‘Nice work if you can get it!’ said Mrs. Feeley admiringly.
Her guest clasped her hands together over her belt-buckle, elbows well turned out in most approved Chautauqua fashion, and without further warning burst into song:
I love life! I want to live!
I-e-e-e! Lo-o-o-ve! Li-i-ife!
‘Saints preserve us! Ain’t that grand? I knowed you was a music teacher! I could tell!’ cried Mrs. Feeley.
The wobbly, breathy soprano sent little chills and thrills of delight up and down Mrs. Feeley’s well-upholstered back. Whatever Miss Tinkham’s singing lacked in purity of tone and smoothness of vocal line was more than made up for by the fire and vigor of her delivery. She was still puffing slightly from the effort when Mrs. Feeley asked:
‘Was you ever on the stage?’
‘Never, my dear,’ replied her companion a bit sadly. ‘Of course, there have been offers, but nothing I cared to accept! My true field was teaching music…twenty-two years of it. The beautiful pageants and cantatas my pupils have produced! But that’s all forgotten now! These young people want to learn to play jazz by ear in six easy lessons. Not that I’m complaining, you know! “It’s cheerio, my deario, that sees a lady through!”’
‘Well, now, that’s a real nice way to look at it! But you know, nobody’s got to go hungry in this state! You could put in for the pension soon as you been here five years. Forty dollars a month they gets, almost! I can’t get it myself on account o’ bein’ in business; not that I make more’n a few dollars a week, but it keeps me from qualifyin’, as they calls it.’
‘Oh, yes! I know about the lovely pension, but one has to be sixty-five years of age! Just think how many years I’d have to wait!’
Mrs. Feeley had always known there was no fool like an old fool, but she politely refrained from saying so.
‘Besides,’ her guest continued, ‘I don’t think I should be eligible for the pension because I have a tiny income from the rent of a little house back home. First of the month, I’m rolling in wealth! Wine, a cheap movie, a little pair of earrings from the Thrift Shop; but the going gets pretty thin by the end of the month!’
Mrs. Feeley could well imagine how it did, as she sometimes had trouble herself getting enough cash together to buy food, after the beer was paid for.
‘The trouble with me,’ her guest continued, ‘is that I always buy hyacinths to feed my soul, no matter how low my funds are. A string of beads or a new scarf brightens the whole outlook for me! Anyway, the world is full of dear kindred spirits if one only holds the right thoughts!’
Mrs. Feeley did not quite follow all her guest’s references, but she was a fascinating talker, anyway.
‘Bein’ as you’re a music teacher, I reckon you can play the pie-anna,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes, indeed! I’m a little out of practice not having an instrument of my own; I’m lost, simply lost without one! But you know what landladies are! Do you play, Mrs….I didn’t get the name?’
‘Feeley…Mrs. Annie Feeley! The only instrument I play is the Irish Steinway,’ and she went through the motions of a person using a washboard.
‘That’s regal, Mrs. Feeley! Simply regal!’
‘I got a pie-anna in the house, if you’d care to try it. Come from the hotel at Agua Caliente, it did. Mr. Feeley couldn’t get a buyer for it on account o’ it was painted red. The front’s missin’, too; but they say it did cost a lot when it was new.’
Miss Tinkham was already on her feet like an old war horse at the scent of battle. She followed Mrs. Feeley into the house. As they entered Miss Tinkham saw that the bay windows were filled with magnificent gardenia plants in full bloom. When she remarked on the size and number of the blossoms, Mrs. Feeley said:
‘It’s on account o’ them’s south windows. Them flowers is worth a mint o’ money, too. Many’s the case o’ beer they brung me! What would you say to a nice cold bottle o’ beer, Miss…I don’t know your name!’
‘Miss Agnes Harriet Tinkham, and I’m delighted to know you! Did you say beer? Dear Mrs. Feeley, have you ever read what H. L. Mencken has to say about beer? Ah, there’s a man! And I’d love a bottle of beer!’
Mrs. Feeley didn’t need H. L. Mencken or anybody else to tell her about beer, and she trotted off to get it.
Miss Tinkham looked about her at the peculiar dwelling into which she had strayed. She always trusted her horoscope, and hadn’t the stars predicted contact with a new and delightful affinity today? Obviously Mrs. Feeley hadn’t had her advantages, but in this world a nice, friendly woman who would share her cold beer was worth any number of women who could speak Esperanto and discuss the works of George Bernard Shaw.
