Suds In Your Eye Page 4

  With a little skip she led the way out the front door.

  They climbed onto the truck while Old-Timer cranked. The truck gave a convulsive shudder, then settled down to a steady roll.

  ‘Well,’ cried Mrs. Feeley, ‘we’re off…more ways than one!’

  Mrs. Rasmussen had to yell to make herself heard over the roar of the truck.

  ‘I ain’t had so much fun since Maw made soap!’

  Chapter 5

  MRS. RASMUSSEN’S gaily painted bed and dresser stood in the center of the house. Her treasured kitchen table with the gleaming chromium legs had been graciously deposited in the parlor corner of the room, ‘where we can all get the good of it; ain’t no kids here to scratch the legs.’ Her sewing machine had also been donated to the common cause. She decided she would keep her trunk and her little padded slipper-chair in her room.

  ‘There’s only one sheet o’ plywood,’ Mrs. Feeley panted as she dragged it in the back door. ‘But I think we’ll make out okay.’ She paused a minute to look the situation over. ‘Yeup! I’ll just run this piece halfway between the bathroom wall and the front window here. Make a room ’bout eight foot square; reckon your bed’ll fit in?’

  Mrs. Rasmussen was sure it would. And those shelves on the outside wall would be real handy to set things on, too.

  ‘’Course your partition ain’t gonna be so very high,’ Mrs. Feeley warned. ‘But long as it’s private, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘How you gonna close off the front?’ Mrs. Rasmussen inquired.

  ‘I already figgered that one out. We’ll run a wire from your partition to the bathroom wall an’ hang them por-teers on it.’

  Mrs. Feeley dived under the brass bed and brought out a large bundle of heavy rose velour curtains. When she spread them out it was evident that they had once been part of the décor of an elaborate lounge. They were lavishly trimmed with gold galloon; the letters A. C. were embroidered in gold thread on each section of the draperies. The departed Mr. Feeley had not been idle at the rape of the Hotel Agua Caliente.

  ‘I been wonderin’ if I could use ’em for them blackout curtains that feller’s been hollerin’ about, but they’re most too pretty for that!’

  ‘They sure are,’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed. The idea that they were to be part of her room thrilled her, and she remarked blissfully, ‘Them letters is a foot high if they’re a inch!’

  Mrs. Feeley fell to with a will and an astonishing amount of ability. She marked off the places on the plywood sheet that were to be sawed out in order to make it fit neatly at right angles to the shelves along the outside wall. While Mrs. Rasmussen nailed the plywood in place, Mrs. Feeley went out to the junk yard to find a two-by-four to use as a support for the edge of the partition. She needed a long one, for she planned to run it all the way to the ceiling from the outside edge of the plywood. No use doing a thing if you were not going to do it right. She returned with the two-by-four and Old-Timer, carrying a stepladder. He would have to climb up on the ladder and nail it to the rafters. A man came in handy for things like that.

  Soon the partition was up and firmly anchored in place. The wire was then stretched across the front of the little cubicle and the rose-colored curtains gracefully disposed upon it. The wire sagged in the middle from the weight of the curtains, but Old-Timer had just the kind of bolt out in his shed that would remedy the condition.

  ‘Looks like a nutcracker, don’t it?’ remarked Mrs. Rasmussen as she watched Old-Timer adjust the bolt and give it a few turns to pull the wire up taut and straight. ‘Every time the wire starts to sag, we can give her a few turns and she’ll be just as tight as new!’

  The three of them sat down to admire their handiwork and have a cold beer. The painted bedstead and dresser did look nice with the rose ‘drapes’ pulled back that way. As she sipped her beer, Mrs. Rasmussen surveyed her new room through narrowed eyes: she was imagining how nice those shelves back of her bed were going to look when she got hold of a couple of cans of pink and blue enamel and some of those little pottery animals at the five-and-dime. No kids to knock them off, either.

  ‘Well, it sure looks fine, if I do say so as shouldn’t,’ said Mrs. Feeley, rocking happily.

  ‘It’s elegant, that’s what it is!’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed. Then remembering the sordid business details, she asked, ‘How much must I pay you?’

  ‘Now, that’s right hard to say! I ain’t never rented no rooms before. What would you say it was worth?’ countered Mrs. Feeley.

  ‘Well, I was payin’ twenty over there for room an’ board, such as it was. I guess it would be fair an’ square if I paid you ten a month for the room an’ we split the eats money between us.’

