Part 17

For breakfast the old lady would drink a cup of coffee without sugar, but with milk in it. She preferred cream but didn’t dare say so for the cream pitcher was small and the men helped themselves to it first. After breakfast, if there was any coffee left in the coffee-pot, the old lady would drink another cup, standing up in the kitchen, trying to force a few drops out of the cream pitcher to put into it. If there was fruit for breakfast, the old lady was given the worse piece. She contented herself with one piece of toast, sparsely buttered, for she always felt Minnie’s eyes on her when she helped herself to butter. The old lady didn’t have a very large appetite.

After breakfast she would help her daughter-in-law with the dishes. Fanny affected delicacy. She was lazy and housework annoyed her. She spent the mornings in her own room reading magazines or running blue ribbon through her lingeries or making rather effeminate little suits for her son.

The old lady was always afraid of her daughter-in-law. Minnie was fat and slow-minded. She was constantly telling the old lady how glad she ought to be because they were all so “well fixed.” She liked to spend a long time discussing trifles, how Mrs. Fink’s dress hung and didn’t Gramma think it was her last year’s dress made over—she had a blue dress last year, remember?—and did Gramma think the butcher gave good weight—they had just one meal from that pot-roast, and here there was hardly enough of it left to slice cold.

The Potters lived in a large, square house. Herman had bought it at a forced sale when the children were small. It was painted brown and there were big trees around it. It looked gloomy. It had been one of Graniteville’s best streets but the business district had been creeping close until now a garage stood across the street and a store selling cigars and notions just two doors away. There were numerous small rooms in the house and this meant housework. Herman always smiled patronizingly when “the women folks” spoke of the difficulty of keeping the house in order. He was well-to-do in a moderate Graniteville way and was considering changing the Ford for a larger car but he didn’t see why three women couldn’t keep a house clean without outside help. They gave out the washing, didn’t they?

Herman didn’t consider that Fanny did none of the housework and that the old lady really was old, that it was almost a task to walk, sometimes, and that on damp days when her shoulders ached it was rather difficult to try to dust, even.

In the afternoon when the house was in order, the old lady would embroider. She did things for all of the family and for the friends of Fanny and Minnie and for church bazaars. She did guest towels, making them even more annoying by the addition of bright blue “blue-birds for happiness” or impossible butterflies; shoe bags with outlines of distorted footwear to explain their use; dresser scarfs with scalloped outlines which didn’t launder well.

The old lady did the best she could. She made things people liked and asked for. The only times she ever received praise were when she gave away her finished works of art. She never complained about her eyes, though they did hurt after she bent over her sewing for two or three hours at a time. She preferred to read, though the family took only the cheapest magazines full of sensational stories or articles about motion picture actresses. Sometimes the old lady would go to the Carnegie Library and bring home novels, favourites of thirty years ago, but the family laughed at her when she did that.

In the evening the members of the family would go their various ways without bothering much about her. Fanny would persuade one of the boys to take her to the movies or she would go with a girl friend, loitering on the way home in hopes of being overtaken by masculine admirers. The boys would go to the movies or to a vaudeville show or play pool. They belonged to a couple of lodges, the kind of lodges that are supposed to have international significance—you can give the distress sign to the ticket-seller and get a ticket to Europe in a hurry, though none of the Potters would probably ever want to go to Europe. They liked the idea. A boast of one of the lodges was that none of its members had ever been electrocuted and, though none of the boys looked forward to a life of crime, they accepted the fact eagerly and repeated it as something pretty big for the lodge. The lodge rooms were pleasant places to waste evenings. Minnie and Herman patronized the motion picture theatres, too, but they cared more for cards than for the drama, even in its silent form. Nearly every evening they went to one of the neighbours for a game of bridge or poker or had a few guests in. At ten-thirty there were refreshments of rye bread and cheese and sardines, known as “a little Dutch lunch,” and appreciated each night as if it were a novelty.

