And then he did. The woman slipped suddenly from Joe’s grip, and plummetted downward to the sidewalk. Her scream rose higher and higher as she fell, and then stopped completely. She struck the pavement like a bug smacking against the windshield of a car.
His whole being filled with relief. Thank God, he thought. It was too bad for the woman, but now Joe would reach the ground safely. But he noticed that Joe seemed to be in trouble. He was still swaying back and forth. He was coughing, too.
And then, all at once, Joe fell. He left the ladder and began to drop to the earth. His body hovered in the air and floated down like a feather. Then he hit the ground and melted into the pavement.
At first he could not believe it. Then he glared at the fire. Damn you, he thought. You weren’t satisfied with the old woman. You had to take a fireman too.
It wasn’t right.
The fire was evil. This time it had gone too far. Now it would have to suffer for it.
And he raised his hose and trained it on the burning hulk of the tenement, punishing the fire.
Stage Fright
by D. E. Forbes
She was such an innocent little girl. And yet such strange things happened when she was around...
Caroline Pincher could have brushed her daughter’s hair for hours. The pleasure she felt from stroking the silky locks was a personal thing, something like a feeling she had known as a child when she had carried a fine flannel blanket held to her face. But now Caroline was a woman and the feeling had gone... except when she brushed Margot’s hair.
She wound a golden curl around a fleshy finger. It was truly golden, she thought, not blonde or yellow, but real shimmering gold. She remembered before Margot was born, how she had prayed for a beautiful little girl with blue eyes and golden curls. All the time she had prayed and when Margot was born she knew her prayers had been answered.
Margot moved her head quickly and made a little sound when the brush caught.
“I’m sorry, darling. Mother wasn’t paying attention. Mother was thinking about something else.”
The young voice, clear as a church bell from a tower, answered.
“Isn’t it about time to go, Mother?”
Caroline looked at her small watch, purchased last year from Margot’s earnings. “You’re right as usual, Kitten. We must fly.” She got up from her chair, struggling a little to raise her heavy body. “Now, you remember everything I’ve told you?”
Her daughter, slim and petite as a fairy, rose. She looked like a young princess in her rose velvet frock and her small ermine hat. Her slender feet wore black patent slippers and little white socks. Every gesture, thought Caroline, full of grace.
They put on their coats. Caroline’s was a Persian lamb which she knew tended to make her look heavier, but, my dear, so elegant. Margot’s matched her hat. Some of the other mothers, she knew, thought Margot was overdressed. But then they were just jealous. And besides, their daughters (no matter how talented) would never be a star.
But Margot would. Oh, yes. Caroline had known it the moment they placed the newborn baby in her arms. She had looked up at the little man she had married and breathed the words.
“Herb, she’s so beautiful. She’s destined, Herb. That’s what she is. Destined.”
Only of course then she hadn’t known what Margot was destined for. All through Margot’s babyhood Caroline had been watching for the signs. When she had mimicked the words of a popular song at the age of three, Caroline had thought. A singer. That’s what she’ll be. Metropolitan or musical comedy. Which shall we plan for?
At four she had sent Margot to a progressive school where one of the subjects taught was modern dance. Miss Hildgard was most entranced with Margot’s talents. The ballet, Caroline had wondered, is it to be the ballet? And she had hugged the little girl to her, whispering, “Oh, you marvelous, talented angel. There is no one like you in the whole world.”
But at five the real talent had emerged, plain and positive, for all to see. A kindergarten drama, where the little thespians had made up their own lines, emoted as they pleased. The star, the shining glorious star, was Margot. And didn’t one of the fathers present turn out to be a theatrical agent? And didn’t he come to Caroline with the suggestion that her daughter might do a small part in a Broadway production seeking a pretty little girl? Destined? Destined, indeed.
But there had been obstacles. Herb, for instance.
“Now, Caroline,” he had moved his little head in that peculiar birdlike way that he had, “I just think that you should consider this thing — very carefully. Margie,” Caroline shuddered whenever he called her darling by that common name, “is only five years old. You’re all set to put her on the stage, to toss her into competition with children years older — yes, and adults, too — who must earn their living in the theatre. It seems to me that that’s an awful tough proposition for a five-year old child.”
Caroline had been studying the script containing the two lines that Margot would speak. They consisted of, “Good morning, Mama,” and “I am a good girl, Mama.” Caroline was busy planning ways and means for her daughter to be noticed — really noticed.
“Nonsense, Herb. What you say might be true for an ordinary child. But you know yourself, Margot is no ordinary child.”
The angel in person had come in then, perched herself on her father’s bony knee, requested money for an ice-cream cone.
“And that’s another thing,” Caroline had been anxious to drive the point home, “we could use the money. Sixty-five dollars a week, Herb, just for Margot to go to the theatre every night and say two lines and come home. Sixty-five dollars a week. Why, that’s almost as much as you make.”
Herb had produced a dime, patted his daughter’s head. “Let’s not discuss it — in front of the child.”
Caroline had bristled. “Not discuss it in front of the child! It’s her future, isn’t it? She’s the one most involved, isn’t she? Do you think she wants to be a part of—,” she groped for words, “the common herd? We were awarded a precious gift when Margot was born. Made custodians of it. And you want to throw it all away when she gets her big chance.”
And then Margot, the little minx, had looked up into her father’s face with all her charm and said, “Daddykins, I’d like to. I really would. Please, daddy. Just this once, daddy. Please.”
And that had been that — for the moment. Margot had been noticed. Perhaps it was the fact that the other children were such clods and Margot such a dainty little miss. Perhaps it was the cute way Caroline taught her to say “Mama”, not quite the European way, not quite the American way either. The director had asked her to say it like the rest, but Margot, as sweet and docile as an angel, would forget and slip right back into her original pronunciation. And after she got a hand the first night, the director hadn’t corrected her again.
When she got the part in “Avenging Angel”, a really big part with a whole scene to herself. Caroline had switched her to the Professional Children’s School. And Herb had interfered again.
“Didn’t I hear Margot crying in her room?”
Caroline had been preparing dinner and wondering if Margot’s raise in salary would warrant her hiring a part-time maid.
“Oh — that’s nothing. Temperament. She had a quarrel with one of her teachers in school. She’s just letting off steam.”
“What do you mean, she had a quarrel with the teacher? What happened?” Herb had looked so small, so bewildered, Caroline had felt almost like laughing.
“Oh, don’t worry. I gave her what for, I can tell you. She lit into Margot about some little fib she claimed Margot had told. I told her, I did. I told her my daughter was no liar and if Margot said Sarah Lane was the one who spilled the bottle of ink, then Sarah Lane was the one who did it. By the time I was through, the woman backed down.”