Let Me Tell You (27 page)

The huge factory (formerly making watches, now operating day and night on a new product, one that caused the manufacturers to announce “If you cannot get that new watch this year, just remember that some soldier's life might be saved by the delicate precision instruments…”) was blacked out for the night with blinds drawn against all of the great plate glass windows, but a few steps beyond and down the block, the Bar & Grill was bright and noisy. Workers who left the factory at midnight stopped in at the bar for a beer before going on home; people were drinking coffee before going in to work, and the homely girl who went from table to table playing requests on the accordion was working overtime on “Der Fuehrer's Face” and “I've Got Sixpence.” Around the circular bar some soldiers and sailors—alone for the most part, sometimes with girls—mingled with the crowding factory workers. “I'm nonessential,” one of the two bartenders told a customer. “Next week I'll be working up there at the factory with you guys.”

Toward one o'clock the door opened and a small, oldish, slightly drunk man entered and went directly to the bar. “Rhine wine,” he said to the bartender. “What, Jack?” the bartender asked over his shoulder. “Rhine wine,” the little man said. The bartender shrugged and went to the row of bottles lined along the center of the bar. He selected one, and poured a glass for the customer. “Fifteen cents, Jack,” the bartender said. The little man fumbled three nickels across the bar and picked up his glass. Carrying the glass, he left the bar and began to walk up and down between the tables. Occasionally he smiled hopefully at people sitting at the tables, but no one spoke to him or, in fact, even looked at him. Finally, the little man, still carrying his glass, went over to one of the booths and stood beside it, supporting himself against the edge of the table. Then: “Mind if I sit down here a minute?” he asked.

There were two girls sitting in the booth, drinking beer. One was a fashionably dressed blonde, with orange lipstick and carefully painted eyebrows; the other was a serious-looking girl in a brown tweed coat. They had been talking earnestly, but when the man spoke to them they turned and looked at him, at the glass in his hand, and then back to his face.

“Sure,” said the blonde. “You can sit down. No more tables?”

“It isn't that,” the little man said carefully. “It's just that I'd like to talk to you.” He spoke in the painfully clear manner of the inebriated.

“Go ahead, talk,” the blonde said. She turned back to her companion. “So I think I'd better get along and see if I can get it back,” she said. “After all, I don't go so good in a factory, it gets me down; I should be back in the dancehall. And he always was a good guy to work for, that jerk.”

“You hadn't ought to get out of a war factory, though,” the other girl said. She glanced at the little man, who was sitting quietly, holding his glass and listening, and then went on: “You ought to stay at work that's…you know…for defense.”

“That's true,” the little man agreed. “You ought to work at something that will help your country.” Both girls looked at him silently. The little man hurried on: “I hope you girls don't mind this—my coming up here and just sitting right down without even asking you very well.”

“We don't mind,” the blonde said.

“I guess you just wanted to talk to someone, or something,” the other girl said.

“That's right,” the little man said. “Look, my name is Burton, Robbie Burton, but you can call me Robbie. What's yours?”

“Well,” the blonde said, “I'm Lois, and she's Elaine.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the little man said. “Look, this is how it is. I wanted to talk to someone and I saw you”—he gestured at the blonde—“and I just thought, There's a girl that looks kind of like my daughter. I got a daughter as old as you are, looks something like you,” he said. “And so I thought maybe you wouldn't mind if I sat down, not to start something or anything, but just because I wanted to talk, like you said.” As if very tired, the little man leaned back and sipped at his wine.

“Well.” Lois looked at her friend. “He says I look like his daughter.”

“I'll bet,” Elaine said.

“Look,” the little man said, leaning forward again, “don't you do like my daughter. You look like a nice girl, don't you do like my daughter.”

“What did your daughter do?” Elaine asked.

“Never mind what my daughter did,” the little man said. “I'm just telling you, that's all.”

“All right,” Lois said, winking at her friend. “I won't. Okay?”

“Okay.” The little man looked at his empty glass. “Say,” he demanded, “how about I buy you girls a drink? Let me buy you two a drink, how about it?”

