Francie Comes Home
One Last Adventure
To Wendy
CHAPTER 1
Francie put down her suitcase when she came out of the telephone booth and, without worrying, left it where it sat. Nobody was likely to steal it, and no passenger but herself was in the waiting room anyway. She looked again at the clock, then strolled over to the glassed-in doors to stare with dismay at the vacant lot across the street from where she was, Jefferson Union Station. There was nothing in the view calculated to sadden a heart. It was a good enough lot, lately increased in value because of the bright new filling-station its owner was putting up next door, fronting Station Street. But Francie Nelson wasn’t interested in real-estate values. It irritated her that she saw no beauty in this glimpse of Jefferson or even prettiness. She was looking at the town with the critical, anxious affection of a native daughter. It looked raw, she decided, and added sweepingly that that was the trouble with the whole town—the whole state—the entire Middle West. And this was where she was going to live, for all she knew, forever more!
She turned away, almost overwhelmed at the thought, and drifted over to the newspaper stand. A glimpse into the mirror helped her to control herself, as it often did. There was no doubt that the smart new English-tailored suit was attractive, and pleasant little wisps of curly brown hair framed her face under the trim beret. In spite of her twenty-two years she looked almost childish, struggling as she was against emotion.
So far it wasn’t a happy homecoming. Of course it would be different when she saw Pop and Aunt Norah—not different in her heart, she thought gloomily, but anyway on the surface. They’d all have to be bright and cheerful then. Alone, though, she could be honest about it. Just now she simply loathed Jefferson, and yet in her time, when she was far away, she’d often been homesick—terribly homesick.
Francie was widely traveled. She had been to school in England for several terms, had spent a year in Portugal, and was now fresh from New York, where she had been studying at Barnard. The college part had been as good as the rest of it—even better, she now thought ruefully—and she’d had every reason to believe she could go ahead and finish the course. But now—oh well, what was the use of moping? If she went on like this, her eyes would be red and Pop would guess how miserable she was … he’d be along any minute.
“He’ll be a little late, I’m afraid, darling,” Aunt Norah had just said on the phone. “I asked him to stop in at the store on his way over and get the marketing done so you wouldn’t have to sit outside and wait on the way back. You used to hate that, I remember.”
Dear Aunt Norah, remembering those little things, thought Francie. It was queer to think of Pop, Pop of all people, shopping with one of those wire baskets on wheels. During all of Francie’s childhood life her father had seemed grandly mysterious, busy with matters of high finance, pausing to dabble now and then in advisory bureaus in Washington as one of the country’s experts on oil and its by-products. He had dropped in on Jefferson only on special occasions, to see how his motherless daughter was getting along. Francie had loved him, of course, but she hadn’t known him, really, until they went abroad together and spent a revelatory year in England. After that they had been better friends.
He’s such a sweet guy, thought Francie, and he’s taking this trouble so well! I ought to be ashamed of myself.
For Pop had run into trouble, what he himself called a streak of bad luck, and though he always spoke as if it were bound to be temporary, Francie suspected that the blow was worse than he admitted. Some of his old strength and ebullience seemed to have vanished. She had realized that as soon as he began talking seriously, sitting in Francie’s cheerful little apartment.
“Francie, you’ve always had everything I could give you,” he had said, “and I guess that makes it worse, now, that I’ve got to admit I’m sunk. The worst part of it is having to tell you how smart I wasn’t.”
He went on to explain as simply as possible what had happened. There were several partners in the combine. One of them had involved himself in a discreditable deal, the news had leaked out, and the partner had absconded, leaving the others to discover the full effect of his misdoings and face the world with the story. “It was my fault as well as his, because I should have kept more of an eye on him. But it wasn’t my department, and I’ve been abroad a lot; anyhow, I had no reason not to trust him. I’m not excusing myself,” he added quickly. “I’m just explaining how it happened. We’ll have to wait for the results of the investigation before I make more business plans. It may take only a few months, but it may drag on for more than a year, and that’s more likely. Even when it’s settled, I’m afraid this might mean starting all over again. Though that’s taking the worst possible view.”
He paused, and stared down at the carpet. This was a long speech for Pop. “I could, I suppose,” he went on rather doubtfully, “get a job for the time being. But jobs I can do best usually take a long time to get.”
