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Another excerpt from what is still a very rough draft (opening chapter previously posted here)
“I see her do that every time she comes in with you or her mom,” the shopkeeper says. Walt smiles back.
“She likes the smell of your shop. Most shops, really. Can of Prince Albert, if you’ve got it?”
The shopkeeper turns to a shelf behind the counter and takes down the pipe-tobacco.
Anna is doing important calculations. A swap with Enid has brought her a new comic book, so she’s decided to spend her allowance on candy or nuts; she is now pondering which would be better. Nuts won’t melt in hot weather, but the salt will make her thirstier. As she thinks, a man enters the shop with a large dog.
Anna has just about lost her fear of small dogs, though they are louder than she would like. This dog is bigger than she is. She ducks between the shelves, pressing her back into a row of canned goods; she hopes the dog didn’t notice the movement or hear her stifled gasp.
Walt has noticed the dog and the man. He automatically looks about for Anna, spots her, and moves between her and them. The shopkeeper, too, has seen the child hide among the shelves. The dog has seen her, and strains forward on his leash; but at a glance from Walt, he stops and lies down with a whine.
“Do you mind?” Walt says to the man, indicating the beast on the floor with a casual nod.
“His little girl’s nervous of dogs, Bill,” the shopkeeper explains.
“Rusty loves children.” Bill has finally noticed Anna peering around the shelf.
“I know, but my child doesn’t love dogs,” says Walt, giving Bill his most charming smile, the one that says of course this situation is foolish; but let’s just let it go. It works. Bill tugs on Rusty’s leash, pets him, and takes him outside.
“Thanks,” Walt says, placing his hand on the can of Prince Albert. “Guess I’ll just pay for this and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“I have to buy some peanuts,” says Anna, rematerializing. Her father exchanges a glace with the man on the other side of the counter.
“You’ll serve the lady first.” The aproned man smiles, passes down the packet of roast peanuts, rings it up, and gives his customer her change; then he does the same for Walt’s purchase. Anna glances towards the door:
“Is the dog still outside?”
“I’ll be with you.”
Chapter 2
Monday after supper, Walt strolls to the store on the corner, the one with the woods behind it. Anna walks with him, her weekly allowance jingling in the right-hand pocket of her dress. Just inside the shop entrance, she stops to breathe in the aroma of newsprint, varnished wood, overripe bananas, roast peanuts, tobacco, soap and chocolate candy. Then she lets go his hand and goes to look at the wooden magazine rack, while he turns to the big man at the counter, who has been regarding them with friendly amusement.“I see her do that every time she comes in with you or her mom,” the shopkeeper says. Walt smiles back.
“She likes the smell of your shop. Most shops, really. Can of Prince Albert, if you’ve got it?”
The shopkeeper turns to a shelf behind the counter and takes down the pipe-tobacco.
Anna is doing important calculations. A swap with Enid has brought her a new comic book, so she’s decided to spend her allowance on candy or nuts; she is now pondering which would be better. Nuts won’t melt in hot weather, but the salt will make her thirstier. As she thinks, a man enters the shop with a large dog.
Anna has just about lost her fear of small dogs, though they are louder than she would like. This dog is bigger than she is. She ducks between the shelves, pressing her back into a row of canned goods; she hopes the dog didn’t notice the movement or hear her stifled gasp.
Walt has noticed the dog and the man. He automatically looks about for Anna, spots her, and moves between her and them. The shopkeeper, too, has seen the child hide among the shelves. The dog has seen her, and strains forward on his leash; but at a glance from Walt, he stops and lies down with a whine.
“Do you mind?” Walt says to the man, indicating the beast on the floor with a casual nod.
“His little girl’s nervous of dogs, Bill,” the shopkeeper explains.
“Rusty loves children.” Bill has finally noticed Anna peering around the shelf.
