What I am afraid of is that she will do something that she will regret and then say the hell with the whole thing and marry him, figuring why should she cry over spilt milk, what’s done is done and she may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. That is this article’s scheme I think. I hope that you will pardon my French when I say that this man is really just a patch on a man’s a—. I’m sure that he thinks I have plenty of sponduliks and that my daughter will get it all when I am in the grave. I know his type like a book.
The little nest egg that I have left after Bridget’s hospital bills and funeral expenses I would like to spend on some peace and happiness for myself and some good woman. Somebody who is not just a dizzy jane and who has had her share of troubles like me, somebody who is lonely and who would understand that my marriage was 30 years of a living Hell and would like to give a man getting on in years some comfort. But do you think that there is a woman like that anywhere?
I have watched and watched you for years now in the summer and you know how much I respect you and your love for music and such things. When you were married to Otto, God rest his Soul, I was green with envy of him when I thought of my marriage to Bridget and how we were living a lie. I am ashamed to admit this to you but I have to. That is why I am putting this in writing. Everything is going from bad to worse for me and my own daughter doesn’t want to have anything to do with me and is almost ashamed to be seen in her father’s company, so I have to tell somebody. And I have to tell you although I feel strange doing same that I have always admired from afar your looks, your womanly bust and limbs.
I must close now, but please if this letter makes you feel as if you wish to speak with me further about my tale of woe, let’s have a quiet chat together, just the two of us. God knows we are both alone and not beholden to anybody.
Excuse me for being so bold and writing bust and etc., above. But I had to let you know how I feel about such a wonderful, wonderful person. You are a person who should be comfortable as she grows older without having to be alone looking at the four walls. You are a person who deserves a little nest egg and somebody to look after you. You are still a young and attractive woman with many a good year ahead of you with the right man. Let us have a nice talk soon.
Your old friend,
John McGrath
~ ~ ~
Tom Thebus has come to his door and opened it. By the sweet Christ, his moustache doesn’t look half-bad, he don’t look too much like a frog or a pansy floorwalker.
Hello, John. Heard you had a few tall Tom Collins with Sapurty. Ha ha.
Didn’t sit too well with me, Thebus, you know I like my glass of beer. By the way, I thought you’d be teaching that poor little greaser a thing or two about croquet this hour of the day. You can go through the poor unfortunate lump like a dose of salts.
Ha ha. No, no. No need. Your grandson Billy can beat him without half-trying. Easy to see that he’s your grandson. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, that boy.
Marie down there? Sitting in the shade over by the raspberries with her crocheting and making goo-goo eyes at you? And did you have a nice time at Budd Lake this afternoon? Go ahead, go ahead, shake your head, but I know all about it and I’d like an explanation. You know my daughter’s a good Catholic woman, don’t you, young fellow?
Wh-what? What are you talking about, John, you old dog? Marie and … Marie and I? My God! Ha ha ha!
What’s so goddamn funny, Romeo? The minute I laid eyes on you with your excuse for a moustache, jumping up from the porch the day we got here, that pipe stuck in your gob and a fat book under your oxter, I knew you were giving my Marie the once-over. I’m not blind yet.
No need to be abusive to a fellow, old man. I admit, cross my heart, true blue, and as God is my judge, that Marie is attractive and well-bred, a real lady, but to think that I— Oh, it’s just a wow!
A wow? There’s no call for you to mock her, you pup! She has recently gotten over a broken heart, but I suppose you know all about her marriage to that dago greaseball who is the father of that cockeyed boy, God bless the mark. Did she tell you how he shamed her running after that shanty-Irish chippy that called herself his secretary? A wow? I’ll have you know that she’s had her cross to bear.
You can come down from your high horse, John. I have nothing but the greatest respect for your daughter and mockery is not in my line. Scout’s honor.
Respect for her? In a pig’s ass, and you’ll pardon my French.
How long have you known Mrs. Schmidt?
Helga? Oh God, five years, six years, longer. Years. I met her when she first started coming up here, with Otto, God rest his soul. They always came in July then, the first three weeks. What does she have to do with this?
And what do you think of her? Man to man.
She’s warm and wonderful, full of fun. So was Otto. For a Dutchman, he had some real breeding. But you know how those Dutchmen are educated in the old country. But what has this got to do with the price of beans?
Ha ha! I love your colorful and racy way of talking, John. It’s manly, like saloons and free lunch. The reason I inquire about Mrs. Schmidt — may I call her Helga? — is that I’m afraid that I am head over heels in love with her. Ga-ga. The lady was already here when I arrived, as you know, and we had a very charming and fine, a high-minded friendship, our first week together. All good clean fun, like stringing colored popcorn on the Christmas tree when I was a boy back in Illinois. And then, one evening, when Helga was playing the piano and singing “Auf Wiedersehen,” I fell for her like a ton of bricks.
I didn’t know Helga could play the piano.
Oh? Yes, like a regular angel. She … oh, ha ha! John, you are a great kidder! Didn’t know! Anyhow, I was smitten. The next day we were out blackberrying down below the meadow where Stellkamp throws the chickens that die of disease? and I told her: Mrs. Schmidt, Helga, I said, I must tell you that your person, your smile, your bewitching European accent, your strapping figure and deep bosom — if I may use such a word in your presence — have made, I said, a deep impression on me and I would very much like to have the honor of paying you attendance while we sojourn here.
My God! Helga? You and Helga? Not you and Marie? Who also plays and sings, you know, “Auf Wiedersehen.”
Yes, me and Mrs. Schmidt, Helga and I. However, ah … unfortunately …
You are not her dish.
You’ve hit the nail on the head, old man. In a manner of speaking, she thinks I’m just a patch on a man’s ass. When I unburdened myself to the lady, she smiled and blushed and said: Ja, jawohl, but Chon McGrath und hiss family, dey iss comink up here next veek, und Chon, Mr. McGrath, he iss mein dream, ja? To see her blush drove me half-wild, I don’t mind admitting it.
Me? Helga Schmidt? By God, Thebus, that’s just the way she talks, too. You should be on Major Bowes. But … me? Don’t make me laugh!
That is it in a nutshell, old fellow, believe it or not. My attentions to your daughter are a poor way of making Helga jealous. Just my luck, it’s not working. Just yesterday, Helga told me that she prays to “Gott” every night that you will eat steamers and polka the night away with her this Saturday at the Warren House. She is mad about you, sir. She is even hoping, if I am any judge of women, for a proposal.
You are giving me this straight from the shoulder, Thebus. Really? Be square with me now!