CHAPTER FOUR

The sunshine was gone. Lights were being turned on in office buildings. The crowds were beginning to rush home. Before dinner time in late fall--a windy, hurrying, desolate interval on city streets when everyone's thoughts fly to an enclosure, some enclosure. Grace continued to walk aimlessly along Sixth Avenue. After she left Blake it was always hard for her to button her mind anew against the cold, lone air. When people leave a warm room the bleak outer air can penetrate them subtly and thoroughly in a moment until they find themselves colder than they ever were before, they find themselves freezing. At such times Grace had some certain recourses, minute hinges which she used to swing her mood from the unbearable, the unknowable, to the composed routine of every day. Looking in shop windows was such a hinge, buying a new pair of stockings, a new handkerchief, dropping into a movie, ordering a soda. But the best hinge was a visit with Letty, even a telephone call to her.

Letty and Grace had grown up together and for many years their families had lived close by in lower Washington Heights, Grace on St. Nicholas Avenue, Letty in a poorer house just around the corner. Letty had been a stenographer while Grace had gone to college, but this had not disturbed their friendship. There was something so fresh and gay, so frank, about Letty, with her round little face, her round little suits, and her fresh, greedy little mouth. She had married soon and well, moving from the house around the corner and leaving Grace in the apartment on St. Nicholas Avenue. An Irish-American, she had married a man of Grace's racial background, German-Jewish-American, and was adapting herself, not too entirely and with many pert remarks, to his accustomed home-and-family existence. They lived on Riverside Drive in the Eighties. Often Grace stopped by on her way home.

As soon as she heard Letty's lively "Hello," Grace felt a sense of relief. There, very close, were people who cared about her, who were concerned with her doings, small sheds to huddle into for warmth. No need to say who it was. The two girls knew all the inflections of each other's voices.

"What are you doing? I thought I'd come in for a minute," said Grace.

"Oh-h----" Letty's voice dropped. "Harry and I thought we'd eat out and go to the theater. Why? Anything happened?"

"Oh, no. Nothing special. I got a job." Grace smiled. Even if something had happened, it would be hard to drag Letty away from an evening out and at the theater. It was proof of her friendship for Grace that, once in a while, she had given up a promise of gayety for her sake--but even so, with a pout, unwillingly.

"That's grand. Oh, Grace, that's wonderful! Where? How? Did you tell Blake?" Letty's voice was twice as happy, happy for Grace and happy that she could go on to her party.

Grace giggled. "What're you going to see that you're so excited about?"

"Oh, just the _Follies_. You know Harold, the Tired Business Man. He's under a bed right now--looking for a collar button. I don't have to look. I'm speaking over the phone. Ha-ha! Gosh, he _found_ it! But tell me about the job, Grace. Where----"

Grace explained.

"Gee, I'm glad. I'm awf'ly glad! What're you doing to-night?"

"Nothing, I guess."

Letty's voice became lower, sympathizing. "Want to stay over here to-night?" Another voice made itself heard but not clear enough for the words to get through. "That's only Harold," said Letty impatiently. "He thinks we'll be home too late. Don't mind him."

"I don't," replied Grace, laughing. Letty laughed too. "But I suppose I might as well go home and tell Ma-a-a. And, listen, I can't have lunch with you to-morrow. I don't know where I'll be."

"Oh, that's all right. Only call me, will you? And come up to-morrow night, if you can manage, and tell me all about it."

"I'll call you anyway."

"I'm awf'ly glad! And don't forget to call me. Good-bye, Gracie."

"Good-bye, Let. Have a good time."

Grace went out of the booth, feeling cheerful again. After all, it had been a successful day. Letty had looked at it and found it successful. She hated to spoil her mood by crowding into the Elevated or the Subway. Time enough for that when she got home to Ma. All the busses would be full now. She searched in her purse. If she walked on a little farther, along the park, she would have just enough to pay for keeping her mood intact, safe from being brushed away by the clumsy hands of the home-going crowds, in a cab to One Hundred Thirty-seventh Street. Anyhow, she made up her mind rebelliously, she ought to celebrate to-day in spite of what Ma would say. Their parlor windows faced the street and Mrs. Kline never seemed to miss the stoppage of a taxi before the door if that taxi contained Grace.

