MINNIE and Letcher held hands as they stood in the prow of the Fort Lee ferry boat; Minnie, because she thought it was through Letcher she would make another step toward her goal, and Letcher because he was always pleased to be seen in that intimate gesture with a pretty girl.
"I thought you was Al Kessler's sweetie," he told her, when he saw she wasn't going to draw her hand away from his. "Al stands ace-high with the ladies. I didn't think a poor fat slob like me had a chance."
"Say, you ain't so indifferent to the girls yourself," she said, recalling how he had halfway made love to all the girls in the dressing room.
"I don't do it because I really care about 'em," he replied. "It's just because I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings. It's part of my business to kid 'em all along and keep 'em happy. But on my honor, Mineola, I'm not a fellow that often falls for a girl. She's got to be some baby when I do."
"Yeh?" she smiled archly, "and what kind of a girl do you fall for?"
"The real kind, sweet and innocent. Say, do you know you made the biggest kind of a hit with me today when you got sore at me for pullin' your dress away. I wouldn't of blamed you if you'd given me a good slap in the face."
"Is that the kind of a girl men really like, even in the movie business?"
"Sure it is. I've known some hard-boiled guys in my day. They hate a woman that's common. You'll see a lot of 'em in this game too, fresh and vulgar. But that don't get 'em anywheres. Look at the men, how they fall for the innocent sweet girls. Look at me, for instance. I'm sure gone on you."
He drew her closer to him and she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. She wanted to play up to him, to simulate a response, and she couldn't understand why his advances seemed repulsive to her.
Letcher went as far as One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street and Broadway, where Minnie was to take the subway downtown. In the jostling crowd they paused to say good night, Letcher still holding her hand in his.
"There's such a mob around here nobody will see you," he laughed. "Kiss me good night, will you, dearie?" he bent his fat face toward her, his lips puckered ludicrously.
Minnie quickly tempered her action with Letcher's advice. "You know I ain't that kind of a girl," she said, looking hurt.
"But just a little one. There's nothing wrong about a little one."
"I don't think me and you are goin' to be very good friends if you keep this up," she said, drawing away from him, upturning her face so he could see the hurt deepening in her eyes.
"Oh, come now, dearie, I didn't mean anything by it. You're a sweet little kid and I respect you. On my honor, I'd die rather than lose you for a friend."
Minnie smiled charitably and pressed his hand.
"Of course we'll be friends," she said, wondering if she had gone too far, "I'd love to have you come to my house some night and meet my old lady, Mr. Letcher. Ma's an awful good cook. Let me know a day or so in advance and I'll have her get up a chicken stew or some little simple thing like that. She'd be very pleased to meet you. So would my old man."
"Look here," said Letcher suddenly. "You might as well know it right now. I'm married."
"Married!" echoed Minnie. "Honest, you're kiddin', ain't you?"
"Wish I was sometimes. Married and got a couple o' kids, boy and a girl. Look!"
He drew from his pocket a thumbed photograph of two fat youngsters.
Minnie felt a hot wave of nausea race over her. It blurred out the image of his grinning face.
"Oh," she cried. "Oh, I never would of guessed it. Why didn't somebody tell me before? Why didn't Eleanor tell me?"
"You won't be shocked by a little thing like that after you've been around the studios awhile," Letcher laughed. "Funny little kid you are. Well, good night, dearie. There's my car. Got to beat it or the wife's goin' to meet me on the top step with a flatiron. So long, Mineola, see you tomorrow!"
Riding downtown in the subway Minnie was almost overcome with fatigue. The paper bundle weighed heavily on its string as she swayed back and forth, clinging to the strap.
Why she should think of him she didn't know, but suddenly Billy McNally loomed up before her, as one tired would think of a broad comfortable couch. Maybe it was only because she was used to him—but at that it was pleasant to concentrate upon someone dependable, someone who wasn't a four-flusher like the others. Was all honest love uninteresting? Minnie asked herself. Half dreaming of Billy she could almost feel the warm pressure of his kisses. She wondered what he had been doing. She hadn't seen him since he had caught her in a lie; she had told him that because of her neuralgia the chilly night air made it impossible for her to sit in the lower hallway, and he had seen her at the drugstore with Al Kessler, sitting there at the counter, warm and contented, being treated to an expensive "sundae." He had looked in the window with such a shocked expression that she had laughed. Poor Billy, he had eyes just like a good dog's. She felt so sorry for him that she made up her mind to send Jimmy to his boarding house that evening with a note to come on over and see her. At that there was always a kick in making up with a fellow even though you weren't really crazy about him.
