Making Over Martha 26

Making Over Martha 26

"Slawson, you’re a strange specimen. I sometimes wonder if you’re

_plus_ or _minus_. You certainly are not a simple equation, that’s

sure."

 

Martha smiled. "Speakin’ o’ the Hinckley girl—Ellen—I’d a letter from

the uncle she went to, sayin’ she landed there safe an’ sound. So

_she’s_ off’n my mind."

 

"And Buller?"

 

"He never was on it. _I_ don’t mind _him_. His name ought to been

spelled with a Y ’stead of the R. Them kind’s never dangerous."

 

"Well, I hope not. All the same, I wish you’d kept your finger out of

that pie for your own safety’s sake."

 

Martha laughed. "I got two good fists of my own with me, that shoots

out fine when required. Warranted to hit the bull’s eye every time. I

used to tell my husband, when we lived down in the city, I was afraid I

might be arrested for carryin’ unconcealed weapons."

 

Madam Crewe’s stern little visage did not relax. "You’d need a more

effective weapon than your two fists, if you had Buller to deal with,"

she said. "I’ve a mind to give you my son’s revolver. Will you take

it?"

 

Martha drew back quickly. "No’m, thank you, bein’ much obliged, all the

same. My husband an’ me, we don’t believe in settlin’ disputes that

way. Shootin’, be it by one, or be it by many, is murder, an’ nothin’

else. I’d like to put a stop to it, if I could. I’m dead set against

it. They talk about puttin’ a stop to war, an’ some says you couldn’t

do it. But you _could_ do it. If every man who was ’listed, just

crossed his arms, an’ said respectful but firm: ’No, siree! Not on your

life I won’t shoot!’ an’ stuck to his word—where’d they get their

armies? You can’t _square_ anythin’ with _round_ bullets. I wouldn’t

mind cuffin’ Buller a good lick or two, but I wouldn’t _shoot_’m. I’ve

too much respec’ for my own peace o’ mind."

 

"Well, at least take the precaution to keep off these country roads

after nightfall. Get yourself home now. And when you come here again,

if it’s at night like this, bring that dog of yours, that you talk so

much about, along with you."

 

"Flicker? Goodness! Flicker’s the peaceablest party of us all. He

wouldn’t be a mite o’ perfection, even if we’d let’m out. Since we

first took’m off’n the street, Flicker thinks everybody means well by’m.

He’d never get over the shock if somebody treated’m low down. He just

wouldn’t _believe_ it, that’s all. But anyhow, Sam (my husband) he’s

been obliged to set some traps for the foxes that prowels ’round after

Mr. Ronaldses hens an’ ours, an’ we’re afraid Flicker might get caught

in one, if we’d leave’m run free nights."

 

Acting on Madam Crewe’s gentle hint, Martha proceeded to take herself

off. She had not really thought of Buller with any apprehension, but as

she walked along the dark, lonely road, the suggestion worked, and she

fancied him lying in wait for her behind "any old ambush growin’ by the

way, ready to spring," as she told herself.

 

This did not prevent her from tramping on when, at last, she reached her

own door, and realized she was out of yeast, and Cora had need of some

for the night’s "raisin’."

 

Mrs. Lentz "admired" to let her have the loan of a cake. Martha chatted

a while, then started away, this time headed directly for home. She had

gone but a short distance, the length of a city block perhaps, when,

suddenly, she came to a standstill.

 

"Who’s there?" she demanded sternly. Her voice sounded unfamiliar, even

to her own ears. She attempted to flash her lantern-light into the inky

blackness of the thicket hedging the road-bank. "Who’s there?" she

repeated.

 

Silence.

 

For a second, she doubted her own instinct, and was on the point of

passing sheepishly on, ashamed of her childishness, when a sinister

rustle in the shadow brought her, as it were, up standing again,

instantly alert, on the defensive.

 

"Who’s there?" rang out for the third time. "If you don’t speak or show

this minute, I’ll come an’ fetch you."

 

The rustle increased. A blotch of shadow detached itself from its vague

background, and a huddled shape inched forward, like a magnified beetle.

 

Martha held her lantern up as she took a step forward to meet the thing.

 

"MA!" she exploded. Then—— "Well, what do you think o’ that!"

 

"O—oh, Martha!"

 

The next minute the magnified beetle was passionately clinging to "me

son Sammy’s wife," as if there were no other anchorage in all the world.

 

"But for the love o’ Mike, Ma, how come you here? You’re shakin’ like

an ash-pan. You’re all done up. Never mind tellin’ me now. When we’re

home is time enough."

 

Fairly carrying the poor, limp creature, heartening her, soothing her,

Martha got her, at last, to the Lodge, set her in Sam’s chair, with the

comforting _pilla_ to rest the _holla_ in her back, brought her the

reinforcing _cuppertee_ which, in hot weather or cold, was Ma’s greatest

solace and, to crown all, sat down and listened, while she told of the

dangers she had passed.