The click of Grace's key brought Ma trampling down the long hall of the apartment. Mrs. Kline's feet always sounded, at least to Grace's ears, as if they trampled. _Clamp, clamp, clack_.

She couldn't help looking Grace over with pride and couldn't help saying suspiciously, "Came up in a taxi, didn'cha?"

"It's all right, Ma," said Grace, going past her. "I got a job."

Mrs. Kline followed into Grace's room. She followed everywhere physically. She was always looking for some loophole through which to squeeze herself to follow into Grace's mind, into Grace's heart, into Grace's soul, trying to trample down barrier after barrier as it was inevitably erected against her. A conversation between Grace and her mother was like an encounter between a peaceable, besieged city and its attackers. At first Grace withdrew, like the city, far within walls and lay low, resigned, merely attempting to ward off invasion. Then, suddenly, there would come one sally too much. In desperation, she, like the city, would turn and rise and strike.

Mrs. Kline could not help it. She would do anything for Grace, give anything to Grace. Mr. Kline had been divorced when Grace was a child and, to supplement small and irregular alimony, Mrs. Kline had become dressmaker to her friends so as to send Grace through college and keep up appearances. She still made dresses. But Grace wasn't grateful, could not be forced to show gratitude. In truth Grace felt that she had done her share. As a child, she had delivered gowns to the mothers of playmates, had cleaned and cooked after school. During the last years of college she had been able to add to the family income, and now there devolved on her most of the burden of supporting her mother. What more did Ma want? Why couldn't she let her, Grace, alone?

Mother and daughter resembled each other in the contours of their faces and in a certain insistence which both had. Grace clung with her eyes. Mrs. Kline clung with her strident voice, with her hands, by constant assertion. Otherwise, her eyes were china blue and she had a lot of coarsening, once-golden hair.

"So you got a job. That's good. It's time. How much money are they giving you? What kind of work? The same kind you did on the paper?"

"Forty to start."

"That's pretty good for a beginner," cried Mrs. Kline, brightening. "I must tell Mrs. Mendelsohn. Betty Mendelsohn's been working a month but she only makes twenty-five. You'd think she was the Queen of Sheba the way Mrs. Mendelsohn acts. I told her if _he_ hadn't wanted you to make that trip with him you'd have got a job the minute you graduated too----"

"Oh, all right, Ma. I'm hungry." Grace had taken off her hat and now, with a sigh, she shook out of her coat.

Mrs. Kline felt it, as usual, between thumb and forefinger. "Well, it was cold enough for sealskin to-day, in spite of all the fuss you made. Let me tell you a lot of girls would be glad to have a sealskin coat, too early or not. The coat's a good buy, too. It's like I told you. You gotta get money off him while he's got it." "He" referred to Mr. Kline.

Without answering, Grace walked up the hall into the dining room. She wore a long pale-orange blouse with loose sleeves and a black skirt. She seemed taller and slimmer than she actually was, and her back was a little rounded, but unnoticeably. Behind her trampled Mrs. Kline, following. She sat down at the table. It was a middle-class dining room, with every part of a dining-room "set" righteously in place and with Mrs. Kline's wedding present cutglass shining icily through the door of the china closet. It was chilly there. Grace shivered.

"You ought to put something around you," said Mrs. Kline. "Go get yourself a sweater. First thing you know, you'll catch pneumonia and you'll be laid up. When do you start work, anyhow?"

"To-morrow."

"So soon? What've you got to wear? I don't know a thing you got. I'll have to get busy. I'm busy enough as it is. I got a dress for Mrs. Michaels and another ordered to-day----"

"Ma, please bring in the soup."

