When God Laughs | Page 9

legs. He drew a
broken-bottomed chair to the table.
"Johnny," his mother called sharply.
He arose as sharply from the chair, and, without a word, went to the
sink. It was a greasy, filthy sink. A smell came up from the outlet. He
took no notice of it. That a sink should smell was to him part of the
natural order, just as it was a part of the natural order that the soap
should be grimy with dish-water and hard to lather. Nor did he try very
hard to make it lather. Several splashes of the cold water from the
running faucet completed the function. He did not wash his teeth. For
that matter he had never seen a toothbrush, nor did he know that there
existed beings in the world who were guilty of so great a foolishness as
tooth washing.
"You might wash yourself wunst a day without bein' told," his mother
complained.
She was holding a broken lid on the pot as she poured two cups of
coffee. He made no remark, for this was a standing quarrel between

them, and the one thing upon which his mother was hard as adamant.
"Wunst" a day it was compulsory that he should wash his face. He
dried himself on a greasy towel, damp and dirty and ragged, that left
his face covered with shreds of lint.
"I wish we didn't live so far away," she said, as he sat down. "I try to do
the best I can. You know that. But a dollar on the rent is such a savin',
an' we've more room here. You know that."
He scarcely followed her. He had heard it all before, many times. The
range of her thought was limited, and she was ever harking back to the
hardship worked upon them by living so far from the mills.
"A dollar means more grub," he remarked sententiously. "I'd sooner do
the walkin' an' git the grub."
He ate hurriedly, half chewing the bread and washing the unmasticated
chunks down with coffee. The hot and muddy liquid went by the name
of coffee. Johnny thought it was coffee--and excellent coffee. That was
one of the few of life's illusions that remained to him. He had never
drunk real coffee in his life.
In addition to the bread, there was a small piece of cold pork. His
mother refilled his cup with coffee. As he was finishing the bread, he
began to watch if more was forthcoming. She intercepted his
questioning glance.
"Now, don't be hoggish, Johnny," was her comment. "You've had your
share. Your brothers an' sisters are smaller'n you."
He did not answer the rebuke. He was not much of a talker. Also, he
ceased his hungry glancing for more. He was uncomplaining, with a
patience that was as terrible as the school in which it had been learned.
He finished his coffee, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and
started to rise.
"Wait a second," she said hastily. "I guess the loaf kin stand you
another slice--a thin un."

There was legerdemain in her actions. With all the seeming of cutting a
slice from the loaf for him, she put loaf and slice back in the bread box
and conveyed to him one of her own two slices. She believed she had
deceived him, but he had noted her sleight-of-hand. Nevertheless, he
took the bread shamelessly. He had a philosophy that his mother,
because of her chronic sickliness, was not much of an eater anyway.
She saw that he was chewing the bread dry, and reached over and
emptied her coffee cup into his.
"Don't set good somehow on my stomach this morning," she explained.
A distant whistle, prolonged and shrieking, brought both of them to
their feet. She glanced at the tin alarm-clock on the shelf. The hands
stood at half-past five. The rest of the factory world was just arousing
from sleep. She drew a shawl about her shoulders, and on her head put
a dingy hat, shapeless and ancient.
"We've got to run," she said, turning the wick of the lamp and blowing
down the chimney.
They groped their way out and down the stairs. It was clear and cold,
and Johnny shivered at the first contact with the outside air. The stars
had not yet begun to pale in the sky, and the city lay in blackness. Both
Johnny and his mother shuffled their feet as they walked. There was no
ambition in the leg muscles to swing the feet clear of the ground.
After fifteen silent minutes, his mother turned off to the right.
"Don't be late," was her final warning from out of the dark that was
swallowing her up.
He made no response, steadily keeping on his way. In the