Francie had broken in here. “Oh Pop, I don’t think that would make sense, would it? You can’t tell how long this affair will take, you say, and you’ve been working awfully hard lately. Wouldn’t a rest do you good?”
“Well, it might, though I can think of better reasons for taking a vacation,” he said slowly. “There’s another angle I haven’t gone into yet, though. The practical one. I’ve always made plenty of money and lived well. So did you live well. A long time ago before your mother died, I thought it would be a good idea to play safe and get her some shares of Sears, Roebuck and Standard Oil stock. They looked good then and they’re good now. So I transferred my holdings in these to your mother, as a sort of ace in the hole in case we had another depression: anyway, I figured it was a good thing for her to own some property in her own name. When she realized she wasn’t going to get well and that your Aunt Norah was going to bring you up, she left the stuff in her will to Norah. She knew I’d be providing your support—and Norah’s naturally—but she had it in mind that Norah ought to have a backlog, just the way she’d had it, and I was agreeable. Well, of course Norah tried to hand it all back to me when the will was read, but I wouldn’t take it and then I sort of forgot all about it. I actually did forget until Norah told me over the phone last night that the money was all there and she’d never had occasion to use it, and believe me that made good hearing. Now I’m in a real squeeze, with everything I’ve got tied up in this lawsuit. We’re bound to win out, but it can take a long time, and thanks to Norah’s good management there’s enough accumulated in Jefferson to take care of us for as much as three years if we keep close to the belt.”
“We won’t starve, then,” said Francie.
“Oh no, we won’t starve,” said Pop. “But there’s still the question, What about you? I can’t keep up the allowance you’ve been getting.”
“Of course not! I wouldn’t expect it, Pop. Are you staying on here, or what?”
“No,” said Pop. “That entered into my calculations, of course. The way I see it, I’d better go out to Jefferson and do my waiting there, sublet my expensive apartment and so on: not only does good sense point that way, but it will look better when the whole thing comes to court. Norah says she’d be delighted to have me, and I think she means it. She’s lonely since you went away.”
“Sounds a good idea,” said Francie. “And anyway, you’d like staying in Jefferson. You know you would. You’ve often said how you envy people who can be there the year round, using the country club and all. I know Aunt Norah means it; she’s often said how she’d welcome the time when you could retire.… Oh, I know the time hasn’t come yet!” she added tactfully, remorseful at the spasm that crossed his face. “I only told you so you’d know how Aunt Norah feels. You did say you’d come?”
“Yes,” said Pop. “I did. And Francie—about you—”
Here it comes, she said to herself. Her first thoughts when Pop opened the subject had not been for her own future, but there was a little apprehension at the back of her mind nevertheless. What about her?
She was still Pop’s dependent. She knew there were girls who worked their way through college, but it was rather late in the day to begin to look for a job for next term, and anyway, what was she aiming to do with her college education, exactly? Though she drew and designed pretty well, and loved painting, Francie wasn’t one of those girls whose life work is evident from the very beginning.
“What’s Aunt Norah going to do about running the house?” she asked suddenly. “Last time I heard, she was having this business about Ada leaving.” Ada was Aunt Norah’s domestic stand-by, an old, old woman who had just retired to live with her married daughter. “Has she got anybody else? Now she’s having trouble about cataract, she’ll just have to get somebody, Pop. She can’t manage for herself, let alone you. And help’s hard to get in Jefferson, with the new veterans’ hospital so near by. Besides, the expense!”
“Well, all that was bothering her some,” he admitted. “It’s a hard thing to settle.”
They had both sat there in silence for a moment in the pleasant little room. There were books on the desk, and lamplight shone on the curtains she had been so proud of. Francie had known perfectly well what she must say, but her tongue for a moment refused to form the words. Still she got it out.
“Pop, I’ll come too. I’ll come to Jefferson.”
Of course he’d put up an argument, but it was obvious that Aunt Norah had already made the same suggestion, and it was too evident a solution to reject. Francie had replied to him with as much spirit as if she weren’t arguing against herself at the same time. Her career? Bosh. It wasn’t any definite career, was it? She could paint anywhere. Anyway, what else did he propose that she do? How could they afford to look around now at the last minute and find her a cheaper room than her share in this apartment, and pay for it and for her tuition and keep? Aunt Norah’s resources wouldn’t stretch that far and shouldn’t be called on to do so, and now Pop didn’t have any in his own name.
