We Five (14 page)

Carrie nodded. “It's true. Both Mag and Molly have had a peach of a grouch with each other since they got up this morning, and now they've taken to lashing out at people who've done nothing but wandered innocently into their presence. Mag, I don't believe, for example, that you ever thanked your uncle for these refreshing beverages.”

Maggie snorted. “Didn't I?” She shrugged. “Well, I don't remember one way or the other. My mind, as you already know, has been elsewhere. Besides, Uncle Whit probably didn't even notice. He generally preoccupies himself during our visits from behind his pharmacy-office window-blind, peering and leering at us as if we're the original Floradora girls.”

“
Mag
!” exclaimed Carrie, her hand quickly flying to her mouth in reaction to this low insult.

“It's true,” Maggie resumed. “And don't—none of you!—turn around and look at him. He'll know we're talking about him. Ruth Thrasher, did you make all that up about the photography outing just so we'll hustle ourselves over to the store?”

“Absolutely not. The agency men
are
coming. They'll be there at two. But whether they're coming or not, you've been most derelict and irresponsible—all three of you—in letting this spat keep you from your work.”

Maggie made as if she would contest this rebuke, but then surrendered and nodded with obvious contrition. “You'll be happy to know, Ruth, that Molly and I have come to terms. We've smoked the pipe of peace. I remain unhappy with this deuced marriage, but I've promised no longer to actively oppose it.”

Ruth turned to Molly for confirmation. Molly nodded.

Then Ruth exchanged a look with Carrie. “And what was it that
Molly
brought to the armistice table?”

Molly spoke for herself: “A willingness to speak to Papa and ask if he might postpone the marriage for a while. Perhaps for a couple of years. Mag is right about one thing—”

“One very
big
thing,” put in Maggie.

“However you may wish to characterize it, Mag. Our parents
are
rushing into this marriage. They've planned nothing. They're like Romeo and Juliet making googly eyes at each from opposite sides of the ballroom. The postponement works very much to my father's benefit, because it gives Mag time to come around—to see that Papa
has
changed, that he isn't at all the man he used to be.”

Ruth curdled her forehead into a frown. “This doesn't smell right.”

Carrie laughed. She had tried to suppress it, but it came out none the less.

Ruth pointed at Carrie with an accusatory finger. “You
know
! Out with it! What's the
real
reason Molly's agreed to these previously unthinkable terms?”

Carrie laughed again. Her laughter was blubbery: little puffs of merriment escaping from behind wobbly, loosely compressed lips. “You should sit down, Ruth. Molly, go and get Ruth a sarsaparilla.”

“I don't want a sarsaparilla. I want the truth, and right this very moment, if you please.”

Carrie reached out and took Ruth's hand. “Ruth, dear. You are to go to Miss Colthurst who, as it has been said before, is immoderately fond of you, and who will do anything you ask, and you are to tell Miss Colthurst that Molly can't take another minute in that stuffy packer's warren above the ribbon shelves doing the work of a galley slave. She's to come down behind the counters and join the civilized world. It's the only decent thing to do.”

“But who will—”

Maggie answered the question Ruth wasn't given time to ask: “The cash girls are all being let go next week with the installation of all those bizarre and perfectly futuristic pneumatic tubes. Any one of those poor young things will be more than happy to take over Molly's job as packer in the ribbon department to keep herself on the Pemberton payroll.”

Ruth thought about this. “It's a lot to ask.”

Maggie shook her head, smiling pleasantly. (The very first smile of the morning from her.) “Is it too much to ask for such a helpful employee as yourself, Ruth, who knew exactly where her missing fellow salesclerks would be found loafing, and who will have heroically brought them back and saved the day for Pemberton, Day? Miss Colthurst cannot help but be exceedingly grateful—not that she isn't already—”

“—
immoderately fond of me
. The next one of you who utters this phrase will get a crowning with whatever I can find nearby that is hard and heavy and bound to crack the skull!”

“Why
is
she so fond of you?” asked Molly, setting her empty glass on the tray with the others.