“I know, but my child doesn’t love dogs,” says Walt, giving Bill his most charming smile, the one that says of course this situation is foolish; but let’s just let it go. It works. Bill tugs on Rusty’s leash, pets him, and takes him outside.
“Thanks,” Walt says, placing his hand on the can of Prince Albert. “Guess I’ll just pay for this and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“I have to buy some peanuts,” says Anna, rematerializing. Her father exchanges a glace with the man on the other side of the counter.
“You’ll serve the lady first.” The aproned man smiles, passes down the packet of roast peanuts, rings it up, and gives his customer her change; then he does the same for Walt’s purchase. Anna glances towards the door:
“Is the dog still outside?”
“I’ll be with you.”
* * * * *
* * * * *
Wednesday, Walt comes home to find Hilde leafing through a handbook on gardening. It’s not new, and he supposes she’s brought it home from the shop.
“It’s too late to put anything in,” she says, looking up as her husband takes off his hat, “but I thought we could get a head start on planning for next year. And we ought to find out how to take care of the perennials the past owner has left us.”
Walt looks out the window at their front yard.
“I’ve mowed that strip of grass once since we got here, seems that’s all that’s been needed.” He tries to remember if the house came with a garden hose, or at least an attachment for one. He’s never used a garden hose, and looks forward to doing so, but so far the rain has taken care of things. “Ought I to trim some hedges, you think?”
“We don’t have any.” Hilde joins him at the window and points at the lone shrub which dominates the yard. “There’s a spirea bush. The book says if it’s summer-blooming, to prune during the winter or in the spring; and if it’s spring-blooming, after the flowers have fallen.”
“I don’t think I’ve noticed it blooming yet. So we wait. What about the vegetable patch out back?” Hilde puts her arm about his waist and he drapes his arm over her shoulder. “From this calculated display of affection,” he says, “I’m guessing you’re about to suggest something ambitious.”
“I want to try growing asparagus. It’s a long-term plan.”
“Have I ever eaten asparagus?” asks Walt, genuinely curious.
“That time we had dinner with your boss. The green pointy things.”
“Oh. Well, if you want to raise’em, go ahead.”
“And rhubarb.”
“Oh now, rhubarb I can get behind.”
“They’ll both need a couple of years before they produce anything we can eat.”
“That’s still faster than a tree.”
“And we’ll have to dig trenches for the asparagus.”
“How deep?”
“About eighteen inches, and ten wide, according to the gardening book.”
“Oh, that’s all right then,” says Walt, relieved. “For a moment I was picturing a sort of asparagus bomb shelter.”
“Then we fill it up with compost, and it takes a few years for the plants to produce anything.”
“Darling, your Five-Year Asparagus Plan already has my support, there’s no need to make it sound more enticing. I will dig your trenches and plant rhubarb and asparagus for you; though I can’t promise I’ll eat the asparagus; or that Anna won’t declare it spinach-and-to-hell-with-it. Though really she seems willing to eat any-” He pauses, and his mouth twitches.
“We already knew she went hungry before she came to us,” Hilde says gently. Walt buries his face in her hair.
“I catch myself forgetting,” he says, when he lifts his head again, “and then I get angry at me. Never mind. The past is in the past. What are we having for supper in the present, as we plan our rhubarbasparagus utopia?”
“It’s too late to put anything in,” she says, looking up as her husband takes off his hat, “but I thought we could get a head start on planning for next year. And we ought to find out how to take care of the perennials the past owner has left us.”
Walt looks out the window at their front yard.
“I’ve mowed that strip of grass once since we got here, seems that’s all that’s been needed.” He tries to remember if the house came with a garden hose, or at least an attachment for one. He’s never used a garden hose, and looks forward to doing so, but so far the rain has taken care of things. “Ought I to trim some hedges, you think?”
“We don’t have any.” Hilde joins him at the window and points at the lone shrub which dominates the yard. “There’s a spirea bush. The book says if it’s summer-blooming, to prune during the winter or in the spring; and if it’s spring-blooming, after the flowers have fallen.”