The old lady didn’t go out much evenings. She walked slowly and stumbled a great deal, so no one liked to bother with her. At the movies she couldn’t read the captions easily and that meant some one to read them aloud to her, and the family didn’t consider that refined. She could not quite master the intricacies of bridge even enough to fill in when another player was needed, though she tried pitifully hard and her hand shook if she held the cards. The old lady would sew or read. There were socks and stockings to be darned and clothes to be mended, besides the embroidering, so she had enough to do.

About nine she would nod over her sewing, pull herself together, ashamed, and look around to see if any one had observed her, when there was any one at home to observe, which was seldom enough. She would start sewing again, drop off into a doze, start up, finally take her sewing and retire to her bedroom.

The old lady had a fine room. Any of the family would have told her that. It was above the kitchen and got the winter winds rather badly, so that the old lady frequently had sniffy colds, but it was a fine room, nevertheless, with two windows in it. The one bathroom was quite at the other end of the hall, but, after all, one can’t have everything.

Two of the boys roomed in the attic, so the old lady could feel that she was having quite the cream of things to be on the second floor. Fanny and her little boy had the front room because Fanny often brought home one of “the girls” to spend the night or her women friends would run up to her room to take off their hats. Her room was done in bird’s-eye maple with pink china silk draperies. Herman and Minnie had the next room. They used the furniture they had bought when they first went to housekeeping, a high maple bed and an old-fashioned dresser to match it. On the walls were enlarged crayon portraits of the old lady and of Grandpa Potter, who had died fifteen years before. Didn’t having these pictures show what the family thought of the old lady? The pictures had hung in the living-room until Art descended on the household, a few years before, when they had been removed in favour of two Christy heads, a “Reading from Homer,” “The Frieze of the Prophets” and “Two’s Company.”

The old lady didn’t have a hard life. She knew that. She was quite grateful for everything that was done for her. She liked housework, even. Of course, Minnie had rather an annoying way of taking all of the pleasure out of it. Minnie did all of the ordering, all of the planning of meals, the preparing of the salad, when there was a salad, all of the interesting, exciting things connected with the kitchen. But, after all, wasn’t it Minnie’s house? Hadn’t she a right? Grandma knew she had liked doing things in her own home. She didn’t blame Minnie but it made things a bit monotonous. Not that things weren’t nice, though, a room all to herself, even if the furniture was rather haphazard, lots of time to herself, things to embroider. If Grandpa Potter had lived—but, of course, he wasn’t alive, any more than any of the other relatives and friends of those other days were alive, the Scotts, the Howards—Martha.

II

Now it was the old lady’s birthday. She thought of it the first thing in the morning when she woke up. She dressed a bit hurriedly as if something were going to happen. She put on a clean morning dress of black and white percale, stiffly starched and, over this, a blue and white checked gingham apron.

She went to the kitchen to straighten things up. There were a lot of dishes for Lu and Phil had brought some boys home after the movies and Fanny had prepared a rarebit for them, using, as is the way of all amateur cooks, quite three times too many dishes.

The old lady had the oatmeal done and the table set, though, when the family came down, one at a time, for breakfast, first Minnie, then her husband, then the boys. Fanny didn’t often appear at breakfast.

No one congratulated the old lady on her birthday, though she made a great point of birthdays and they knew it. However, it is easy enough for a family to forget things like that. So, when they were all at the table, making sucking noises over their oatmeal—no one spoke much at meals at the Potters’—Grandma announced, primly,

“To-day’s my birthday.”

“So it is,” said Herman, and, with an appearance of great gallantry put his napkin on the table, arose and went around to the old lady’s place. He kissed her with quite a smack.

“Congratulations and good wishes,” he said, which the others echoed. Then,

“How old are you, Ma? Over eighty, I know. Quite an age. I’ll never live to see eighty.”

“I’m eighty-two,” said the old lady.

“Don’t think for one minute, Ma, that we forgot your birthday,” said Minnie. “You know that we ain’t. Only this morning, hurrying about breakfast and all, it slipped my mind. I got something for you two weeks ago at the Ladies’ Aid Bazaar. You’d rather have it at supper time, wouldn’t you?”

