Suds In Your Eye Read online

  ‘Gawd! I ain’t never done nothin’ like that!’ Mrs. Feeley put in. ‘Reckon I’ll get by?’

  ‘Sure! It’s easy enough, only it smells so bad. If we make a go of it, we can put in a couple a days extra to have money for the trip.’

  ‘I only hope I am able to do what is required of me,’ Miss Tinkham said. ‘I am totally inexperienced along those lines.’

  ‘Well, you’ll learn,’ Mrs. Rasmussen said. ‘Only for Gawd’s sakes don’t tell ’em you never done it before, ’cause I had to say we was all old hands to get the jobs!’

  Old-Timer scraped back his chair to leave the table.

  ‘Just where do you think you’re goin’?’ Mrs. Rasmussen inquired. ‘You be ready at seven same as the rest of us! I got you a job too. You’re gonna push one o’ them little hand-carts up an’ down the aisle an’ pick up the cans o’ fish fast as we fill ’em!’

  Old-Timer nodded happily and left.

  ‘No use piddlin’ around! We gotta do the job right. We all four gets sixteen dollars a week, an’ at that rate we’ll be shut o’ the whole mess in two weeks. I tole ’em Miss Tinkham was a expert label-paster, ’cause that’s the easiest. You an’ me’ll pack cans. Guess I better see if I got three clean uney-forms.’

  Mrs. Rasmussen tried a white cotton uniform on Miss Tinkham. It was too short, but that couldn’t be helped. Miss Tinkham went into her room to try on her white cap.

  ‘Be sure to shove all your hair up inside it good,’ Mrs. Rasmussen advised, ‘or you’ll smell like a tuna the rest o’ your days!’

  The other uniform had to be let out to fit Mrs. Feeley. That worthy made a few practice passes with a small sharp fish knife with which Mrs. Rasmussen had provided her.

  When all the details had been attended to, Mrs. Rasmussen sat down with a gusty sigh to remove the burgundy-colored polish from her nails. Ruefully she regarded the lengthy talons which must be sacrificed in the interests of security.

  ‘I sure hate to file ’em down,’ she said, ‘but the fish gets under there an’ stinks somethin’ awful!’

  Chapter 13

  IT WAS Saturday afternoon and the end of the second week’s work at the fish cannery. Mrs. Feeley felt that if she made it through till quitting time it would really be a ‘mackerel’…then she changed the figure of speech back to ‘miracle.’ In the two weeks at the cannery she had seen and smelled enough fish to last her the rest of her days.

  It took a stretch of work like this to make the inhabitants of Noah’s Ark realize that they had been leading the life of Riley all along. Suppose they didn’t have much ready cash, Mrs. Feeley mused. They had time to sit down and enjoy the flowers, and listen to music, and sip a bottle of beer, didn’t they? Take that pregnant woman over there wiping the sweat off her face as she stood by the pressure cooker: practically at the falling foot, she was! Ought to be home right now. But no! She had to work to make the payments on a fancy auto…and she couldn’t even buy tires to run it on! And that sickly-looking old woman was making payments on a new electric range…Mrs. Feeley bet she didn’t have much to cook on her fancy range! No, siree! A body with any sense at all would realize that the leisurely life was what counted in this world. That business of getting up at six in the morning! Funny they’d all got into the habit of snoozing along till eight-thirty or nine. But a person needed plenty of rest! And they were accustomed to a little bite of something about eleven o’clock…just a little snack to hold them till dinnertime.

  They’d had time to sip and visit with each other, sort of take in the slack. Mrs. Feeley agreed with Miss Logan and her Spanish proverb about sit down and enjoy what little you have, while the lunatic rushes out to look for more. If this business had not been absolutely necessary, Mrs. Feeley would never even have seen the inside of the fish cannery, although she had smelled it often enough in thirty-seven years. It didn’t do a body a bit of harm to see how the other half lived. But if the work had lasted another week, she was sure she would have developed ‘very coarse veins’ from standing on her feet eight hours a day. Those little rubber mats didn’t help a bit.