“We can buy our own,” Elaine said quickly.

“No,” the little man insisted, “let me buy you a drink. Because this girl here reminds me of my daughter and I'd certainly buy my daughter a drink. Please let me buy you a drink?” he appealed to the blonde.

“Okay, Pop,” she said. He got up and went over to the bar.

“Listen, Lois,” the dark girl said, “you hadn't ought to let him buy you a drink. You hadn't ought to have let him sit down here in the first place.”

“Poor old guy,” Lois said. “He looked so lonesome. Let him talk for a while. Doesn't hurt to be nice to a poor old guy like that. Thinks I look like his daughter, anyway.”

“Don't you go doing what his daughter did,” Elaine said, giggling.

Lois giggled too. “Why not?” she asked. “But shut up, here he comes.”

The little man came back, laughing when he saw that they were laughing. “Now we're having a good time,” he said, putting the glasses down on the table.

“Hello, Pop,” Lois said.

“I guess I could buy my own daughter a drink,” he said.

“You sure could, Pop,” Lois said.

“Tell us about your daughter,” Elaine said. “What did she do, anyway?”

The little man lifted his face to her and glared. Then he relaxed. “Nothing,” he said. “I shouldn't say; I don't know. Nothing.”

“Cheer up, Pop,” Lois said. “Drink up.” She lifted her glass and touched his with it. “Long life,” she said.

The little man picked up his glass and sipped at it. “You sure do look like my daughter,” he said to Lois. “Don't you ever do anything bad.” He looked at Elaine for a minute and then back to Lois. “Look,” he said. “When I first came here a while ago I couldn't help but hear when you said you thought you'd leave your job and go back to working in a dancehall. Don't you do it.”

“Hey, look,” Lois said, pained.

“Don't you go working around no men,” the little man insisted. “You stay right where you belong, not in any dancehall.”

“I guess she doesn't need to ask you where she's going to work,” Elaine said.

“I don't want you working for that guy you called a jerk,” the little man said.

“He doesn't want me working for O'Halloran, that jerk,” Lois explained elaborately.

“Don't you go fooling around men,” the little man said. He pounded his hand on the table so that his glass trembled. “I don't want to hear of you going around any men. You're a nice girl, now, and you're a good girl and you treat your father nice, and you bring home your money, and don't you go throwing your life away on any men.”

“Well, I'd certainly tell him to mind his own business!” said Elaine.

“Your old father's never done you an evil thing and never given you any bad advice, and when he tells you you better keep right on coming home every week with that money from the factory and not go taking anything from any men and not go throwing your money away on cheap clothes and friends, he's giving you good advice. Your old father deserves for you to treat him right, and he hasn't got anybody but you and no one to help him along in his old age, so you better listen to his good advice.” The little man put his hand on Lois's arm and repeated, “You better listen to his good advice.”

“Well, for heaven's sakes!” said Elaine.

“Hey,” Lois said, “suppose you run along out of here, Pop.”

“You listen to me,” the little man said desperately.

“I'll call someone to throw you out, mister,” she said.

“
I'll
call someone,” Elaine said. She stood up and started to look around eagerly.

The little man watched her for a minute and then sighed. Pushing his glass aside, he put both hands on the table and lifted himself up. Elaine sat back against the seat, watching him warily. The little man stood at the opening of the booth looking at the girls sadly.

“You'll be sorry some day,” he said. “You'll be sorry you didn't treat your poor old father better.”

Neither girl moved. The little man turned to Lois.

“And I want you home and in your own bed tonight, you hear?” he cried emphatically. Then he turned and made his way past the crowded bar and out the door. His empty glass still trembled slightly after he had gone, moving a little in the spilled wine on the table.

For reasons of her own, Mrs. Carrant had concluded that the doorbell was going to ring at 8:20 exactly; the train came in at 7:55, allow him fifteen minutes to get his bag or bags (he couldn't have
much
baggage, after all), a minute or two to get a taxi, and then only the ride downtown and home—eight or nine minutes at most. Eight-twenty.

