She went on out of the room, and down the stairs. I sat forward on the bed, studying myself in the dresser mirror. I certainly looked a fright. My eyes were all red and my face blotched, and my nose swollen up like a sweet potato. I hadn't put up my hair last night either. And now, what with the heat and my nervous sweating, it was as limp and drab-looking as a dishrag.
I went to the bathroom, soaked my face in cold water and dabbed it with astringent. Then, I took a nice long lukewarm bath, putting up my hair as I sat in the tub.
I tried to tell myself that I hadn't said anything out of the way to Mama, that she'd certainly never done much of anything else for me, and that it was no more than right that she should do this. I told myself that- those things- and I guess there was a lot of truth to it. But still I began to feel awful bad-awful ashamed of myself. She'd always done as much for me as she could, I guessed. It wasn't her fault that Papa had just about taken everything out of her that she had to do with.
There was last spring, for example, when I graduated from high school; she'd gone way out on a limb to help me then. To try to help me, I should say. I'd told her that she simply couldn't let Papa come to the graduation exercises. I'd simply
'You know how it'll be, Mama,' I said, kind of crying and storming. 'He won't be dressed right, and he'll go around snorting and sneering and being sarcastic to the other parents, and-and just acting as awful as he knows how! I just won't go if he goes, Mama! I'd be so embarrassed I'd sink right through the floor!'
Well, Mama mumbled and massaged her hands together and looked bewildered. She said it really wasn't right for me to feel that way about Papa; and maybe she could drop him a few hints so that he'd look nice and behave himself.
'I don't hardly know what else I can do,' she said. 'He means to go, and I don't see how-'
'I told you how, Mama!' I said. 'You can pretend like you're sick, and you don't want to be left alone. You can do it just as well as not, and you know it!'
Mama mumbled and massaged her hands some more. She said she guessed she could do what I was asking, but she'd sure hate to. 'He'd be awfully disappointed, girl. He'd try to cover it up, but he would be.'
'I just bet he would!' I said. 'Naturally, he'd be disappointed missing a chance to make me feel nervous and cheap. I just can't stand it if he goes, Mama!'
'But it means so much to him, girl,' Mama said. 'You see, he hardly had any education himself, not even as much as I did. Now, to have his own daughter graduating from high school, why-'
'Oh, pooh!' I said. 'I won't go if he goes, Mama! I'll run away from home! I'll-I'll k-kill myself! I'll…'
I really ranted and raved on. I'd been feeling awfully upset and nervous anyway, because I'd just started going with Bobbie Ashton at the time, and he wasn't nice to me like he is now, and-but never mind that. That was a long time ago, and I don't like to think it ever even happened. Anyway, to get back to the subject, I kept insisting that Papa just couldn't go to the graduation exercises. I ranted and raved and cried until finally Mama gave in.
She agreed to play sick, and keep Papa at home.
She was upstairs in bed that evening when he came in. I was out in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. I heard him come through the living room and dining room. I could feel those eyes of his boring into the back of my neck as he stood in the kitchen doorway. He didn't say anything. Just stood there staring at me. I dropped a spoon to the floor, I was so nervous and scared, and when I picked it up I had to turn away from the stove. Facing him.
I really didn't recognize him for a second, actually. I really didn't. He'd changed clothes down at the pavilion, and the way he was dressed now, well, I just didn't think he
He was wearing a brand new blue suit, a real stylish one. He had on a new hat, too-a gray Homburg-and new black dress shoes-the first he'd ever worn, I guess- and a new white shirt, and a tie that matched his suit. He looked so smart and kind of distinguished that I actually didn't know him for a second. I was so surprised that I almost forgot to be scared.
'W-why-why, Papa,' I stammered. 'Why-where-' He grinned, looking embarrassed. 'Stopped by a rummage sale,' he said gruffly. 'Picked this up while I was there, too.'
He pushed a little package at me. I fumbled it open, and there was a velvet box inside. And inside the box was a wristwatch. A platinum wristwatch with diamonds in it.
I stared at it; I told him thank you, I guess. But if I'd had the nerve I'd've told him something else. I might have even thrown the watch at him.
You see, I'd been hinting for a watch for months-hinting as much as a person dares to with Papa. And all he'd ever do was just laugh or grunt and laugh at me. He'd say things like, well, what the hell do you want a watch for? Or, what you need is a good alarm clock. Or, them damned wristwatches ain't nothing but junk.
That's the way he talked, acted, and all the time he was planning to buy me a watch.
All the time he was planning on buying these new clothes, dressing himself up so people would hardly know him.
'Here's something else,' he said, tossing a glassine-topped box on the table. A box with an orchid in it. 'Stole it out at the graveyard.'
I said thank you again-I guess. I was so mixed up, mad and not mad-kind of ashamed-and nervous and scared, that I don't know what I said. Or whether I actually said anything, really.
'Where's your mother?' he said. 'Didn't throw herself out with the trash, did she?'
'S-she's upstairs,' I said. 'She-she's 1-lying-'
'Lyin' about what?' He laughed; broke off suddenly. 'What's the matter? Spit it out! She ain't sick, is she?'
I nodded, said, yes, that she was sick. I'd been working myself up to saying it all day, and now it just popped out before I could stop it.
Anyway, what else could I have said? Mama wouldn't know that I didn't want her to play sick now- that I'd just as soon she didn't. If I tried to change our story, it might get her into trouble with Papa. Get us both in trouble.
Well, naturally I looked awfully pale and dragged-out. And, of course, he thought I looked that way on account of Mama. He cursed, turning a little pale himself.
'What's the matter with her?' he said. 'When'd she take sick? Why didn't you call me? What'd the Doc say about her?'
'N-nothing,' I stammered. 'I-I d-don't think she's very sick, Papa.'
'Think?' he said. 'You mean you ain't called the doctor? Your mother's sick in bed, and-For God's sake!'
He ran to the hall telephone, and called Doctor Ashton. Told him to get over to the house as fast as he could. Then he started upstairs, hurrying but kind of dragging his feet, too.
The doctor arrived. Papa came back downstairs, and out into the kitchen where I was. He paced back and forth, nervously, cursing and grumbling and asking questions.
'Goddammit,' he said, 'you ought to have called me. You ought to've called the doctor right away. I don't know why the hell you-'
'P-papa,' I said. 'I d-don't think-I mean, I'm sure she's not very sick.'
'How the hell would you know?' He cursed again. Then he said, 'What the hell does she have to go and get sick for? She ain't had a sick day in twenty years, so why does she got to do it now?'
'Papa…'
