One Friday afternoon she left school with a great armful of books. They had to write an English composition for Monday and she had taken some volumes from the school library for reference. He might have offered to carry them for her, but he hadn’t. Instead he went to work—and there had been no other colored boys on the corner waiting for her as she went out. Now he could have kicked himself for his neglect, he thought, as he cleaned the rear room of Mr. Prentiss’s gift-card shop. Suddenly he dropped the broom with which he was sweeping, grabbed his cap, and left the place, for the desire to make friends with Pansetta possessed him more fiercely than ever, and he no longer cared about his work.
“I’m going to see her right now,” he thought, “before I go home to supper. Gee, but I’m ashamed of the way I’ve treated her.”
On the way to Pansetta’s house the lawns looked fresh and green and on some of them tulips were blooming. The late afternoon sky was aglow with sunset. Little boys were out in the streets with marbles and tops, and little girls were jumping rope on the sidewalks. Workmen were coming home, empty dinner-pails in their hands, and a band of Negro laborers passed Sandy, singing softly together.
“I must hurry,” the boy thought. “It will soon be our suppertime.” He ran until he was at Pansetta’s house—then came the indecision: Should he go in? Or not go in? He was ashamed of his treatment of her and embarrassed. Should he go on by as if he had not meant to call? Suppose she shut the door in his face! Or, worse, suppose she asked him to stay awhile! Should he stay? What Tempy had said didn’t matter any more. He wanted to be friends with Pansetta again. He wanted her to know he still liked her and wanted to walk home with her. But how could he say it? Had she seen him from the window? Maybe he could turn around and go back, and see her Monday at school.
“No! I’m not a coward,” he declared. “Afraid of a girl! I’ll walk right up on the front porch and knock!” But the small house looked very quiet and the lace curtains were tightly drawn together at the windows. … He knocked again. Maybe there was no one home. … Yes, he heard somebody.
Finally Pansetta peeped through the curtains of the glass in the front door. Then she opened the door and smiled surprisingly, her hair mussed and her creamy-brown skin pink from the warm blood pulsing just under the surface. Her eyes were dark and luminous, and her lips were moist and red.
“It’s Sandy!” she said, turning to address someone inside the front room.
“O, come in, old man,” a boy’s voice called in a tone of forced welcome, and Sandy saw Jimmy Lane sitting on the couch adjusting his collar self-consciously. “How’s everything, old scout?”
“All right,” Sandy stammered. “Say, Pansy, I—I—Do you know—I mean, what is the subject we’re supposed to write on for English Monday? I must of forgotten to take it down.”
“Why, ‘A Trip to Shakespeare’s England.’ That’s easy to remember, silly. You must have been asleep. … Won’t you sit down?”
“No, thanks, I’ve—I guess I got to get back to supper.”
“Jesus!” cried Jimmy, jumping up from the sofa. “Is it that late? I’m due on bells at six o’clock. Wait a minute, Sandy, and I’ll walk up with you as far as the hotel. Boy, I’m behind time!” He picked up his coat from the floor, and Pansetta held it for him while he thrust his arms into the sleeves, glancing around meanwhile for his cap, which lay among the sofa-pillows. Then he kissed the girl carelessly on the lips as he slid one arm familiarly around her waist.
“So long, baby,” he said, and the two boys went out. On the porch Jimmy lit a cigarette and passed the pack to Sandy.
Jimmy Lane looked and acted as if he were much older than his companion, but Jimmy had been out of school several years, and hopping bells taught a fellow a great deal more about life than books did—and also about women. Besides, he was supporting himself now, which gave him an air of independence that boys who still lived at home didn’t have.
When they had walked about a block, the bellboy said carelessly: “Pansetta can go! Can’t she, man?”
“I don’t know,” said Sandy.
“Aw, boy, you’re lying,” Jimmy Lane returned. “Don’t try to hand me that kid stuff! You had her for a year, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Sandy slowly, “but not like you mean.”
“Stop kidding,” Jimmy insisted.
“No, honest, I never touched her that way,” the boy said. “I never was at her house before.”
Jimmy opened his mouth astonished. “What!” he exclaimed, “and her old lady out working till eight and nine every night! Say, Sandy, we’re friends, but you’re either just a big liar—or else a God damn fool!” He threw his cigarette away and put both hands in his pockets. “Pansetta’s easy as hell, man!”
XXVIII
Chicago
Chicago, IL
May 16, 1918Dear Sandy:
Have just come home from work and am very tired but thought I would write you this letter right now while I had time and wasn’t sleepy. You are a big boy and I think you can be of some help to me. I don’t want you to stay in Stanton any longer as a burden on your Aunt Tempy. She says in her letters you have begun to stay out late nights and not pay her any mind. You ought to be with your mother now because you are all she has since