Mrs. Flynn had made dumplings that evening to garnish the stew but they were cold and soggy by the time Minnie reached home. It was the first night dinner had ever been delayed for any one member of the Flynn household; but not even Nettie complained as she sat darning a pair of Minnie's stockings.
"I wonder if she'll bring Al home, ma?" Nettie asked, as she glanced into the mirror to see if her hair would meet with Minnie's approval.
"I hope not," Mrs. Flynn replied. "My dinner's absolutely ruined."
"Don't you think Minnie would rather we'd not wait for her?" ventured Mr. Flynn who had been hungry so long that a dull pain gnawed at the pit of his stomach.
They all pounced upon him.
"My God, pa, I'd think you'd have the decency to make that little sacrifice for Minnie. I'd like to bet you'll be the first one to ask favors of her when she gets fifty per."
"Don't, Nettie, your father eats his lunch early and I give Minnie all the meat that was left over for hers. You was stuffin' all the afternoon on pretzels," Mrs. Flynn added accusingly, "it's easy enough for you to wait for your dinner."
When Jimmy came into the dining room he had on his blue suit.
"Glad you dressed up, dearie," his mother remarked, reaching to straighten his tie and pick a piece of lint off the lapel of his coat. "It will be kind of a celebration tonight. Minnie's got a lot to tell us, and Pete's comin' over."
"Elsie too?"
"Oh, yeh, I suppose so."
Footsteps outside hurrying up the stairs. . . .
"There she is!" they cried in a breath.
But it was the girl who lived in the flat above them.
Minnie's entrance was different from what they had anticipated. She came stodgily into the room lugging the paper bundle now slipping from its loosely tied string. Her face was pallid with fatigue and there was none of that exuberance they had been confident of.
"Minnie!" cried her mother in a voice filled with fear, "you didn't lose your job, did you?"
They all pressed eagerly forward, waiting her answer.
"Don't worry," she said finally, "everything's O. K."
Mrs. Flynn with a prodigious cry of relief rushed to help her out of her coat, and as Minnie flung down her hat Nettie picked it up, brushed it off, and hung it on the nail in the door.
"I think it would rest you to take off your shoes," suggested Michael Flynn, hoping to stimulate a desirable precedent, for his own feet were burning in their brogans.
"Put 'em up, sis. I'll unlace 'em," said Jimmy.
With an effort Minnie obeyed him. She stretched out on the chair, her head lolling to one side.
"Gee, you look all in, sis."
"Don't she, though," said Mrs. Flynn. "That's all right, Minnie dear, you needn't tell us anything about what you done today if you don't want to, though we're crazy to hear about it. I guess you're too tired to talk, ain't you?"
"I'm awful tired."
"I should say she would be," came Nettie's defense. "Al says it's no cinch to act."
"Did you act very much today, Min?"
"Not at all," she answered wearily, "but I guess I will tomorrow."
"She'll act tomorrow," repeated Mr. Flynn, "just think of it." He had only a vague idea of what acting was, but it was a prodigal profession when Minnie could earn more in a day than an experienced pipe fitter.
"What do you say we dish up, ma?"
"All right, Jimmy dear. I guess our little girl's half starved."
"No, I ain't, mama, and I don't want to eat. Had a hot lunch over to the studio, hash with eggs on it."
"Do they give you lunch, too?" cried Mr. Flynn. "Hash with eggs on it? Honest, I don't see how they can do it, Annie."
"Easy," answered Minnie with her first smile, "you pay for it."
"Pay for it," sneered Jimmy. "Well, if I don't call that snide. They ought to give it to you. They make enough offen you, Al says. He told me it was something fierce the way they keep you sweatin' under the bright lights and don't care a hang for union hours, either. He's worked all day and half the night for the same pay. . . . What'd they soak you for the lunch, Min?"
"I don't know. A fellow named Letcher treated me and a personal friend of mine, Eleanor Grant. Say, ma, she used to have a flat with three nigger servants in it."
"Oh, my God, used she?" Mrs. Flynn made a clucking sound as she hovered over Minnie. "Three niggers, and I'd be glad to have Mrs. Plotz come over once a week to help me with the washin'."
"We'll have a couple of Plotzes before I'm through with it," said Minnie, leaning back to put her stockinged feet upon the table. "I won't go into no details now, folks, but you can take it for what it's worth—nothin' can stop me after the start I made today. Nothin'!"
Minnie didn't join in any of the hilarity at dinner. She drank a glass of beer as she lay stretched out on the red plush sofa. What a change had come over them all. Maybe she had misjudged Nettie. Poor old Net. When she got to making big money she'd stake Nettie to some decent new clothes. She'd probably give her the spangled gown if Net weren't too fat for it by that time.
