The moment I set eyes on poor Fletcher I felt an immense sympathy for him. He was a man approaching seventy, with watery blue eyes and a big moustache.
He looked for all the world like Buffalo Bill. On the walls were examples of his work—from the old days—when he had been handsomely paid to do ponies and cowboys for the magazine covers. A small pension helped him to eke out a bare existence. He lived in hopes of getting a fat commission some day. Between times he painted little signs for tradespeople, anything that would bring in a few pennies. He was thankful to be living in the South where the days at least were warm.
To our surprise he brought out two bottles, one half-filled with gin, the other containing about a fingerful of rye. With the help of a lemon, some orange peels and a generous quantity of water, we managed to make his stock go a few rounds. His wife meanwhile was reposing in the next room. Fletcher said he would bring her out when it came time to eat. It makes no difference to her, he said. She has her own world and her own rhythm. She doesn’t remember me any more, so don’t be surprised at what she says. She’s usually very quiet—and fairly cheerful, as you’ll see.
He then set about preparing the table. The dishes were broken and chipped, nothing matched of course, and the cutlery was of tin. He laid the convert on the bare table, and in the center of the table he. placed an immense bowl of flowers. It’ll only be a cold snack, he said apologetically, but it may help to quiet the wolf. He put out a bowl of potato salad, some rat cheese, some bologna and liverwurst, together with a loaf of white bread and some margarine. There were a few apples and nuts, for dessert. Not an orange in sight. After he had set a glass of water at each place he put a pot of coffee up to boil.
I guess we’re about ready now, he said, looking towards the other room. Just a minute and I’ll bring Laura in.
The three of us stood in silence as we waited for the two of them to issue from the next room. We could hear him rousing her from her slumber; he was speaking to her softly, gently, as he helped her to her feet.
Well, he said, smiling desperately through his tears, as he led her to the table, here we are at last. Laura, these are my friends—your friends too. They’re going to eat with us—isn’t that lovely?
We approached in turn, shook hands first with her, then with him. We were all in tears as we raised the water glasses and drank to their twenty-fifth anniversary.
Well, this is almost like old times, said Fletcher, looking first at his poor demented wife, then at us. Do you remember, Laura, that funny old studio I had in the Village years ago? We weren’t very rich then either, were we? He turned to us. I won’t say grace, though tonight I would like to. I’ve lost the habit. But I want to tell you how grateful I am that you are sharing this little celebration with us. It might have been very sad, just the two of us alone. He turned to his wife.
Laura, you’re still beautiful, do you know it? He chucked her under the chin. Laura looked up wistfully and gave the flicker of a smile. You see? he exclaimed. Ah yes, Laura was the belle of New York once. Weren’t you, Laura?
It didn’t take us long to plough through the victuals, including the apples and nuts and a few stale cookies which Fletcher had dug up by chance while searching for the canned milk. Over a second cup of Java Ned got out the ukulele and we took to singing, Laura too. We sang homely ditties, such as O Susanna,
A bull-frog sat on a railroad track,
Annie Laurie,
Old Black Joe … Suddenly Fletcher rose and said he would sing Dixie, which he did with gusto, ending up with the blood-curdling Rebel yell. Laura, highly pleased with the performance, demanded that he sing another tune. He got up again and sang The Arkansas Traveler, topping it off with a little jig. My, but we were merry. It was pathetic.
After a time I got hungry again. I asked if there wasn’t any stale bread around. We might make French pancakes, I said.
We searched high and low but there wasn’t even a crust to be found. We did find some moldy zwieback though and, dipping this in the coffee, we got a new lease of energy.
If it weren’t for the vacant look in her eyes one wouldn’t have thought Laura to be insane. She sang heartily, responded to our quips and jokes, and ate her food with relish. After a while, however, she dozed off, just like a child. We carried her into the bedroom and put her back to bed. Fletcher leaned over her and kissed her brow.
If you boys will wait a few minutes, he said, I think I may be able to dig up a wee bit more gin. I’m going to see my next-door neighbor.
In a few minutes he was back with a half bottle of bourbon. He also had a little bag of cakes in his hand. We put up another pot of coffee, poured the bourbon, and began to chat. Now and then we threw a short log into the old pot-bellied stove. It was the first comfortable, cheery evening we were spending in Jacksonville.
I was in the same fix when I came here, said Fletcher. It takes time to get acquainted … Ned, why don’t you go down to the newspaper office. I’ve got a friend there, he’s one of the editors. Maybe he can dig up something for you.
But I’m not a writer, said Ned.
Hell, Henry will write your stuff for you, said O’Mara.
Why don’t you both go? said Fletcher.
We were so elated with the prospect of getting a job that we all did a jig in the middle of he room.
Let’s have that one about looking for a friendly face, begged Fletcher. We took to humming and singing again, not too loud because of Laura.
You mustn’t worry about her, said Fletcher, she sleeps like an angel. In fact, she is an angel. I honestly think that’s why she’s—you know. She didn’t fit in our world. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing she’s the way she is.
He showed us some of his work which he had stored away in big trunks. It wasn’t too bad. At least he was a good draughtsman. He had been all over Europe in his youth—Paris, Munich, Rome, Prague, Budapest, Berlin. He had even won a few prizes.
If I had my life to live all over again, he said, I’d do nothing at all. I’d keep tramping around the world. Why don’t you fellows go west? There’s still lots of room in that part of the world.
That night we slept on the floor of Fletcher’s studio. Next morning Ned and I went to see the newspaper man. After a few words I was voted out. But Ned was given a chance to write a series of articles. Naturally, I would do the dirty work.
All we had to do now was to pull our belts in until pay-day. Pay-day was only two weeks off.
That same day O’Mara led me round to the home of an Irish priest whose address someone had given him. We immediately got the cold shoulder from the Sister who opened the door. Descending the stoop we noticed the good Father easing his Packard out of the garage. O’Mara tried to plead with him. For encouragement he got a puff of heavy smoke from the Father’s Havana cigar. Be off with yer and don’t be disturbin’ the peace! That was all Father Hoolihan deigned to say.
That evening I wandered off by my lonesome. Passing a big synagogue I heard the choir singing. It was a Hebrew prayer and it sounded enchanting. I stepped inside and took a seat far back. As soon as the service was over I went up front and collared the rabbi. Reb, I wanted to say, I’m in a bad way … But he was a solemn looking cuss, utterly devoid of bonhomie. I told him my story in a few words, winding up with an appeal for food, or meal tickets, and a place to flop, if possible. I didn’t dare mention that we were three. But you’re not a Jew, are you? said the Reb. He squinted as if he couldn’t make me out clearly.
No, but I’m hungry. What difference does it make what I am?
Why don’t you try the Christian churches?
I have, I replied. Besides, I’m not a Christian either. I’m just a Gentile.
Grudgingly he wrote a few words on a slip of paper, saying that I was to present the message to the man at the Salvation Army. I went there immediately, only to be told that they had no room.
Can you give me something to eat? I begged. I was informed that the
