He’s … I think, he’s divorced. He never mentions it. To any of us. Has he ever mentioned it, ah, to you …?
Ach! Me? I hardly know the gentleman except to say good morning and once and a while watching him play croquet with your poppa. It reminds me so of poor Otto to watch the men play croquet. God bless him. Mr. Thebus don’t talk to me.
Yes, well, I don’t know anything about his personal business. He’s just a good friend and that’s fine with me, and that’s that.
Ja. Dear Marie, listen to a piece of advice? Divorce, in this day and age, so what? Not one soul has ever spoke a word about yourself for instance. Ja! They haven’t got anything for you but a good word. Mr. Thebus nobody knows about but I don’t ever hear a word either.
I don’t even know, Helga, if the gentleman is divorced.
Ah, I’m sorry, excuse me, I’m making you mad. Who cares? is what I’m saying. It’s probably my English, ja? He is a fine gentleman, always a smile and a joke and a nice word. Please don’t think I’m a busybody butting in, but a young and attractive woman like you … You need to have some good clean fun, you need to stop worrying and worrying about your poppa.
Worrying about him? What do you mean, worrying about him?
Marie. Dear. Please. You’ll listen to a woman almost old enough to be your mother. I’m not ashamed of my age. I know your poppa for years now. He can take care of himself. He’s the first, the first person to say he wants you to be independent, to do what you like to do. Ja! And he likes, so much, this Mr. Thebus anyway. He must be happy to see you having a nice friend. Ja?
That’s fine, but that’s not the same thing as, yes, I know Poppa really likes Tom, but I do worry about him being left alone even if I just take a little walk after supper to the Hi-Top.18Poppa needs me.
You are a good daughter, ja. But don’t talk the nonsense to me, please. You think your poppa can’t find people to chat with and pass along the time of day? What do you think your poppa does when you and the girls and all go swimming in the afternoon? What?19 Dear Marie, your poppa knows me years and years. We have a million things to talk about.
Oh, you. Well.
Ja, me. And the other boarders and Frieda and Louis when he comes in for a glass of beer.20 He has his cronies, your poppa. Thank God.
I know he has.
Marie, let me talk plain to you like the nose on your face. I know that you feel at wit ends, ja? A nice gentleman comes along, divorced, all right, all right, let’s just make believe he is, he likes you. You find out he is a very nice and attractive man. He likes your young man of a son. You both have had terrible heartaches, ja? So what is wrong with a quiet stroll once and a while?21 Maybe even he might ask you out in the evening? A dance or a movie date? Marie, dear, your poppa will be fine. He needs some privacy also.
You mean you’ll look after him.
Well. Look after him …
What I mean is, I mean, as long as we’re speaking plain, if you and Poppa, he’s a widower and you … you see what I mean?
Ach, Marie! My God. Poor Otto is not in his grave a year, and your poor mother. God rest their soul. I am talking about chatting. A song on the piano.22
Of course, I’m sorry I mentioned it. And I’m thankful for your advice, Helga, but Poppa really comes first. A little walk after supper, well… But I’m not going to be, I’m not going to be going here and there, well, you know what I mean.
Of course, ja. But if you want, ja? If you want. An ice cream, a nice Tom Collins.23 Everybody loves your poppa and he wouldn’t be lonesome.
Thank you.
I mean it. I remember Otto used always to say, “Everybody thinks so high of Mr. McGrath.” Otto always said that. “A real gentleman,” he’d say.
Thank you. Otto used to tell me that, too, oh, many times, summers past. I remember he once told me sitting right here the way we are now. Poppa and you walked down to the far meadow to pick blackberries? Was it?24
I don’t remember this, dear. I don’t think so.
Or when you and Poppa went to get a pitcher of spring water from the old pump behind the church?25 Oh yes, I think that was it, you and Poppa. With the spring water. I remember it. Very well. Momma had gone shopping in Hackettstown.
Well, I … it’s hard to remember such things. So long ago. With Otto on my mind. And your poor momma. Brrr. It is chilly, I think I go in, ja?26
~ ~ ~
Present a small verbal graph describing the Tom Thebus that existed in Marie’s mind.
A modern Apollo in white ducks; the manly source of aromatic pipe smoke redolent of the exotic; bronzed limbs; a ready laugh; flashing white teeth; very smart; Ronald Colman; sweet on her; a magazine illustration; a small wheel turning; somewhat like the handsome and collegiate teller lost in the mists of time; a man with a secret hurt carefully buried but often apparent in his deepset and poetic eyes; strong and silent; a go-getter; absolute opposite of shanty Irish; possessor of a glamorous and mysterious name; the driver of a glittering and classy car; good family man fatefully thwarted by dark elements beyond his control; expansive personality; singing, head high, down the road of life; a real gentleman.
On what foundation was Marie’s personality built?
The young daughter as white goddess; sudden onslaught on the ego with the arrival of maturity; subsequent decay of the invented white-goddess state, also known as the gift that maims.
Who were the people most responsible for this subsequent decay of the role of white goddess given her to play in her childhood and adolescence?
John McGrath; Bridget McGrath; Anthony Recco; Billy Recco; Margie.
Note one semi-incantatory phrase that came to Marie, in whole or part, at odd times and unbidden.
O Lord I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof; speak but the word and my soul shall be healed.
Was her soul ever healed?
It seems unlikely.
List some other literary fragments stored in her mind.
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing
Ever made by the Hand above?
Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy?
My hand is lonely for your clasping, dear;
My ear is tired waiting for your call.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
A cheer for the boy who says “No!”
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.
Crying, as I floated onward, “I am of the earth no more!
I have forfeited Life’s blessings in the streets of Baltimore.”
Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy
With his marble block before him.
The legend of Felix is ended, the toiling of Felix is done.
‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,