  ‘Ten’s a large plenty for the room, but how will I figger Old-Timer in on the eats money? He gets wages when we sell enough stuff; but he don’t worry none ’cause he’s got his room out in the shed an’ I board him free, too.’

  ‘I could put in ten dollars on the eats every month, an’ you could put in whatever the difference is for you an’ Old-Timer,’ Mrs. Rasmussen suggested. ‘If you want, I’ll do the buyin’ an’ cookin’; I could keep track of every cent we spend, and that way we’d know exactly what it cost us to eat…and drink!’

  Mrs. Feeley was vastly impressed by Mrs. Rasmussen’s budgeting plan. She got up and got her large black-leather purse and got right down to cases.

  ‘Okay! Here’s ten for me, an’ ten for Old-Timer. We can start the month right from today. You keep the money anywhere you want: that there’s house-money!’

  Mrs. Rasmussen brought out her loot bag and handed Mrs. Feeley a ten-dollar bill.

  ‘That’s my room rent: third o’ April to the third o’ May. Right? Now, here’s my board money!’ And she put a second ten-dollar bill with the two tens Mrs. Feeley had given into her keeping.

  Mrs. Feeley’s eyes bugged in her head, for she knew Mrs. Rasmussen had not yet had a chance to cash her April pension check. It had arrived only that morning. Mrs. Rasmussen caught the look and knew what Mrs. Feeley was thinking.

  ‘Ain’t nobody seen the bottom o’ my sock!’ she whispered.

  Mrs. Feeley rocked and mused aloud.

  ‘It sure sounds like a dream to me, if you can pull us through on thirty dollars for eats. Why, countin’ what you give me for room rent, it’ll only cost ten a month for me an’ Old-Timer both! If it works!’ she added a little wistfully.

  ‘It’ll work, all right! An’ if I get any good breaks on marketin’, ten o’ that eats money is goin’ in the beer kitty. If we goes in the hole for food, we gotta take it outa the beer fund!’

  Mrs. Rasmussen was so enthused over her own plan that she jumped up and started unpacking her fresh cotton dresses. She pulled the curtains to, then stuck her head out between them and said:

  ‘Guess I better change my clothes an’ go down an’ do my shoppin’ for supper! While I think of it, I seen a swell crock out in the yard! Could I use it? I’d like to put down a mess o’ roll-mops. Sure go good with the beer!’

  Mrs. Feeley granted permission and licked her chops in anticipation. She knew Mrs. Rasmussen’s savory stuffed and rolled fish, and the tangy mixture she used to pickle them in; but she had never expected to be a shareholder in a crock of them stowed right under her own kitchen sink.

  By suppertime Mrs. Rasmussen’s influence at Noah’s Ark could be strongly felt. The table was spread with a gay plaid cloth, beautifully ironed. Something was bubbling enticingly on the stove in a huge cast-iron Dutch oven. Outside, picking the seed pods off the sweetpeas, Mrs. Feeley could have sworn the aroma coming from the house was from wine. Her nose had not betrayed her. In a little while Mrs. Rasmussen told them to come and get it.

  Old-Timer washed noisily and splashily at the sink. Then they sat down to a supper of oxtails

  and carrots braised in sherry, rye bread with caraway seeds, beets, cabbage, and green onions chopped fine in a thin dressing of sour cream, and a dish of stewed plums.

  ‘Gawd
!’ breathed Mrs. Feeley. ‘Whadja do? Blow the wad on one meal?’ she laughed.

  ‘That’ll be the day! Not me, lady!’ replied the chef proudly. ‘Them oxtails is six cents a pound, an’ five pounds of ’em will give us enough for tonight an’ for dinner tomorrow. I did get a pint o’ sherry, though. That was fifteen cents, but it sure fixes them oxtails.’

  Her companions agreed that it did all of that and then some.

  ‘Then,’ she continued the tale of her achievements, ‘I stopped down at the bakery wholesale on G Street, ’cause it was after five. That’s when they bring back all the bread, cake, an’ rolls that ain’t been sold in the retail stores. It’s this mornin’s stuff; just as good as it ever was. Only thing, it only costs half as much. Got all this rye bread an’ a loaf o’ whole wheat raisin nut bread an’ a big coffee cake for breakfast tomorra, all for twenty-one cents.’

  The other two were speechless. Mrs. Feeley could now understand how Mrs. Rasmussen could have those two ten-dollar bills left in her purse at the end of the month.