“I don’t think I’ve noticed it blooming yet. So we wait. What about the vegetable patch out back?” Hilde puts her arm about his waist and he drapes his arm over her shoulder. “From this calculated display of affection,” he says, “I’m guessing you’re about to suggest something ambitious.”
“I want to try growing asparagus. It’s a long-term plan.”
“Have I ever eaten asparagus?” asks Walt, genuinely curious.
“That time we had dinner with your boss. The green pointy things.”
“Oh. Well, if you want to raise’em, go ahead.”
“And rhubarb.”
“Oh now, rhubarb I can get behind.”
“They’ll both need a couple of years before they produce anything we can eat.”
“That’s still faster than a tree.”
“And we’ll have to dig trenches for the asparagus.”
“How deep?”
“About eighteen inches, and ten wide, according to the gardening book.”
“Oh, that’s all right then,” says Walt, relieved. “For a moment I was picturing a sort of asparagus bomb shelter.”
“Then we fill it up with compost, and it takes a few years for the plants to produce anything.”
“Darling, your Five-Year Asparagus Plan already has my support, there’s no need to make it sound more enticing. I will dig your trenches and plant rhubarb and asparagus for you; though I can’t promise I’ll eat the asparagus; or that Anna won’t declare it spinach-and-to-hell-with-it. Though really she seems willing to eat any-” He pauses, and his mouth twitches.
“We already knew she went hungry before she came to us,” Hilde says gently. Walt buries his face in her hair.
“I catch myself forgetting,” he says, when he lifts his head again, “and then I get angry at me. Never mind. The past is in the past. What are we having for supper in the present, as we plan our rhubarbasparagus utopia?”
* * * * *
The Gratsias living room is cheerfully eclectic, with old/new, American/Greek and beautiful/tacky furnishings rubbing elbows everywhere. Also rubbing elbows are a dozen or so guests: 'Drinks at Joe and Betty’s, Saturday afternoon' has turned out to be a full-tilt neighborhood get-together. In the doorway, Walt and Hilde exchange reassuring glances and squeeze each other’s hand before wading in.
A loud guest is holding court near the front picture-window:
“…so Bob,” he says, “he takes the chair and stacks it upside-down on top of the other chair, see? And then he goes looking for some twine to strap them together so he can load’em on top of the car. And when he comes back, what do you think had happened?”
“The goat?!” guesses another guest who has evidently been here for the first part of this story. The loud guest nods frantically, red-faced as he tries to keep from exploding in laughter before he can finish:
“The goat was—" Several other guests say it with him: “Trying to eat the cane bottoms off both the chairs!” Everyone roars.
Joe spots the Healys from across the room and makes his way through the crowd with the ease of a practiced host. He takes Walt’s left hand and Hilde’s right:
“Well, don’t just stand there, come on in and let me introduce you round to everybody.” Turning to the room, he shouts: “Hey everybody! These are the Healys, Walt and Hilda! They and their little girl just moved into the old Carlton place!”
“Glad to know ya!” booms the loud guest. Various people converge on the new arrivals, shaking their hands and patting Walt on the back. Those in the corners of the room wave before returning to their conversations, waiting to introduce themselves once things have calmed down. Joe hails a woman entering from the dining room:
“Hilda and Walt, meet my wife Betty. Betty: Hilda and Walt.”
“It’s Hilde, actually,” says Hilde, shaking the hostess’ hand. Betty is a good two inches taller than her husband, with gray eyes and a hairstyle which is not le dernier cri but suits her.
“Either or both of you like an old-fashioned?” she asks.
“That’s very kind of you, Betty,” Walt says. “I think one apiece would do nicely, don’t you Hilde?”
An hour or so later, Hilde, three-quarters of the way through her old-fashioned, is listening to Betty and another guest, Daphne, talk about new housing construction in the area.
