Suds In Your Eye (3 page)

Some of the people were asking each other questions about the lesson, a few were writing things on the blackboard, and the rest were just visiting with each other. Mrs. Feeley was astonished to see the difference in the ages of the members of the class. That bald-headed old duffer with the pink cheeks is ninety if he’s a day, she thought. An’ that nice young feller over there looks like a college boy. Six sailors. Two marines. That couple over there must be man an’ wife; a handsome pair they are, too. Lots of old maids. Funny how you can always tell, ain’t it? Damned if she didn’t believe that short woman over there with the glasses was the Woman Evangelist who had held such a noisy revival a few weeks back on the vacant lot near the junk yard!’

Before Mrs. Feeley could finish taking inventory, a small energetic-looking girl with a gay expression came in and set a briefcase down on the teacher’s desk. Miss Tinkham murmured in Mrs. Feeley’s ear:

‘That’s Miss Logan, our teacher!’

‘Gawd!’ Mrs. Feeley whispered back. ‘Ain’t she pretty? No bigger’n a sparrow! Young, too, to be teachin’ all them old fossils!’ Miss Logan started down the row on her evening routine of chat and inquiry before the bell should ring to start class officially.

‘How are you this evening, Miss Tinkham? And how is the housing problem coming along?’

‘Oh, things will work themselves out somehow! But right now I want you to meet our lovely guest, Mrs. Feeley. This is Miss Logan, our dear patient teacher.’

Mrs. Feeley liked the firm little clasp of Miss Logan’s hand. Gawd deliver her from a fishy handshake! When Miss Logan smiled at her, Mrs. Feeley was well on her way toward taking up Spanish in earnest.

‘I hope you will like what we do here, and maybe learn a little something on the side,’ the teacher was saying when the bell rang.

There was a great scuffing of papers and fluttering of textbooks while the class settled down.

‘The grammar portion of this evening’s lesson is devoted to the subject of gender. How many genders are there in the Spanish language?’

After the very deaf Greek gentleman had answered to the teacher’s satisfaction, one of the marines held up his hand for a question.

‘Se
ñ
orita,’ he rumbled, ‘it says here the word for chalk is feminine. What I want to know is how the heck a person can tell if a piece of chalk is masculine or feminine?’

The roar that followed the question drowned out the teacher’s answer, and it was several minutes before order was restored. Mrs. Feeley joined heartily in the laughter. This was much better than she had hoped for.

‘Abren sus libros de lectura,’ the teacher commanded, and they all opened their readers.

‘Se
ñ
ora McSparry, lea Vd. por favor.’

And Mrs. McSparry read aloud in a language she fondly imagined was Spanish. Her voice rose at the end of every syllable, giving a weird hiccupy effect to her already far from accurate rendition.

Mrs. Feeley turned in her chair to see who was doing the job so badly. ‘Gawd! Clatters like a magpie, she does!’ Mrs. Feeley muttered out of the corner of her mouth. She thought she caught a glint of hearty agreement in the teacher’s eye, but she couldn’t be sure.

Mrs. McSparry had finished what she called reading and began to relate as was her nightly custom some further details of her walking trip along the beach from Tia Juana to Ensenada. Some of the class made faces. One of the sailors wiggled his finger in the neighborhood of his forehead in what Mrs. Feeley considered a very cute way. Mrs. Feeley decided Mrs. McSparry was a froward, pushing old hen.

Miss Logan herded her flock back onto the lesson and after several others had recited, Mrs. Feeley decided she had been out of things long enough. She raised her hand as she had seen the others do, and expressed the opinion that the class might like to learn to say ‘It is hot’ and ‘It is cold.’ Miss Logan assured her that review of any sort was always beneficial.

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Feeley, ‘“much-oh galore” means it’s hot, and “much-oh freeze-oh” means it’s cold!’

Miss Logan said that was very good indeed; Miss Tinkham was practically bursting with pride in her protégée. A bell rang in the corridor and the teacher announced: ‘Al recreo! Pass to recess!’

Part of the second hour was devoted to writing dictation on the blackboard. When that was finished Miss Logan began dictating a list of proverbs to be memorized. She explained them, too.

