FullReads

When the group roared with laughter at a sally from one of them he would smile uncertainly but amiably, glancing from one to the other in complete ignorance of what had passed, but not resenting it. He took to sitting more and more in his kitchen bedroom, smoking a comforting pipe and reading and re-reading the evening paper. During that winter he and Canary, the negro washwoman, became quite good friends. She washed down in the basement once a week but came up to the kitchen for her massive lunch. A walrus-waisted black woman, with a rich throaty voice, a rolling eye, and a kindly heart. He actually waited for her appearance above the laundry stairs.

“Weh, how’s Mist’ Minick to-day! Ah nev’ did see a gemun spry’s you ah fo’ yo’ age. No, suh! nev’ did.”

At this rare praise he would straighten his shoulders and waggle his head. “I’m worth any ten of these young sprats to-day.” Canary would throw back her head in a loud and companionable guffaw.

Nettie would appear at the kitchen swinging door. “Canary’s having her lunch, Father. Don’t you want to come into the front room with me? We’ll have our lunch in another half-hour.” He followed her obediently enough. Nettie thought of him as a troublesome and rather pathetic child–a child who would never grow up. If she attributed any thoughts to that fine old head they were ambling thoughts, bordering, perhaps, on senility. Little did she know how expertly this old one surveyed her and how ruthlessly he passed judgment. She never suspected the thoughts that formed in the active brain.

He knew about women. He had married a woman. He had had children by her. He looked at this woman–his son’s wife–moving about her little five-room flat. She had theories about children. He had heard her expound them. You didn’t have them except under such and such circumstances. It wasn’t fair otherwise. Plenty of money for their education. Well. He and his wife had had three children. Paul, the second, had died at thirteen. A blow, that had been. They had not always planned for the coming of the three but they always had found a way, afterward. You managed, somehow, once the little wrinkled red ball had fought its way into the world. You managed. You managed. Look at George! Yet when he was born, thirty-nine years ago, Pa and Ma Minick had been hard put to it.

Sitting there, while Nettie dismissed him as negligible, he saw her clearly, grimly. He looked at her. She was plump, but not too short, with a generous width between the hips; a broad full bosom, but firm; round arms and quick slim legs; a fine sturdy throat. The curve between arm and breast made a graceful gracious line … Working in a bond office … Working in a bond office … There was nothing in the Bible about working in a bond office. Here was a woman built for child-bearing.

She thought him senile, negligible.

In March Nettie had in a sewing woman for a week. She had her two or three times a year. A hawk-faced woman of about forty-nine, with a blue-bottle figure and a rapacious eye. She sewed in the dining room and there was a pleasant hum of machine and snip of scissors and murmur of conversation and rustle of silky stuff; and hot savoury dishes for lunch. She and old man Minick became great friends. She even let him take out bastings. This when Nettie had gone out from two to four, between fittings.

He chuckled and waggled his head. “I expect to be paid regular assistant’s wages for this,” he said.

“I guess you don’t need any wages, Mr. Minick,” the woman said. “I guess you’re pretty well fixed.”

“Oh, well, I can’t complain.” (Five hundred a year.)

“Complain! I should say not! If I was to complain it’d be different. Work all day to keep myself; and nobody to come home to at night.”