“It’s the only thing for us both to do,” said Francie firmly. “Jefferson. Thank goodness for Aunt Norah!”
But in her heart she found it very hard to be thankful, She felt that it would be unbearably painful—or anyway, almost unbearably—to leave New York. The town was just beginning to open up to her in all its chrrm. She had made a lot of amusing friends. She had learned her way around the concerts and plays and the museums; she had learned the joy of saving her allowance and then indulging in a very occasional special treat. She had learned to window-shop. She was picking up the gay new language of her circle. At the thought of dropping it all indefinitely, her determination nearly wavered. But …
“It’s obvious,” she said firmly. “If you go alone, how’s Aunt Norah going to manage with the extra housekeeping? You know how she goes into a flutter over little things now that she’s getting on. I’d feel it was imposing, Pop. No, I’ll have to come, that’s all there is to it. I’ll write to her right now, shall I?”
Pop’s reply was slow. Francie reflected with sorrow that he showed genuine signs of shock. In the past he had been crisp and decisive, but now he seemed willing to let her make the decisions.
“Well … if you’re quite sure,” he had said at last, with a sigh. “I might as well go on out pretty soon. There’s nothing going on here to keep me until the case comes up. I’ll call up your aunt tonight; what shall I say about you?”
Francie said, “Tell her I’m coming as soon as I round off a couple of things here and arrange to sublet my part of the apartment. That won’t be hard, anyway; Cynthia Harlow’s dying to move in. See, Pop, it’s all arranged!”
Now in the station she battled with a sense of desolation. It had been even more of a wrench than she had feared, packing up and saying good-by to everybody. They’d been so funny about it. Teasing her about going back to the grass roots and all that—well, of course they’d meant to be kind, to tide over the agony. It is never pleasure to feel that people are being sorry for you, and so they laughed. But she knew how sorry they were. She was so awfully sorry for herself.
“Just think!” she’d said. “Jefferson, my dear! Jefferson! But grim!”
Really, it did feel like the end of the world. She remembered Jefferson—no theater, no art galleries, no music; nothing but the movies and the country club, and bridge games and canasta and parties. Tea parties at that, thought Francie … as if she’d have time for parties, drudging in the house!
She saw herself in a dirty apron, burning the Sunday chicken probably, or trying awkwardly to give the house a good spring cleaning. Francie realized she’d been spoiled. She’d never cared for domestic matters and so she had been spared learning about them. Aunt Norah had always looked after the housekeeping with Ada to help; she’d meant to teach Francie to cook and order food when she was older. Then, before the moment came, Pop had whisked her away to England. You don’t learn about marketing at school, nor in foreign hotels.
I suppose I can catch on in time, she thought.
The clerk at the newspaper counter stared at the gloomy young lady who was such a long time making up her mind between chocolate bars and licorice. Francie swung from the depths of the blues to a kind of elation. If she was to be a martyr, well, she’d at least have the joy of martyrdom.
They’re darlings, both of them, she thought. I ought to be glad I can take care of them. I will be cheerful, darn it.
It should have been like one of those soap ads where the harassed housewife finds a new kind of magic suds. Daydreaming, Francie built up a picture of herself as a ministering angel, tripping around a shining, happy house, bringing breakfast to Aunt Norah in bed, plumping up the sitting-room cushions for Pop when he came home footsore and weary from—well, from what? Trying to find a job? She didn’t really think Pop would tramp the streets of Jefferson begging for employment. He could be footsore after golf, she decided. But Pop had never really cared for cushions.
It was not easy to get fun out of dramatic imaginings, not when reality insisted on intruding. Still, she could retain some comfort from the thought that she really was a martyr. A genuine martyr. Even a sense of humor couldn’t take that fact away.
She thought, going short of money is no joke. For instance, I certainly shouldn’t have bought this suit. Still, it is a good one; I’ll probably be glad before I’m through that I got it.
