FOR a week Minnie arrived at the studio every morning at eight o'clock and remained until late in the afternoon, sitting, white-faced, in the waiting room adjoining Binns' office. There was no work for her, the office boy told her several times a day, and Binns refused to grant her an interview. Many times she tried to see Letcher but somehow or other he was successful in dodging her.
On the second day, Mrs. Lee had come into the waiting room and from her Minnie learned that Eleanor and Al Kessler were working at one of the New York studios called The Vitagraph. For two days they sat there side by side, Mrs. Lee's volubility checked by that dread atmosphere of uncertainty.
Sometimes the room was so overheated that the air became stagnant. A nasty moisture lay upon the red walls like the coating on a tongue. Often it was dismally cold, with a dank odor. Old people, young people, children; a solemn procession continually filed in and out again, and Minnie noticed how many wan, haggard, desperate faces there were among them.
What nights she passed at home! . . . The memory of them rose before her like so many distorted and hideous dreams. She closed her eyes to shut out the vision of Nettie's leering face, and her mother's, swollen with weeping. On the night that Eleanor had sent a note asking for five dollars more and warning her not to forget her bi-weekly payment to Madame Papillon, her father had cried too. Tears welled into his faded blue eyes and coursed down his cheeks. He said it was because he couldn't bear to see mama so worried. He didn't want to touch that little nest egg they had saved by years of self-denial, yet how were they going to pay off Minnie's terrible debts? Pete and Elsie had been over twice, Pete continually probing the wound by his tantalizing, "Didn't I tell you so?" Jimmy alone had never reproached her. He thought she'd better go back to the store and see if Jeeps wouldn't speak to the manager about taking her on again. Or else . . . how about making up with Billy MacNally? Better grab him before it was too late, Jimmy warned her, he'd heard that Billy was now keeping company with Madge Connors. That news somewhat startled Minnie; Madge Connors wasn't a pretty girl, but her father was a well-to-do grocer.
On the eighth day, weakened by the fever of fear and uncertainty, Minnie reached the studio at 7:30. She was determined to wait on the street corner for Binns, believing that he alone would help her.
Binns was late that morning. As Minnie stood watching for him Bacon passed in his huge closed car. Minnie smiled and bowed to him after she had scrambled out of the way, but he didn't see her. A second later Letcher jumped off the street car and if he hadn't been looking straight ahead he would have noticed Minnie's quick, eager smile, as she stretched out her hand to signal him. He was hurrying to spring upon the running board of Bacon's car. She ran after them, but a swirl of dust completely veiled her. Then a sense of helplessness came over her, leaving in its wake a physical pain, a gnawing in her stomach, a pounding headache.
Many street cars passed before Binns arrived. He was very kind. He explained why there was no work. They were not dissatisfied with her, but only sixty extra people were needed in Deane's set and his assistant, Weaver, had chosen them while Minnie was working on the Bacon set.
"But Mr. Bacon wasn't through with me," she persisted, "he was going to give me something to do and he didn't. You was there when I showed him my two acts, and saw how he was pleased with them."
Binns wasn't hardened, but her appeal was one out of hundreds a day. He was abrupt only because he felt it to be a kindness.
"Studio work is very uncertain," he explained to her. "There are several studios which employ extra people. We've had nothing here since Bacon finished. That's five days now. Two of our directors are away on location. Deane and Bacon won't begin new pictures until next month. Why don't you try some of the other studios? Here, I'll give you one of my cards. Go and see Reeves of the Biograph. That's down on the twenties off Broadway, not very far from where you live. He may have something for you."
Binns touched his fingers to his hat and hurried away.
For several minutes she stood staring at the line of people who were waiting to be admitted to the outer office. There was one comforting thought. She saw Alicia Adams among them, Alicia who had been so confident of her charm and her assured popularity with the assistant directors.
The gate opened and the restless line pushed steadily, forward. "Sheep," Bacon had called them.
Reeves of the Biograph Studio was a very different type from Binns. Minnie found him much more agreeable to talk to. His face seemed to hold the perpetual creases of a broad, kindly smile and he babbled pleasantly to everyone whom he interviewed. He told Minnie she was a dear, pretty little girl but he regretted he couldn't use her at once. He smiled benignly. If she came there on Friday morning, however, he would find a place for her—as extra girl on the set with Mary Pickford.
