Daisybelle

I

EVERY Saturday night after nine o’clock, after closing time, came the scavengers. In the alley stood the big trucks, waiting to collect the garbage; and for an hour or more, in obedience to the market regulations, the produce merchants had been hauling out their crates and garbage cans. The market being closed Sundays, it happened that very often perfectly good produce found its way into the cans — perfectly good, that is, except that it would not keep until Monday; and it was for this that the army of scavengers searched. Mostly they were old men and women, but of late, since the depression, it was not unusual to see young men and women digging into the crates and cans side by side with the regulars.

The market had long since come to accept their presence as a natural part of the daily routine. Some of the oldest, like ‘Miz’ Frisby,’ it even looked upon with a certain affection. She was a fat, high-hipped, coal-black Negress of indeterminate age. Her real name no one knew: everyone hailed her by the nickname. Concerning Miz’ Frisby there is a standing story. It seems that on a certain Saturday night she was moving from garbage can to garbage can, scrutinizing the contents of each religiously, yet taking from each no booty. One of the produce merchants, moved by a sudden impulse of generosity, called to her from his stand.

‘Hey there, Miz’ Frisby — here’s a cabbage,’ he cried, holding a big head of that vegetable aloft and making as though to toss it to her.

She looked at the cabbage and then at him.

‘No thanks, honey,’ she said, grinning her chuckling grin and shaking her head. ‘Ah’m lookin’ for some spinach.’

Looking for spinach! Among even these, then, a certain gastronomica! preference is apparently observed. Looking for spinach! The employees never quite got over that one.

But let us not devote too much attention to Miz’ Frisby. It is not of her we would write, but of another, a little girl no more than twelve or thirteen surely, who for a space of time came regularly every Saturday night with her mother and two small boys, presumably her brothers: an entire family, indeed, that came scurrying into the market a minute or so before the doors closed and rushed down the aisles from can to can. Even the most hardened of the employees looked on them with pity. They were used to the regulars, to the old men and women, the Mexicans, the Negroes; they had even become accustomed to the recent influx of young men and boys; but these, this family of three children and mother, these were something else again. And so it was that occasionally a piece of soup bone or handful of potatoes and onions found their way into the shopping bags the four of them carried, placed there surreptitiously by some employee. The girl always looked at such offerings with unblinking, round blue eyes — she was fair-skinned, really pretty, with very yellow hair and a sweet, round little face; she would look at the outstretched hand, snatch the offering hurriedly without a word, and as hurriedly move on.

They appeared to be Swiss, or maybe German — no one knew; no one asked. The mother was small and thin, with a narrow, tired face and furtive hands. The boys were stocky and stolid, trailing along after mother and sister with sober, uncurious blue eyes. The mother always led the procession, but the girl appeared to have an equal responsibility. She would stand alongside her mother and dig into a separate can, moving her fingers with extraordinary speed; when her own bag was filled she would commence to stuff the bags which her brothers held patiently. Tomatoes usually formed the bulk of their harvest, for thousands of pounds of these vegetables were handled during the course of a Saturday’s business by the produce merchants, so many that a considerable portion of them were rendered unfit for sale. Thus it was that at night the garbage cans were choked with pulpy, juice-dripping tomatoes, mixed with slimy beans and peas, rotting fruit, black-spotted celery, the whole often covered over with wet sawdust which the merchants, after sweeping up the floor, dumped atop the garbage. The girl and her mother displayed extraordinary facility in separating the sawdust from the tomatoes and the tomatoes from the rest of the garbage, their fingers dipping into the cans so swiftly that one could hardly follow them. They had to work fast, for they were not allowed to linger in the market after closing time.

II

It was Sam Amaridian who gave the little girl the name by which, for want of any other name, we shall forever remember her. Sam was an Armenian, and he worked for his father, in his father’s fruit stand, in the basement. He was a short, stocky youth of twenty-three, with a hairy chest and forearms and a sallow, blue-black face. There were two more brothers, — Mike, who was the oldest, and Joe, a pimply-faced youth of eighteen,— and these also worked in the stand, along with the mother and father.

