The Story of Julia Page | Page 9

down across the bed, asleep. George would wake up
slowly, with much yawning and grumbling, Emeline would add her
gloves and belt to the unspeakable confusion of the bureau, and Julia
would flatten her tired little back against the curve of an armchair and
follow with heavy, brilliant eyes the argument that always followed.
"Well, we could get some chops--chops and potatoes--and a can of
corn," Emeline would grudgingly admit, as she tore off her tight corsets
with a great gasp of relief, and slipped into her kimono, "or you could
get some spaghetti and some mangoes at the delicatessen--"
"Oh, God, cut out the delicatessen stuff!" George invariably said; "me
for the chops, huh, Julie?"
"Or--we could all go somewhere," Emeline might submit tentatively.
"NIT," George would answer. "Come on, Ju, we'll go buy a steak!"
But he was not very well pleased with his dinner, even when he had his
own way. When he and Julia returned with their purchases Emeline
invariably met them at the top of the stairs.
"We need butter, George, I forgot to tell you--you'll have to go back!"
she would say. Julia, tired almost beyond endurance, still preferred to
go with her father.

There was not enough gas heat under Emeline's frying pan to cook a
steak well; George growled as he cut it. Emeline jumped up for
forgotten table furnishings; grease splashed on the rumpled cloth. After
the one course the head of the house would look about hungrily.
"No cheese in the house, I suppose?"
"No--I don't believe there is."
"What's the chances on a salad?"
"Oh, no, George--that takes lettuce, you know. My goodness!" And
Emeline would put her elbows on the table and yawn, the rouge
showing on her high cheek bones, her eyes glittering, her dark hair still
pressed down where her hat had lain. "My goodness!" she would
exclaim impatiently, "haven't you had enough, George? You had steak,
and potatoes, and corn--why don't you eat your corn?"
"What's the chances on a cup of tea?" George might ask, seizing a half
slice of bread, and doubling an ounce of butter into it, with his great
thumb on the blade of his knife.
"You can have all the tea you want, but you'll have to use condensed
milk!"
At this George would say "Damn!" and take himself and his evening
paper to the armchair in the front window. When Emeline would go in,
after a cursory disposition of the dishes, she would find Julia curled in
his arms, and George sourly staring over the little silky head.
"It's up to you, and it's your job, and it makes me damn sick to come
home to such a dirty pen as this!" George sometimes burst out. "Look
at that--and look at that--look at that mantel!"
"Well--well--well!" Emeline would answer sharply, putting the mantel
straight, or commencing to do so with a sort of lazy scorn. "I can't do
everything!"

"Other men go home to decent dinners," George would pursue sullenly;
"their wives aren't so darn lazy and selfish--"
Such a start as this always led to a bitter quarrel, after which Emeline,
trembling with anger, would clear a corner of the cluttered
drawing-room table and take out a shabby pack of cards for solitaire,
and George would put Julia to bed. All her life Julia Page remembered
these scenes and these bedtimes.
Her father sometimes tore the tumbled bed apart, and made it up again,
smoothing the limp sheets with clumsy fingers, and talking to Julia,
while he worked, of little girls who had brothers and sisters, and who
lived in the country, and hung their stockings up on Christmas Eve.
Emeline pretended not to notice either father or daughter at these times,
although she could have whisked Julia into bed in half the time it took
George to do it, and was really very kind to the child when George was
not there.
When George asked the little girl to find her hairbrush, and blundered
over the buttons of her nightgown, Emeline hummed a sprightly air.
She never bore resentment long.
"What say we go out later and get something to eat, George?" she
would ask, when George tiptoed out of the bedroom and shut the
folding door behind him. But several hours of discomfort were not to
be so lightly dismissed by George.
"Maybe," he would briefly answer. And invariably he presently
muttered something about asking "Cass" for the time, and so went
down to the saloon of "J. Cassidy," just underneath his own residence.
Emeline, alone, would brood resentfully over her cards. That was the
way of it: men could run off to saloons, while she, pretty and young,
and with the love of life still strong in her veins, might as well be dead
and buried! Bored