Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII. Ambrose paced moodily up and down under the great vaulted arch of the Grand Central, waiting for the train which should bring to him his Aunt Adelaide. He would have been the first to admit that he was not in harmony with the infinite. Within the past twenty-four hours, the two women in the world closest to him had both expressed their desire to take care of him.
If there was one thing in the world Ambrose hated, it was being taken care of. He liked to have his clothes left alone. In affluence, he employed a valet service. When indigent, which was more often the case, he had his clothes done by Goldberg, the sad-eyed little tailor around the corner. Augusta mended his socks. His idea of a place to keep away from
was a place where one's dressing gown and slippers were laid out by careful female hands. He liked doing things for himself and for other people. He was a young man of sound nerves, but there was one thing that drove him to the point of throwing something,
and that was kindly little attentions such as wives and mothers are fond of bestowing on one. Ambrose was a natural camper. Had he been as talented a writer as he was a camper, his name would already be known in contemporary literature, and with Augusta to clean up for him
now and then he did for himself very nicely. He saw no escape for himself, and gloomy, misshapen thoughts crowded and jostled one another in the dim cavern of his mind. Here he was, twenty-seven years old, a personable young man, of an undoubtedly pleasing exterior, sound of limb and able to do for himself, and the only sentiment that he was able to arouse in the minds of the young females around him was of his extraordinary helplessness. A fast express was
bringing his aunt closer to him every second, and she might be the third. Let her not think, he reflected savagely, that she's going to take care of me. She's here for just two purposes, to be a chaperone and to have a good time. If her idea of a good time is looking after me, I shall commit suicide or maybe murder. Suddenly a thought that had evidently been growing in his mind, jumped at him from ambush. How would Mrs. Adelaide Babcock take Sonia anyway? I bet you
anything, he thought. She'll consider adopting a child lacking in thrift. And would she take to Sonia, he wondered, or would she take her as her Christian duty, which is to say, as one takes a pill? Then at last he saw her coming toward him. She was a little gray old lady, dressed in gray with a reassuring pink flower in her bonnet. Her cheeks were pink and excitement shone in her eyes. As they went down Fifth Avenue in a taxi, Mrs. Babcock leaned back with a sigh of content.
Oh, she said, it's too perfectly beautiful. And as Ambrose looked at his aunt, he realized that the most innocent, city-raised child of three was sophisticated beside her. And in the way she regarded New York, Ambrose sensed her tolerance as wide as the horizon and her sense of humor as deep as the sea. This woman, he thought, has come to save me. She shall be my bulwark.
On Adelaide, he said, can you understand a man's not wanting to have his socks darned? She looked at him mildly. I can understand a man's not wanting most anything, she replied. Then he said, keep the orphan child from darning my socks.
Something tells me she'll want to. If any other young woman comes in bent on that or some similar job, keep her off. A glance of lightning intelligence illuminated Mrs. Babcock's eyes. A smile that was like a swift ripple of water over a quiet pond flashed over her face. It was a smile that said, I get you.
A smile of heavenly comprehension. Women impose on men awful in these days. How'd you happen to think of adopting an orphan, Ambrose? I didn't. She adopted me.
All her family are dead and she hadn't any place to go. So she just came and said she was going to stay. You can't turn away a child, can you? He pleaded. Not out into the streets or send her to a bye-to-wee home.
No, said his aunt, of course you can't. God just points his finger at us now and then and says, you do this, and there's nothing to do but just do it. But he chooses some awfully queer things for us to do sometimes, and some awfully queer people to do them.
She smiled at Ambrose again. Oh, speaking of God, said Ambrose, trying to make his voice cheerful. She don't believe in him. Uh-uh, remarked Mrs. Babcock encouragingly, but her eyes were fastened out of the window,
entranced with the spectacle of New York. No, but she believes in lots of other things, things you've been lucky enough never to have heard of, Ambrose continued gloomily, and she hasn't any inhibitions.
Inhibitions, his aunt inquired? Things that keep you from doing the things that you want to, Ambrose explained. Mrs. Babcock reflected for a moment. I don't believe I've ever had any except my relatives,
she replied. As they came up the stairs, a steady thump, thump, thump made itself heard. It grew louder with each step. It's Sonia, the superchild, he warned his aunt. They opened the door. Sonia's back was turned to them and she didn't hear them come in. Her hair hung around her in clouds. She was doing flip-flaps. She pushed her hair back from her eyes. Color was in her face. She looked to Ambrose like some strange little wood creature.
For a second she stared at his aunt with shining wild eyes that were bold and shy at once, and having no inhibition, she came forward swiftly and kissed her, while Mrs. Babcock folded her in her arms as if she were welcoming back some little girls she had known long ago. I see you're feeling better, said Ambrose, so I think if you get ready for dinner we'll all go out. Go out, cried Sonia. Eat in expensive restaurants? Two women in the house and you go out and buy
food? I've had Augusta get something anyway, and it's all ready to cook. Oh, Sonia, cried Mrs. Babcock. Oh, Sonia, it's been twenty-seven years since I've been to a restaurant. Sonia, don't take the joy out of life, warned Ambrose. I love to be lavish. Come on, we'll eat in the cellar of the Brevort. When did you learn to cook anyway? Me, said Sonia, I've always cooked. I've always had someone to cook for. When I was little, we took our meals at Tia's and I helped her. Sonia, she said,
your grandpa is a Santo Doro, that means a golden saint, and you must take care of him. Someone has always taken care of him. Precious things like golden saints must be taken care of. So I learned to cook and do everything. Sonia ran to put on her things. Aunt Adelaide followed her with pitying eyes. There, she said, that's what ails that child. There's nothing like taking care of an irresponsible grandparent for killing a child's youth. Youth and age when they live together
can't both be irresponsible. End of chapter 8. Recording by Expatriate in Bangor, Maine.