It was on a night before Christmas that Sam first saw the little girl and her family. That year Christmas Eve fell on a Wednesday, but in accordance with the market regulations the market, instead of closing at six o’clock as it normally did on weekdays, stayed open until nine, to gain the full benefit of the rush of Christmas shoppers. ‘A helluva Christmas Eve!’ muttered the disgruntled employees; ‘there oughta be a law.’ But there was no law; and work until nine o’clock they did, whatever their private feelings. Christmas, in the market, was one of the two biggest days of the year, the other being Thanksgiving. The stands were festooned with holly wreaths; miniature Christmas trees glistened on various counters, and each of the stands displayed big banners wishing the public ‘A Merry Xmas and Happy New Year’; the butcher counters were hung with turkeys, and great heaps of chestnuts and blood-red cranberries stood piled on the produce stands, alongside glowing yellow stalks of celery; at the dried-fruit stands were fancy packs of dates and figs and nuts, and the bakers displayed fruit, cakes, black and spiced or else golden-brown, studded with orange peel, citron, and raisins; the market was redolent with the heavy, pungent odors of freshly baked bread, of smoked hams and sausages and roasting coffee; and all day long, up and down the aisles, hour after hour, moved the undiminishing throng of holiday shoppers.

Sam had been up since one o’clock in the morning, trimming celery. When the doors opened, he took his place at the counter and worked straight through until nine that evening, with only a few minutes off for lunch and dinner. His father had put on two extra men, but even so they could hardly handle the trade. When at last the great bell rang upstairs, signifying that the day was over, Sam pulled a cigarette out of his sweat-stained breast pocket mechanically, lit it, took a puff, and looked with glazed eyes around. His father was opening the register top to see the amount of the day’s receipts.

‘By God!’ ejaculated Mr. Amaridian, his haggard face breaking into a gleeful smile. ‘Look at this, will you!’

The members of the family turned their separate heads in one movement.

‘How much?’

‘Three hundred and forty dollars!’ ‘No!’

‘That’s right — look for yourself.’

Their tired faces lit up in contented, victorious smiles.

‘Well, can you beat that!’

Sam’s eyes, however, had been caught by the sight of the little girl, who with her family had just descended on the garbage cans of the vegetable stand across the aisle. He watched them unemotionally for a moment, and then the girl straightened up and he caught a glimpse of her face. ‘Poor kid,’ he thought. He stood watching her, puffing his cigarette wearily, resting for a moment before he commenced the afterclosing job of clearing off the stand. He had been selling bananas all day, and on the counter in front of him were several fan-shaped clusters of the fruit. ‘Hey there, sister! ’ he called. She did not look around. ‘Hey! You!’ The girl looked up and stared at him with round, uncurious blue eyes. ‘You like bananas?’ he asked. ‘Here!’ He lifted a bunch of bananas and held them toward her. Her mother and the two boys stared at the fruit. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Take them, it’s all right.’ She looked uncertainly at her mother, then without a word came forward. ‘That’s right,’ he said, lifting them down to her. ‘But don’t eat too many of them or you’ll have a tummyache. Get me?’ She snatched the bananas out of his outstretched hand and ran back to her mother. Sam straightened his aching back and stepped down into the back of the stand.

‘What did you do?’ asked Mrs. Amaridian angrily. ‘Did you give those filthy people the bananas for nothing?’

‘Sure,’ he said, picking up the broom. ‘What of it?’

‘What of it!’ she repeated. ‘What do you think we are — Santy Claus? Let. them go buy their bananas.’

‘Aw, forget it. The poor people — this is Christmas, Ma.’

‘Yah! ’ she grunted. ‘ You quit making so big with the fruit. They don’t give you nothing for nothing. Let them get it off the Japs—that’s where they spend their money when they got it. A whole bunch,’ she muttered. ‘I bet there was five pounds in it.’

‘Sure,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I bet it cost the old man at least a dime. Nuts!’ And, stepping out into the aisle, he began to sweep up the accumulated sawdust vigorously.

