Re-Creations Read online

  “Operation!” The word caught in Cornelia’s throat, and a chill of horror crept over her. “Why, you never told me there was an operation!”

  “I know,” her father said apologetically. “That was Mother, too! She wouldn’t have you troubled. She said it was just your examination time, and it would mean a great deal to you to get your marks; and it would only be a time of anxiety to you, and she was so sure she would come out all right. She is wonderfully brave, your mother. And she hoped so much she’d be able to get up and around and not have to bring you home till your course was over. We meant to manage it somehow, but you see we didn’t know how serious it was and how she would have to go away and stay a long time till she was strong.”

  Cornelia’s eyes were filled with tears now. She had forgotten her own disappointments and the way she had been blaming her father and was filled with remorse for the little mother who had suffered and thought of her to the last. She got up quickly and went over to gather the bowed head of her father into her unaccustomed arms and try somehow to be daughterly. It was strange because she had been away so long and had gotten out of the way of little endearments, but she managed it so that the big man was comforted and smiled at her and told her again and again how good it was to have her back, almost as good as having her mother. Then he stroked her hair, looked into her wise young eyes, and called her his little Nellie-girl, the way she could remember his doing before she went away to school.

  When Cornelia went upstairs at last with the kerosene lamp held high above her head so that she would not stumble up the steep, winding staircase, she had almost forgotten herself and her ambitions and was filled with a desire to comfort her father.

  She dropped into her place beside the sleeping sister with a martyr-like quiet and failed to notice the discouraged droop of the little huddled figure and the tear-stained cheek that was turned toward the dingy wall. The dreariness of the room and the close quarters had brought depression upon her spirits once more, and she lay a long time filled with self-pity and wondering how in the world she was ever to endure it all.

  Chapter 3

  In the dimness of the early morning Louise Copley awoke with a sigh to consciousness and softly slid her hand down to the floor under the bed, where she had hidden the old alarm clock. With a sense that her elder sister was still company she had not turned on the alarm as usual, and now with the clocklike regularity and a sense of responsibility far beyond her years she had wakened at a quarter to six as promptly as if the whir of the alarm had sounded underneath her pillow.

  She rubbed her eyes open and through the half-lifted fringes took a glance. Yes it was time to get up. With one more lingering rub at her sleepy young eyes she put the clock back under the bed out of the way and stole quietly over the footboard, watching furtively her sleeping sister. How pretty Nellie was even in the early gray light of morning, with all that wavy mane of hair sweeping over the pillow, and her long lashes lying on the pink curve of her cheek! Louise wondered incredulously whether she would be half as pretty as that when she was as old as her sister.

  It was nice to have a big sister at home, but now that she was here, Louise wondered in a mature little housewifely way what in the world they were going to do with her. She didn’t look at all fit for cooking and things like that, and Louise sighed wearily as she struggled with the buttons and thought of the day before her and the endless weeks that must go by before they could hope for the return of the dear mother who had made even poverty sweet and cheerful. And there was that matter of a spring hat and a costume to wear at the school play. She stole another glance at the lovely sleeping sister and decided it would not do to bother her with little trifles like that. She would have to manage them somehow herself. Then, with the last button conquered and a hasty tying-back of her yellow curls with a much-worn ribbon, she tiptoed responsibly from the room, taking care to shut the latch securely and silently behind her.

  She sped downstairs and went capably at the kitchen stove, coaxing it into brightness and glancing fearfully at the kitchen clock. It was six o’clock, and she could hear her father stirring about in his room. He would be down soon to look after the furnace, and then she must have breakfast on the table at once, for he must catch the six fifty-five car. The usual morning frenzy of rush seized her, and she flew from dining room to pantry cutting bread, and back to the stove to turn the bacon and be sure it did not burn. It was a mad race, and sometimes she felt like crying by the time she sat down to the table to pour her father’s coffee, which somehow, try as she would, just would not look or taste like Mother’s. She was almost relieved that her sister had given no sign of wakening yet, for she had not had time to make the breakfast table look nice, and it was kind of exciting to try to eat in a hurry and have “sort of company” to think about at the same time.