There were tears in Minnie's eyes when she walked out of his office; the relief was almost as much pain as the doubt and worry. Friday she was to work! Four dollars. Reeves had promised her and she was to bring a dress to wear at an afternoon tea.
On the way home Minnie tried to decide which gown to wear, the spangled one with the train she had bought from Eleanor, or the afternoon frock from Madame Papillon's. She decided to take both of them. It wouldn't hurt to let the gang at the Biograph see how well she was outfitted.
That evening, Minnie received a curt note from Eleanor which read:
"I've got to have ten dollars at once to buy a new pair of shoes for the picture I'm in. Thanks for the five dollars. You only owe me seventeen-fifty now.
Minnie took it to her father. She was afraid to face the others.
"Pa, dear," she pleaded, sitting on his lap and drawing his head toward hers, "it means everything to me. You remember what Al Kessler said, 'If you ain't a good gambler you'd better not go into the game.' We know what it means now, don't we, papa?"
Her father was frightened, terribly frightened. "I hate to touch any more of that nest egg your mother and me have been savin'," he said in despair, "but if you've got to have it I guess I can't deny one of my own children. Wouldn't she be satisfied with five dollars, Minnie?"
They read the note over again and its businesslike tone worried them.
"I don't think so, papa. Eleanor's been awful good to me. I don't see how I'm goin' to stall her along."
After dinner Minnie went to Eleanor's boarding house to pay the debt in person. (Temporarily Eleanor was "residing with a refined German family" until she found an apartment to her liking, so she had told all her friends.)
She needn't have made any apologies to Minnie, for Minnie thought it was a palatial residence . . . and so near Riverside Drive! Just a little walk of two blocks or so and there you were on the Drive itself. Once she had hoped that the Flynns would be moving uptown into a classy brownstone front like that.
Eleanor was unfriendly only because she was worried. She accepted the ten dollars and asked to know specifically just when Minnie intended paying her the next instalment. The prospect of Minnie's work at the Biograph Studio held slight promise to Eleanor. Times were slack. The public was objecting because so many poor pictures had been foisted upon it. From one end of the country to the other they had set up a hue and cry, "Fewer and better pictures. . . ." All of the producing organizations were at a standstill. They were worrying over their output. . . . Meanwhile the wheels had ceased grinding and work had been suspended. Mutable as the tides these chaotic crises would come and go. . . . Always after the boom, the depression.
Thursday was a day of tragic happenings. In the morning Madame Papillon sent her delivery boy for the deferred payment of the clothes bought at her store. She also notified Minnie that she was ready for the second fitting on the suit. Adding that unless she came for it within three or four days she would have to go to law about it.
Minnie sent back word that she was very ill and would start her payments beginning Saturday. The boy accepted this message without protest. But he had had his orders from Madame Papillon, and when fifteen minutes later Minnie hurried out of the house to go to the plumbing shop where her father worked, he was hiding in the shadows of the house next door.
"The skinflint!" shrieked Madame Papillon, when he reported how Minnie had lied about being ill. "I've had all I'm going to take from that movie crowd. Morris, hurry over to Sol Greenbaum's and tell him I've got a job for him this afternoon."
Michael Flynn refused to let Minnie take any more money from his store of savings. She would have to work it out as best she could. Not even when Minnie cried at her whole future was in danger did Michael Flynn relent. He didn't care about himself, he told her, but he wasn't going to let the mother of his children be buried in the Potter's Field.
Minnie ran home and threw herself into her mother's arms.
"Mama," she cried, "I tried to keep it from you but I can't. I don't want to worry you but you simply got to know what's goin' on. Everything's at stake. There's that new job comin' along, me playin' with Mary, think of it, and a dollar more'n I got at the other place, and pa won't listen to reason.'
Mrs. Flynn, still under the spell of the "movie" lure, now there was another opportunity in sight, told Minnie she would do all she could to persuade her father to lend her twenty-five dollars to pay Madame Papillon.
But that afternoon Sol Greenbaum came to call upon them. He was large, impressive, and he talked in a voice that rang through the hallway as if a gong had been sounded. No amount of shushing from the humiliated Flynns could make him lower his strident tones.