After dinner when Pete and Elsie were there Minnie unwrapped the paper parcel; she was not disappointed, for their enthusiasm was even greater than she had hoped. Only Pete was silent.
"Who gave it to you?" asked Nettie, "Al?"
Minnie held it up for her mother to touch but Mrs. Flynn was afraid her grimy hands would soil it.
"No, I bought it. A dress worth eighty-five dollars and I got it for fifteen."
"You mean to tell me you paid fifteen dollars for a dress, Minnie Flynn? You're a fool!" shouted Pete, pounding his fist upon the table.
"Pete's right," wailed Mrs. Flynn. "You could get a coat for that much money. Or a suit. You need a suit awful bad, too."
Minnie waited for them to calm down.
"You're the fools," she said in an even voice, "and if it' weren't for Pa and Jimmy"—they had voiced neither approval nor disapproval—"I wouldn't take the trouble to explain."
"The only thing I want to hear explained is how you got the money to pay for it," challenged Pete, pounding out his words accusingly. "At that, I don't think you'd be any too particular."
Minnie rose. She steadied herself, trying to hold her anger in check, but to no avail. The sight of Pete's leering face drove all reason from her, and she cried out in a fierce spasm of angry protest:
"You'll remember that dirty crack, Pete Flynn, you'll remember it. I'm goin' to be rich, d'you get me? Rich! I'm goin' to give Jimmy Flynn everything on earth that his heart's been set on. I'm goin' to give ma a nigger servant. Two of 'em! I'm goin' to give Nettie clothes that'll knock your eye out. I'm goin' to set my father up in the plumbin' business. D'you get me?"
Her voice was rising to a hysterical crescendo. Jabbing her finger at Elsie, she screamed with triumphant malice, "I'm goin' to give her a real fox fur whether you like it or not. D'you get me?"
Then whirling him around and seizing him by both lapels she shook him until her strength ebbed away.
"But you, damn you! You can come crawling on your knees to me, starvin'—and I won't give you a crust of bread. That's all I got to say to you, Pete Flynn. Now get up and clear out of here!"
Mrs. Flynn crumpled into a chair with a tortured moan, wringing her hands helplessly.
"Pete," she cried, when Minnie had flung herself sobbing on the sofa. "It's your fault this time. You had no business talkin' to your sister that way—I—I'm ashamed of you."
An awed silence fell upon them . . . why was Pete so subdued? Was it because he was hurt by his mother's treason? Perhaps a little. But Nettie knew by his expression that his mother was a secondary consideration and that Minnie's threats were effective.
To the astonishment of everyone but Nettie he walked over to the sofa and rested his hand upon Minnie's shoulder.
"Min," he said, "I ain't such a dirty stinker after all. You can take it or leave it—but I'm sorry for what I said. Damn it, I'm sorry."
It was a jolly evening after that. Michael Flynn made two trips to Sullivan's; the first time he carried one pail, the second, two.
They saved a little for Billy MacNally, but when midnight came and he hadn't shown up Pete drank it, toasting to Minnie's future.
When Minnie crawled into bed beside Nettie (Nettie was snoring in a sodden sleep) she cried a little. She didn't know whether she was happy over her success or—of course she didn't really care about Billy MacNally—she was just curious to know why he had refused to come there that evening. . . .
After three days' work at the studio set, the contacts seemed less formidable to Minnie; the road to success more difficult.
On the third day when Bacon called her up to his platform, she thought he was going to give her a chance to show what she could do. The day before she had seen Alicia Adams dance for Bacon; so she was prepared to do the only stunts she knew, "the Chink Act," and the imitation of Jeeps, the old floorwalker of the basement. She had practiced them the night before at home and Jimmy, doubled with laughter, had rolled off his chair onto the floor. Of course her father hadn't laughed but he had joined in the general applause and thought that whatever Minnie was trying to do, she was doing it very well. He was willing to bet anything he had that Minnie would show them all up when it came to "performing." (They could never get him to use with ease the words "acting" or "actress.")
"Well, young lady," said Bacon, as Minnie stood before him, "I'm beginning to wonder what you are going to do for us."
Minnie was undaunted by his bantering smile or the sarcasm in his voice. She was getting used to men like this. Binns was sarcastic and Letcher tried to imitate Bacon. The girls had told her how Hal Deane often lashed the people working for him with stinging ridicule.
"Have you got anything particular in mind?" she asked, adding with unmasked assurance, "If you ain't, I got a couple o'things I can do if you want me to."
Bacon merely nodded, but this was encouragement enough for Minnie.
"Shall I do the Chink Act for you?" she asked eagerly. "It's a little stunt I got up by myself."