“It beats me,” said Ruth. “Perhaps she likes orphans.” Ruth rose from the table along with her three sisters. “Well, of course I'll ask her. I've always hated it that Molly has to spend the whole day toiling away up in that stuffy, cramped little loft.”

Molly could not help herself. She got up from her chair and planted a kiss upon Ruth's soon-to-be-blushing cheek.

“Isn't it nice how things sometimes work out?” Molly asked. “And on top of it all, we're going to be fashion models! I've always wanted to be a fashion model.”

“Only if we're selected,” cautioned Ruth. “There are other pretty girls working at Pemberton, Day who are also to be considered.”

“Pretty, yes, but not nearly as pretty as
we
are,” said Molly. “It's what Mag said earlier. And you'll get no argument from any of those agency men. Look at how Mag's uncle gawps at us. Like we're the most beautiful girls he's ever seen.”

“It's unnerving. Creepy,” commented Ruth, catching the pharmacist out of the corner of her eye. Maggie's Uncle Whit was indeed looking in their direction—and quite absorbedly.

“Yes,” said Maggie. “But he really
is
harmless. It wasn't a roving eye that broke up his marriage to my aunt. It was his addiction to Heroin-Hydrochloride cough elixir. Which reminds me that I really
should
thank him for opening the fountain to us before hours. I'll only be a moment.”

Maggie strode back to her uncle's office at the rear of the drugstore. Observing her approach through its little window, he flung open the door to admit her before she'd even had opportunity to knock.

“Uncle Whit, we want to thank you so much for all your hospitality this morning. We must be going along to work now, but you were such a peach to let us sit here for nearly an hour.”

Uncle Whit had a ready smile on his round, almost cherubic face. His eyes were veined and red with bloodshot from his various addictions, most of which robbed him of consistent (and restorative) sleep; but otherwise his noxious habits took little noticeable toll upon his body or countenance. (And Maggie had always been astonished by how much energy he seemed to have.) “Have you worked things out with your friend Molly?” he asked with warm solicitude. “I couldn't help overhearing bits and pieces. Does this mean your mother
won't
be marrying Molly's father?”

“Not for the time being, at least. We're going to convince them to delay the nuptials.”

“Perhaps ‘no nuptials at all' would be the better course. Are you aware that Dr. Osborne practices both the medical and dental arts without a proper license?”

“I knew he wasn't a qualified physician. I
didn't
know that he shouldn't be practicing dentistry either. That's an intriguing discovery.”

“
And
he drinks. I've never met a hard-drinking man who didn't come to a bad end.”

“Nor have I, Uncle. Including my own father. But you already know everything there is to know about
that.
”

Uncle Whit nodded. “Before you go, Niece, I have something to give you. One of my fountain customers accidentally left it behind yesterday. I don't know a thing about her, except that she said she was on her way to Oakland to catch a train for someplace in the East. Since I don't know where to send it, or whether she should ever be back here to collect it, I wanted
you
to have it.”

“What is it?”

“A book. She was reading it at the counter.” Uncle Whit opened a drawer to his desk and took out the book of mention.

Maggie accepted the volume from her uncle. “You are very kind to me, Uncle. In so many different ways.”

“I consider you my niece still. And do come back and see me again when you have the chance.”

“I will.” Maggie squeezed her uncle's hand.

“And bring all your pretty friends with you.”

“Yes, well, of course. Good morning, Uncle Whit.”

Once outside the drugstore, Maggie put the book into Ruth's hands without looking at it. “Uncle Whit knows a lot about me,” she said, “but he's apparently forgotten that I don't read for pleasure. You may have this—whatever it is.”

“Thank you, Mag,” said Ruth. As the four friends walked along California Street, Ruth opened the book to look at its title page. It was a novel with which Ruth was familiar, and she told this to Maggie.

“
A Florida Enchantment
,” said Molly, peering over Ruth's shoulder. “But you haven't read it yet?”

“No. But Miss Colthurst strongly recommended it,” replied Ruth, now leafing through its pages.

“What's it about?” asked Molly.

