Argosy: The Short Story Magazine — page 96: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

96 CORDELIA BAIRD GROSS trouped in burlesque with her mother. She’s eaten in a thousand cheap cafés. She’s warmed up ten thousand meals on an electric hotplate. She dreams of soufflés, lighter than her feathers. And pies and cakes her Ma could never bake.’’ Sometimes Homer’s classic name sort of carried him away “ She’ll be eighteen next month,” he said, “ and for her birthday, she’s got her heart set on a big white stove with tgvo great ovens.” ““Can’t she get it?” I asked. “Not while her mother lives,” said Homer, “and I’ll bet she’s here to stay.” This made me even fonder of Pansy. I could almost see the tug of war going on between mother and daughter. Some nights Pansy seemed a little more animated and I felt she was winning. She’d come into the office between shows and bring her scrapbook of recipes for me to admire, or she’d go into the kitchen, and Leon, the head chef, would let her stir the onion soup or decorate a shrimp. Other nights she was the picture of defeat and would just slump down at her dressing-table and not speak to anyone. ‘““T’m waiting for her to yawn in our faces and then go to her final rest,’’ said Tony, one of the owners. He was too tender- hearted.to fire anyone; so I wasn’t really worried for Pansy. About two weeks later Pansy came up to Homer and me. ‘““ Hey, kids,”’ she said in her throaty whisky-voice, which was always surprising, since she drank only lemonade. “‘ Can ya come up t’ my place tomorra afternoon? I’m a Libra in the ascendant. ‘Tomorra’s my birthday.” We accepted with pleasure. “She seemed happy,” I said when Pansy had left us. “‘ You think she’s getting the stove? ”’ ‘“‘ Naw,” said Homer, “‘ and she lives in Canarsie’s nethermost night. We’ll need five Indians and a guide to find it.” At four the next afternoon we arrived at the boarding-house . where the St. Clares lived. Pansy opened the door for us and even through her glasses I could see she’d been crying. “Happy birthday,” we said and stepped into the bed-sitting- room. It was more fully clothed than Pansy at the beginning of ‘her act. Ruffled skirts concealed every table-leg. Lampshades dripped with ribbons and beads. Dolls in satin and gold lace hid the wide surface of the bed. Pansy was compensated at home for the bare simplicity of her art. “‘ Welcome, folks,” said Mrs. St. Clare. ‘‘ Pleased to see you.” Homer gave Pansy some flowers we’d brought, but they looked mighty feeble against the competition they met. The room was gay with enormous branches and buds and leaves and blossoms, too brilliant to be true. ‘“‘ From my act when I left comiclooks.comn