"--and I got bridge with the Ladies' Circle to-morrow. And what do you think? All of a sudden that Mrs. Levine--Levin they call themselves now--takes notice of me in Temple, and she asks me to come to tea. Charlie Bintner wants me to have lunch with him, too, this week. I don't know if that's proper. Of course, I got my divorce and all, but still... You know Charlie Bintner--I told you he was always after me. I'll never forget his face when I told him I was going to get married. But he had only himself to blame. You can't go around with a girl and go around with her and never make your intentions known and expect her to wait for you----"

Grace swore under her breath.

Then Mrs. Kline brought in the soup. She was a poor cook and praised her own cooking. She began to suck in great spoonfuls. Meal times, when her mother sat opposite and talked in her harsh voice and ate soup or devoured with gusto oranges out of their rinds, were most dreaded by Grace. Then she was most at the point of exploding. She sat tautened over the soup which she had tasted and would not eat.

"Why don't you eat? What's the matter with you?" said Mrs. Kline sharply.

"Nothing. What's the meat?"

"I got some lamb chops. That's what you like, isn't it? There's no suiting you ever. Or is something wrong with you?"

No answer from Grace. Mrs. Kline dragged out the soup and trampled in with plates of chops and weak vegetables which she slammed on the table. She went back for the coffee. Grace picked at her food and drank black coffee.

"What's wrong with you?" insisted Mrs. Kline. "You haven't been eating hardly anything for I don't know how long. What's wrong, I want to know?"

Grace merely gritted her teeth.

There fell a silence, a bad omen.

When Mrs. Kline spoke again her voice was low and accusing.

"Mara Goldenberg told me she saw you having tea with that same man the other day."

Grace dug her fork into the chop.

"Now listen, Grace, God knows I don't want to be like some mothers, prying and snooping. But I'm your mother and I have a right to know who you go around with. Your other friends call on you here. Why can't this man come? What's wrong with him that Mara Goldenberg sees you having tea with him all the time and your own mother don't know who he is? He looks Gentile, Mara says, and you hold hands with him on the table--right in front of everybody. Well, all right, so he's Gentile. Myself, I'm proud to be Jewish, but I'm not a person that has prejudices. My own brother's married to a Gentile woman as nice as you could find anywhere, and there's Letty Moses, a Catholic, too, married to a man whose own mother goes to Temple with me, and nobody thinks the worse of the Moseses. Do I care who you go around with, so long as they're decent people? But I want to know who this man is that Mara Goldenberg sees you with."

"Mara Goldenberg ought to mind her own business. So should all your friends, for that matter," muttered Grace.

"What's that you said? Mara Goldenberg is a good friend to me and what she tells me I got a right to know--you should tell me yourself. I got a right to know. Don't you forget that, young lady! I want to know who this man is."

The besieged city turned suddenly.

"Well, you won't know," shouted Grace. "It's nothing and it's no one's business and it's none of Mara Goldenberg's business."

She fled down the long corridor to her room, hearing her mother's voice as it followed her. She closed the door with infinite caution. If her mother heard a door shut she would bear down on her privacy on the instant. But it was no use. Mrs. Kline's feet trampled down the hall, her hands rapped on the door. Grace placed herself against it on the inside, held it to. There was no key.

"Let me in, Grace. Don't you dare to shut the door on me," cried her mother.

"I won't let you in. I'm undressing. Let me _alone_!"

With all her force Grace held the door to. Mrs. Kline rattled the knob. Then she was still. Finally, Grace heard her feet making their raucous journey back up the hall. For a long time she kept her place by the door, taut, putting her hand to her heart unconsciously to try to ease its racking beat.

The room was dark. When she sat down before her dresser she saw her eyes in the glass--so huge--the whites distended and gleaming. She sat there, watching herself, motionless, while the beat of her heart swung back and forth like a pendulum. Now it waned, now it rose mercilessly, filling her till she thought she would be torn apart. It wouldn't stop. It would never stop. She muttered to herself, to her heart, to her mother, to the whole world--over and over: "Let me alone. Oh, let me alone! Why can't you let me alone?"