“We had thought about a new house,” she comments, “but we really wished for someplace where the yard wasn’t still a muddy field.”
“Well, you were in luck,” Betty smiles down at her. “This is a very nice street and the Carlton place is a lovely little house for a small family.”
“Are you and Walt planning on any more children?” Daphne breaks in. Hilde gives her a brittle smile.
“We shall have to see what comes,” she begins, then decides to damn the torpedoes: “Anna is our daughter by adoption.”
“Darling,” gushes Daphne, “that is so good of you.”
Hilde downs the rest of her old-fashioned.
“Goodness had nothing to do with it,” she states. “We wanted a child and I could not bear one; Anna needed parents and had none. Adopting her was a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Oh well, you know what I mean,” begins Daphne in confusion, but Hilde is glad to have flustered her. Betty steps in:
“Daphne, dear, you’re getting a bit tipsy?” To Hilde she whispers: “She can be a bit sentimental when she’s had a couple of cocktails, but she doesn’t mean to be forward.”
Hilde has decided she likes Betty, and for her sake is willing to let Daphne off the hook:
“Never fear,” she says. “I was not embarrassed. But you were telling me before about the old farmer, Mr. Brown?”
“Yes!” exclaims her hostess, grateful for the offer of a topic-change: “Well, farmer Brown sold his property, and…”
A loud guest is holding court near the front picture-window:
“…so Bob,” he says, “he takes the chair and stacks it upside-down on top of the other chair, see? And then he goes looking for some twine to strap them together so he can load’em on top of the car. And when he comes back, what do you think had happened?”
“The goat?!” guesses another guest who has evidently been here for the first part of this story. The loud guest nods frantically, red-faced as he tries to keep from exploding in laughter before he can finish:
“The goat was—" Several other guests say it with him: “Trying to eat the cane bottoms off both the chairs!” Everyone roars.
Joe spots the Healys from across the room and makes his way through the crowd with the ease of a practiced host. He takes Walt’s left hand and Hilde’s right:
“Well, don’t just stand there, come on in and let me introduce you round to everybody.” Turning to the room, he shouts: “Hey everybody! These are the Healys, Walt and Hilda! They and their little girl just moved into the old Carlton place!”
“Glad to know ya!” booms the loud guest. Various people converge on the new arrivals, shaking their hands and patting Walt on the back. Those in the corners of the room wave before returning to their conversations, waiting to introduce themselves once things have calmed down. Joe hails a woman entering from the dining room:
“Hilda and Walt, meet my wife Betty. Betty: Hilda and Walt.”
“It’s Hilde, actually,” says Hilde, shaking the hostess’ hand. Betty is a good two inches taller than her husband, with gray eyes and a hairstyle which is not le dernier cri but suits her.
“Either or both of you like an old-fashioned?” she asks.
“That’s very kind of you, Betty,” Walt says. “I think one apiece would do nicely, don’t you Hilde?”
An hour or so later, Hilde, three-quarters of the way through her old-fashioned, is listening to Betty and another guest, Daphne, talk about new housing construction in the area.
“We had thought about a new house,” she comments, “but we really wished for someplace where the yard wasn’t still a muddy field.”
“Well, you were in luck,” Betty smiles down at her. “This is a very nice street and the Carlton place is a lovely little house for a small family.”
“Are you and Walt planning on any more children?” Daphne breaks in. Hilde gives her a brittle smile.
“We shall have to see what comes,” she begins, then decides to damn the torpedoes: “Anna is our daughter by adoption.”
“Darling,” gushes Daphne, “that is so good of you.”
Hilde downs the rest of her old-fashioned.
“Goodness had nothing to do with it,” she states. “We wanted a child and I could not bear one; Anna needed parents and had none. Adopting her was a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Oh well, you know what I mean,” begins Daphne in confusion, but Hilde is glad to have flustered her. Betty steps in:
“Daphne, dear, you’re getting a bit tipsy?” To Hilde she whispers: “She can be a bit sentimental when she’s had a couple of cocktails, but she doesn’t mean to be forward.”