She went again to the door to look for the old gray car. Nobody was in sight—nobody she knew, at any rate—but a whiff of the autumn air, smelling of burning leaves, and the sight of a man in a plaid lumber jacket and peaked cap, a costume she hadn’t seen lately in New York, suddenly evoked memories of her years here at home. She thought of school days and the happy excitement of waking up on a crisp cold morning, running barefoot to close the window, hurrying to get dressed and out into the air. She wondered how the old gang was getting on. She knew it was broken up; she was fairly well informed of the facts, but it was still difficult to realize that the kids of yesterday wouldn’t all be around. She must call up her oldest friend Ruth that afternoon and arrange to inspect the new baby and the new house. That part should be fun. And Glenn, who had been her beau, how would things be with Glenn? She had been trying to put off thinking what Jefferson would be like were it not for Glenn.
There at last was the car, and Pop at the wheel, looking for her. Her new duty-bound life was about to begin. She adjusted a cheerful smile, and ran out to the curb and waved.
CHAPTER 2
Aunt Norah’s step on the stairs was slow, though not fumbling; Francie knew she was carefully feeling her way along the banister. It would have made everything go quicker to give her a hand, but the girl had learned in the first few days at home that Aunt Norah didn’t want to be helped. Anyway, why should everything go quicker? Nobody was going anywhere, Francie reflected. She sighed sharply, thinking of the up-and-down emotions of New York, where one was always in a hurry, always looking forward to the next moment, or fearing it, but anyway reacting. Here, life was even and peaceful, and who wants to be peaceful at twenty-two? For Aunt Norah, of course, it was different. She wanted peace with independence.
“I’m not an old lady yet,” she had said, warningly crisp, “and it will be much better for all of us if the other people in this house just let me make my own way, at my own time. Ada never fussed. Don’t you fuss.”
So now Francie stayed where she was, in the kitchen stacking plates. She checked up on what was happening out there through her ears rather than her eyes, as Aunt Norah probably did herself. Aunt Norah moved deliberately across the hall, out the front door. Francie heard her voice; probably she was exchanging greetings across the fence with the lady next-door.
As a matter of fact, there was a sort of timetable of life in Jefferson, in spite of Francie’s impression that nothing ever happened. There were parties, there were celebrations. What didn’t happen, she amended her thoughts silently, were social affairs like those she had got so used to in the East; informal, impromptu parties, and theater expeditions and concerts. In Jefferson, they had family dinners and tea parties arranged well in advance. There had been a tea party the day before at Ruth’s. Ruefully scraping at a skillet, Francie thought about it.
Ruth, very much the pretty young matron in her pretty new house, had made a great thing of the fact that Francie was to be guest of honor. “You must come ten minutes earlier than anybody else, of course,” she had said on the telephone. “You’re the guest of honor, and you must stand near the door when they come in.”
Francie, bewildered, said, “But Ruth, it’s not a diplomatic reception or anything. I mean, of course I’ll be there early to help and all that, if you like, but need I stand rooted on one spot all afternoon?”
“Oh, you and your casual New York ways!” Ruth made her voice light and gay, but Francie realized her feelings were hurt. Whoever would have expected Ruth to be so touchy?
Worried, Francie dressed that afternoon in great haste, not too meticulously. She hurried over a full half hour ahead of time (three-thirty, Ruth had said they’d begin to come—a queer time for tea, surely), only to be met by her dear old best friend’s sorrowful wail, “Francie! You aren’t wearing a hat!”
This really was bewildering. “Should I have?” asked Francie. “I never used to. None of us did.”
“But this is different,” said Ruth. “It’s different now. The girls will all be wearing hats, especially since you’ve been abroad and in New York and all that, and if you don’t wear one, can’t you see how they’ll talk? They’ll say that you just don’t think we’re worth dressing up for in little old Middle West Jefferson. Oh Francie, couldn’t you—I mean, I’d lend you one of mine, but they’d all recognize it.”
Intimidated, Francie said, “I’ll run home and get one of mine. It isn’t far.”
She had done so, and returned breathless after the first guest arrived. By that time she was in a slightly spoiled mood. It was hard to be gracious to all these girls who were strangers, or at least seemed to be.
“Here’s Gracie. You remember Gracie Waller,” Ruth would say, and Francie would grasp Gracie’s hand and say, “Of course. How are you, Gracie?” and try not to show how staggered she was that this thoroughly grown-up, dignified young matron should be Gracie, the most precocious girl in the class. But she’d also been the one who always got lost at the school parties out somewhere behind the gymnasium, where they were dancing, and reappeared later much the worse for wear.