"My God," he finally managed to say to Deane, who had ambled over to the set, "this is a hell of a rag-tag and bobtail business. If it weren't for the money in it I'd go back to the stage. At least you've got to have a little pretense of intelligence in that profession."
Minnie, not understanding him, didn't know whether Bacon was laughing because she had spoken in such a cute little voice and with such a cute little smile, or because he was making fun of her. She dismissed the latter thought immediately; he couldn't have singled her out if he hadn't taken a personal interest in her.
"Well, my child, what's the Chink Act?" asked Bacon who was now composed. "Stick around, Deane," he lowered his voice for Deane's ears. "I need sympathy. This last week I've been driven almost crazy. We've had three laundresses on the set, two nurse girls, half a dozen Slovaks and a flock of married women who stick their kids in day nurseries to pick up silk stocking money."
"So have I, Bacon. But what's the use of kicking. There aren't enough people in the theatrical business to supply the studios. We've got to choose from the masses and there can't be any great discrimination until we've weeded them out. I know they're nurse girls and shop girls and factory hands, but we don't dare turn any of them away. Look at our popular stars. Few of them came from the stage. You know yourself, Bacon, the success of the picture star is nine times out of ten a fluke."
Bacon, irritated, was scratching his head.
"Dammit," he said. "I know it, but it's enough to drive a man crazy just the same."
Deane recalled the names of several well-known stage stars whose resilient, intelligent personalities were entirely lost on the screen: their features were unphotographic.
Bacon groaned. "I can understand now why sheep-herders go mad," he said with genuine despair in his voice.
In the pause that followed Minnie stepped forward. "I'm ready," she spoke gaily, though her voice trembled with nervousness. (She wished that Deane wouldn't stand there looking at her, with his keen, searching eyes focused upon her.) "Shall I begin now, Mr. Bacon?"
"All right, fire ahead."
She cleared her throat and spoke with a childish roundness and clarity of tone. "I'm pretendin' that I'm a little Chinee girl learnin' to dance like the Americans," she said. "Shall I sing the verses that go with it, or just do the act without singing?"
"For God's sake, sing!" said Bacon, winking broadly, significantly, at Letcher and Deane. "You've heard the story, Hal?"
Deane didn't answer but Letcher's reply was a roar of disconcerting laughter.
"Go on, Min," he ordered, seeing the chief was being amused and taking some of the credit for having brought Minnie to his notice. "Make it snappy. If it's good we'll book you for vaudeville."
"But I don't want to go into vaudeville," protested Minnie, her face flushing with timid happiness, her eyes making a rapid survey of the studio to see if Al Kessler were taking note of her triumph. "I'm perfectly satisfied with the movies. Everybody's been so awful nice to me here."
"Go on," ordered Bacon, "I haven't got all day to give you."
Minnie went on. . . . She danced; she pirouetted; she mimicked the high, lisping patter of the Chinese when she sang "Chinky, Chinky, Chineeman—sabe washee clo'es."
Twice Bacon turned away, and once he made a motion as if to stop her, but Minnie went right on. It was no time to stop when the act was only half over, and the finale was the best part.
There were peals of laughter. Letcher had to hold to the sides of his chair. Bacon wiped his eyes twice. But Deane was like her father, he had no humor; he just stood there looking at her, tugging at the lock of hair that fell over his forehead.
Spurred on by their applause she fell into the floorwalker act. She walked flat-footed, she imitated his wheezy, asthmatic voice.
"That's enough," shouted Bacon. "Any more of it and I'll blow my brains out."
Funny remark for Bacon to make, but Minnie had given up trying to understand the men in the picture business.
"Rotten cruelty," said Deane, lowering his voice so Minnie couldn't overhear. "I can't get any pleasure out of it. I'd just as lief stand before a caged animal and poke sticks at it. Same principle."
"The hell it is," exploded Bacon, "animals are sensitive. Look at these creatures. The more you make fun of them the more you compliment them. I haven't had a laugh like this for a week. I tell you, the girl's a moron."
Minnie was parading before them, waving her fan as she walked with a quaint, undulating swing of her hips. She had grown so used to the low-necked, long-trained evening gown that she was no longer conscious of it. She held her chin up and arched her eyebrows as all ladies do (according to Eleanor). Her heart was now pumping in steady, rhythmic beats. The excitement was over. She had had her chance and there wasn't a doubt that she had succeeded.
"What's the name of that girl, Letcher?" Deane had turned his back on Bacon.
"Her!" exclaimed Letcher incredulously, pointing a fat finger at Minnie.
"Yes, quite an unusual type, isn't she?"