This, then, was the first time he saw her, but it was not the last. Every Saturday night thereafter, and sometimes during the middle of the week, she came in at closing time, usually with her mother and brothers, sometimes alone. Sam gave no thought to her from one day to the next; indeed, she never entered his mind except at the moment when she moved suddenly before his eyes. And each time he saw her thin little body with the sweet little face and blue eyes, the ugly cotton stockings and the stained leather shopping bags, he thought, ‘There she is again.’ He never failed to give her something, in spite of the haggling protests of his mother: a double handful of apples, or some cabbage or lettuce, or perhaps a bunch of carrots. She always took the offerings with a quick snatching movement of her hand, and without a word of thanks would hurry quickly away.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked one night, hanging on to a bunch of carrots at which she was tugging. ‘What’re you afraid of?’

Her eyes widened, and, releasing the carrots suddenly, she started to run.

‘Hey! ’ he yelled. ‘ What’s the matter? Here, take ’em!’

But she did not stop; she turned the corner of the aisle, her head reverting with a quick, sidelong movement that gave him a glimpse of the frightened blue eyes; and then she was gone. For two Saturdays she did not appear near the Amaridian stand, and then, the third week, Sam saw her again. He had forfotten her completely; he had not thought of her again since that night three weeks before; but seeing her again, turning into his aisle with the familiar dirty shopping bags in her hands, he muttered, ‘There she is again,’ and at once, involuntarily, he smiled.

‘There’s your girl-friend, Sam,’ said his brother Mike.

‘Yeah,’ said Sam. ‘The poor kid.’

He watched her approach the garbage can across the way.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

She jerked her head around with frightened eyes.

‘You want some apples?’

She shook her head vigorously and made as though to run.

‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Wait a minute — what’s the matter with you? I’m not going to hurt you — here!’ And he tossed an apple gently in her direction.

Her eyes followed the circle it made in the air, but she made no attempt to catch it; she let it roll on the floor by her feet, still looking at it; then, after a moment, she bent over and picked it up.

‘That’s a good girl,’ he smiled. ‘What’re you scared of?’

She looked up over her shoulder, and, suddenly smiling, ducked around the corner and out of sight.

Mike broke out laughing.

‘ Looks like you made a hit there, boy.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sam, staring in the direction in which she had disappeared. ‘The poor kid.’

‘Poor kid nothing!’ broke in Mrs. Amaridian heatedly. ‘You’d better quit making so free with the stuff if you know what’s good for you! ’

III

It was the following morning at breakfast, in the Amaridian home, that the girl received her name. Sprawled on the front-room davenport, sipping a cup of the poisonous black coffee whose pungently bitter aroma filled the entire house, Sam was reading the Sundaymorning comics. Suddenly he set the cup down on the floor and went into the kitchen, where Mike was still at the table.

‘Look,’ he said with a grin, holding the paper in front of his brother. ‘Who’s that?’

Mike knitted his heavy black brows and stared at the comic strip.

‘Who’s what? What’re you talking about?’

‘That,’ said Sam, pointing a blacknailed forefinger. ‘The kid in the funny paper — Daisybelle. Who does it look like?’

Mike stared at the paper for a moment blankly, then suddenly his own heavily lined, blue-jowled face broke into a smile.

‘The kid!’ he chuckled. ‘By God, you’re right. Look, Mu.’

He shoved the paper across the table. Mrs. Amaridian stared at it uncomprehendingly.

‘What kid?’ she asked impatiently. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Sam’s girl-friend,’ Mike chuckled. ‘You know, the kid that comes in the market.’

‘You mean that filthy girl he gives the stuff to?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Ach!’ she exploded angrily. ‘Is that all you two got to think about?’ She grabbed up the paper savagely and threw it at her son. ‘Daisybelle, Daisybelle — I ’II Daisybelle you the next time she comes around! ’

And so it was that every night when the bell rang upstairs during the ensuing week Sam searched the aisles for a glimpse of her. Having given her a name, she had taken on an unexpected identity in his imagination; he even felt a certain proprietary interest in her. She did not appear, however, until the following Saturday; when he saw her he felt at once a peculiar sensation of satisfaction.

She was, as it happened, alone; she came walking hurriedly down the aisle, carrying, as usual, the familiar dirty shopping bags. He saw, as though for the first time, the bags, and immediately his satisfaction at seeing her gave way to a stab of resentful anger. ‘The poor kid,’ he muttered. ‘By God, that’s a shame — a dirty rotten shame.’

‘There she is,’ Mike chuckled.

‘Yeah.’

He waited until she was a little closer and then he called to her.

‘ Hey! You! ’

She looked around, but without fear; when she saw him she smiled.

‘Want some beans?’

She nodded her head and stopped abreast of the counter.

‘Hold the bag open,’ he commanded, and when she did so, obediently, he commenced to shovel handfuls of wilting string beans into the open mouth of the bag. ‘Where’s your mother?’ he asked. ‘Sick?’ She shook her head, but did not answer. He shoveled more beans into the bag. ‘What’s the matter, can’t you talk? Cat got your tongue?’ She looked up at him shyly, smiling, and shook her head. He laughed. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’ She did not answer, and he shoveled another handful of beans into the bag.

‘Sam!’ screamed Mrs. Amaridian. ‘What are you doing there?’

The girl jerked her head around in terror; she almost dropped the bag.

‘It’s all right, Daisybelle,’ Sam said gently. ‘It’s all right. Run along home now, and come back again.’

Several times during the rest of that night, until he went to sleep, he thought of her: it was a helluva life for a kid, digging in garbage cans. He wondered about the family, who they were, if the father was dead — yeah, probably the old man was dead; maybe they were foreigners; maybe that’s why she would n’t talk — could n’t speak English maybe; and what in hell did they do with that slop? Eat it?

IV

The following Wednesday Sam’s sister came down from Fresno with her two small children to visit her parents. She had never been inside the market before, and Mrs. Amaridian took her proudly through it.

‘But to-day it’s nothing,’ she told her daughter, whose husband owned a grape vineyard in the northern county. ‘Wait until Saturday if you want to see something.’

Sam, during the week, had forgotten all about Daisybelle, but as closing time approached that Saturday night he all at once remembered her. His sister had come down in the afternoon, gone home again, then reappeared around seventhirty with her little boys, to wait for the closing hour. At the moment she and Mrs. Amaridian were sitting on adjoining stools of the chop-suey counter that stood next to the Amaridian stand; the children were playing in the aisle. Sam was just about to step down off the footboard when he saw Daisybelle. She was alone again, but this time her eyes, instead of being as usual on the floor, were looking in his direction, as though waiting for him to sec her. He smiled at her and she smiled in return.

‘Hi, Daisybelle. Want an apple?’

She nodded her head, still smiling shyly, and came up to the counter.

‘Cat still got your tongue?’ he chuckled, grabbing a handful of apples and extending them to her.

She shook her head, still smiling shyly, and took the apples.

‘Don’t you ever talk?’ he demanded. ‘What’s your name?’

She shook her head vigorously, still smiling, looking up at him out of her round blue eyes, and made as though to turn away.

‘Here, wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Here’s some spuds. You like spuds?’

And before she could answer he picked up some potatoes and dumped them into her bag.

At that moment one of his sister’s little boys came running around the corner of the stand. He slipped on a piece of refuse and sprawled headlong at Daisybelle’s feet.

‘Oh!’ she cried.

The child was screaming at the top of his voice; she dropped her shopping bags and bent above him. ‘Liebchen,’ she murmured, lifting him up. ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry.’ She straightened his collar and ran the back of her hand over his eyes.

Mrs. Amaridian and her daughter had jumped up off their stools at the sound of the child’s screams and rushed frantically around the corner of the stand. Mrs. Amaridian stared at the girl, bent above the child; she ran forward and grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and jerked her to one side.

‘Garbage-eater!’ she screamed into the girl’s terror-stricken face. ‘What are you doing?’ And bringing her hand down in a wide, circular sweep, she slapped the girl across the mouth.

The girl stumbled, half fell, then was suddenly running, her head turned backward in terror. At the corner of the aisle she stopped. She had left her shopping bags behind. She looked at them, lying in the sawdust in front of the Amaridian stand, then her eyes lifted to Sam’s.

‘Daisybelle!’ he shouted. ‘It’s all right! Come back!’

She stood looking at him, then again at the shopping bags. Suddenly tears flooded her eyes, and she was gone — gone forever, for he never saw her again.