Hilde has decided she likes Betty, and for her sake is willing to let Daphne off the hook:
“Never fear,” she says. “I was not embarrassed. But you were telling me before about the old farmer, Mr. Brown?”
“Yes!” exclaims her hostess, grateful for the offer of a topic-change: “Well, farmer Brown sold his property, and…”
* * * * *
The house is full of people and the weather is warm, and some of the guests have retreated to the back porch and yard to smoke and chat in a cooler and slightly quieter atmosphere. The babble of the main party is still audible through the screen door. Walt is sitting on the porch steps. He has removed his jacket and rolled up his cuffs. A man who was introduced to him earlier as Harvey from down the street is talking to him about his new home’s previous owner.
“The widow Carlton was a wonderful gardener,” Harvey says. “You won’t have to do too much work on the soil in your front and back yard, just keep up what she started, and you ought to be able to grow anything that will grow in this part of the world.
“Looking forward to it,” Walt replies, “I think,” he asks Harvey, “there’s already some herbs Mrs. Carlton left growing out back?”
“Most like,” Harvey nods sagely. “I know she had an herb garden and those are usually perennials. Just make sure the chives don’t get out of hand, if there are any.”
“Or the mint,” interrupts another guest. “Don’t get me started about mint— I sometimes tell the wife we should just have the whole front lawn made of mint instead of grass. Take it from me,” he concludes. “You can’t. Kill. Mint.”
“So what did Mrs. Carlton lay down?” Walt asks, making a mental note to check the herb garden for mint and if necessary, to put a sanitary cordon around it. “I mean, what ought I to do to keep up what she started?” Harvey leans forward and whispers:
“Fish.”
“Fish?”
“As fertilizer,” says Harvey. The mint-fearing man nods in agreement. “After you go fishing or have’em for dinner, you throw the scraps, skin, bones, guts into the raised beds. Wait a few days till the maggots come out and then you cover it all with a little dirt.”
Walt feels a little sick.
“Worried about the smell?” Harvey asks cheerfully. “I guess in that case you can bury’em before they rot, maybe sprinkle a little lime. Will slow things down a bit but won’t make much difference in the end.”
“We also have a cat,” says Walt. “Won’t she try and dig’em up?”
“Oh, in that case,” says the mint man.
“Maybe some fish emulsion instead,” offers Harvey.
“Or bone meal. Blood meal.”
“I never realized gardening was so gory,” says Walt. Everyone else laughs as though he’s made a witty jest, and Harvey slaps him on the back. “You’re a real card, Walt.”
“The widow Carlton was a wonderful gardener,” Harvey says. “You won’t have to do too much work on the soil in your front and back yard, just keep up what she started, and you ought to be able to grow anything that will grow in this part of the world.
“Looking forward to it,” Walt replies, “I think,” he asks Harvey, “there’s already some herbs Mrs. Carlton left growing out back?”
“Most like,” Harvey nods sagely. “I know she had an herb garden and those are usually perennials. Just make sure the chives don’t get out of hand, if there are any.”
“Or the mint,” interrupts another guest. “Don’t get me started about mint— I sometimes tell the wife we should just have the whole front lawn made of mint instead of grass. Take it from me,” he concludes. “You can’t. Kill. Mint.”
“So what did Mrs. Carlton lay down?” Walt asks, making a mental note to check the herb garden for mint and if necessary, to put a sanitary cordon around it. “I mean, what ought I to do to keep up what she started?” Harvey leans forward and whispers:
“Fish.”
“Fish?”
“As fertilizer,” says Harvey. The mint-fearing man nods in agreement. “After you go fishing or have’em for dinner, you throw the scraps, skin, bones, guts into the raised beds. Wait a few days till the maggots come out and then you cover it all with a little dirt.”