"Solid ivory from the neck up," said Letcher, cued by Bacon's expression of disgust. "Name is Mineola Flynn."
"I've just been sizing her up. Darn good figure, hasn't she?"
"Do you call that a shape?" Letcher's astonishment grew. "Why, she's built like a boy."
"Not exactly," Deane smiled. "I'd say very feminine."
"Well, it's all a matter of taste," continued Letcher, "the chief here couldn't be annoyed with her. She's just made an awful fool of herself."
"I know, I saw it."
But neither Deane's eyes nor ears were for Letcher. He was intently watching Minnie. Then he electrified them by a prophecy they were never to forget.
"Mark my word, Bacon," he said to them, "that girl is going to rise to the top one of these days. She's got that something which makes for success. If I had time I'd work with the youngster. Yes, she's got the stuff in her. Look at her now. See how her eyes light up, how her mouth trembles under the pressure of any excitement. She's little and lithe. She could be taught to handle herself very well. If I weren't doing cut and dried feature stuff now, just grinding them out for so much per picture, I'd pick up a bet like that and try to make something out of her."
"I tell you it can't be done!" stormed Bacon again. "The girl's an idiot."
Bacon was antagonized by Deane's enthusiasm, his acceptance of a type which he had rejected, so he took it out on Letcher. "The next time you bring anyone like that to me and allow her to take up my time," he said in an even tone more ugly than his normal explosiveness, "I'm going to fire you, do you understand?"
"But I wanted to give you a laugh," whined Letcher. "I did, didn't I?"
Bacon turned livid with rage.
"Are you trying to argue with me?" he roared.
"No, chief."
"Then keep your mouth shut."
"Yes, sir."
The result of this call-down was that Letcher gave Minnie such a surly look as he passed her by that fear again laid hold of her. Baffled, she sought the answer to it, only to come from under another shadow triumphantly. Letcher was jealous of her. He was jealous of Bacon. Excited by this thought she smiled naïvely at Bacon (Letcher was watching her) and hurried to the dressing room in search of Eleanor.
"Eleanor," she cried. "Everything's worked out great. Bacon called me over, put me through the paces and you oughta heard him laugh at my stuff. I thought Jimmy was kiddin' me when he said how funny it was, but, gee, Bacon carried on something fierce. Got a laugh out of everybody but Deane, who was stickin' around for some reason or other, but I don't care."
Eleanor's silence was disconcerting.
"You think I'm gettin' on, don't you, dearie? Tell me the truth now, ain't I?"
"You're doing very well, Minnie—I guess. Did Bacon promise you anything definite?"
"Sure he did . . . well, that is . . . well, anyway, he let me go clear through my act without stoppin' me. Say, Eleanor," eager to change the subject, "did Letcher tell you how long we got to work today?"
"No, but I heard the head electrician say we'd be stalled this afternoon for lights. They'll need all they've got for Deane's set. He's going to start shooting his big scene today. Did you see that Roman banquet hall, Minnie?"
"Yeh, but I didn't think much of it, nothing cozy about it. Wonder why they didn't have a lot of palms in the place to dress it up like the Duke's palace we worked in today! Oh, Eleanor"
Eleanor was getting tired of the endless chatter.
"What?"
"Would you mind comin' down to those stores you told me about? I'd like to start gettin' some of my wardrobe on the instalment."
"All right. I'll go with you just as soon as Letcher calls it a day."
Letcher called it a day at 3:15.
Minnie, confident that her name was listed among those to work the following morning, signed her voucher slip, cashed it and hurried to meet Eleanor. Neither of them noticed that Letcher avoided saying good-by. They were too busy speculating how much Minnie would need to complete the first layout of her wardrobe. Eleanor suggested three dresses (she had another one she could sell Minnie for eight dollars), a suit and several hats. Minnie had already made three payments, reducing her debt to Eleanor by four dollars and a half.
Madame Papillon's on 59th, a few doors from Lexington, to which Eleanor took Minnie, was a shop where one could get the most remarkable bargains. "If you want to look chic," said Eleanor, "you've got to get your fashions from these French modistes."
Madame Papillon, who spoke with a charming French accent, began life as Sadie Moskowitz. She was born of German-Polish parents, in the rear of a dingy second-hand store on the lower East Side. At ten Sadie was working in a sweatshop. By the time she was fourteen she was head embroiderer in a wholesale factory; at eighteen, Sadie Moskowitz, who had changed her name to Moss, was a designer for a second-rate dressmaking establishment. At twenty-five she bought a store on Lexington, near 59th, and became Madame Moskowitz; a year later she moved around the corner and called herself Madame Papillon. When she made this move she knew just as definitely as if she had calculated the compound interest on her savings that by the time she was thirty she would own her own establishment on 57th West and would charge vain, gullible women three hundred dollars for the same quality of gowns she had sold for seventy-five when the shop was on 59th Street, East.