  The father came downstairs peering into the dining room anxiously, with an apology on his lips for his eldest child.

  “That’s right, Louise, I’m glad you let her sleep. She looked all wearied out last night with her long journey, and then I guess it’s been a kind of a shock to her, too.”

  “I guess it has,” said the little girl comfortably and passed him his cup of coffee and the bread plate. They both had a sense of relief that Cornelia was not there and that there was a legitimate reason for not blaming her for her absence. Neither had yet been willing to admit to their loyal selves that Cornelia’s attitude of apathy to the family hardship had been disappointing. They kept hoping against hope.

  Mr. Copley finished his coffee hurriedly and looked at his watch.

  “Better let her sleep as long as she will,” he said. “She’ll likely be awake before you need to go to school, and if she isn’t, you can leave a note telling her where to find things. Where’s Harry? Isn’t he up?”

  “Oh, yes, he went to the grocery for the soup bone he forgot to get last night. I was going to put it on cooking before I left. I thought maybe she wouldn’t know to—”

  “That’s right! That’s right! You’re a good little girl, Louise. Your sister’ll appreciate that. Make Harry eat a good breakfast when he gets back. It isn’t good to go out on an empty stomach, and we must all keep well and not worry Mother, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” sighed the little girl with a responsible look. “I made him take a piece with him, and I’m saving something hot for him when he comes back. He’ll help me with the dishes, he said. We’ll make out all right. Don’t you worry, Father, dear.”

  The father, with a tender father-and-mother-both smile, came around and kissed her white forehead where the soft baby-gold hair parted and then hurried away to his car, thankful for the mother’s look in his youngest girl’s face, wondering whether they had chased it forever away from the eldest girl’s face by sending her too young to college.

  It was to the soft clatter of pots and pans somewhere in the near distance that Cornelia finally awakened with a sense of terrible depression and a belated idea that she ought to be doing something for the family comfort. She arose hastily and dressed with a growing distaste for the new day and what was before her. Even the view from the grimy little bedroom window was discouraging. It was a gray day, and one could see there were intentions of rain in the messy clouds that hurled themselves across the distant rooftops. The window looked out into the backyard, a small enclosure with a fence needing paint and dishearteningly full of rusty tin cans and old weather-stained newspapers and trash. Beyond the narrow, dirty alley were rows of other similar backyards, with now and then a fluttering dishcloth hanging on a string on a back porch and plenty of heaped-up ash cans everywhere you looked. They were the back doors of houses of the poorer class, most of them two-story and old. Farther on there was an excellent view of a large dump in a wide, cavernous lot that looked as if it had suffered from an earthquake sometime in the dim past and lost its bottom, so enormous it seemed as its steep sides sloped down, liberally coated with “dump.” Cornelia gave a slight shiver of horror and turned from the win
dow. To think of having to look at a view like that all summer. A vision of the cool, leafy camp where she had spent two weeks the summer before floated tanta-lizingly before her sad eyes as she slowly went downstairs.

  It was a plaintive little voice that arrested her attention and her progress halfway down, a sweet, tired young voice that went to her heart, coming from the open kitchen door and carrying straight through the open dining room and through the hall up to her.

  “I guess she doesn’t realize how much we needed her,” it said sadly. “And I guess she’s pretty disappointed at the house and everything. It’s pretty much of a change from college, of course.”

  Then a young, indignant high-tenor growl:

  “Hm! What does she think she is, anyway? Some queen? I guess the house has been good enough for us. How does she think we’ve stood being poor all these years just to keep her in college? I’d like to know. This house isn’t so much worse’n the last one we were in. It’s a peach beside some we might have had to take if these folks hadn’t been just moving out now. What does she want to do anyhow? Isn’t her family good enough for her, or what? If I ever have any children, I shan’t send ‘em to college, I know that. It spoils ‘em. And I don’t guess I’ll ever go myself. What’s her little old idea, anyway? Who crowned her?”