 

"It’s a thrawn lot they are, down there," she began, sniffing

vigorously. "You wouldn’t believe the way they do be goin’ on. I bided

wit’ Dennis an’ Sarah for a bit, but there was no peace in the house at

all. Every time I’d open me mouth, Sarah she’d be for jumpin’ down me

throat. There’s no livin’ wit’ the likes of her, let alone himself, an’

the childern. Nora-Andy told me they’ve the hearts of stone in their

breast, the way they’d be never carin’ how you’d get along. ’Twas two

weeks I bided wit’m, an’ then Sarah she brought me in the subway down to

Hughey’s. ’Twas the baby there had whoopin’-cough, an’ Hughey says

’twould be very unlucky for one so old as me to be catchin’ it off her.

Liza says: ’It would that. I wouldn’t have it on me conscience,’ says

she. I says, ’How would I be catchin’ the whoopin’-cough, when I had

it, itself, an’ all the young ’uns here had it, long ago, an’ me by, an’

never a touch of it on me.’ But they was that set on keepin’ me safe

from contagion, they wouldn’t so much as let me stay the night under the

roof. Sarah was as mad, as mad. Her an’ Liza had it hot an’ heavy

between’m. They fairly had me killed wit’ their sparrin’. ’Twas to

Mary-Ellen’s they took me at last. An’ when Sarah told Mary-Ellen of

Liza’s behavior, Mary-Ellen was fit to slay her. ’If it’s to Liza

Slawson my mother has to look for a home, her own daughters must be

under the sod,’ says she. I was wit’ Mary-Ellen one week, come Tuesda’,

an’ I would ’a’ be contented to settle down there, only for Owen havin’

a letter from his rich uncle, sayin’ he’d come to visit’m for a bit.

They couldn’t be after offendin’ him, explainin’ they’d no room itself.

So Mary-Ellen ast me would I shift over to Nellie’s till she’d have the

uncle in my bed. An’ to Nellie’s I went. But, you know as good as me,

the sorta man is himself. You could search the world over, an’ not find

a contrarier. Me heart was sore for Nellie, but at the same time she’d

no call to say I drew the temper out of her Michael, the like she never

see equaled. ’He’s never so gusty when we’re alone,’ says she. Well,

well! Be this an’ be that, I couldn’t be sure I’d a roof to lay me head

on, the night. Nora’s new man has a tongue in’m, would scare you off,

before you’d ever set foot in it, at all. Like a surly dog! An’ all

the while, the city as hot as hot! The heart of me did be oozin’ out in

sweat, every day. An’ not one o’ them to take me to the Park, or set

foot in Coney Island, itself, let alone back home. The cravin’ took

holt o’ me, till I could thole it no longer. I had the thrifle in me

purse Sam give me when he left, for to spend, if I needed it. (God

knows the rest never showed me so much as the face of a penny!) I

packed me little bag, an’, be meself, I wanda’ed to the railroad

station—the cops tellin’ me how to get there, itself. An’ so I come

back. Travelin’ all the da’, from airly dawn. I’d to wait at Burbank

for the trolley to bring me here. Then I started for to walk afoot.

But the dark come down, an’ every sound I heard, it stopped the tickin’

of me heart, like a clock. When I heard the steps of one along the

road, I crep’ into the bushes, to hide till they’d pass. Your voice,

Martha, was never your own at all. ’Twas like a man’s voice. The

height of you showed like a tower itself, back o’ the lantren. I’d

never know ’twas a female. I’d no stren’th to resist a wild tramp. So,

when you ast me, ’answer who it is,’ the tongue in me head was dumb.

But, ’tis glad I am to be home again, surely."

 

Sam went to the front door to shake out the ashes from his pipe. When

he came back Martha was helping Ma up the stairs to her own room.

 

"Won’t the childern be surprised an’ pleased to see you back, in the

mornin’," she was saying heartily.

 

Cora, bringing up the rear, remarked with importance, "Mother sent’m to

bed sooner’n usual ’cause to-morrow morning we all got to get up early.

We’re going with Miss Claire, in the la’nch, across the lake, to see a

blue herring, she’s got there in a cove."

 

"A blue herring, is it? Well, well!" said Ma abstractedly.

 

Cora went on. "Mother said when Francie told her, firstoff, you’d gone

away for good, an’ wasn’t coming back—Mother said, ’No matter how much I

feel my loss, I must try to be cheerful.’ Mother said it was a shock,

but you mustn’t let the world see your suffering. The world’s got

troubles of its own."

 

Ma’s dull eyes brightened. She gazed up searchingly into her

daughter-in-law’s face. "And, did you say that indeed, Martha?" she

questioned.

 

Martha punched a pillow pugilistically. "Very likely," she answered

holding the ticking with her teeth, while she pulled the clean slip over

it. "Yes, I said it."

 

The old woman slowly, tremulously undressed.

 

After Cora had gone, and Ma was in bed, Martha lingered a moment, before

turning out the light.

 

"I’m sorry you had such disappointment," she said. "But doncher care,

Ma. Sometime us two’ll go down to New York together, an’ I’ll give you

the time o’ your life."

 

For a moment Ma made no response. Then her quavering voice shook out

the words, as if they had been stray atoms, falling from a sieve: "It

ain’t the disappointment I’m after mindin’ so much," she lamented. "I

could thole that, itself—but—(perhaps it’s a silly old woman I am)! but

the notion it’s got into me head that—that—maybe the lot o’ them—_didn’t want me!_"