The old lady nodded.

“Yes, I would,” she said.

It was the custom of the family to have rather a birthday celebration at the evening meal. They were usually together then and gifts were heaped up at the celebrator’s plate and there was a cake.

“You’re all going to be home to dinner?” asked Minnie. The men nodded.

When the men left the table, Minnie followed them out into the hall and whispered little warnings to them about “not forgetting something for Grandma” and answering whispers of “can’t you do it for me, Ma?”

The day passed as the old lady’s days generally passed. In the morning she helped Minnie with the birthday cake. It was a chocolate cake, of which the old lady was not especially fond, but the boys all liked chocolate. There was a white icing on it and they stuck marshmallows on that. The old lady hoped not to get a marshmallow—they stick to your teeth so when you wear a plate. There were to be ten candles on the cake, for ten happened to be the number of candles left over from Elbert’s Christmas tree, and you can’t possibly put eighty-two candles on a cake, anyhow. The candles were of several colours.

Minnie commented on the beauty of the cake when it was finished. She let the old lady see how good the family was to her. It isn’t every old lady of eighty-two who has a birthday cake.

About ten o’clock Fanny and Elbert appeared. The old lady brought their breakfast into the dining-room. Fanny and Minnie were going calling and shopping and were going to take Elbert with them. Usually they left him at home with the old lady. He was rather a spoiled child.

Then Fanny and Minnie dressed. The old lady bathed Elbert, who cried because she got soap into his eyes. This annoyed Fanny.

“For Heaven’s sake, Gramma, don’t get him cross,” she scolded. “We’re going to meet Mrs. Herron and Grace for lunch, and I want him to act nice. He’ll be in an awful temper if he starts crying.”

The old lady didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything when Elbert pinched her as she was trying to button his suit. She put on his blue reefer and the cap like a sailor’s, and buttoned his leggins, though she did wish he’d sit still while she did the buttons.

At half-past eleven the others left and the old lady was alone. She peeled the potatoes for supper and put them in water, she straightened up her room, swept the dining-room, dusted a bit, threw away last night’s newspapers.

At half-past twelve she went into the kitchen for a bite to eat. She could always “feel when lunch-time came.” Minnie usually said, when she went out, “There’s always plenty in the ice-box for lunch,” and the old lady never contradicted her, though she always felt rather sure that Minnie had made a mistake.

Now, she found a dish of pickles—she did not care for pickles—some eggs and some blackberry jam. She was rather fond of eggs but she was afraid that if she did eat one or two of them, Minnie might say something about “never seem able to keep an egg in the house.” Eggs were high, just now. So the old lady buttered two slices of not especially fresh bread rather sparingly and spread a little jam on them. She made herself a cup of tea and ate her lunch sitting at the oilcloth-covered table.

She brushed the crumbs off the table, washed the few dishes, went up to her room for a nap. She liked to sleep, when she had a chance, afternoons.

She woke up, an hour later. A long afternoon stretched in front of her. Still, all of her afternoons were long—mornings—evenings, too. She had heard, years before, that time would seem to fly by when you get old. It didn’t. Still, there couldn’t be many more days now—eighty-two.

She put on her best dress of black silk, with cuffs and collar of lace that Helen had sent years before. Helen—she was some one to think about. Helen—Martha’s daughter. Helen was young and lovely and had everything. Twice the old lady had gone to visit Helen. She never felt at home with Helen at any time. Helen’s maids were trained automatons; Helen’s home was full of strange formalities. Helen’s days were full of unusual things. Helen herself, perfectly groomed, cool, impersonal, looked eighteen, though she’d been married six years, did not seem like a human being at all.

It was nice of Helen having her old grandmother visit her, the old lady knew that. She never talked much to Helen, never knew what to say, yet she loved her with a strange yearning that she never felt toward any one else—maybe because the others were so jealous of Helen, of everything she did. The old lady didn’t especially like to be at Helen’s—she was so afraid of doing the wrong things—yet, though she never figured it out, Helen seemed to belong to her, was more a part of her than any of the others could be. Maybe because she was Martha’s child. Martha had always been so much more to her than any of the others.