  They were just attacking their second round when a timid knock came at the door.

  ‘May I come in?’ It was Miss Tinkham.

  ‘Sure!’ cried Mrs. Feeley heartily. ‘Get yourself a plate an’ set down! We got some elegant grub all right since Mrs. Rasmussen took over.’

  ‘Thank you ever so much, but I’m afraid I couldn’t swallow a bite.’

  Mrs. Feeley scented trouble when Miss Tinkham couldn’t eat.

  ‘Couldn’t you find a room?’

  ‘That was bad enough, but now something else has happened to complicate matters: my lawyer back home informs me that my house is vacant, so I shan’t have a cent of income till it is rented again!’ And she spread the letter out on the table for her friends to see.

  ‘That’s a different load o’ poles, ain’t it?’

  No use asking her if she had a nest-egg tucked away anywhere, Mrs. Feeley decided.

  ‘Well, you come visit us awhile till you get squared away. We fixed a real cozy place for Mrs. Rasmussen an’ we’ll figger out some way to put you up till you get back on your feet. Don’t you worry ’bout the expense; Mrs. Rasmussen’s the manager now, an’ she’ll pull us through.’

  Miss Tinkham was about to dissolve in tears of gratitude, Mrs. Feeley could see. She got up and put her hand on Miss Tinkham’s shoulder and said:

  ‘What was that you was tellin’ me th’other day ’bout “Cheerio”?’

  ‘Oh, you mean—“It’s Cheerio, my deario, that pulls a lady through.”’ Miss Tinkham recovered her poise and was cheered by Mehitabel’s philosophy. ‘That is what the cat said in the poem. She had another thought I liked, too: A lady can always find friends.’

  ‘She sure can, dear!’ Mrs. Feeley agreed. Mrs. Rasmussen and Old-Timer waggled their heads in agreement too. Mrs. Feeley set a cold beer down in front of Miss Tinkham and said:

  ‘Drink that an’ fergit your troubles! We ain’t never starved a winter yet!’

  So for the second time that day Old-Timer rolled out the truck and set off with Miss Tinkham to transport her belongings to Mrs. Feeley’s warm hearth. She felt a little bit nervous as she climbed into the truck with him, for she had just remembered who it was he reminded her of with his ruddy cheeks, big bulging blue eyes, and enormous white handle-bar mustache: it was that awful old man on the cover of those Esquire magazines she peeped into surreptitiously in the second-hand magazine stores. She hoped Old-Timer wouldn’t act like him! With all she had been through during the day she felt completely unable to cope with him if he should make a pass at her.

  Chapter 6

  A FEW days later, Mrs. Feeley began to have a more sympathetic understanding of the problems confronting the Old Woman in the Shoe. Miss Tinkham had no bed to ‘bring with’ her, like Mrs. Rasmussen. Mrs. Feeley did not object to sharing her bed with her, but she felt that a body needed a bed of her own.

  Wandering through the junk yard for inspiration, the solution came to her suddenly. She had this one figured out too! Mrs. Feeley was nothing if not resourceful.

  When she returned to the house the air was full of the scent of boiling dye.

  ‘What’s cookin’?’ she queried.

  ‘Dye! For the blackout curtains!’ Mrs. Rasmussen answered proudly.

  She and Miss Tinkham had spent a good part of the morning ripping the upholstery material off the seats of some of the old cars in the yard. Mrs. Rasmussen was even now busily stitching the pieces together on her machine.

  ‘There!’ she exclaimed, holding up a piece of cloth. ‘That’s the piece I been lookin’ for all day!’

  ‘Which one was that?’ Miss Tinkham asked.

  ‘The last one!’ snickered Mrs. Rasmussen, thrilled to have got someone to bite on her ancient gag. ‘These curtains is nice an’ thick. Won’t no light shine through them when we get ’em dyed an’ hung in front o’ them two big windows. Good thing we only got two windows to black out!’

  She turned over the job of stirring the curtains in the dye to Miss Tinkham while she gave Mrs. Feeley a hand in manufacturing a bed for the latest addition to the family.

  ‘See,’ Mrs. Feeley explained, ‘by runnin’ a wire from the end o’ your partition to the front window an’ hangin’ the rest o’ them pink drapes on it, she’ll have a private room. Now, I figger to knock out these three bottom shelves against the outside wall here, an’ use the boards to build her a bunk against the wall.’

  Mrs. Rasmussen thought that would be fine, only wouldn’t it be kind of hard sleeping?

