Next morning, when Stasia Rourke went by to work, Chet Ball was standing at the foot of the pole, waiting.
They were to have been married that next June. But that next June Chet Ball, perched perilously on the branch of a tree in a small woodsy spot somewhere in France, was one reason why the American artillery in that same woodsy spot was getting such a deadly range on the enemy. Chet’s costume was so devised that even through field glasses (made in Germany) you couldn’t tell where tree left off and Chet began.
Then, quite suddenly, the Germans got the range. The tree in which Chet was hidden came down with a crash, and Chet lay there, more than ever indiscernible among its tender foliage.
Which brings us back to the English garden, the yellow chicken, Miss Kate, and the letter.
His shattered leg was mended by one of those miracles of modern war surgery, though he never again would dig his spurred heels into the pine of a G. L. & P. Company pole. But the other thing—they put it down under the broad general head of shock. In the lovely English garden they set him to weaving and painting as a means of soothing the shattered nerves. He had made everything from pottery jars to bead chains, from baskets to rugs. Slowly the tortured nerves healed. But the doctors, when they stopped at Chet’s cot or chair, talked always of “the memory center.” Chet seemed satisfied to go on placidly painting toys or weaving chains with his great, square-tipped fingers—the fingers that had wielded the pliers so cleverly in his pole-climbing days.
“It’s just something that only luck or an accident can mend,” said the nerve specialist. “Time may do it—but I doubt it. Sometimes just a word— the right word—will set the thing in motion again. Does he get any letters?”
“His girl writes to him. Fine letters. But she doesn’t know yet about— about this. I’ve written his letters for him. She knows now that his leg is healed and she wonders–-“
That had been a month ago. Today Miss Kate slit the envelope postmarked Chicago. Chet was fingering the yellow wooden chicken, pride in his eyes. In Miss Kate’s eyes there was a troubled, baffled look as she began to read:
Chet, dear, it’s raining in Chicago. And you know when it
rains in Chicago it’s wetter, and muddier, and rainier than any
place in the world. Except maybe this Flanders we’re reading
so much about. They say for rain and mud that place takes the
prize.
I don’t know what I’m going on about rain and mud for, Chet
darling, when it’s you I’m thinking of. Nothing else and
nobody else. Chet, I got a funny feeling there’s something
you’re keeping back from me. You’re hurt worse than just the
leg. Boy, dear, don’t you know it won’t make any difference
with me how you look, or feel, or anything? I don’t care how
bad you’re smashed up. I’d rather have you without any
features at all than any other man with two sets. Whatever’s
happened to the outside of you, they can’t change your
insides. And you’re the same man that called out to me that
day, “Hoo-hoo! Hello, sweetheart!” and when I gave you a piece of my mind, climbed down off the pole, and put your face
up to be slapped, God bless the boy in you–-
A sharp little sound from him. Miss Kate looked up, quickly. Chet Ball was staring at the beady-eyed yellow chicken in his hand.
“What’s this thing?” he demanded in a strange voice.
Miss Kate answered him very quietly, trying to keep her own voice easy and natural. “That’s a toy chicken, cut out of wood.”
“What’m I doin’ with it?”
“You’ve just finished painting it.”
Chet Ball held it in his great hand and stared at it for a brief moment, struggling between anger and amusement. And between anger and amusement he put it down on the table none too gently and stood up, yawning a little.
“That’s a hell of a job for a he-man!” Then in utter contrition: “Oh, beggin’ your pardon! That was fierce! I didn’t–-“
But there was nothing shocked about the expression on Miss Kate’s face. She was registering joy—pure joy.
The Maternal Feminine [1919] Called upon to describe Aunt Sophy, you would have to coin a term or fall back on the dictionary definition of a spinster. “An unmarried woman,” states that worthy work, baldly, “especially when no longer young.” That, to the world, was Sophy Decker. Unmarried, certainly. And most certainly no longer young. In figure, she was, at fifty, what is known in the corset ads as a “stylish stout.” Well dressed in dark suits, with broad-toed health shoes and a small, astute hat. The suit was practical common sense. The health shoes were comfort. The hat was strictly business. Sophy Decker made and sold hats, both astute and ingenuous, to the female population of Chippewa, Wisconsin. Chippewa’s East End set bought the knowing type of hat, and the mill hands and hired girls bought the naive ones. But whether lumpy or possessed of that thing known as line, Sophy Decker’s hats were honest hats.
The world is full of Aunt Sophys, unsung. Plump, ruddy, capable women of middle age. Unwed, and rather looked down upon by a family of married sisters and tolerant, good-humored brothers-in-law, and careless nieces and nephews.
“Poor Aunt Soph,” with a significant half smile. “She’s such a good old thing. And she’s had so little in life, really.”
She was, undoubtedly, a good old thing—Aunt Soph. Forever sending a model hat to this pert little niece in Seattle; or taking Adele, Sister Flora’s daughter, to Chicago or New York as a treat on one of her buying trips.
Burdening herself, on her business visits to these cities, with a dozen foolish shopping commissions for the idle womenfolk of her family. Hearing without partisanship her sisters’ complaints about their husbands, and her sisters’ husbands’ complaints about their wives. It was always the same.
“I’m telling you this, Sophy. I wouldn’t breathe it to another living soul. But I honestly think, sometimes, that if it weren’t for the children–-“
There is no knowing why they confided these things to Sophy instead of to each other, these wedded sisters of hers. Perhaps they held for each other an unuttered distrust or jealousy. Perhaps, in making a confidante of Sophy, there was something of the satisfaction that comes of dropping a surreptitious stone down a deep well and hearing it plunk, safe in the knowledge that it has struck no one and that it cannot rebound, lying there in the soft darkness. Sometimes they would end by saying, “But you don’t know what it is, Sophy. You can’t. I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
But when Sophy answered, sagely, “I know; I know,” they paid little heed, once having unburdened themselves. The curious part of it is that she did know. She knew as a woman of fifty must know who, all her life, has given and given and in return has received nothing. Sophy Decker had never used the word inhibition in her life. She may not have known what it meant. She only knew (without in the least knowing she knew) that in giving of her goods, of her affections, of her time, of her energy, she found a certain relief. Her own people would have been shocked if you had told them that there was about this old-maid aunt something rather splendidly Rabelaisian. Without being what is known as a masculine woman, she had, somehow, acquired the man’s viewpoint, his shrewd value sense. She ate a good deal, and enjoyed her food. She did not care for those queer little stories that married women sometimes tell, with narrowed eyes, but she was strangely tolerant of what is known as sin. So simple and direct she was that you wondered how she prospered in a line so subtle as the millinery business.