, I was scared.” He began to beam joyously, since he was escaped from his fright. “Why, I couldn’t think what had happened,” he told her.

  “Well, it ain’t nothin’,” she said.

  He stood about awkwardly, keeping his eyes fastened upon her in a sort of surprise, as if he had expected to discover that she had vanished. The reaction from his panic was a thrill of delicious contentment. He took a chair and sat down near her, but presently he jumped up to ask: “There ain’t nothin’ I can git fer yeh, is ther?” He looked at her eagerly. In his eyes shone love and joy. If it were not for the shame of it he would have called her endearing names.

  “No, ther ain’t nothin’,” she answered. Presently she continued, in a conversational way, “Yeh ain’t found no work yit, have yeh?”

  The shadow of his past fell upon him then and he became suddenly morose. At last he spoke in a sentence that was a vow, a declaration of change. “No, I ain’t, but I’m goin’ t’ hunt fer it hard, you bet.”

  She understood from his tone that he was making peace with her. She smiled at him gladly. “Yer a good boy, George!” A radiance from the stars lit her face.

  Presently she asked, “D’ yeh think yer old boss would take yeh on ag’in if I went t’ see him?”

  “No,” said Kelcey, at once. “It wouldn’t do no good! They got all th’ men they want. There ain’t no room there. It wouldn’t do no good.” He ceased to beam for a moment as he thought of certain disclosures. “I’m goin’ t’ try to git work everywheres. I’m goin’ t’ make a wild break t’ git a job, an’ if there’s one anywheres I’ll git it.”

  She smiled at him again. “That’s right, George!”

  When it came supper-time he dragged her in her chair over to the table and then scurried to and fro to prepare a meal for her. She laughed gleefully at him. He was awkward and densely ignorant. He exaggerated his helplessness sometimes until she was obliged to lean back in her chair to laugh. Afterward they sat by the window. Her hand rested upon his hair.

  XVI

  When Kelcey went to borrow money from old Bleecker, Jones and the others, he discovered that he was below them in social position. Old Bleecker said gloomily that he did not see how he could loan money at that time. When Jones asked him to have a drink, his tone was careless. O’Connor recited at length some bewildering financial troubles of his own. In them all he saw that something had been reversed. They remained silent upon many occasions, when they might have grunted in sympathy for him.

  As he passed along the street near his home he perceived Fidsey Corcoran and another of the gang. They made eloquent signs. “Are yeh wid us?”

  He stopped and looked at them. “What’s wrong with yeh?”

  “Are yeh wid us er not,” demanded Fidsey. “New barkeep’! Big can! We got it over in d’ lot. Big can, I tell yeh.” He drew a picture in the air, so to speak, with his enthusiastic fingers.

  Kelcey turned dejectedly homeward. “Oh, I guess not, this roun’.”

  “What’s d’ matter wi’che?” said Fidsey. “Yer gittin’ t’ be a reg’lar willie! Come ahn, I tell yeh! Youse gits one smoke at d’ can b’cause yeh b’longs t’ d’ gang, an’ yeh don’t wanta give it up widout er scrap! See? Some udder john’ll git yer smoke. Come ahn!”

  When they arrived at the place among the bowlders in the vacant lot, one of the band had a huge and battered tin-pail tilted afar up. His throat worked convulsively. He was watched keenly and anxiously by five or six others. Their eyes followed carefully each fraction of distance that the pail was lifted. They were very silent.

  Fidsey burst out violently as he perceived what was in progress. “Heh, Tim, yeh big sojer, le’ go d’ can! What ’a yeh tink! Wese er in dis! Le’ go dat!”

  He who was drinking made several angry protesting contortions of his throat. Then he put down the pail and swore. “Who’s a big sojer? I ain’t gittin’ more’n me own smoke! Yer too bloomin’ swift! Yeh’d tink yeh was d’ on’y mug what owned dis can! Close yer face while I gits me smoke!”