  ‘I got that all figgered out, too,’ Mrs. Feeley replied sagely.

  She ripped out boards, and sawed, and pounded, while Mrs. Rasmussen held boards in place and handed her nails. When the platform of the bunk was finished, Mrs. Feeley went out to the junk yard and returned bearing the back-seat cushion of a car. Old-Timer followed with another. Mrs. Rasmussen caught on at once and hurried out to do her share. When the four cushions were laid in a row in the boxlike frame of the bunk, a large square divan was the result. Mrs. Feeley sat down on the edge of the bunk and bounced up and down.

  ‘Swell!’ she cried. ‘Little mite uneven, but mighty comfortable! Guess a couple o’ quilts spread over it would level it off.’

  ‘Wait,’ Mrs. Rasmussen said, and dived through the pink curtains into her room. She scrabbled around in her trunk and came back with a small feather bed which she spread over the ex-auto cushions.

  ‘I don’t need it,’ she said. ‘My bed’s got a in the spring mattress.’

  They called Miss Tinkham to come and behold her room.

  ‘Now when the blackout curtains is up, all you have to do is pull ’em closed an’ nobody can see into your room from the street! Ain’t that somethin’?’

  Miss Tinkham thought it was all that and more besides. A corner all her own!

  Mrs. Feeley looked around at her home to size up the looks of the place since her remodeling job. The piano had been moved to the opposite wall to allow the curtains of the cubicles to pull easily. Miss Tinkham’s small white radio occupied a prominent position near the brass bed. Mrs. Rasmussen’s table with the fancy shiny legs gave the place a lift too.

  ‘Sure looks elegant, don’t it?’ Mrs. Feeley gloated. ‘How’s about a beer?’

  The ladies were rocking and sipping cosily, admiring their handiwork so intently that they did not hear the young man come up the steps.

  ‘Guzzling as usual!’ he yelled, and smothered Mrs. Feeley in a large embrace.

  ‘Danny!’ Mrs. Feeley shrieked when she could get her face free. ‘Where you been, you rascal?’

  ‘Military secret!’ Danny replied, turning from his aunt to greet Mrs. Rasmussen, whom he knew of old. Mrs. Feeley looked around to introduce him to Miss Tinkham, but she had suddenly plunged behind the curtains of her room. She emerged in a few minutes with a touch of rouge on her cheeks, wearing an extra string of beads.

  ‘So this is Danny!’ she cried, pumping the somewhat star
tled Danny’s hand. ‘Your dear aunt has been so worried about you! Why, you are even handsomer than your photograph!’

  He was indeed a very personable young man, deeply tanned and very clean-cut as to features and build. Apparently he was fond of his aunt.

  ‘What have you got to say for yourself, Dazzle Pants?’ he asked her as she brought him some beer.

  ‘What have you got to say is more like it!’ his aunt snorted. ‘Not so much as a card from you all these months!’

  ‘Aw, you wouldn’t like the little old cards we send out these days! “I am well. I am not well. Check the one you mean.” They wouldn’t interest you! I know the kind of postcards you like, but they would never get by the censor these days!’

  His aunt chuckled reminiscently as she thought of some of the more fruity cards Danny had sent her from the Coconut Grove a couple of times.

  ‘We’re only in for a couple of days,’ Danny said. ‘Just pick up some supplies, and then shove off again.’ He picked up a brown-paper parcel he had dropped by the door when he sneaked up on the beer-drinkers.

  ‘What’s that?’ cried Mrs. Feeley eagerly.

  ‘Dirty clothes!’ Danny said, holding the bundle high up out of his aunt’s reach. ‘Come on!’ he teased. ‘Break out the washing machine! I’ve got to have these washed and ironed to take back to the ship with me in the morning!’

  When he had tantalized her long enough, Danny opened the bundle and proceeded to divide the loot. Lucky he had so many souvenirs, he thought, with all these extra ‘aunts’ looking on with longing eyes. He was sorry now he hadn’t bought that grass hula skirt; it would have been perfect for Miss Tinkham. But he guessed the carved ivory fan with the purple feathers would have to do.

  Miss Tinkham was overcome. There was no doubt about the young man’s kinship to Mrs. Feeley: he had inherited her generous heart.

  Sizing up Mrs. Rasmussen’s figure, he handed her a gaudy Hawaiian printed sport shirt. She thanked him delightedly and without further ado donned the shirt, smock-fashion over her house dress.