Women Always Were

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 280, 26 November 1938, Page 17 (Supplement)

Women Always Were

Short Short Story

DAVIS spread the foamy lather over his face with easy, flourishing motions. He talked to the girl who sat on the edge of the bathtub. "The job sounds good," he said. "but l hate to work with a dame. They're poison to me. No reflection on vo;i that I've been that way all my life." The woman shrugged. «n' < ? kay WI V' me - she returned. But men ain't all roses to me neither. A job is a job, though, and this one looks ripe. If you wanna trv it with me. I m ready. If not , I'll' be goin' bye-bye. Lem Davis waited fully two minutes denly 6 " P ° The " he whee,ed Sl,d----"All right, sister," he smiled. "You were sent to me by a right guv, so I'll take a chance. We'll do the job, but only because I'm flat broke. And I hope that, for once in my life, a dame won't be poison to me." . ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ Exactly five weeks later, Lem Davis had been caught, tried, convicted, and sent to gaol. The sentence called for five years. The woman escaped with a light sentence, because she helped the district attorney prosecute Lem. It was one of those things. When released four years later, Lem wasn't a better man. Bitter is more the word. He floated from town to town, indulging in petty thievery whenever possible. He hated all women as intensely as any defeated man who ever lived. He hated them all, that is, until he met Lucinda. Lucinda was a waitress in the Elite Cafe. Lem Davis liked the place because few people ever patronised it. He went there for five days in a row, and never so much as glanced at Lucinda. He just barked his orders at her and buried his head in a newspaper. On the fifth day, at supper. Lucinda £ laced a cup of hot coffee before him. em reached for the sugar without looking up from his paper. The cup went over with a smash and the steaming liquid covered the girl's arm. She bit her lip to stifle the pain of the burn. Lem was helpless. He didn't know what to say or do. He sat there, staring at the girl. Then she turned and went into the kitchen. Lem paid his bill and walked out. He came in again the following day, and this time he talked. "Sorry, girlie," he said. "About •pillin' that coffee on you. I mean. I'm dumb that way." "Oh, that's ail right. It didn't hurt, much." "That's good. I'm glad. Get me some goulash, will you?" Lem hesitated. "What's your name?" "Lucinda." "That's a screwy name." He hesitated again. "Look, sister. I don't like dames as a rule. But you—well, I liked

the way you acted when I spilled that Java on you. Think, maybe, you'd like to see a movie with me later to-night?" "I—l think so." ♦ * ♦ ♦

Exactly two weeks later they were sitting on a park bench. A thin slice of orange was riding slowlv through the stars. " °

Ihe night was chilly. Lucinda buried her nose in the clu-ap fur collar. Lcm kept scraping the gravel with the sole <»t his slioe.

"You see, it's this way," he said quietly. "Kver since I was a kid, I've hated women. They double-crossed me until I was dizzy. They never gave me an even 'break' in any direction, so majbe you can t blame me so much. But you—well, you're different. You make me feel different, the world looks different. You—aw, hell, you're just different."

Then he told her all about himself. All about the gaol sentences, the rackets, the police who might pick him up at any time.

She said she didn't want to hear these things; that they made no difference to her. The only thing she wanted to hear was the promise of reform. Jjem gave it jjladlv. They were married the following day . . . f*or two years life was kind and good. Lem trod the clouds of contentment. He worked in a hardware store and managed to save a few pennies each week.

After that second year bard luck came swiftly. Lem lost his job when til* boss had to cut expenses. And a month later Lucinda told him about the baby. She didn't want to tell him at first, but she was frightened.

Lem did everything possible. Ho went from house to house that summer, cleaning cellars, trimming lawns, running errands —anything to earn a quarter or two.

By--Mark Hellinger

It wasn't enough. So desperate beyond reason, he took the revolver

out of the attic trunk and shoved it in his pocketIn the old days he never would have attempted anything «o foolhardy. But brains and hunger never mixed well. He hitch-hiked to the next town, where lie wasn't known, and attempted to stick up a jewellery store in broad daylight. This time, because of his record, they gave him 10 years . . .

Sometimes Lucinda would come to see liiin in the penitentiary. It wasn't often, because the railroad fare was heavy. Besides she had to leave the babv at home. He had told her he didn't want to see his daughter until lie was free.

Mother: Why don't you play with that lovely doll's house uncle gave you? Elsie: I have let it to a friend for sixpence a week, furnished.

"I wouldn't want my kid to see her father in a dump like this," he said. "I'll have to wait a long time to see her, hut it'll be worth it. Don't you think so Lucinda?" The woman nodded. She did not speak. "You're so swell," he went on. "I hate to think of you working while I'm in here. But I'll make it up to you,j honey. I swear I will. You've been* the only decent thing in my whole lousy life."... . Five years went by. Five years that were longer than 50 years. Five years of one cell; five years of waiting for letters and visits from Lucinda; five years of asking for newer—ever newer —pictures of the baby. Then he could stand it no longer. He wrote to Lucinda, and asked her to bring the baby to him. He said simply that he could wait no longer. So, on a bright Sunday afternoon, Lucinda arrived with their daughter. They sat on a small beach in the visitors' room and waited for Lem. The little -girl eyed the guards with interest, and asked innumerable questions that her mother could not answer. Lem was so excited that he almost forgot to kiss Lucinda. He sat down on a stool and stared at his little girl Tears welled in his eyes as he held out

his arms. "My babv," he gulped. "Mine. My l«ibv ..."

The child seemed frightened. She pressed close to her mother. Lucinda whs embarrassed. She frowned at the little girl. "Why are you afraid?" she asked. "He's not going to hurt you. Don't you know who this man is?" The child nodded vigorously. "Yes, mamma," she babbled. "I know who he is. He's the man whose picture was on the piano. The picture that daddy threw out last week."