He was crying out, "I represent the law, ladies, law and order! I'm a man who loves justice, respects it and what's more, this is for you, Miss Flynn, as well as your mother, I'm here to see that justice is done. I don't want trouble but I want things regulated. And I mean to do it!"
Minnie reached out; tugging at his arm she dragged him into the apartment while Mrs. Flynn closed the door after him. Then Minnie faced him.
"Say, listen here, mister, we ain't bilks. I didn't lie about being sick. Look at me! Do I look well? Do I now?"
Sol Greenbaum shouted her down. "Madame Papillon is a good woman," he said, pounding his fist upon the table. "She sold you those dresses in good faith. She trusted you. She didn't ask for any security. She"
Minnie interrupted him. "I'm goin' to pay it back all right," she cried, "I ain't tryin' to cheat her."
"Very well, if you're going to pay her, give me proof of your good intentions. Give me twenty dollars on account. That's fair enough according to law, isn't it now?"
"I can't pay anything today," and Minnie's voice reached a high pitch of desolation, "but tomorrow, if you only come around tomorrow night"
Sol Greenbaum shook his head. "The law knows no tomorrow," he said gravely. "Personally I'd like to let you off but it's my duty to handle this little matter in all fairness to Madame Papillon. She's the injured party."
Into Minnie's eyes crept a look of horrified realization. "What're you going to do to me?" she cried, growing very pale, "you ain't goin' to arrest me?"
Mrs. Flynn rushed for Minnie, putting her arms around her. "Oh, my God, my God!" she wailed, "go get papa, quick!"
Sol Greenbaum raised a protesting hand. "No need of carrying on, folks," he told them. "Just be calm and sensible. I'm not here to arrest anybody. I merely came to collect money on the merchandise purchased at Madame Papillon's shop, or take it away."
Minnie glanced at him apprehensively, "You don't mean that you intend to take 'em away, all of 'em?" she asked.
He nodded.
"That afternoon dress an' everything?"
"If you can't pay me any money I've got to hold them until they have been paid for. Clothes are perishable merchandise. If you've worn them you can see for yourself that Madame Papillon couldn't get them off her hands. There's no call in a shop like that for second-hand stuff."
"Well, you can't have them!" cried Minnie with sudden defiance. "I need them and I won't let them go. Do you understand that? I won't let them go!"
Sol Greenbaum looked calmly from mother to daughter as he put his notebook and the contract Minnie had signed with Madame Papillon back into his pocket. Then deliberately buttoning his overcoat, he reached for his hat and gloves, wished them a pleasant good afternoon, and started for the door.
"Wait a minute!" screamed Minnie. "What're you going to do about it?"
"There is only one thing to do under the circumstances," said Greenbaum, as if annoyed because they had recalled him. "When a contract is signed and isn't lived up to we place it in the hands of the police. What I'd do, ladies, if I were you, is to notify your attorney at once so he can prepare your defense."
If he had talked of long-term imprisonments and electric chairs his words could not have been more terrifying. This dread sentence whipped around them leaving a stinging, physical pain. It frightened them into an easy triumph for Greenbaum.
Fifteen minutes later he arrived, laughing, at Madame Papillon's shop and handed over the box labeled, "Perishable. Maison Papillon."
At home Minnie and her mother huddled on the sofa in despair, whispering their decision not to let any one of the family know that Minnie had lost the clothes.
"It's all right, ma," said Minnie feebly. "I still got the gorgeous gown that Eleanor sold me. At that I bet I'll make something of a hit in it. I seen a lot of 'em at the studio and there ain't one that can touch it."
"You'll make a hit, dearie, don't worry," comforted her mother. "Come now, help me get the dinner ready. As Jimmy says, it'll all come out in the wash."
Nettie had dinner with Elsie and Pete; Michael Flynn went back to work, after a hurried bite. The evening dragged unhappily. The "L" tearing past shut off for a few moments the monotonous ticking of the clock. Tick-tick-tick. Minnie thought at times she would hurl it out of the window. Tick-tick-tick. Gee, the hours were long and dull now. What was Billy MacNally doing, she wondered? Probably out to a movie or maybe to a dance, now The Cinderella Slipper had started its winter season in the basement of Kelly's. Or maybe spooning with Madge in the swell parlor of the Connors' new flat.