Walt feels a little sick.
“Worried about the smell?” Harvey asks cheerfully. “I guess in that case you can bury’em before they rot, maybe sprinkle a little lime. Will slow things down a bit but won’t make much difference in the end.”
“We also have a cat,” says Walt. “Won’t she try and dig’em up?”
“Oh, in that case,” says the mint man.
“Maybe some fish emulsion instead,” offers Harvey.
“Or bone meal. Blood meal.”
“I never realized gardening was so gory,” says Walt. Everyone else laughs as though he’s made a witty jest, and Harvey slaps him on the back. “You’re a real card, Walt.”
* * * * *
It’s coming on to suppertime now, and the cocktail party is winding down, though Joe and Betty seem in no hurry to send anyone away. Walt is listening to the tale of their meeting and courtship in the face of Betty’s parents’ refusal to countenance a Greek son-in-law:
“They’re not speaking to her anymore,” Joe says with a sad shrug. “Except her brother, he was on our side. Held the ladder for us. They’ve since kicked him out too.” He smiles unexpectedly: “He lives in Greenwich Village now with his friend. So… what about you and Hilde? Anyone try to stop you two on grounds of race or religion?”
“Wasn’t anyone to make a fuss. Neither of us have any close family living.”
“That’s a crying shame,” says Joe. He hesitates a moment, then asks: “What happened to yours?”
“Well, it was only ever me and my folks, God rest’em.”
At this Joe looks surprised: “You’re an Irish Catholic, and an only child?” Walt shrugs:
“Ma died when I was pretty young, so that put an end to that.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
Walt begins to feel embarrassed at putting his host on the spot, but the fellow will keep asking questions.
“Was your pa a good one, at least?” Joe continues.
“That he was.”
At this, Joe promptly grows cheerful again:
“Well that’s something anyway.” He raises his glass: “To your pa!”
Walt raises his: “My Da. And to your folks.” He takes a swallow and adds: “And confusion to Betty’s folks, except her brother and his friend.”
Joe laughs.
“They’re not speaking to her anymore,” Joe says with a sad shrug. “Except her brother, he was on our side. Held the ladder for us. They’ve since kicked him out too.” He smiles unexpectedly: “He lives in Greenwich Village now with his friend. So… what about you and Hilde? Anyone try to stop you two on grounds of race or religion?”
“Wasn’t anyone to make a fuss. Neither of us have any close family living.”
“That’s a crying shame,” says Joe. He hesitates a moment, then asks: “What happened to yours?”
“Well, it was only ever me and my folks, God rest’em.”
At this Joe looks surprised: “You’re an Irish Catholic, and an only child?” Walt shrugs:
“Ma died when I was pretty young, so that put an end to that.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
Walt begins to feel embarrassed at putting his host on the spot, but the fellow will keep asking questions.
“Was your pa a good one, at least?” Joe continues.
“That he was.”
At this, Joe promptly grows cheerful again:
“Well that’s something anyway.” He raises his glass: “To your pa!”
Walt raises his: “My Da. And to your folks.” He takes a swallow and adds: “And confusion to Betty’s folks, except her brother and his friend.”
Joe laughs.
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Date: 2019-06-21 08:30 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2019-06-22 12:06 am (UTC)From:I suspect, from the number of ads for digestion pills I’ve seen in old magazines, that there were a lot of undiagnosed non-lethal allergies and food sensitivities in earlier times, but I figure anyone with anaphylactic-type stuff likely died the first time they had a reaction.
I’m still trying to figure out Anna’s exact back story, but I imagine she’s pretty hardy or she wouldn’t have lasted until the Healys met her.
no subject
Date: 2019-06-22 09:44 am (UTC)From:(Also, I now finally, after I-don't-know-how-many years, have context for the old joke that begins, "I say, do you have Prince Albert in a can?"...)
no subject
Date: 2019-06-22 09:56 am (UTC)From: