Poor Jenny, Bright As A Penny

Chapter 5

Bingo has gone to the welfare office with Mama. How he hates it. She woke him early, had clean clothes laid out for him and his bath water waiting. She sure honeys him up when she wants something. Mama dressed in her “welfare” suit, of course, the plain brown one that makes her look poor but respectable, no makeup, no perfume. She won’t even smoke in the welfare office.

Jenny sat cross-legged on her bed, eating an egg sandwich while she wrote.

Off they went, Bingo grumbling as usual about how he is always the one who has to do it. Well, he’s the youngest, and if they don’t believe about Mama’s had back making her not able to work then they can see for themselves that at least one of us is little enough to need her at home. I know perfectly well he sits there trying to look as little and helpless as he can, and all the time watching the caseworker to see if he believes Mama, and watching Mama perform.

It won’t hurt him, and I’m glad it’s him, not me. I hate the welfare office. All full of hopeless-looking people and old men shaking with palsy, and girls no older than Crystal with dirty babies on their laps, spitting up all over them. That makes me feel just awful, even if it is good material for a writer.

I did the laundry this morning and Clayhill’s door was open when I went by. What a weird place. The furniture is typical apartment house stuff, pushed all together in a corner as if someone would like to get rid of it but has no other place to put it. There are huge posters on the walls. Most are people’s faces, blown up so they are grainy. One poster, opposite the door, is a picture in reds of a horrible dead rooster with its throat cut and bleeding. The floor is covered with worn-out oriental rugs and pillows made of faded khaki. It smells of pot in there.

A lumpy little figure in a chenille bathrobe was standing in the middle of the room with her back to me. Her shoulders were slumped and she looked so forlorn. When she turned around her face was angry and filled with hate. I was embarrassed, staring. That must be Clayhill’s mother.

Sammy is Clayhill’s cousin. He’s emaciated-looking, and as sour-faced as Mrs. Clayhill. He should be her son instead of Clayhill, who is tall and dark and might be handsome if you could see enough of his face. His hair is to his shoulders, and he has a big scraggly beard, so with all that there’s not much left but his eyes. They are dark brown and sexy. Needless to say, Crystal likes Clayhill the best. Sammy’s last name is Phipps. Poor guy, he wasn’t blessed with much.

*

Jenny heard Lud get up and felt vaguely uneasy. She had a distaste for being alone in the house with him.

She got up and dressed, eager to see what the city was like. It looked much more interesting than the poky little towns they had lived in.

Around the apartment house were all manner of shops, old Victorian houses let go to seed, little factories, and some buildings boarded up. She found a greenhouse next to a nursery, and when she put her face to the glass and cupped her hands beside her eyes she could see a world as dim and green as if it were under the sea. Long spiky plants and wavering tendrils and huge fat leaves like sharks swam through the muted green light. She watched people on the streets and in the stores and listened to them. She discovered a used book store wedged narrowly between a doughnut shop and a laundry. There was a shelf that held books of classic short stories. She read the title pages eagerly and sampled the stories until she grew fuzzy from the close, dusty smell.

She wanted those books, she wanted all of them. To pick out two or three seemed nearly impossible. She counted the coins in her pocket.

The selection took almost as long as the browsing. In the end she chose five books. They came to exactly as much as she had. But now instead of money she had stories, stories that lifted her into new worlds quickly and surely, stories to study and learn from.

She hurried home, frantic to write down the things she had seen on the street, then to curl up with her books. She dug out her notebook and began to write her sketches: First, an old woman in pink with a round belly that swayed when she walked, and a behind that swiveled as if her knees were tied together. Jenny had seen a pig like that once, a fat old sow who twisted with every step.

She captured an argument she had heard on the street and got the dialogue down rapidly and accurately, then described a little shop that sold strange castoff clothes and musty magazines and old dolls with their hair falling out, and how the shopkeeper had looked like the dolls, as if she had the mange.

The one thing Jenny had done that was not productive was to wander in a store full of bright new furniture, touching and admiring and yearning. She knew it would make her unhappy afterward.

She closed her notebook. It had been a lovely day.

She made a sandwich, then stood in the kitchen doorway looking at the threadbare carpet and the bile-green walls, and suddenly the pleasure of the morning left her. The room was incredibly dingy. The shades hung crookedly, and the curtains were gray and torn. Very little of the day’s brightness could get through the crusted windows. Home. This was home. A noise from the hall made her turn. Lud came in, greasy and obnoxious. He sprawled across the couch, kicked off his shoes, and belched.