  Mrs. Rasmussen had rapidly regained her stride as a packer of tuna fish. The smells and the steam bothered her the most. Her natural daintiness was outraged a dozen times a day. But it would be over tonight! She was going to boil all the uniforms and hang them out in the sun for two or three days. Then she would shampoo her hair extra good and start taking care of her fingernails again. The sacrifice had not been in vain, however. Those four envelopes had contained an imposing number of bills to add to the pile in the tax jar last Saturday night. This week they should have the grand total completed. They would have almost twelve dollars in overtime coming to them. Guess the soldiers and sailors must be the ones getting all those extra cans of fish they were packing. But that extra pay would take care of the Tia Juana trip nicely.

  Miss Tinkham had proved surprisingly adept with the label-pasting machine. But Mrs. Rasmussen had figured that anyone who could play a piano could do just about anything. The label-pasting job was a sitting-down one, so that may have accounted for Miss Tinkham’s enthusiasm. After a certain age, a body’s legs sure did give out.

  Mrs. Rasmussen shifted her weight from one foot to the other and craned her neck trying to see the clock. Must be close to quitting time. Old-Timer was coming along the aisle sliding the rows of cans down the chutes onto his little cart. Some of the young Portuguese girls were teasing him, trying to date him up for Saturday night. He only got red in the face and grinned at them.

  Mrs. Rasmussen was not a mind-reader, but she bet that right now each of her friends was thinking of the cold beer at home in the icebox. Cold beer…and their tired feet and aching legs stretched out in front of them. Since they had become wage slaves. Miss Tinkham’s divan and the big platform rocker had become the most popular pieces of furniture in the house. Funny how their appetites had fallen off in the two weeks! Mrs. Rasmussen said the fumes of the steaming fish filled you up and you got nourishment out of it, same as if you ate it. At any rate, they had eaten very little, and she was glad because she was most too tired to cook. They had seemed to favor more of a liquid diet. And as soon as they finished their beer every night, they rolled right into bed, scarcely taking time to undress.

  The foreman was handing out the pay-envelopes. He had just reached Mrs. Rasmussen hers when the whistle blew for quitting time.

  ‘We won’t be working here any more after today, Mr. Jones,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the big idea? Thought you wanted the job.’

  ‘Well, we’re takin’ a little trip out of town, for one thing; an’ then, Mrs. Feeley needs us to help attend to some dee-tails about her property. But we’ll help you out again some other time!’ Mrs. Rasmussen always believed in leaving an open door behind her.

  ‘Of all the crummy tricks…right when I’m goin’ nuts for help!’ And the foreman went off swearing at the whims and vagaries of the landed gentry.

  The ladies didn’t bother to change their clothes for the walk home, as they only lived a block from the cannery. They were silent all the way with anticipation. Mrs. Feeley sat down in the big rocker and took her shoes off. Miss Tinkham took off her white cap and combed her hair. Old-Timer washed noisily and splashily in the sink. In a few minutes they all congregated around Mrs. Rasmussen and the tax jar. She had dragged it from under the bed and was adding up the money.

  ‘Bring on the beer, somebody!’ Mrs. Feeley said.

  ‘Wait till we count the money!’ Mrs. Rasmussen was figuring on her slip of paper. ‘As far as the first o’ June we had two hunert dollars; last week we made sixty-four dollars, an’ this week sixty-four. Up to now we raised three hunert an’ twenty-eight an’ today’s only the fifteenth o’ June! Say…we’re short five dollars! Today was supposed to wind this up!’ Consternation reigned.

  ‘What about the overtime?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.

  ‘And the check for ten dollars that I gave you from my income?’ Miss Tinkham q
ueried tremulously.

  ‘My Gawd! I clean forgot to count them!’ Mrs. Rasmussen was conscience-stricken. How could she have been guilty of such an oversight? Hadn’t she added it all up correctly in her head at the cannery? Just went to show what slaving at a job did to a person’s head. She counted once more:

  ‘We ain’t only finished, but we got the twelve dollars extra for the trip an’ five dollars o’ Miss Tinkham’s check is left over too! Ain’t that grand?’ Mrs. Rasmussen would have danced a bit, if it hadn’t been for making that awful mistake in counting the money.

  ‘Goddamed if it ain’t!’ cried Mrs. Feeley. ‘Looks like we’re catchin’ ’em faster’n we can string ’em! First thing Monday mornin’ we’ll go an’ give the money to the collector. We’ll really feel free to call our souls our own again! Takes a little spell o’ work like that to make a body appreciate what real livin’ is, don’t it? Ain’t no sense to a person killin’ theirselves when they don’t need no more than we folks does.’ The friends agreed with her, and Miss Tinkham went to get the beer as Mrs. Feeley continued.

