U.S.A_ - John Dos Passos [382]
Sometimes he didn't come at al and she'd go back home crying; but the good times he would jump springily off the train, square in his big overcoat that smelt of pipes, and swoop down on her and pick her up lantern and al :
"How's Daddy's good little girl?" He would kiss her and she would feel so proudhappy riding along there and looking at mean old Mr. Bemis from up there, and Fred's voice deep in his big chest would go rumbling through his muffler, "Goodnight, chief," and the yel owlighted win-dows of the train would be moving and the red caterpil-lar's eyes in its tail would get little and draw together as the train went out of sight across the trestle towards Ham-mels. She would bounce up and down on his shoulder and feel the muscles of his arm hard like oars tighten against her when he'd run with her down the plankwalk shouting to Agnes, "Any supper left, girlie?" and Agnes would come to the door grinning and wiping her hands on her apron and the big pan of hot soup would be steaming on the stove, and it would be so cozywarm and neat in the kitchen, and they'd let Margie sit up til she was nodding and her eyes were sandy and there was the sandman com-ing in the door, listening to Fred tel about pocket bil iards
-164-and sweepstakes and racehorses and terrible fights in the city. Then Agnes would carry her into bed in the cold room and Fred would stand over her smoking his pipe and tel her about shipwrecks at Fire Island when he was in the Coast Guard, til the chinks of light coming in through the door from the kitchen got more and more blurred, and in spite of Margie's trying al the time to keep awake because she was so happy listening to Fred's burring voice, the sandman she'd tried to pretend had lost the train would come in behind Fred, and she'd drop off. As she got older and along in gradeschool at Rockaway Park it got to be less often like that. More and more Fred was drunk when he got off the train or else he didn't come at al . Then it was Agnes who would tel her stories about the old days and what fun it had been, and Agnes would sometimes stop in the middle of a story to cry, about how Agnes and Margie's mother had been such friends and both of them had been salesladies at Siegel Cooper's at the artificialflower counter and used to go to Manhattan Beach, so much more refined than. Coney, Sundays, not to the Oriental Hotel of course, that was too expensive, but to a little beach near there, and how Fred was lifeguard there. "You should have seen him in those days, with his strong tanned limbs he was the handsomest man . . ."
"But he's handsome now, isn't he, Agnes?" Margie would put in anxiously. "Of course, dearie, but you ought to have seen him in those days." And Agnes would go on about how lucky he was at the races and how many people he'd saved from drowning and how al the people who owned the concessions chipped in to give him a bonus every year and how much money he always had in his pocket and a wonderful laugh and was such a cheery fel ow. "That was the ruination of him," Agnes would say. "He never could say no." And Agnes would tel about the wedding and the orangeblossoms and the cake and how Margie's mother Margery died when she was born. "She gave
-165-her life for yours, never forget that"; it made Margie feel dreadful, like she wasn't her own self, when Agnes said that. And then one day when Agnes came out of work there he'd been standing on the sidewalk wearing a derby hat and al dressed in black and asking her to marry him because she'd been Margery Ryan's best friend, and so they were married, but Fred never got over it and never could say no and that was why Fred took to drinking and lost his job at Hol and's and nobody would hire him on any of the beaches on account of his fighting and drinking and so they'd moved to Broad Channel but they didn't make enough with bait and rowboats and an occasional shoredinner so Fred had gotten a job in Jamaica in a saloon keeping bar because he had such a fine laugh and was so goodlooking and everybody liked him so. But that was the ruination of him worse than ever. "But there's not a finer man in the world than Fred Dowling when he's himself. . . . Never forget that, Margie." And they'd both begin to cry and Agnes would ask Margie if she loved her as much as if she'd been her own mother and Margie would cry and say, "Yes, Agnes darling."