The house consisted of one large room. The only light that entered came through the bay windows, the front door, and the back door directly opposite it. The side walls of the room were still covered with the shelves that had held the stock before the store had been turned into a house. In a front corner near the window, Mrs. Feeley’s large and ornate brass bed occupied the position of honor. Near it was a bureau, a platform rocker, and a small round table. At the other end of the bed was another huge rocker upholstered in red leather. Pushed as close as it would go to the shelves that lined the opposite wall stood the piano. The ancient upright had been rejuvenated by a coat of violent red lacquer; judging by the stains on the keys and the number of cigarette bums, it had come out of some bar. The front of the piano was missing entirely, both above and below the keyboard.
‘Set down and drink your beer!’ Mrs. Feeley urged hospitably. Miss Tinkham didn’t need much urging. In her haste she swallowed the first mouthful too fast; her haste resulted in a long-drawn burp which she struggled valiantly to conceal.
‘Excuse me!’ she apologized.
‘Think nothin’ of it!’ said Mrs. Feeley. ‘It’s stronger than water that raises the wind!’ While putting her guest at ease Mrs. Feeley was thinking: Ah! Drinking beer on an empty stomach! Just as I thought! Not a penny to bless herself with in that fine bead bag!
She trotted to the back of the room and came back with a big red can of crackers under her arm, a hunk of jack cheese in one hand, and a knife in the other. She plumped them down on the table and whacked off a slice of cheese, which she passed to her guest on a cracker.
‘Here!’ she said. ‘My guts generally starts growlin’ ’bout this time if I don’t have my little mornin’ snack!’
‘What a rare, rare sense of humor you possess, dear Mrs. Feeley! The true Celtic wit!’
‘Well, we ain’t in this world for long, so we might’s well laugh while we are here! Drink your beer: there’s more where that come from….Feel like givin’ us a tune?’ she queried, waving her glass at the piano.
‘Indeed I do,’ said Miss Tinkham. After adjusting the stool carefully to the right height, she tucked her handkerchief into a corner of the battered keyboard and announced her selection.
‘I shall play for you,’ she said, enunciating with exaggerated clarity, ‘“The Two Larks,” by Letchy Tissky’; and she did. She played with much arching of wrists, crossing of hands, and other dainty flourishes. Between the notes Miss Tinkham muffed, and the notes that wouldn’t sound on the piano, the two larks emerged in a rather moulting condition. But Mrs. Feeley was not critical.
‘Gawd! That’s wonderful!’ she cried, clapping her hard little hands. ‘Say, with them boards missin’ a body can see them little hammers flyin’ up an’ down on the strings! You sure give ’em hell!’ she added warmly.
‘That’s sweet of you, my dear! But I’m afraid I’m a little out of practice. I haven’t played in two or three months, not since the last party up at Spanish class. But they gave me an ovation that night! A regular ovation!’
Mrs. Feeley was not at all sure what an ovation was, but it must be all right judging by the rapt expression on Miss Tinkham’s face.
‘Why was you playin’ in Spanish class?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t right in class, though we frequently sing songs in class! It was at a party. We often have parties; refreshments, too! Do you speak Spanish, Mrs. Feeley?’ she inquired.
‘Well, in my business you pick up a word here an’ there, but I wouldn’t say it was exactly parlor Spanish!’
‘Really, my dear, you should come to the class. The teacher is delightful: never scolds if you don’t bring up your homework. There are about thirty of us in the class and we have the loveliest discussions! Last week our teacher read us a poem about a cockroach and a cat by Mr. Don Marquis, and the week before that we had a colored movie of a yacht cruise to Acapulco. Most cultural, dear Mrs. Feeley, especially at a time like this when we should all be interested in the Good Neighbor Policy.’
‘Yeup! My friend Mrs. Rasmussen told me about them classes. She went up there to get her citizen, long ago before her husband died. He was a vet’run. She gets the widow’s pension now, but that daughter of hers takes the most of it, if you want to know what I think!’
Miss Tinkham tchk-tchk’d sympathetically.
‘That dumb girl don’t appreciate her mother! An’ what a cook an’ manager that woman is, too! What she can’t do with a dime’s worth o’ hamburger! I’m a kinda Irish cook myself…all in one pot; but I know good cookin’ when I taste it!’