  ‘Taught me a good lesson, though; ’bout never trustin’ no shysters no more! An’ I’ll sure never forget what you all done for me! I aim to pay you back every cent you loaned me.’

  They made shushing noises and drank their beer.

  ‘It was a really worthwhile experience,’ Miss Tinkham mused. ‘It is comforting to know that one can raise ready cash by manual labor, if it becomes acutely necessary. The flower-selling paid well and the label-pasting was not too distasteful…if anything happens to my income again I shall feel able to cope with the situation! I have learned such a lot from you wonderful women!’

  ‘Yeup…I even got a couple o’ ideas myself over at the cannery. I ain’t puttin’ out, but I got ideas!’ Mrs. Feeley rocked and sipped happily. ‘Old-Timer an’ me is practically out o’ the junk business…but I got ideas!’

  ‘Trouble with workin’,’ Mrs. Rasmussen said, ‘is you don’t have time to set an’ just enjoy bein’ alive.’

  Suddenly Miss Tinkham thought of something.

  ‘You know, we’ve missed two weeks of school: maybe Miss Logan thinks we don’t want to go to Tia Juana on the outing!’

  ‘Gawd! That’s right!’ cried Mrs. Feeley. ‘It’s gonna be Monday night, ain’t it? She said the seventeenth, didn’t she?’

  ‘That’s what she said,’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.

  ‘I’ll go right down to the corner and telephone Miss Logan immediately!’ Miss Tinkham cried, jumping up from her chair.

  ‘Here, here! You’ll need a nickel!’ Mrs. Rasmussen took the coin from her purse. Miss Tinkham had been about to dash off without any money.

  ‘An’ Miss Tinkham, don’t forget: four places in the cars! Old-Timer, too!’ Mrs. Feeley never forgot a friend.

  ‘Oh, I’ll not forget! And shall I tell her the good news? About being over the top?’

  ‘Damn right! Be glad to hear it, she will!’

  ‘Hurry back so we can know if it’s all right an’ we’re gonna get to go!’ Mrs. Rasmussen urged.

  Happiness apparently lent wings to Miss Tinkham’s feet, for she was back in a few minutes.

  ‘What’d she say?’ the friends asked.

  ‘She said certainly, she had counted us in: all of us. When I told her the good news she was so thrilled she said it called for a celebration. She said to tell you she was coming down in a few minutes and bringing a case of beer!’

  ‘Gawd! Ain’t that just grand?’ Mrs. Feeley stretched her tired arms and legs. ‘What have we got in the house to eat that’s fit for a party?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs. Rasmussen slyly, ‘since we kinda lost our taste for anythin’ that comes outa the sea, an’ since we’ll be havin’ Mexican eats Monday, I’d say the bank account might stretch to fried chicken loaves, on account o’ because we owe ourselves a little celebration.’

  ‘Not fried chicken loaves! Do you mean it?’ Miss Tinkham was already beginning to drool.

  ‘Sure! Little walk won’t hurt me none! After I’ve had a couple o’ beers. The markets is open late Saturday night. Only thing, all them small loaves o’ French bread will be took if I don’t step on it!’

  Miss Tinkham said she would go along and help carry the bundles, since she hadn’t been standing on her feet all day like Mrs. Rasmussen.

  Mrs. Feeley would straighten up the place and wait for Miss Logan.

  Mrs. Rasmussen saved time by having the butcher cut the chicken in pieces for frying. She selected some large dill and garlic pickles, some tiny radishes and green onions, and a large bag of potato chips. Luckily the small loaves of French bread were not all gone and she bought six of them.

  When the shoppers returned, they found Miss Logan listening to the saga of how the money was raised to get their happy home out of hock.

  ‘I wondered what on earth was keeping you away from school! I should have been down to find out, but we have been having that exhibition of school work at the Palace of Education and most of the teachers have been working day and night; I wanted to see what I could do about helping you out. But I thought you had until the last of the month to raise the money?’