It was just too much. The room, the dirt, and Lud. Defeat and fury swept over her.

He lit a cigarette. “Sandwich for me? Pass it over.”

“Get your own damned sandwich!”

“Do what?”

“Get your own damned sandwich. You come in here looking like a slob, and acting like a slob, and expect me to wait on you. Well, maybe Mama is stupid enough, but I’m not!”

He looked her up and down slowly. A chill of fear ran through her, but her disgust was stronger. She faced him, glaring.

Then Lud grinned and looked her over once more. “Y’know, missy, you got no more boobs than a boy—at fifteen, too. Ain’t that a shame. C’mon over here and let’s have a feel—”

Jenny’s face flamed. She stared at him for a full minute willing her hate to wither him. But he only looked back coolly. Her embarrassment and shame engulfed her. She hated him. And she was utterly outmatched. There was nothing she could do or say that would faze Lud.

She fled down the stairs and into the little yard and crept into the bushes with tears of fury streaming down her face.

Then later when she saw Lud’s car was gone she went upstairs, her face streaked from crying, and found Crystal reading her notebook. Jenny snatched it away and fled into the bedroom. Nothing was private!

*

Mama came away from the welfare office looking elated. The first thing she did was to light a cigarette, and drag on it deeply as if she’d had a hard time going without one so long. Then she began to stroll slowly beside the shops, looking at the clothes. Bingo, seeing a drugstore, guided her in that direction, for she had promised him a sundae, and bribe or not, he was going to see that he got it.

They sat on tall stools in the steamy drugstore. Mama lit another cigarette and they ordered. “Your sister’s birthday’s next week, Bingo. What do you think she’d like?”

“Jenny? Oh, you know, Mama, Jenny always likes the same thing.”

“Notebooks?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Mama shook her head uncertainly. “Maybe a nice new dress, what would she think of that?”

Bingo eyed Mama warily. “She’d love a pretty dress, Mama. But she’d like notebooks better.” Mama’s taste did not please Jenny, and spending money on something horrid would only spoil her birthday.

“We can just look,” Mama said. “It don’t cost nothing to look.”

They left the drugstore and passed a beautiful hotel with trees growing in a courtyard. There was a new Lincoln parked in front with a lady and a little poodle waiting in it. Mama looked in, sniffed, and said, “Them fox scarves don’t look good on fat women.” Bingo pulled Mama by the hand to hurry her along. “What’s the matter with you?” she grumbled. “You feel sorry for rich folk?”

“Well I don’t know, Mama, maybe that lady worked hard for that car and fur coat.”

“Did I say anything about the car? All I said was—”

He blocked out the rest of it, meandered and scuffed his feet. Mama took him by the shoulder and hurried him along to where a large department store presented windows of brilliant summer clothes, displayed with wrought-iron furniture and paintings of summer beaches. Awnings hung over the street to keep rain off the windows and off the people who paused to look in at those bright, exotic worlds.

Inside the store it was warm and smelled like a garden. They were in the cosmetic department. Mama stopped at a counter, looked into a little round mirror, and fluffed her hair. There were wigs there, red, blond, and gray. Mama sat down on a stool and began to try them on one after the other. The saleslady smiled. Bingo wandered away. When he looked back, Mama had left the sales counter and was picking something up off the floor. She shoved it in her pocket. He thought she had found some money and wanted to ask her, but she hurried off toward the elevator. By the time he caught up, there were people around.

They got off the elevator at Girls’ Dresses, and Mama began to flip through the racks. She picked out a blue satin dress with ruffles that Bingo knew Jenny would hate. Mama handed the clerk a credit card and the clerk called her Mrs. Harold. Bingo stood staring at Mama. That was a credit card Mama had found.

He knew he should stop her, but when they left Girls’ Dresses there were too many people, so he just followed Mama like a sheep. In Women’s Coats Mama bought herself a new raincoat the color of strawberries and walked out wearing it, again having signed Mrs. Harold’s name. He tried to talk to Mama without giving her away, but Mama wouldn’t listen. He would have had to shout to get her attention. She bought some towels with yellow flowers on them, and a bottle of perfume.

Then they were alone in the elevator. “Mama, let’s throw that card away and get out of here and not buy any more.”

“Nobody’s hurting, the store’s insured.”

“Well, it’s stealing from somebody. And if we get caught—”

But it was too late. The elevator door opened, and there was a store detective waiting for them.

The detective’s office was five floors up, a small hot room with a cluttered desk and an ashtray full of cigar butts. The chairs were made of aluminum tubing and covered with cracked plastic. From his seat by the window Bingo could see the rooftops of the city, crowded with vent pipes, skylights, and billboards.

Mama played innocent as long as she could. But the credit card had been stolen the week before and there was a long list of purchases against it. “I did report mine lost,” Mama lied. “This one belongs to my husband.”

“Do you have identification?”

Finally it became obvious that if Mama didn’t tell the truth she was going to be charged with making all the purchases, which amounted to several hundred dollars. By the time she decided to level with the detective, he seemed to find her story hard to believe.

Bingo stood up for her then. “She did find it today. I saw her.”

“It must have gotten mixed up with my own credit cards,” Mama said. “I intended to turn it in, but I hadn’t got around to it yet.”

“If you intended to turn it in, why were you signing the owner’s name on the sales slips?”

Unable to answer this, Mama squeezed out a few tears, found a handkerchief, and broke down and bawled. “Mister, I’m on welfare. It’s tough to make ends meet and care for three little children,” she sobbed. “I guess I lost my head when I saw that card lying there. My little girl has a birthday next week. Please, take the things back and let me go. I’m really sorry.”

Bingo was so ashamed of Mama. The store detective called the police, and Mama said through her tears, “It isn’t fair. It just isn’t fair. I said I’d give everything back. I just can’t afford to be arrested.”

At the police station, when it became clear to Mama that she was going to be put in jail and not just reprimanded and sent home, she stopped crying and got mad. The young red-headed officer who booked her was very polite, but Mama swore at him abominably. “How long do you expect to keep me in this goddamn place!”

Officer Dermody looked at her coolly. “Mrs. Middle, are there other children at home? Is there anyone there to care for them?”

Mama didn’t mention Lud. She knew county welfare would find out. But she had to tell about Crystal and Jenny, for the police would surely check with Mr. Knutson, her welfare caseworker, and she feared this even more than going to jail. “There are two girls at home, but they are very capable and able to care for the boy.”

“How old are they?”

“Fifteen and sixteen, but old for their ages, and responsible.”

“They will be cared for at juvenile hall,” Officer Dermody said. His eyelashes and eyebrows were red too, Bingo noticed. Then the meaning of juvenile hall hit Bingo, and he sat down feeling shaky.

“For how long?” he asked weakly.

“At least through the weekend, until your mother can get into court on Monday. Then the judge will set the date for her trial. He will either release her on her own recognizance so you can all go home, or he will make her stay in jail until the trial date, maybe several weeks. If that happens, Mrs. Middle, you can post bail and get out. That can be borrowed from a bail bondsman, but it will probably cost a hundred dollars to borrow it.”

Bingo thought it sounded like a long time in juvenile hall. He kissed Mama good-bye and watched her being led away toward the cells. He walked to the patrol car between Officer Dermody and a gray-haired policewoman, and got into the back seat with her.

At a stop light Dermody turned to look at Bingo. “How are your sisters going to take all this?”

“Jenny won’t make any trouble. Crystal might.”

“Is Crystal the oldest?”

“Yes.”

“How much trouble?”

“She might kick and bite. She won’t like going to juvenile hall. She’ll swear at you,” he promised.

“We’ve been sworn at before.”

“Will it be all right for Jenny there? Is it rough? She’s not like Crystal.”

“It’s a nice place, she’ll be fine. But it’s never a picnic, I guess, to go to detention.”

“Jenny won’t mind, it’s something new. She’ll be interested.”

The officers stared at him, puzzled. “Jenny writes. She needs to know about things, new things.”

Dermody studied him in the rearview mirror. “She wants to be a writer? Tell me about her.” “She fills notebooks; she has stacks of them. What she sees, things that happen to us. She says she can’t help it. Like breathing.

Dermody continued to study him. His green eyes, in the rear- view mirror, were unsettling. Bingo said, “If Jenny were on the gallows with a rope around her neck, she’d be thinking how to describe it, how the people’s faces looked all turned up and watching.

Dermody considered this, and grinned. “She’ll meet someone at J.D.H. who’ll be interested in that, you bet!”