  “Why, she wants to be an interior decorator,” said the little sister, slowly hanging up the dishcloth. “I guess it’s all right, and she’d make money and all, only we just couldn’t help her out till she got through her course.”

  “Interior decorator!” scornfully said the boy. “I’d be satisfied if she’d decorate my interior a little. I’d like some of Mother’s waffles, wouldn’t you? And some hash and Johnnycake. Gee! Well, I guess we better get a hustle on, or we’ll be called down for tardiness. You gotta wake her up before you go?”

  “Father said not to; I’m just going to leave a note. It’s all written there on the dining room table. You put some coal on the range, and I’ll get my hat and coat,” and the little sister moved quickly toward the hall.

  Cornelia in sudden panic turned silently and sped back to her room, closing the door and listening with wildly beating heart till her young brother and sister went out the door and closed it behind them. Then, obeying an impulse that she did not understand, she suddenly flung her door open and flew to her father’s front bedroom window for a sight of them as they trudged off with piles of books under their arms, two valiant young comrades, just as she and Carey used to be in years so long ago and far away that she had almost forgotten them. And how they had stabbed her, her own brother and sister, talking about her as if she were a selfish stranger who had been living on their sacrifices for a long time! What could it possibly mean? Surely they were mistaken. Children always exaggerated things, and of course the few days or perhaps weeks since their father had lost his money had seemed a long time to them, poor little souls. Of course it had been hard for them to get along even a few days without Mother, and in this awful house. But—how could they have talked that way? How terrible of them! There were tears in her eyes and a pain in her heart from the words, for after all, in spite of her self-centered abstraction she did love them all; they were hers, and of course dearer than anything else on earth. Yes, even than interior decorating, and of course it was right that she should come home and make them comfortable, only—if only!

  But presently the tears had spent themselves, and she began to wipe her eyes and look around. Her father’s room was as desolate as any other. There was no evidence of an attempt to put comfort into it. The upper part of the heavy walnut bureau, with its massive mirror that Cornelia remembered as a part of the furniture of her mother’s room since she was a baby, had not been screwed to the bureau but was standing on the floor as if it had just moved in. The bureau top was covered with dust; worn, jumbled neckties; soiled collars; and a few old letters. Her father’s few garments were strewn around the room, and the open closet door revealed some of her mother’s garments, old ones that Cornelia remembered she had had before she herself went to college.

  On the unmade bed, close beside the pillow as if it had been cherished for comfort, was one of Mother’s old calico shawls. It was lying where a cheek might conveniently rest against it. Somehow Cornelia didn’t think of that explanation of its presence there at first, but later it grew into her consciousness, and the pathetic side of it filled her with dismay. Was life like this always, or was this a special preparation for her benefit?

  Somehow, as she sat there, her position as a selfish, unloving daughter became intolerable. Could it be possible that the children had spoken truly and that the family had been in troubled circumstances for a longer time than just a few weeks, on account of keeping her in college? The color burned in her cheeks, and her eyes grew heavy with shame. How shabby everything looked! She didn’t remember it that way. Her home had always seemed a comfortable one as she looked back upon it. Somehow she could not understand. But the one thought that burned into her soul was that they had somehow felt her lacking, ungrateful.

  Suddenly she was stung into action. They should see that she was no selfish, idle member of the family group. At least, she could be as brave as they were. She would go to work and make a difference in things before they came home. She would show them!

  She flew to the unmade bed and began to straighten the rumpled sheets and plump up the pillows. In an instant she had it smoothly made. But there was no white spread to put over it, and there were rolls of dust under the bed and in the corners. The floor had not even a rug to cover its bareness. Worn shoes and soiled socks trailed about here and there, and several old garments hung on bedposts, drifted from chairs, and even lay on the floor. Cornelia went hastily about, gathering them up, sorting out the laundry, setting the shoes in an even row in the closet, straightening the bureau, and stuffing things into the already overflowing drawers, promising them an early clearing out as soon as she had the rest of the work in hand. Poor Father! Of course he was not used to keeping things in order. How a woman was missed in a house! She hadn’t realized it before. The whole house looked as if the furniture had just been dumped in with no attempt to set things right, as her father had said. She must get the broom and begin.