Or Ruth would come up dragging a grim-looking girl with a bun and introduce her as “Isabelle Hunter—remember old Izzy?” and leave Francie wondering what on earth to say to a stranger who used to be her most hated rival for the affections of—who? Whatever had been that football player’s name? Gone, gone with the old spites, the old longings. And gone, too, was the one boy friend she remembered vividly—Glenn. The first day back she had learned that he was working in a law office in San Francisco. Whatever Jefferson might have been with Glenn—well, better not think of it, she told herself.
They had sandwiches of thin slices of bread, and a number of salty little confections that would have gone better with soup. They had hot rolls, and home-made coffee cake, and tea or coffee. Everybody scolded Ruth jovially for serving so much. They talked about their diets. They sat in a prim circle and, after asking Francie politely about New York, chattered about babies, husbands, engagements, mothers, and church. Most of them were married, otherwise they would probably have left Jefferson. There couldn’t have been much in town to do, Francie reflected for a career woman.
It was bewildering at first, but after a cup of coffee and a cookie Francie began to find it charming, too. She had known these girls when they were long-legged brats together, running from one house to another to play all through the summer, busy with their games and their secret societies and feuds and makings-up. She had known them in high school when they took to giggling loudly when the boys walked by, and kept diaries. And here they were at last, young ladies in high heels and hats (Ruth had been quite right about the hat) with adult preoccupations—family troubles, jobs, all the things they had relegated to their parents in the days before Francie went away. And they were all so busy! Francie felt an envious pang, thinking of how busy they were with their clubs and their hobbies and their work. The others who weren’t there were all away at school, and no doubt they were busy too. Some of the boys were in the Service. Whereas she was only running the house for Aunt Norah.…
A rustle of newspaper in the living room woke her from her sad thoughts. Pop was there, smoking his morning cigar and killing time. Did the crackling sound impatient? Francie thought it did, but her own movements were quick and jerky as she rinsed the plates and stacked them in the washer in the pattern Ada had recommended as most effective. She herself was impatient, and she may have been reading feelings that weren’t there into Pop. It was hard to get used to him taking life easy. It was strange to think he wouldn’t soon be going to his office or embarking on a series of telephone calls, giving directions to his secretary, perhaps ordering her to buy tickets so that he might start off for the Philippines or Haiti or somewhere else far away and exciting.
She was so sure Pop must be fretting that she went to the door and peered in at him. No, he was sitting there looking cheerful, positively cheerful. He wasn’t aware of her scrutiny. Francie went back to the sink, walking hurriedly; she was always in a hurry with the housework, though there was no need for haste. She was eager to learn all about this new, distasteful setup. She wanted to prove to herself—and to Aunt Norah and Pop, of course—that she could be as efficient as anybody when she set her mind to it. It had been rather a comedown, and still was in a way, to discover that the tasks weren’t nearly as demanding as she had expected. Dishwashing? Well, anybody can wash dishes, and here it was a mere matter of learning to work the machine. Cooking? That was still rather tricky. Francie knew there were great areas of the subject that she could explore if she went in for it with a whole heart. But Aunt Norah said Ada had rather got out of the way of cooking a lot of elaborate meals, what with frozen foods and supermarkets and, in a pinch, the corner drugstore. Her easel and paints hadn’t yet arrived from New York, and she was restless without them.
The front door opened again; the floor creaked. Aunt Norah came into the kitchen.
“You’re not overdoing things, dear, I hope,” she said genially. “I hate to see you waste your time at the sink. If you’ve got anything of your own to do this morning, you’d better get it accomplished before eleven-thirty. Remember, we’re going to Uncle Robert’s for lunch.”
“Oh, Aunt Norah, I did forget!” Francie mopped vigorously at the draining board and remembered in time not to sigh, as she wanted to do. Of all the trials of coming home, this program of going to see every relative anywhere within a radius of ten miles was the worst. It wasn’t that she disliked meeting the distant cousins and aunts-by-courtesy again. Without complications, it would have been pleasant. But Francie hadn’t been home long at all before she found out that she was serving as a bone of contention in a community that seemed to want to contend. Normally a placid girl, this quality of theirs, this almost jovial belligerence, wearied and worried her. Her Cousin Biddy was the worst. Biddy was really always in the family’s hair. She worked at it. She lived across town, but every morning she would telephone Aunt Norah in order to plan Francie’s life for the next twenty-four hours.