‘The Moors and their language had a far-reaching effect on the Spanish language. As you know, the Moors were a violently jealous race. Shakespeare used the proverbial Moorish jealousy as the theme of
Othello
. From this Moorish jealousy and distrust of women the Spaniards got their ideas about keeping the women shut up closely at home very much as the Moors kept their women closely guarded in the harem. That explains the origin of this proverb, which in translation means, “A woman or a hen; keep them at home with a broken leg.”’

The class smiled back at the teacher in appreciation; she made everything so clear and simple.

‘Yeup! Yeup!’ chirped Mrs. Feeley. ‘Just what Mr. Feeley always used to say: Keep ’em barefooted an’ knocked up!’

When Miss Logan could finally make herself heard over the ensuing bedlam, she said only two words:

‘Class dismissed!’

‘S
AY,
there’s a light in Mrs. Rasmussen’s window!’ Mrs. Feeley stopped in front of the gate. ‘You just wait here a minute an’ I’ll see if she wants to walk over to my place an’ have a beer with us! I’m spittin’ cotton after all that studyin’!’

Miss Tinkham welcomed the prospect of beer to steady her nerves. She still hadn’t decided whether or not that last sally of Mrs. Feeley’s had been quite in good taste. Before she had time to decide the issue, Mrs. Feeley returned with a neat, medium-sized woman in tow. They were just coming out the gate when a slatternly girl of about twenty stuck her head out the door and shattered the lovely night with a voice like a peacock.

‘Yer not goin’ off anywheres this time o’ night, are yuh, Maw? You know Elmer don’t hold with drinkin’! He don’t like it when you come home tipsy like you do every time you go with her! Don’t you be a mite after ten o’clock or you’ll find the door locked!’

With Olympian calm both Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen ignored the virago.

‘Mrs. Rasmussen, I’ll make you acquainted with my friend, Miss Tinkham!’

‘So pleased to know you, dear lady!’ said Miss Tinkham warmly. ‘Mrs. Feeley has told me so much about you!’ In her cordiality Miss Tinkham appeared to forget that until that very morning she had never laid eyes on Mrs. Feeley before.

‘Likewise,’ returned Mrs. Rasmussen politely.

‘Well, let’s get under way! Time’s a-wastin’. The inside o’ my mouth feels like the bottom of a parrot cage!’ Mrs. Feeley led the way, charging ahead like a tugboat.

‘Let’s stop here a minute,’ said Mrs. Rasmussen, pausing in front of a small corner grocery store. ‘I’ll just get some o’ them hard rolls an’ a chunk o’ salammy to bring with! Go good with the beer!’

The other two walked along slowly until she caught up with them.

‘My daughter an’ her husband don’t like no hard bread; won’t let me have rye hardtack in the house. Say it’s too much like foreigners,’ Mrs. Rasmussen was explaining to Miss Tinkham.

‘Shows how much they know!’ snorted Mrs. Feeley, the cosmopolitan, flinging open the screen door.

‘Miss Tinkham, you give us a tune, if you ain’t too tired, while me an’ Mrs. Rasmussen fixes a Dutch lunch.’

‘Delighted, ladies! I’m simply starved for a piano!’ And without more ado she began a spirited rendition of ‘The Turkish Patrol.’

Mrs. Feeley wagered Mrs. Rasmussen that ten would get her five that wasn’t all the poor thing was starved for! Mrs. Rasmussen looked back over her shoulder at the pianist, and nodded sympathetically.

‘And her such a lady, too,’ she said, spreading butter extra thick on a poppy-seed roll, making a mental note to be sure Miss Tinkham got that one.

The salami was sliced and put on a plate. Mrs. Feeley came over with three avocados in her hand and asked Mrs. Rasmussen to cut them in half. She placed a bottle of hot green chili peppers in vinegar on the tray and salt and pepper shakers also. Reaching up to a high shelf she brought down a large tin of sardines, which she slid across the table to Mrs. Rasmussen. It was evident that these two worthies had prepared more than one Dutch lunch together; they worked silently and efficiently, without a single wasted word or movement. They were saving up all their emotions for that dazzling moment when the first tingling, sharp, tangy draught of beer would prickle against their palates.

‘Chow down!’ shouted Mrs. Feeley jovially to Miss Tinkham, as she set a basket of pretzels on the
table. Miss Tinkham noted with delight a dish of hard-boiled eggs. If there was anything she loved it was a hard-boiled egg; but she didn’t dare boil the kind of eggs she could afford.