With fingers that trembled a little, the old lady fastened her dress, the dress that was new the last time she visited Helen. She smoothed her hair with the old brush one of the boys had given her. She looked at the things on her dresser, the cover she had embroidered in violets—they were her favourite flower—the daguerreotype of her and her husband, taken the year they were married, holding hands unashamed. It was coloured, the old lady’s cheeks pink and her brooch shining gold. There was a snapshot of Helen on horseback, a stiffly posed picture of little Elbert, a picture of Phil in sailor uniform—he had gone into the navy just before the draft law was put into effect.

The bell rang. The postman!

With quick little steps, the old lady hurried to the door, smiled at the postman as she always did when she took the mail from him and said something about “a cold day,” even while she was anxious to close the door so that she could look over the mail. A letter for Herman from an insurance company—a picture post-card—a letter in a lavender envelope for Fanny—a post-card from Roger—a letter from Kansas City—Morris’ wife’s writing—yes—she trembled a little—a letter from Helen. She recognized the pale grey envelope, the deeper grey seal. The women Minnie and Fanny went with didn’t use grey sealing wax with a crest stamped into it nor grey monogrammed paper—they didn’t live in Chicago nor wear lovely pale clothes—didn’t do anything the right way.

The old lady put the mail, excepting her post-card and two letters, on the hall table, took hers to her room. Morris meant all right—he and his wife—good people in their way—she was glad Morris was doing well—

Helen’s letter! She opened it carefully, tearing off the edge in little bits so as not to tear the contents. The old lady got few enough letters. She never knew you could take a letter-opener to them. She took out the letter. There was an inclosure, but the old lady let that lay in her lap while she read Helen’s rather smart writing.

She smiled, read it again, put the letter back into the envelope, looked at the bit of paper on her lap—a cheque—twenty-five dollars.

Helen!

III

The old lady took her work-bag and went down into the living-room. She’d be careful not to get threads around—she knew how Minnie hated that. She was working on a centrepiece, in colours, to be sold at the March sale of the Church Circle. The old lady was glad she could do things like that. Her glasses were of silver and quite bent. The lenses had been fitted for her years before and she had to hold the sewing quite close. She embroidered until it was too dark to see. Then she folded her wrinkled hands in her lap. She didn’t believe in “wasting electricity” by turning it on too early.

She sat at the window and thought about things—about Minnie and Herman—how mean Minnie was about little things, about Herman’s stupidity and blindness about everything excepting himself. Herman—and the boys, too—never read anything or saw anything they didn’t apply to themselves. They were never interested in a single outside thing. All they talked about was what “he said” and how business was going to be. Nothing existed outside of Graniteville. They were so conceited, satisfied. Fanny was just as bad and she whined, too—but she had Elbert. A child is always a little better than nothing. But Helen didn’t have any children.

As the old lady grew older the necessity for progeny, so overwhelmingly important in her younger life, had diminished. What difference did it make, anyhow? Elbert, pale and in the sulks, usually—the only one of a fourth generation. Of course the boys might marry and have children. What of it? Of course, if it weren’t for Herman, if she hadn’t had children, she wouldn’t have had a home, might have had to go to the poor-house, maybe. But then, if she hadn’t had children, she might have learned a trade and made enough money to get into one of the homes she had read about, where you pay a few thousand dollars and have a nice room and pictures in the evening and company when you like. Still, of course, things couldn’t be changed, were all right—there was Helen’s letter—

The twilight deepened. The old lady went into the kitchen, turned on a light, put the meat into the oven.

At six Lu came in, then Phil. Then Fanny and Minnie and Elbert. They had gone to call on Mrs. Harden and Elbert had fallen asleep and was cross, now. Fanny was going upstairs to “make herself comfortable,” would Gramma undress Elbert?