“A magic seed that when eaten changes a woman into a man and vice versa. Not outwardly, but inside.”

Maggie snorted. “Yes, I can see why Miss Colthurst would ‘strongly' recommend such a book.”

At that moment a cable car trundled noisily past. Ruth was given to think, as she sometimes did, of Maggie's father stepping in front of it and ending his life in an instant. Today she pictured Maggie in her father's place.

And didn't feel guilty at all.

Cain Pardlow was always the first to arrive at Dodsworth Hall on that one morning a week in which he and his four college pals were able to grab a late breakfast together. Only on Monday mornings did their various lecture and lab schedules open up for long enough (from ten to noon to be precise) to afford the five longtime friends the chance to graze coevally in Winnemac Agricultural and Mechanical College's revamped dining hall. (This semester marked the first time W A&M tried the relatively new “cafeteria dining concept,” which had been growing in popularity since the war.) Seated at their favorite table, they would trade stories from the week past, argue politics—national, state, and campus—and generally shoot a great deal of bull before being called away to afternoon classes covering such esoteric subjects as Cost Accounting, Mechanics of Trade, Machine Drawing, Agricultural Survey and Drainage, and Efficacies of Farm Manure.

Cain, the agricultural history student, had his unvarying “usual”: two cups of black coffee (Monarch—“Quality Seldom Equaled; Never Excelled”) and a bowl of Kellogg's Shredded Krumbles with strawberries and cream.

Pat Harrison, who was usually the next to show up—Pat, the science education major (at least this was the degree path that interested him
this
particular semester)—ate cereal, as well: Quaker Quakies corn flakes. And because they looked appealingly plump and succulent this morning, Pat also topped his cereal with strawberries and cream. Having always been taught by his father that caffein frayed the nerves and impaired the digestion, Pat drank Postum, and, to the amazement of his friends, was able to do so with little facial indication of his absolute revulsion for the gritty, pulpy beverage.

Today it was Tom Catts who arrived next. Tom appeared slightly bleary-eyed from an evening of getting himself stewed, if not to the eyebrows, then perhaps to a point just below the cheekbones. Tom had a fried egg sandwich—or at least he
bought
a fried egg sandwich—but because of the condition of his stomach, he was destined to spend most of the time just staring at it, occasionally peeling back the toast to see if the eggs had turned into anything remotely palatable. Tom was working toward a degree in the relatively new field of agricultural economics.

Next came Will (a.k.a. “William,” “Willy,” and “Willy-Boy,” but never “Billy”) Holborne, who was in the mood for bacon, and was provisioned that morning with a tall glass of orange juice and a plate piled high with nothing but crispy rashers of the aforementioned. There was a logical explanation for this beyond the fact that Will was terminally hungry. He was presently taking a class in pork production. Perhaps no further elaboration is necessary.

And making his wonted straggling appearance sometime around 10:30 was Jerry Castle, who was studying for a degree in Business and Industry. Jerry had his customary king's breakfast of cinnamon toast, corned beef hash with poached egg on top, a side of fried ham, a bowl of fruit-in-season (today it was those mouth-watering strawberries), and a short stack of Aggie flapjacks (which were just your garden-variety pancakes, with the chance of a little embedded ash from one of “Chef” Shemp's ubiquitous Lucky Strikes).

Castle spoke for the others as he flumped down with his tray: “Tom Catts—you look like somebody the eponymous dragged in, you bedraggled ol' whisker-licker. What kind of hootch did you get your little snub-snout into last night?”

“It wasn't the
quality
of the beverage so much as the
quantity.
I'm a pushover for Golden Wedding, and the Gamma Delts were serving up quarts and quarts of it. Worse thing of it, I missed my co-operative marketing class this morning, and that's my third absence. I'm going to have to throw myself on Prof's mercy or take a deficiency. This one's a must-have for graduation.”

Will threw his arm around Tom's shoulder. “I got all my drinking out of the way at Saturday night's game. You should know better, Catman, than to get yourself stinko on a Sunday night. What were
you
doing on Saturday when you should have been root-root-rooting for the home team?”