The ladies set to with a will. They advised Miss Tinkham to be sure to try a drop of pepper sauce in her avocado. Mrs. Feeley urged sardines and some cheese on her. This, Miss Tinkham thought, is life! Real throbbing life! What was it Cicero had called friends? Her Latin was a little hazy after all these years, but she thought it was something like ‘life’s best, life’s fairest furniture.’

‘Nothin’ like a bite to eat to make us shut up,’ Mrs. Feeley cackled. ‘You sure can’t whistle an’ lick meal!’

She moved her chair back a bit from the table.

‘Mighty tasty,’ Mrs. Rasmussen added. ‘Beer sure hits the spot!’ She turned to Miss Tinkham: ‘You know, this is the only chance I get for a sup o’ beer, ’cept when I can sneak off into a bar downtown! My daughter an’ her husband is death on drinkin’!’

‘Narrow-minded people are to be found everywhere,’ Miss Tinkham replied profoundly.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if they was supportin’ me, but I pay ’em twenty big round dollars every month for my board an’ keep, an’ what do I get? The chance to stay home an’ mind them kids is what I get! An’ a chance to help with the washin’! An’ beans, beans, navy beans! It’s worse, seems like, ’cause she’s my own daughter; she orta know how I cooked home all the time when Mister was alive! But I never could do nothin’ with her! Then her an’ Elmer got interested in this here New Thought an’ seems like they just got tackier an’ tackier by the minute! I like things nice, myself; an’ without nobody pokin’ an’ pryin’ all the time! If I do go on a little toot for myself, it ain’t nobody’s business!’

Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley agreed heartily. They were on their third beer now and were beginning to pool their collective grievances.

‘I’m thinkin’ serious about movin’ into a place o’ my own,’ Mrs. Rasmussen continued. ‘Now that rooms is so scarce, my daughter won’t have no trouble rentin’ that cubbyhole to a defense worker. Only thing, I might hop outa the fryin’-pan into the fire with rooms scarce as hen’s teeth!’

‘That’s how come I got acquainted with Miss Tinkham here; she was lookin’ for rooms,’ Mrs. Feeley put in.

‘I am not a pessimist by nature, ladies, but this time it really looks as though I should have to look for a place farther out of town,’ Miss Tinkham said mournfully. ‘I love the convenience of living right in town close to the center of things; it cuts down the carfare, too! There are some cabins quite far out that belong to a friend of mine, and I think she can be prevailed upon to rent me one. It will mean not being able to attend the organ recitals in the park, and giving up all the lovely meetings and evening high school! But one can’t have everything, can one?’ And she finished her beer with a little sigh.

‘’Least you can come an’ go as you please,’ Mrs. Rasmussen reminded her. ‘The idea o’ her hollerin’ at us like that!’ Clearly that last scene with her daughter still rankled.

‘Aw, her!’ said Mrs. Feeley scornfully. ‘She envies you, that’s all! An’ don’t know what to do about it! She’ll never be half the woman her ma is!’ This remark was in the nature of a toast, and they all drank to Mrs. Rasmussen.

Miss Tinkham really did admire her hair. The sides were done in tier upon tier of curls that looked like underdone sausages, that funny brindle color. The top was tortured into symmetrical grooves like corrugated tin. Mrs. Rasmussen was clearly not the type to let herself go. In turn, she complimented Miss Tinkham on her playing, and Mrs. Feeley on her good heart and wonderful disposition. By the fourth beer, the snack had turned into a love feast; Miss Tinkham could scarcely remember a time when she had not known these boon companions. Mrs. Feeley repaired to the bathroom and came back carrying her corset in her hand.

‘Now maybe I’ll be able to drink a little beer,’ she said.

One by one the ladies paid their respects to the throne-room. They had just settled down with fresh beer, and Miss Tinkham was giving them a rather spotty but highly saccharine version of ‘Liebestraum,’ when someone knocked at the screen door.

‘Is my mother in there?’ It was the whiny voice of Mrs. Rasmussen’s unlovely daughter. She was accompanied by her even less prepossessing husband.

A chill spread through the convivial air.

Mrs. Feeley gestured toward the table with her head. She did not deign to acknowledge their presence by a word.

‘It’s after ten, Maw! You come on home!’