“Frances Beatrice simply must go and have dinner with Bill and Marie,” she would say flatly. “They’re beginning to notice that she hasn’t done anything about them, Norah. Marie said something yesterday: I could see she wasn’t pleased.”
Aunt Norah always did what she could to smooth matters over.
“Well, I don’t know when she can manage it, Biddy. The child’s doing as well as she can. What day this past week has she had free, I’d like to know?”
“Now Norah, you know that’s not the sort of excuse Marie is going to accept; she heard about Frances Beatrice’s having been to Claire’s house night before last. After all, Claire’s not even related.”
It was typical of Biddy that she should insist on calling Francie by that form of her name which had been given up by everybody else years back when Francie was in high school. By dint of pleading tears and plain downright persistence Francie had persuaded the rest of her world to forget that she had ever been christened “Frances Beatrice.” But nobody ever succeeded in changing Biddy’s mind when she wanted to remember things and the things she remembered were somehow, always, just those you wished would be forgotten. It was always Biddy who would remind you at a large gathering of the humiliating time you overate at the picnic when you were seven years old, and were sick all over somebody’s best dress. That sort of thing. She was also a firm believer in telling people things for their own good. Her relatives were all slightly afraid of Cousin Biddy, and Aunt Norah tried now to placate her.
“There was nothing in that, Biddy; Francie dropped in to see Claire, that was all—Claire did teach her in high school, you know—and she happened to stay on and eat with the family. Where’s the harm in that?”
Francie, overhearing Aunt Norah’s side of the conversation, drew near the telephone anxiously. “What have I done now?”
But nobody ever took time to explain. Francie was merely the bone they fought over, she wasn’t a member of the argument club.
However, since Aunt Norah seemed to be bearing the brunt for any gaucherie her household committed, Francie learned to be as considerate as possible. Pop agreed with her. With Aunt Norah they both made all the rounds. They went to Biddy’s, and they appeased Marie, and they let Uncle Robert take them to the movies when he wanted to go. Francie went out of her way to inspect babies that her relatives’ relatives had produced while she was out of town, and was scrupulous to pay every call her Aunt Norah recommended. All this activity was beginning to pall, especially as it seemed endless. Certainly Biddy remained as a steady sort of duty, self-renewing.
Aunt Norah went upstairs in her stately, cautious way, and Francie took off her apron and hung it up, muttering under her breath. In the next room Pop chuckled.
“Getting you down?” he called.
Francie walked over to the door and stood there. She spoke with careful calm. “I. know I ought to be flattered,” she said, “with so many invitations. But it’s not much fun over at Cousin Biddy’s.”
“I never thought it was,” said Pop. He yawned.
“It’s like people fighting duels for my favors and then walking off and leaving me,” said Francie. “All this arguing about where I’m going to eat dinner Saturday night. And the way they allocate you and me, without so much as asking us! Go here. Go there. No, they can’t, they’ve promised Adele to go with her.… Right in front of us, as if we were inanimate!”
“That’s family solidarity, chicken,” said Pop. “Backbone of the nation.”
He turned the page of his newspaper and went on reading.
CHAPTER 3
Francte looked at the clock. In a house without children, she reflected, this cares-of-housekeeping racket can be much exaggerated. She was aware that she looked at the clock an abnormal number of times in the course of a day: yet what could she do to break this dismal habit or take its place? Repair her clothes? Well, there were nylons to wash, and probably hems to let down or take up. If she looked hard she might find a bit more mending. And then?
The house didn’t answer. It was very quiet. Pop had gone downtown for a cigar or a dozen eggs or a magazine, and Aunt Norah was resting, her door closed. Except for a humming in the kitchen—the refrigerator or the heater or something like that—there wasn’t a noise. It was a strain for a girl whose ears had become attuned to New York streets. She might turn on the radio; scraps of music heard that way sometimes comforted her. But at other times they just seemed to make it worse when they stopped and she realized where she was. Oh, duty could be dull.
She looked out of the window and saw two little boys industriously raking leaves on the lawn. In the street, where the gutter ran furiously in rainy weather, they had built a bonfire of their collection. The flames looked pale in the early afternoon light, yellowish-orange instead of the red you expected of fire, and under the leaves the dying grass glittered with moisture. Indoors the air was still and warm and sleepy. Out there the little boys’ breath steamed, and they looked rosy and alive. Francie obeyed an impulse; she put on her coat and ran out to help with the leaves.