She and the girls finished dinner and started waiting shortly after six; that was when Sandra put down her spoon and remarked, “I won't eat again till Daddy comes.” It was not by any means a new idea; it had lived with Mrs. Carrant for a long time (“Three more dinners alone,” “Two weeks from today it will seem as though he's never been away,” “The next time the Martins call they'll have to invite us both”); even the baby had awakened that morning saying, “Daddy coming today.” They had postponed the baby's third birthday party until Daddy could celebrate with them. Mrs. Carrant, at dinner, had leaned over and smoothed the dark curls from Sandra's forehead. “You'd better finish your dinner now,” she said, “or you'll be hungry before Daddy gets here.”

By eight o'clock (the train had come five minutes ago; Mrs. Carrant had called the station and it was on time) the girls were dressed and washed and their hair was tied back with fresh ribbons. Mrs. Carrant sat them together on the couch with a picture book and ran into her room to take a last look at her own hair, slightly damp from her doing the dishes and dressing the girls so quickly, but curling as theirs did, with no gray yet. She could hear Sandra reading to the baby in a voice quickened by the excitement of being up later than usual, “How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten.”

“Can I get there by candlelight?” Mrs. Carrant called happily. She realized suddenly that she had been humming.

There was a pause from the living room, and then Sandra giggled and said loudly, “Yes, and back again.”

Mrs. Carrant returned to the living room and inspected the picture her two daughters made on the couch with the book, with just the table lamp turned on in back of them, the light softly touching the tops of their heads and the bowl of flowers behind Sandra's shoulder.

“You look very nice, you two,” she said. “If only you wouldn't move before Daddy gets here.” It was five after eight.

The baby looked up from the picture in the book. “Where's Daddy?” she asked.

“He'll be here soon,” Mrs. Carrant said. “If it were only colder weather,” she said, “we could have a fire in the fireplace and it would look so comfortable and nice here.”

“It's too hot for a fire,” Sandra announced.

“It
is
too hot,” Mrs. Carrant said absently. She was wondering if he would know which floor to come to; she must have another door key made.

“Daddy is coming home because it was end-of-the-war,” Sandra was saying to the baby. “My daddy is as high as the sky.”

“Not really, Sandra,” Mrs. Carrant said. “You remember what Daddy looks like.”

The baby turned around solemnly and inspected the picture on the mantel. “Daddy looks like,” she said.

“He's going to touch the ceiling when he walks around,” Sandra said.

“He's not so terribly tall,” Mrs. Carrant said, feeling vaguely that it was important to get their father's description well established. “He's not as tall as your Uncle George.” She thought. “He's taller than you are,” she said. “He's taller than I am. He's about as tall as—” Mrs. Carrant hesitated, her eyes moving around the room. (I never saw him in this house, she thought anxiously; I never saw him with this furniture, even.) “He's about as tall as the grocer,” she said.

“I want some cookies,” the baby said immediately.

“Later,” Mrs. Carrant said. “When Daddy comes.” It was 8:15.

The baby's face twisted up; it was long past her bedtime. “When Daddy comes,” Mrs. Carrant went on quickly, “we'll all have cookies and milk, and Daddy will have presents for you. Remember what it said in Daddy's letter?”

“It said he was going to bring us presents,” Sandra explained to the baby. “In Daddy's letter it said he had presents for all of us. Mommy, too.”

If he hadn't stopped for his bags, or if he'd gotten a taxi quickly, or even if the train had been early, he might be starting to ring the doorbell now; Mrs. Carrant wondered for a minute if trains were ever early. They had said at the station that it was on time; Mrs. Carrant resisted an impulse to call the station again. As soon as I get on the phone, she thought, the doorbell will be ringing. Anyway, it's silly to call the station and ask if a train is early.

“Can I get down off the couch for a minute?” Sandra asked. “To get my doll?”

“That doll's so dirty,” Mrs. Carrant said. “He should be here any minute, and you wouldn't want Daddy to see you with an old dirty doll.”

