THE TENTS OF SHEM

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 70, Issue 93, 2 February 1950, Page 7

THE TENTS OF SHEM

E Serial Story £

- (Copyright) £

jjjj By Grace Jones Morgan £ ftiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiui’miiiiiiiiiiiHiuiii?

CHAPTER XXIX. NINA! i 1 M “Hello, Mariette,” she said. “This is the first time I’ve found you home in a long while/’ “Oh, . . . hello, Nina. Yeah, Ido go out sometimes. How’s everything? Dorsey, this here is an old acquaintance of mine since the fire. We chummed up on a few graves in the cemetery and watched San Francisco burn, together, didn’t we, Nina. Where are you working now, Nina'?” Nina! Fanchee was staring, one hand feeling along the front of her coat toward her throat. Nina . . . No, no, it couldn’t be. The world was full of Ninas. It was a name common, among the Mexicans and Spanish. Her Nina was pretty, lovely, red-cheeked, red-lipped, with dancing feet! This woman’s shoes were broken at the sides, flat-heeled. The coat she wore was too big, drabbled with rain and sand stains at the hem, her hat looked as if it had been sat upon, a broken crowned velvet with a wide brim and a red ribbon rosette. “Chung Fat’s,” she answered Mariette’s inquiry. Working at a Chinese store!” “I don’t know that I’ve got a thing for you to-night, Nina. Say, Dorsey, when you outgrow your togs save them for Nina, will you? Perhaps Maisie, the Beauty Queen upstairs, has something. I’m going out, Nina. Dorsey will save her things for you, antf hers will about fit you, huh? Same height as you. Dorsey was born out in the Mission like you, but she’s been to Canada, and come back.” Oh, why did Mariette tell everything so quickly! Fanchee could have swept a hand to Mariette’s lips, for the eyes of the slattern lighted with interest. She surveyed Fanchee from those terrible, those burning dark eyes. , “Canada. I know a little about Canada. My man came from there and went back there. Took my baby, took my little girl away from her mother. Left me here to starve alone. I hate the name Canada. Ur-r-r . . .” Noise rasped from her throat and she spat Viciously. Fanchee felt her throat she backed toward the door, her hand was on the knob, turning it. “Maybe you know them. ... Is Canada a big town?”

“It isn’t a town. It’s- a country, larger than the United States,” she said in a queer, strangled voice. “No, I know very few people in Canada. No, no, I couldn’t know the man . . .” “Named my baby for San Francisco. . .‘ Francisca. . . Jacqueline for her father. His name was Jack. . . . Oh, well, that’s a long time ago. . . .” Fanchee was sick, nauseated, the lights were swaying, prancing as she opened the door, felt the cool draught from the halls, and ran to the stairs, fled to the first landing and waited there a moment until dizziness passed. This was Nina! This unkempt, down-at-the-heel, dirty woman was her mother! ,

Daddy, Daddy, what have you done to her, what have you done to me? Oh, God, Daddy, you left her to starve like that, to suffer!

Working in a Chinese store, among yellow men Avho keep their own women inviolate, or, if they step aside, kill them for dishonour! Yellow men who despise a race whose women boldly walk the streets, whose contempt for a white \yoman working for them was immeasurable. And this was one of those poor creatures, the mother of Fanchee D’Arcy, hungry, dirty, tired, listless with misery.

Her room was dark, but Fanchee stumbled toward the bed, hands feeling' for the pillow, dropping limp, to shiver, to shudder at this horror, rising ghostlike from the years gone by. Her memories of Nina had been tender, happy times, a dancing, laughing Nina, a small, fairylike Nina whirling her scarlet skirts, a memory of blue skies and a starry flag, of shimmering palms and geranium hedges, and of gallant and tall ships on the sapphire bay, glimpses of light, bright beauty. The door opened. She had left the key in the lock. Mariette called. “Dorsey, you here? We’re ready to go. Mart’s come Avith his car and a friend. We’ll take Rachel to the doctor and then have some fun.” “I can’t, Mariette. I’m sick, sick, sick . . . , “Sick! What’s the matter?” The light Avas sAvitched on, hard, cold ceiling bulbs shining on her eyes. Mariette looked dOAvn at her. Then she Avas gone. But only for a feAv moments. She returned carrying a steaming glass.

“Here, drink this. And I brung a hot-water bag. Take off your things and cuddle up.” Mariette’s. strongarms lifted her, held the goblet to her chattering teeth. “Drink it!” Hot whisky and sugar. Fanchee’s throat contracted, her stomach revolted, but Mai'iette Avas inexorable. She carried aAvay the empty glass. “Gee, you was feeling all right when you came down. Did Nina have anything to do with it. Fanchee . . . she ain’t . . . Fanchee, you said your mother’s name Avas Nina . . . You don’t suppose . . . My God, kid, it ain’t that. Say, the Avorld is full of that name. Git that idea out of your head. The Avay I met her was like this: On the night of April 5 Mart and. I had been out for a time and had a I‘eAV drinks. And Avhen I woke up there Avas George Washington crossing the Delaware on. my wall, and it was certainly a rough DelaAvare. I thought it- ; Avas a hangover; honest, I figured I Avas rocking instead of the city. But, anyway, I finally, got to the cemetery and there Avas a Avoman there going to have a baby, and all I could do Avas to hunt around until I found a doctor, while Nina stayed by. We stayed right there till that little baby Avas born, and since then she comes to see me every so often. She .had hard luck. She Avas a cafe dancer, and for a Avhile there Avasn’t anything doing in her line, of course, so she had to take anything she could get. And Maisie and I sort of help her a little when she comes—old clothes and a dollar if Ave’re in funds. Honest, she’s had hard luck. If you’d seen her that morning Avhen San Francisco Avas, gone and the little baby Avas coming. It Avas Avrapped in my flannel petticoat, and the doctor says, ‘Well, Jesus Christ didn’t have any fancy baby clothes, either.’ I never forget the Avay he said that, sort of desperate and Avith his teeth gritting. He couldn’t find his wife and kids that morning.

You think you’ve seen trouble; you should of bin here then! Come on out, the ride’ll do you good, Fanchee.” “No, I’m sick. And iioav . . . I’m drunk, Mariette. This room is going round.” fTo be continued}.