Fanny put on a pink cotton kimono and went downstairs. The old lady got Elbert to bed, finally. When she got downstairs she saw that Fanny and her mother were busy in the dining-room. She heard the crackle of paper. Discreetly she stayed in the kitchen. They were preparing her birthday presents.

Dinner was ready. Herman had already come home. Herman liked to eat as soon as he got into the house.

The old lady went into the dining-room. The boys were already seated at the table. Herman sat down. Fanny was putting the potatoes on the table. The old lady found a small pile of bundles at her place, the birthday cake on the table.

“This is very nice,” she smiled, “I thank you all even before I look.”

She sat down, unassisted. She opened the bundles.

There was a bottle of violet toilet water from Fred. She got that every year. It was not her favourite brand—rather a cheaper kind, in fact, but she liked almost any kind of violet. A pale pink satin pincushion came next. A card was stuck on it with pins. On this was written in Fanny’s rather stupid, slanting hand:

“To great-grandmother from her little great-grandson, Elbert Arthur Longham, on her 82nd birthday.”

The present from Minnie was a hand-made camisole of rather coarse lace—the old lady never wore camisoles, a fact of which Minnie should have been faintly aware. Well, she could make Minnie “take it back” and wear it herself after a month or so. It was Minnie’s size, undoubtedly. There was a pound box of chocolates from Lu. Grandma preferred lemon drops or any hard candies that you can suck and make last a long time, but the family liked chocolates. A boudoir cap from Fanny—a present some one had probably given her for Christmas—and a combination drug-store box of soap, dental cream and nail polish from Herman completed the gifts. Phil apologized that he’d been busy every minute and he’d “get something to-morrow.”

The old lady put the wrapping paper neatly together and put the things on the sideboard next to the cut-glass punch bowl. She sat down again. Minnie, who served, was filling the plates.

“Thanks, everybody, again,” said the old lady. “Your things are very nice and very welcome.”

She looked at the group, the selfish, complacent faces. She smiled.

“I—I got a card from Roger and—and two other presents,” she said, and took the card and letters from the front of her waist.

She passed the card around the table and opened a letter.

“It’s from Morris and Ruby,” she explained. “They sent me five dollars.”

“Not much for a rich man to send his mother,” Herman commented. “He hasn’t any expenses from you and all he ever does is to send you five dollars a month for spending money. I hear he’s doing better every month and that’s all—”

“Now, Herman,” soothed Minnie. She wanted to hear the letter. Ruby never wrote to her.

The old lady read the letter, about Ruby’s cold and the snow storm and Morris’ business success. She folded it and put it on the table.

“This one is from Helen, from Chicago,” she said. She added “from Chicago,” purposely. She knew how Fanny longed to live in a big city.

“Dear Gammy,” she read, and added, “Helen always uses that nickname just like when she was a baby.”

She knew the family hated nicknames. They thought Gramma a proper pronunciation.

“To think that you’re eighty-two,” she continued to read. “Quite out of the flapper class, it seems. This is to welcome the New Year and to send bushels of love and good wishes from the two of us. I wish you were spending your birthday with us, but I know the family do all they can to make you happy.”

The old lady glanced at them all. She was glad to see they looked a little uncomfortable.

“We’ve been awfully busy as usual,” the old lady read on. “Since Jimmy’s been made president of the company he’s getting so conceited that he insists on going to horrid business meetings at night sometimes, so, in self-defence, I have to go to dinners with some of my old beaux.”

The old lady looked at Fanny and smiled.

“Helen has a good time,” she said, “I like to think of a young girl enjoying herself.”

Helen was Fanny’s age. Fanny had no “old beaux,” nor any other kind to take her to dinner. Fanny was unpopular.

The old lady went on reading:

“But Jim gets an occasional afternoon off and that’s compensation. We have heaps of fun driving or just trailing around together. Jim’s as devoted as ever—I’ll say that for him. I’m afraid we’ll never quite settle down, even if we have been married a long time.”

“Helen’s a great girl,” said the old lady. “She and Jim—I never saw a couple like them. She knows how to hold him. I never saw a man so devoted.”