  He took breath for a moment and then returned the pail to its tilted position. Fidsey went to him and worried and clamored. He interfered so seriously with the action of drinking that the other was obliged to release the pail again for fear of choking.

  Fidsey grabbed it and glanced swiftly at the contents. “Dere! Dat’s what I was hollerin’ at! Lookut d’ beer! Not ‘nough t’ wet yer t’roat! Yehs can’t have not’in’ on d’ level wid youse damn’ tanks! Youse was a reg’lar resevoiy, Tim Connigan! Look what yeh lef’ us! Ah, say, youse was a dandy! What ’a yeh tink we ah? Willies? Don’ we want no smoke? Say, lookut dat can! It’s drier’n hell! What ’a yeh tink?”

  Tim glanced in at the beer. Then he said: “Well, d’ mug what come b’fore me, he on’y lef’ me dat much. Blue Billee, he done d’ swallerin’! I on’y had a tas’e!”

  Blue Billie, from his seat near, called out in wrathful protest: “Yeh lie, Tim. I never had more’n a mouf-ful!” An inspiration evidently came to him then, for his countenance suddenly brightened, and, arising, he went toward the pail. “I ain’t had me reg’lar smoke yit! Guess I come in aheader Fidsey, don’ I?”

  Fidsey, with a sardonic smile, swung the pail behind him. “I guess nit! Not dis minnet! Youse hadger smoke. If yeh ain’t, yeh don’t git none. See?”

  Blue Billie confronted Fidsey determinedly. “D’ ’ell I don’t!”

  “Nit,” said Fidsey.

  Billie sat down again.

  Fidsey drank his portion. Then he manoeuvred skilfully before the crowd until Kelcey and the other youth took their shares. “Youse er a mob ’a tanks,” he told the gang. “Nobody ’ud git not’in’ if dey wasn’t on t’ yehs!”

  Blue Billie’s soul had been smouldering in hate against Fidsey. “Ah, shut up! Youse ain’t gota take care ’a dose two mugs, dough. Youse hadger smoke, ain’t yeh? Den yer tr’u. G’ home!”

  “Well, I hate t’ see er bloke use ’imself fer a tank,” said Fidsey. “But youse don’t wanta go jollyin’ ‘round ’bout d’ can, Blue, er youse’ll git done.”

  “Who’ll do me?” demanded Blue Billie, casting his eye about him.

  “Kel’ will,” said Fidsey, bravel
y.

  “D’ ’ell he will?”

  “Dat’s what he will!”

  Blue Billie made the gesture of a warrior. “He never saw d’ day ’a his life dat he could do me little finger. If ’e says much t’ me, I’ll push ‘is face all over d’ lot.”

  Fidsey called to Kelcey. “Say, Kel, hear what dis mug is chewin’?”

  Kelcey was apparently deep in other matters. His back was half-turned.

  Blue Billie spoke to Fidsey in a battleful voice. “Did ’e ever say ’e could do me?”

  Fidsey said: “Soitenly ’e did. Youse is dead easy, ’e says. He says he kin punch holes in you, Blue!”

  “When did ’e say it?”

  “Oh—any time. Youse is a cinch, Kel’ says.”

  Blue Billie walked over to Kelcey. The others of the band followed him exchanging joyful glances.

  “Did youse say yeh could do me?”

  Kelcey slowly turned, but he kept his eyes upon the ground. He heard Fidsey darting among the others telling of his prowess, preparing them for the downfall of Blue Billie. He stood heavily on one foot and moved his hands nervously. Finally he said, in a low growl, “Well, what if I did?”

  The sentence sent a happy thrill through the band. It was the formidable question. Blue Billie braced himself. Upon him came the responsibility of the next step. The gang fell back a little upon all sides. They looked expectantly at Blue Billie.

  He walked forward with a deliberate step until his face was close to Kelcey.

  “Well, if you did,” he said, with a snarl between his teeth, “I’m goin’ t’ t’ump d’ life outa yeh right heh!”