  ‘Oh, we did!’ Mrs. Feeley assured her. ‘But Mrs. Rasmussen got kinda nervous about us all maybe not gettin’ to go to Mexico, so she put us all to work and got it over with all at oncet! It was awful hard work, but we’re sure glad we done it!’

  Mrs. Rasmussen was frying the big pieces of chicken. She explained to Miss Tinkham that it was silly and wasteful to fry the small pieces…not enough meat on them. She would make chicken and noodles out of them tomorrow. While the chicken was cooking she hollowed out a cavity in each loaf of French bread and swabbed it liberally with butter. Then she stuck them in the oven to heat. Miss Tinkham arranged radishes, onions, and slices of pickle on each plate. She added generous heaps of potato chips; then Mrs. Rasmussen took the golden sizzling pieces of chicken from the skillet and placed three or four pieces in each toasted loaf. Old-Timer opened the icy-cold beer and the feast was ready.

  ‘Looks like old times, don’t it?’ Mrs. Feeley asked. ‘They can ration sugar as much as they want for all we care long as they don’t bother the beer an’ good solid food like cheese an’ French bread an’ meat. We don’t go much for fancy vittles, but we sure like ’em tasty.’

  Miss Tinkham said that nobody could cook like Mrs. Rasmussen…whether for a feast or for a famine. The cook accepted the compliment graciously.

  ‘Thank goodness we don’t have to use knives and forks!’ Kate Logan said happily.

  ‘Well, set to!’ Mrs. Rasmussen urged. ‘There’s lots o’ guttin’s for anybody that wants to gut.’

  Chapter 14

  THE enrollment in Miss Logan’s Spanish class seemed to have grown miraculously, judging by the crowd assembled on the steps of the high school. Miss Logan was all over the place at once, waving lists of names, seeing that everyone got into the right cars. She had done a heroic job, and at last it looked as if they were ready to start the drive south of the border.

  ‘Your party will ride with me, Mrs. Feeley,’ she said.

  Mrs. Feeley swelled with pride. She guessed it was on account of them being almost part of her family now. That would be one in the eye for McSparry and the Major’s Lincoln Zephyr! This year she rode with that young fellow who drove the laundry truck.

  Miss Tinkham rode in the front seat with Kate Logan and Mrs. Feeley. Old-Timer and Mrs. Rasmussen rode in the back. They talked a blue streak all the way to the border, mainly about the effort to raise the tax money. Miss Logan was sympathetic, but said they should have come to her in the first place. She said Danny would have wanted her to help them out of the difficulty; she could have borrowed the money for them even if she didn’t have it herself.

  ‘Oh, no, dear!’ cried Mrs. Feeley, nudging Miss Tinkham in the ribs. ‘We don’t want nothin’ from Danny! Danny ain’t got nobody makin’ no claims on his money! An’ he’s going to own all
that property when I die. The tax man told me it had went up a lot in value…an’ it’s all for Danny. Don’t think he’s one o’ these here that ain’t got a penny to bless himself with! He’s a smart boy an’ saves his money. Wasn’t nobody more surprised than that tax collector when we walked in with the money two weeks ahead o’ time! We was lookin’ forward to this outin’ ’cause we done the job among the four of us an’ didn’t have to ask nobody else for a penny.’

  Miss Logan said they rated a real celebration. ‘I think it was marvelous the way you pooled your resources and raised that much in so short a time, but I bet you won’t trust anybody to pay your bills for you any more.’

  Mrs. Feeley reassured her on that score and also reaffirmed her ambition to learn to read good. She was happy when Miss Logan told her there was such a class starting in September called Educational Review. It was for the benefit of people working for their citizenship papers and for the native-born who had not had a chance to get a proper education.

  ‘I hope the proprietor of La Tapatia prepares as good a dinner for us this year as he did last year! He really did himself proud.’ Mrs. Feeley and her friends hoped so too.

  They had divided the twelve dollars overtime money from the cannery equally among themselves. They said it was nicer for each of them to have three dollars; then they could treat each other, or buy souvenirs…feel more independent.

  ‘Since we are parked right here in front of the Foreign Club, wouldn’t you care to join me in a cocktail or something?’ Miss Tinkham inquired. Her money was burning a hole in her pocket, and besides, if her friend Charlie Tinney was still there she wanted to show off her lovely friends to him; let him see how life had broadened her outlook!