The Cat's Pajamas

“Bess!” cried William.

“Bill, you old son of a—hey, this is a swell place!”

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it? Tie a bandanna on my hairdo and hand me a mop!”

They jabbered on. Maggie, in the kitchen, put down her butter knife and listened, cold and apprehensive.

“God, what I wouldn’t give for a place like this!” cried Bess Alderdice, stamping about the house. “Look at the hand-carved banister. Hey-soose; as the Spanish say; look at that crystal chandelier! Who’d you hit over the head, Bill?”

“We were lucky it was for sale,” said Bill, in the hall.

“I’ve had my eye on this place for years! And you, you lucky bun-of-a-sitch, you grab it out from under sweet Bess Alderdice’s grimy little claws.”

“Bring your grimy little claws out into the kitchen and have some lunch.”

“Lunch, hell, when do we work? I want a hand in this!”

Maggie appeared in the hall.

“Maggie!” Bess Alderdice in her tailored gabardines and flat-heeled shoes and wild black hair shouted at her. “How I envy you!”

“Hello, Bess.”

“Girl, you look tired, or something,” cried Bess. “Look, you sit down and I’ll help Bill. I’ve got muscles from eating Wheaties!”

“We’re not going to stay here,” said Bill quietly.

“You’re what?” Bess looked at him as if he was insane. “In again out again, what’s your name? Finnegan? Well, sell it to mama, mama wants it.”

“We’re going to try to find a small cottage somewhere,” said Bill, falsely hearty.

“You know what you can do with cottages,” said Bess, snorting. “Well, look here, since I’m going to buy this house out from under you, Bill, you can at least help me clean up my place! Give me a hand with these shades!” And she walked in to tear the moth-eaten shades off the parlor windows.

They worked all that afternoon, Bess and William. “You just go lie down, honey,” said Bess, patting Maggie. “I’m getting free help.”

The house thundered with echoes and scrapings. There were explosions of laughter. There were monster dust storms raging in the halls, and once Bess almost fell downstairs in her laughing. There was a banging and a creaking of nails drawn from walls, there was a musical tinkling of bumped chandeliers, there was the rip of old wallpaper coming off. “We’ll make this into a tea room, and this here, why, we’ll knock this wall out!” shouted Bess in the dust storms. “Right!” laughed William. “And I saw a reasonably priced set of antique chairs would just go in here!” said Bess. “Good idea!” said Bill. They gibbered and walked around, their hands on everything. He made blue chalk marks and threw useless furniture out windows, and banged the plumbing. “That’s my boy!” cried Bess. “How about having a rack of fine Bavarian plates around this wall, Bill?” “Great! Wonderful!”

Maggie was outside of it. First she went uselessly up to her bedroom, then she walked down and out into the sunlight. But she couldn’t escape the sound of Bill’s happiness. He was planning and pounding and laughing, and all with another woman. He had forgotten about selling the house. What would he do later, when he remembered that he had called the real estate agent? Stop laughing, of course.

Maggie tightened her hands together. What was it that this Bess Alderdice had? Certainly not her breastless, hard, clumsy body, nor the wild unshorn locks of hair or unplucked brows! Whatever it was it was an enthusiasm and freshness and power that she, Maggie, did not have. But might have? After all, what right did Bess have coming here? It wasn’t her house, was it? Not yet, anyway.

She heard Bess’s voice through an open window. “Do you realize what a history this house has? It was built in 1899 by that lawyer. This used to be the neighborhood. This house had and still has dignity. People were proud to live here. They can still be.”

Maggie stood in the hall. How did you make things right in the world? Things had been wrong until Bess walked in, righting them. How? Not with words. Words could not really make things one way or another. There was more than that. There were actions, continuous, going-on actions. Right now, Bill enjoyed Bess more than he would enjoy Maggie the rest of the day. Why? Because Bess did things with quick hands and an alive face, finished them, and went on to others.

Most of all, though, it was Bill. Had he ever worked in his life, nailed a nail, carried a carpet? No. Being a writer he had sat and sat and sat all his life until today. He was no more prepared for this House of Horror—step up, only a dime, one tenth of a dollar!—than she was. How then could he change suddenly overnight, fling himself on this house tooth and nail? The answer started with its simplicity. He loved Maggie. This would be her house. He’d have done the same if they stayed in an overnight cave. Anywhere was good, if Maggie was there.

Maggie closed her eyes. It all revolved around herself. She was the catalyst. Without her, he’d sit down, never work at all. And she’d been half gone all day. The secret lay not in Bess or William, but in love itself. Love was always the reason for work, for enthusiasm. And if William worked to make her happy, then couldn’t she do the same for him? Love has always been building something somewhere. Either that or it decays. All married life you build—build egos, build houses, build children. If one stops, the other keeps going from the momentum. But then it’s only a half structure. It roars down, finally, like a tower of cards.

Maggie looked at her hands. An apology now to Bill would be embarrassing, and superfluous. How to make things right, then? The same way you made them wrong. The same process, reversed. Things were wrong when you shattered a vase, ripped a drape, or left a book in the rain. You righted them by mending the vase, sewing the drape, buying a new book. These were done things. Her failure to this house was a history of things undone, the slow hand, the unwilling eyes, the lifeless voice.

She picked up a dust rag, climbed the stepladder, shined the chandelier; then she swept the halls with a great idea filling her. She saw the house, finished. Clean antiques, plush and warm color. New copper, shined woodwork, clean chandeliers, fresh-cut rose carpets, the upright piano rewaxed, the old oil lamps circuited with lights, the hand-carved banister re-stained, and the sun pouring though the high colored windows. It would be another age. Friends would dance in the wide ballroom on the third floor, under the eight huge chandeliers. There would be old music boxes, old wine, and a mellow warmth through the house like a fine sherry aroma. It would take time, they had little money, but in a year perhaps—

People would say, “It’s wonderful at Bill and Mag’s, like another age; so comfortable. You’d never guess from outside. I wish we could live on Bunker Hill in one of those wondrous old mansions!”

She ripped off great faded hunks of wallpaper. It was only then that Bill heard her and came to the hall door, surprised. “I thought I heard a noise. How long’ve you been working?”