That afternoon, as the result of Madame Papillon's expert salesmanship, Minnie bought a red velvet gown, a charmeuse afternoon frock and hat, and she had had her first fitting on an elaborate, fur-trimmed serge suit. She paid thirteen dollars on account, three dollars out of her own earnings and ten dollars which Eleanor lent her.
It terrified her when she realized that she was one hundred and thirty-five dollars in debt to Madame Papillon, and that she owed Eleanor Grant thirty-two dollars and fifty cents. She turned in panic to Eleanor, and implored her to come home that evening for dinner. She believed that Eleanor could explain her extravagance better than she and make it seem more readily justifiable.
Eleanor was curious to know what Minnie's family was like, so she intended to accept the invitation, even while she was saying, "Oh, I don't want to impose on your mother, dear, butting in without giving her any notice. But of course, if you insist. . . ."
Minnie insisted feverishly, and hurried home, her mind now occupied with planning some little extras to be fixed for their distinguished guest.
Fortunately when Minnie came in her mother was in the kitchen and Nettie visiting down the street. No need to get them all upset over the new wardrobe, so she swiftly slid the box under the bed before she sought her mother in the kitchen.
"Say, ma," after a perfunctory peck on the cheek, "what you got for dinner tonight?"
"Pigs' knuckles, Minnie, the finest I've seen in Hesselman's this fall. Billy put 'em aside for me. He looks kind o pale, dearie, asked how you was and if you'd opened your bank account on Fifth Avenue yet. Said it joking. Poor Billy."
"Pigs' knuckles!" cried Minnie shrilly. "Oh, my God, ma, if that ain't my luck to ask somebody home for dinner and you'd have pigs' knuckles."
"I'd like to know who's comin' to this house that's too good for pigs' knuckles, Minnie Flynn," said her mother indignantly, "with fresh cabbage, too. Pete would rather have it than chicken stew any day."
"Of course he would. He's that common. Cabbage! Phew, what a stink! It's enough to turn anybody's stummick. We'll never get the house cleared by the time she arrives. Listen, ma, that girl I told you about, Eleanor Grant, the one who had a flat with three nigger servants, is comin' to dinner."
"Tonight?"
"Sure. She'll be here in an hour. A girl that's used to everything, ma, that wears nothin' but silk next to her skin."
Mrs. Flynn spun around helplessly. "Why didn't you make it tomorrow night, Minnie, and give me notice? I could of made a cranberry pie. Oh Lord, you do get me so upset. . . ."
"Douse the pigs' knuckles, ma, the first thing. Then set the cabbage out on the fire-escape. Is Hesselman's closed at this hour?"
"You know it is, Minnie, it's after five-thirty. But Shultz is open. He's got a pretty good line o' cooked meats now. Oh, my Lord, how you do turn things upside down!"
Minnie flew for her hat and coat. "Do you have to pay cash there?" she screamed to her mother above the roar and rattle of the passing elevated. "All I got left is thirty-five cents."
"Thirty-five cents! Why, Minnie Flynn!" her mother gasped, "what have you done with all your money?"
"I got no time for that now. Don't stand there gapin' at me, ma. Do you want that swell girl to get here and find the house lookin' like a pigsty? Where's Net?"
"Maybe that's her comin' up the steps now. I gave her a dollar to get a bottle of Horse Liniment for rheumatism. She's got change from it."
"Nettie! Nettie! Is that you?"
"What's the excitement, ma?" Nettie came trudging up the stairs leaning heavily on the wobbly banister. "House on fire?"
The neighbors in the flat below heard Mrs. Flynn's breathless answer:
"That rich girl Minnie's been goin' with is comin' home for dinner. How much change you got from that dollar, Nettie?"
"Fifty cents."
"Give it to me, quick!"
"What's the hurry?"
"Min's got to get to Shultz's before it closes. We can't sit a girl like that down to pigs' knuckles and cabbage. That's the girl that used to have the three niggers. . . . My God, you've only got forty cents!"
Minnie came tearing into the room. "'Lo, Net," she cried excitedly, "give me the change, quick! And while I'm gone, set the table nice with the red fringe tablecloth and the paper carnations in the center of it."
"Minnie Flynn, you talk as if you was out o' your head. Carnations on a table when there's food on it."