“I
want
my doll,” Sandra said.

“I want my bear,” the baby said. Both the girls were beginning to stir uneasily on the couch, moving apart from each other, the book fallen untidily between them.

“The doll is dirty, but that bear is impossible,” Mrs. Carrant said firmly. “You sit still for just one minute more.” She went over and picked up the book and opened it neatly. “How many miles to Babylon?” she said as cheerfully as she could. “Three score miles and ten.” The doorbell rang, and suddenly Mrs. Carrant understood that it might be anything; it might be someone coming to see her, not knowing he would be here, it might be a telegram, it might be some sort of a mistake. She went to the door and pressed the downstairs buzzer.

“That's Daddy?” Sandra said, looking at the door.

“We hope it is,” Mrs. Carrant said steadily, and went over to open the door.

She stood in the doorway watching him come up the last few steps. He had an embarrassed smile on his face, and Mrs. Carrant realized that she had the same embarrassed smile on her face.

“I thought I had the wrong house for a minute,” he said. He came up to her and set his bag down (only one bag, after all) and put his arms around her. She could hear him say “My God,” looking over her head into the living room.

Mrs. Carrant turned around. “Look at them,” she said. “The two of them.” Sandra and the baby were sitting perfectly still on the couch, regarding their father with wide, surprised eyes. They never dreamed anyone was really coming, Mrs. Carrant thought. Then Sandra slid down off the couch, shrieking “Daddy brought us presents!” as she ran across the floor to be picked up. He looks so tired, Mrs. Carrant thought, seeing him holding Sandra; his hair is thinning.

“Baby,” Mrs. Carrant said, “here's Daddy at last.”

Still holding Sandra, he went across the room to the couch. “So this is my daughter Mary?” he said. “Will you come say hello to Daddy?”

The baby's face twisted, and she screamed “Mommy!” She threw herself off the couch and ran to Mrs. Carrant, burying her face against her mother's knees. Mrs. Carrant leaned over and picked her up.

“I guess I scared her,” he said uncomfortably. He reached out to touch the baby's head, but she screamed again and hid her face.

“What's the
matter
with her?” he said.

“She's never seen you before,” Mrs. Carrant said sharply. “You can't really blame her.”

“Baby's scared,” Sandra said, leaning outward to look into her father's face. “Maybe you better give her the presents right now.”

The baby had stopped crying, her head against her mother's shoulder. “Now what's wrong with you?” Mrs. Carrant asked, putting her head down against the baby's. “What's there to make a fuss about?”

“Santy Claus,” the baby said. “I want to see Santy Claus.” Her voice rose. “Where's Santy Claus?”

“She thinks you're Santa Claus,” Sandra explained to her father, “because you were bringing presents.”

“It's going to take her a little while.” Mrs. Carrant looked hopefully at her husband across the baby's head. “She doesn't take to—” She stopped. “You see,” she went on carefully, “it's hard for her, only knowing you from your picture.” She took the baby over to the mantel where the picture was. “Look,” she said. “Who's that in the picture?” she asked the baby.

The baby looked up sullenly, and then said, “Daddy.” She reached over and took hold of the picture.

“It's a picture of me, isn't it?” her father said. “Do I look so different? It's a picture of me and here I am standing here.” He turned to his wife. “What's the matter with her?”

“She thought Santa Claus was coming,” Sandra said.

He set Sandra down on the couch and approached the baby again. “Hello, there,” he said.

The baby stared at him silently, holding the picture with both hands. When he put his finger out to touch her nose, she turned her head quickly to hide in her mother's shoulder. He shrugged.

“This the new furniture?” he said. “Looks pretty good. Can't you put her to bed or something?”

“I guess I'd better,” Mrs. Carrant said. “You want to take Daddy's picture to bed?” she asked the baby.

The baby nodded, holding the picture.

“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Carrant said. “Tomorrow you can get acquainted, and in a day or so she'll be all over you. She's tired now anyway.”

Mrs. Carrant waited for a minute, looking at her husband. “After all,” she said helplessly.