"Minnie, don't cry like that. Your eyes will be all swole in the morning. Don't cry, Minnie darlin'. Here, drink a glass of water. Come, baby. There's nothin' to break your heart about. When you get started to makin' money you can have all them things back again. You go to work tomorrow in that new studio and maybe you'll have a chance to make your hit there. You'll watch 'em close this time and won't let anybody double-cross you. I swear I'll kill that Grant girl if I ever get my hands on her. I never liked her the minute I set eyes on her, with her sneaky ways and hifalutin' manners. Sittin' there like a queen on a throne, turnin' up her nose at thirty-five cents a pound roast beef."
"Keep quiet, ma. My head's bustin'! I ain't sore at Eleanor. She don't know I got done out o' them clothes. . . . She's sick, ma. It's that Jew-woman, I bet, and if I find out it's up to her I'll fix her for it. I'll keep people away from her store! I'll walk right in and tear everything in the old place to pieces! I'll, I'll . . . where's that vinegar? Oh, my head's just killin' me."
An hour later Michael Flynn passing Minnie's room heard a tremulous sigh rise out of the deepening gloom. He paused, and his heart sank at the sound of it. His girl was unhappy; perhaps she was crying. He rose on tiptoe and bent to listen. The hand on the jamb of the door trembled. He wanted to go in to Minnie and take her in his arms, as he had done so often in her childhood, but he dared not. He could only rest there, glowing with an awakened pride as he remembered the trust with which she had always turned to him when a child. But she was a child no longer. It was a woman's sigh that came from out the darkness, a woman he was almost afraid of, a stranger, though of his own flesh and blood.
Chaotic thoughts were filtering through his tired head as he stood in silent communion with his memories, but somehow he saw in their relationship the parable of the green vine which feeds its sap to the blossoming fruit that it might yield its harvest when the vine is waste. And he questioned himself, "The vine gives all. Have I given all? Have I even given enough?" . . . The answer beat down upon him with blows that were almost tangible; no, no, no! Not everything! Not even enough! Though the fruit was fed with the blood of his own heart. What had he done for his children? Michael Flynn's conscience cried out to him. Yes, what had he done? What could he do—he, a failure . . . a plumber's assistant after twenty years of ceaseless toil, a failure who could never reach those heights of which he had dreamed, where he, master of his own shop, could support in comfort his wife and children . . . a failure . . . who had nothing but love to give.
And then, when another sigh came from Minnie a shudder passed through him. It was as if an icy blast had wrapped itself around him. Stark fear possessed him . . . had he come too late?
"Minnie!" he cried, and his voice crashed upon the silence. "Minnie!"
It awakened her from a heavy, dream-disturbed sleep. She sat bolt upright in bed, her heart thumping with the reaction of the sudden shock. "What is it? Who's that standing there? Nettie!"
He came stumbling into the room, guiding his way by the dim diffused light from the lightwell. "It's papa, darling. I come in to kiss you good night. I didn't mean to wake you up."
"You did though."
"I'm sorry, dear, I thought you was awake. I—" He paused, struggling for expression, glad of the dark that hid his ashen face. "There's a little matter I wanted to talk over with you. It's about the funeral money. I don't need it, I"
A sob came from Minnie. "Papa," she said, as his arms closed around her, "I won't do it, papa dear. I won't touch a cent of it."
"Sh-h-h, Minnie, don't let mama hear you."
They sat there in choked silence for several minutes, then she whispered in his ear which was wet with her tears. "Don't get it out of your sock, papa darlin', because I won't touch it. If I don't make good this time I'll work my fingers to the bone but I won't touch any more of that money. Kiss me good night," she added hastily when she heard the door in the front room slam and knew that Nettie was home. "I'm glad you came in here, papa darlin', it's comfortin' like it was when I was a kid."
Michael Flynn was in a feverish ecstasy after he left Minnie. His arms ached from the weight of her as they had ached so many years ago. His fingers traced her tears upon his face. Unconsciously he bent back his head so they could pocket in the hollow of his cheek. She had kissed him with such tenderness and she had called him "papa darlin'!"
Michael Flynn was a simple man and grateful for all blessings that came to him, so in the dark he kneeled before his cot, cautiously, so Jimmy wouldn't wake.