"No, I ain't. All swell tables at the studio got flowers on 'em. Burn two punk sticks. Honest it smells like a dago joint. Ma, see if you can't get Mrs. Molowonsky to loan you her glass butter and sugar set, and, when pa comes in see that he don't take his shoes off. Tell him he's got to keep his coat on all evening if it kills him! Open a quart o' peaches, ma, I'll get a loaf cake. And be sure to peel the potatoes. I don't want Eleanor to think we're any low-down Irish family that sets the potatoes on in their peelings. How about a can of tomato soup, ma? We ought to start with some kind of a soup. I wish Mrs. Molowonsky would lend you them soup plates, too, they're awful up-to-date."
Mrs. Flynn and Nettie set the table, brushed the gathered dust and lint under the rug, burned the punk sticks and laid down the law to the bewildered Mr. Flynn who came home, as usual, exhausted from his work.
At the delicatessen Minnie bought a can of soup, a can of corn, some cooked macaroni, potato salad, six very thin slices of magenta colored roast beef, two dill pickles and half a pound of raisin cake. On her way home she stopped at Sullivan's, hurried in through the Ladies' Entrance and ordered two quart bottles of beer.
"Barrel stock?" asked the bartender.
"Not on your life," answered Minnie rather airily, "the best you got!"
"You must be entertainin' society this evening," he said. "How's your old man?"
"He's all right. Say, if you don't mind, I'm in a hurry. Got any quarts on ice?"
"Surest thing you know. Flush enough for Budweiser?"
"You bet I am, and make it snappy."
On her way home she met Jimmy and imparted the news to him, emphasizing the importance of Eleanor's visit.
"You can't tell what may come of this friendship," she repeated over and over again. "I've certainly been lucky to meet a girl like her. She knows everybody in the business. You ought to see the way Bacon treats her. None of that upstage stuff around Eleanor. Think of it, Jimmy, he used to be workin' for her; when she was a star in the company out West he was only the director and she got more money than he did."
"Like to cop off a girl like that myself," said Jimmy banteringly. "Glad you brought her home with you."
They walked in silence a few moments, then a sharp outcry from Minnie brought them to a sudden halt. She seized hold of Jimmy's arm dramatically. "Jimmy," she said solemnly, "swear to me on everything holy that you won't forget one thing at the dinner table tonight."
Jimmy raised his right hand.
"Don't ask for any soup! I only got a can and it's tomato, the kind you can't thin out so well."
Eleanor wasn't astonished at the neighborhood in which the Flynns lived, but from Minnie's description she had visualized better surroundings than The Central. When she walked up the dingy, winding stairway the hot, fetid odor of the unaired lightwell assailed her nostrils.
Minnie met her in front of the Flynn apartment and tittered nervously an excuse for the dark hallway.
"All apartment halls are dark," said Eleanor to make her feel comfortable. "I paid two hundred dollars for a flat once and the hallways were terrible."
"You hear that, mama?" asked Minnie as she ushered Eleanor into the apartment. "She paid two hundred dollars for a flat once—and would you believe it, the hallways was as dark as ours. Oh, I'm so excited I almost forgot to introduce you. Eleanor, I'd like to have you make the acquaintance of ma—Mrs. Flynn."
Eleanor's face was paled by the exertion of the long walk upstairs and there was a bright red spot on each cheek, which Minnie thought was poorly applied rouge. Her eyes seemed unnaturally bright and when she spoke her voice lowered to a husky whisper.
"Mrs. Flynn, I'm delighted to meet you," she said with an air. "I hope I haven't put you out by dropping in unexpectedly."
Mrs. Flynn bobbed up and down, curtseying and as she pumped Eleanor's hand (held at the level of her eyebrows) she said, "Indeed you ain't. I'm always glad to have my daughters bring their friends home for pot-luck any time. We never put ourselves out or go to any extra work for 'em. Pa always says what's good enough for us is good enough for anybody. Sit right down and make yourself to home, dearie, I. . . ."
A nudge in the back from Minnie made her break off suddenly; unstrung, she pounced upon Eleanor's hat as she drew the hatpins out of it and carried it into the other room.
"You've got a very nice place," said Eleanor. After a pause, a bit embarrassedly, "Doesn't the noise get on your nerves, though?"
"Shucks, I'm used to the L's tearing by. I'd hate to live on them side streets. They're like graveyards. Yeh, give me a noisy place for company every time."
Mr. Flynn came in to be presented. He was wearing his best black suit which smelled strongly of mothballs; and his thin corrugated neck protruded above one of Pete's collars, three sizes too large for him.
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Make yourself to home," he mumbled, glancing sideways at Minnie to see whether he was conducting himself according to her orders. "You can sit in the morris chair with the angora cover to it. Yes, ma'am, sit right down and make yourself to home."