  She hurried out into the hall, and a glimpse of the narrow stairway winding above her drew her to investigate. And then a sudden thought: Carey. Where was Carey? Hadn’t he come home at all last night? She had no recollection of hearing him, and yet she might have fallen asleep earlier than she thought. She mounted the stairs and stood aghast before the desolation there.

  The little closet Louise had spoken of with its skylight and its meager cot of twisted blankets, its chair with a medley of Harry’s clothes, and its floor strewn with a varied collection, was dreary enough, but there was yet some semblance of attempt at order. The muddy shoes stood in a row; some garments were in piles, and some hung on nails as if there had been an attempt at good housekeeping by the young owner. There was even a colored picture of a baseball favorite and a drawing of a famous game. One could feel that the young occupant had taken possession with some sense of ownership in the place. But the front room was like a desert of destruction where lay bleaching the bones of a former life as if swept there by a whirlwind.

  The headboard and footboard of the iron bedstead stood against the wall together like a corpse cast aside and unburied. On the floor in the very middle of the room lay the springs, and upon them the worn and soiled mattress, hardly recognizable by that name now because of the marks of heavy, muddy shoes, as if it had been not only slept upon but walked over with shoes straight from the contact of the street in bad weather. Sheets, there were none, and the pillow, soiled and with a hole burnt in one corner of its ticking, lay guiltless of a pillowcase, with a beaten, sodden impression of a head in its center. There was a snarl of soiled blanket and torn patchwork quilt across the foot, tossed to one side, and all about this excuse for a bed was strewn the most heterogeneous mass of objects that Cornelia had ever
seen collected. Clothes, soiled and just from the laundry, all in one mass; neckties tangled among books and letters; cheap magazines and parts of automobiles; a silk hat and a white evening vest keeping company with a pair of greasy overalls and two big iron wrenches; and over everything cigarette buds.

  The desolation was complete. The bureau had turned its back to the scene in despair and was face to the wall, as it had been placed by the movers. It was then and not till then that Cornelia understood how recent had been the moving and how utter the rout of the poor, patient mother, whose wonderful housekeeping had always been the boast of the neighborhood where they had lived, and whose fastidiousness had been almost an obsession.

  Cornelia stood in the door and gasped in horror as her eyes traveled from one corner of the room to another and back again, and her quick mind read the story of her brother’s life and one deep cause of her dear mother’s breakdown. She remembered her father’s words about Carey and how he hoped she would be able to help him, and then her memory went back to the days when she and Carey were inseparable. She saw the bright, eager face of her brother only two years younger than herself, always merry, with a jest on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes, but a kind heart and a willingness always to serve. Had Carey in three short years fallen to this? Because there was no excuse for an able-bodied young man to live in a mess like this. No young man with a mite of self-respect would do it. And Carey knew better. Carey had been brought up to take care of himself and his things. Nobody could mend a bit of furniture or fix the plumbing or sweep a room or even wash out a blanket for Mother better than Carey when he was only fifteen. And for Carey, as she knew him, to be willing to lie down for at least more than one night in a room like this and go off in the morning leaving it this way was simply unthinkable. How Carey must have changed to have come to this! As her eyes roved around the room, she began to have an insight into what must be the trouble. Self-indulgence of a violent type must have got hold of him. Look at the hundreds of cigarette buds, ashes everywhere. The only saving thing was the touch of machinery in the otherwise hopeless mass, and that, too, meant only that he was crazy about automobiles and likely fussed with them now and then to repair them so that he would have opportunity to ride as much as he liked. And Carey—where was Carey now?