Miss Tinkham said she did too, then added apologetically.
‘I know it isn’t ladylike to eat and run, but I simply must go on with my search for more suitable accommodations. Something tells me it is not going to be easy with the cost of living soaring by leaps and bounds! But something is bound to turn up! It always has! Besides, the stars predict a change for the better!’
Mrs. Feeley was thinking the stars would really have to lay an egg to help Miss Tinkham this time. Wasn’t it only yesterday she’d talked to that young fellow that bought the pistons from the twenty-two Chevrolet? Didn’t he tell her him and his wife and eight kids was paying seventy-two dollars a month for a one-room tourist cabin way down below National City? No use discouraging the poor soul by telling her that.
‘Which one o’ your meetin’s you goin’ to tonight?’
‘Oh, tonight is school night. We have twenty Spanish proverbs tonight! Couldn’t you come with me? Our teacher loves to have visitors! Even if you didn’t care for the lesson, you would have a lovely time anyway. Won’t you give me this opportunity of repaying your charming hospitality? That is, until I am in a position to reciprocate properly? Do say you will let me call for you,’ Miss Tinkham coaxed.
‘Why not? Sure I’ll go!’ Mrs. Feeley capitulated suddenly. ‘Ain’t been out in a coon’s age! Get in a rut, my nephew says. Did I show you my nephew’s picture?’
She made up quickly for her oversight and led Miss Tinkham over to look at the brawny but bright-looking young man in the uniform of a chief petty officer of the United States Navy.
‘He ain’t no common sailor: he’s a chief. A yeoman, he is! Writes all the Captain’s letters.’
Miss Tinkham fished among the chains at her bosom and came up with a cloudy-looking but impressive lorgnette.
‘Gawd, ain’t that elegant!’ breathed Mrs. Feeley to herself; the lorgnette so enthralled her that she scarcely heard the admiring remarks Miss Tinkham was making about her nephew. No, she guessed she couldn’t get away with them fancy eyeglasses herself; not her style, and besides, she didn’t need them. She doubted if Miss Tinkham did either. But they sure gave a person a elegant tone! Miss Tinkham’s question about her nephew broke through the mist of admiration.
‘Oh, I think he’s in Panny-Maw; ought to be back soon. I worry about him a lot now, with the war an’ all. He’s my heir,’ she said proudly. ‘A good boy, too! I sure hope he don’t get hooked by one o’ them flea-bags, like so many sailors does!’
Miss Tinkham said she hoped so too; it sounded like an awful fate for anyone.
‘I simply must run, much as I hate to go! Will six o’clock be convenient for you?’
‘Sure! I’ll be ready an’ waitin’,’ said Mrs. Feeley. ‘Wonderful! And thank you so much for the lovely chat, and the beer! It’s such a pleasure to meet a kindred spirit, my dear!’ And Miss Tinkham took her stately departure, pausing here and there along the path to sniff coquettishly at a flower.
‘There goes a rare dish o’ tea!’ Mrs. Feeley remarked to no one in particular as she watched Miss Tinkham go.
When Mrs. Feeley and Old-Timer had finished their warmed-over spinach and spareribs and were dawdling over their beer, Mrs. Feeley said dreamily:
‘Old-Timer, this afternoon I wish you’d go over that lumber pile an’ see if there’s any o’ them squares o’ plywood left. What you an’ me needs is a guest room.’
W
HEN
Miss Tinkham called for Mrs. Feeley a little before six, she scarcely recognized her companion of the morning hours. Mrs. Feeley had evidently struggled into her “corsets” in honor of the occasion. Her hair was a froth of ringlets and she had on face powder. The black dotted Swiss dress she wore was beautifully crisp, and her tiny feet looked dainty in white canvas pumps.
Miss Tinkham had exchanged her sequin cap for a large, dashing model of brown horsehair braid lavishly trimmed with kolinsky tails. She always thought there was nothing like a bit of fur to add richness to a costume.
The classroom was partially filled when the two entered. Miss Tinkham took her regular place in the front row, and an elderly Greek confectioner moved over politely to let Mrs. Feeley have the desk next to her sponsor. Miss Tinkham introduced her to the students at near-by desks, and after returning their greetings Mrs. Feeley sat back to take in the sights.