"Thank you," said Eleanor, with a distant expression in her eyes, "but I prefer to sit in a straight-backed chair."
Mr. Flynn's hands made a grating sound as he rubbed them together. When he walked his new shoes squeaked. Eleanor could hardly keep from laughing.
Nettie came in, her face coated with a heavy leaded white powder. Her hair was neatly combed.
"I hope you don't mind the way the house looks," she said, after the introduction. "If Minnie had give us notice we'd of had it all fixed up for you."
"I'm glad I didn't put you to that trouble," said Eleanor politely. "It looks very nice the way it is. I'm sure if anyone dropped in unexpectedly on me they'd never find such a well-kept establishment."
"It's not a bad little joint," said Nettie, reaching over to sweep away the fallen ashes from the punk stick. . . . "We like it pretty well, don't we, Min?"
Minnie could have cried from mortification. The idea of Nettie having so little sense that she failed to pick up a cue from a girl like Eleanor, but had to follow the classy word "establishment" with "joint."
Mrs. Flynn saw the angry flash in Minnie's eyes and with an awkward laugh tried to cover it up.
"Nettie likes to tease her sister, Miss Grant," she apologized, "always calls this place a joint. Don't she, Minnie dear?"
"Sure she does, the old tease," and Minnie put her arm around Nettie's waist to draw her close enough to whisper, "Watch your step, do you get me?"
There was quite a little hubbub when Jimmy came in. After he had shaken hands with Eleanor he cried, "Well, Miss Grant, what d'you say if we put on the feed bags?"
"I'd say fine," smiled Eleanor politely. "I guess that's what you'd want me to say."
Strained laughter.
A moment later Minnie was in a panic of fear. Looking up she caught Jimmy's eye focused upon the glass butter dish. She tried to get over a signal but Jimmy's glance never rose to meet hers. Just when Nettie reached across the table to pass Eleanor the butter, Jimmy bawled out:
"Ain't that the Molowonskys' dish, ma?"
"Why, Jimmy Flynn!" cried Mrs. Flynn in accusing tones, while Minnie flushed scarlet, "if that ain't just like a boy!" Turning apologetically to Eleanor, "Have a couple o' pieces of butter, won't you, dearie? Don't be afraid of it. It's the very best. Minnie got it after she come home over to Shultz's. She. . . ."
"Yeh, have a couple o pieces," urged Minnie, while she signaled frantically to Jimmy.
But Jimmy paid no attention to the four flashing pairs of eyes. He was thinking, here was his chance to take his family off their high horse, and he sincerely believed it his duty. "It is the Molowonskys'," he persisted. "I seen it there the other night. Ivan got 'em saving premium coupons on tobacco. He says he collected two hundred coupons in eighteen months and bought 'em for his folks."
"Who'll have soup?" cried Mrs. Flynn, now almost unbalanced. "Speak up, we got lots of it in the kitchen."
Without waiting for any response she hurried out of the room. Over the stove she pondered as to the advisability of serving the soup in the Molowonsky soup plates. She reached to the shelf and took down their own china bowls. They were so badly discolored and chipped that she decided to venture in with the borrowed ones. So she filled one plate brimming full (for the guest), while the three others were scantily filled. Jimmy and she were to refuse soup, on the excuse they never ate it. Soup was fattening.
Eleanor was very glad to lean upon the crutch of this excuse after the first spoonful; it was too thin and tasteless.
"Gee, ain't you gonna eat more of it?" questioned Jimmy when he saw her shove her plate ever so slightly away from her.
Eleanor declined with profuse apologies.
The dinner progressed with no mishaps, other than Eleanor's not eating everything that was set before her, and the social error on the part of Mr. Flynn when he passed her the toothpicks, insisting that she have one. . . . "Make use of 'em freely, miss, just as if you was in your own home."
Jimmy came in triumphantly with the beer but Eleanor refused it with a very elegant gesture, saying, "I never take anything with my dinner but a little light wine."
"I like the dark wines the best," said Mrs. Flynn (she had had a sip or two of sacramental wine at the Molowonskys') "but I don't approve of it for the children."
After dinner Minnie brought out the box of new gowns and paraded them before her astonished family, while Eleanor explained at length the necessity of possessing such a wardrobe. Mr. Flynn, with a sickening pallor, sank into the morris chair.
One hundred and forty-three dollars . . . to think that his own daughter had run into such debt. He glanced up to see what Mrs. Flynn thought of it and was amazed at her unperturbed smile as she gingerly lifted out of the box the charmeuse frock.
"It's an awful lot of money," he said over and over half to himself, "and so little to show for it. An awful lot of money"