“We can do it all right ourselves,” said the bigger of the two, dubiously. “And there’re only two rakes. We’re being paid for this by the hour.”
Francie felt somewhat let down. “I tell you what I can do, then,” she said. “I’ll get my broom and sweep the sidewalk. Okay?”
Evidently this would not impair their contract, and they consented. For a while everything went pleasantly enough: the autumn wind was crisp and refreshing as she had known it would be. Little by little, with the rhythmic swishing of the broom, she slipped into a nostalgic mood. It was on such a day as this that she would often start out, bundled in her winter clothes, to go to a football game with the gang. Even when it was this cold, even when it was colder, they liked to keep the top down and drive fast in the wind, with their silly flags fluttering alongside the car, and herself squeezed into the front seat behind the windshield, her Glenn driving and somebody else on her other side: possibly somebody in her lap as well. Squeals and giggles and shouted wisecracks were all lost in space as they speeded to the game. And then afterward they would all rush for the Chocolate Shoppe and eat waffles and drink hot cocoa until their toes were thawed out and their noses less red and runny.… Jefferson had been fun. But they were all grown up now. The girls wore hats and attended tea parties and talked like ladies. And the boys …
“Why, Francie!”
The voice was familiar, evoking a number of confused memories. Francie looked up and brushed hair out of her eyes, her fingers clumsy in their mittens.
“Mrs. Stevens!” she cried, and nearly blushed. She felt as if her thoughts might be visible on her face, for certainly in an indirect way she had been thinking of Mrs. Stevens,
Glenn had been Francie’s special friend all through school. It wouldn’t be accurate to call him her boy friend. The words together have a special connotation. Girls with boy friends are on the telephone with them at least once every day. They go out together on Saturday night, they may possibly do their lessons together, they have private dates whenever the boy can afford it, and they hold hands unabashed in company. Glenn and Francie weren’t like that exactly.
Yes, there had been moments when they assumed, and their world assumed with them, that they belonged together. Glenn’s fraternity pin had been a case in point. That pin traveled a lot. Mostly Francie wore it. After a while she invariably gave it back, when she was in a fury about something Glenn had said about her hair or her manners; then they would make up and she would accept it again. And at other times, Glenn gave it to some other girl. Indeed, another girl had worn it for nearly a whole semester. (Did she herself have it now, by any chance, tucked away in her handkerchief box? Quite possibly. Suddenly she had outgrown that preoccupation with fraternity pins.)
Talking to Mrs. Stevens she hurriedly marshaled what she knew of Glenn now, from Ruth and Aunt Norah: it wouldn’t please his mother if she wasn’t up to date. Glenn had gone in for law while she was frittering away her time in Europe. Aloud she said, “What’s the news of Glenn? I’ve owed him a letter, I’m afraid, ever since last Christmas-card days.”
Mrs. Stevens’ face lit up the way mothers’ faces do when their children are mentioned. “He loves San Francisco,” she said, “simply loves it. He’s with his uncle there, you know. We hope he’ll come back after he’s finished his training. I’m sure he would have sent his love, Francie, if he’d known you were here. He was always devoted to you.”
“Oh, it was the other way around, Mrs. Stevens. I adored Glenn!”
And in a funny way, she realized as she spoke, that was terribly true. Glenn was a part of school, and Jefferson, and the smell of burning leaves and all that sort of thing. And more. She’d been thinking of him underneath the other thoughts whenever she saw a new generation of students rushing by happily in their open cars, or when she went past the Chocolate Shoppe and smelled that indescribable odor of ice-cream sodas and hot melted fudge. The country club with its dining room that was turned into a dance floor on Saturday night. The swimming pool. Halloween.… It had been fun, and Glenn had been a large part of the good times. All of a sudden she missed him a lot more than she’d been admitting to herself. She said good-by to Mrs. Stevens and stood for a minute on the pavement, holding the broom and watching the older woman as she went on down the street.
“Please, ma’am,” said the bigger little boy, “we’ve finished the fire; it’s out.”
“I ought to be doing something useful,” said Francie. The family was at lunch. Her painting things had arrived that morning, and she’d set them up and then looked at a lot of the work she had done in the last few years.