THE BABY PARTY
WHEN JOHN ANDROS felt old he
found solace in the thought of
life continuing through his
child. The dark trumpets of oblivion were
less loud at the patter of his
child's feet or at the sound of his child's
voice babbling mad non sequiturs
to him over the telephone. The
latter incident occurred every
afternoon at three when his wife called
the office from the country, and
he came to look forward to it as
one of the vivid minutes of his
day.
He was not physically old, but
his life had been a series of struggles
up a series of rugged hills, and
here at thirty-eight having won his
battles against ill-health and
poverty he cherished less than the
usual number of illusions. Even
his feeling about his little girl was
qualified. She had interrupted
his rather intense love-affair with his
wife, and she was the reason for
their living in a suburban town,
where they paid for country air
with endless servant troubles and
the weary merry-go-round of the
commuting train.
It was little Ede as a definite
piece of youth that chiefly interested
him. He liked to take her on his
lap and examine minutely her fra-
grant, downy scalp and her eyes
with their irises of morning blue.
Having paid this homage John was
content that the nurse
should take her away. After ten
minutes the very vitality of the
child irritated him ; he was
inclined to lose his temper when things
were broken, and one Sunday
afternoon when she had disrupted a
bridge game by permanently hiding
up the ace of spades, he had
made a scene that had reduced his
wife to tears.
This was absurd and John was
ashamed of himself. It was inevi-
table that such things would
happen, and it was impossible that little
Ede should spend all her indoor
hours in the nursery up-stairs when
she was becoming, as her mother
said, more nearly a "real person"
every day.
She was two and a half, and this
afternoon, for instance, she was
going to a baby party. Grown-up
Edith, her mother, had telephoned
the information to the office,
and little Ede had confirmed the busi-
ness by shouting "I yam
going to a pantry \ " into John's unsuspect-
ing left ear.
"Drop in at the Markeys'
when you get home, won't you, dear?"
resumed her mother. "It'll
be funny. Ede's going to be all dressed
up in her new pink dress "
The conversation terminated
abruptly with a squawk which indi-
cated that the telephone had been
pulled violently to the floor. John
laughed and decided to get an
early train out; the prospect of a
baby party in some one else's
house amused him.
"What a peach of a
mess!" he thought humorously. "A dozen
mothers, and each one looking at
nothing but her own child. All the
babies breaking things and
grabbing at the cake, and each mama
going home thinking about the
subtle superiority of her own child
to every other child there."
He was in a good humor to-day all
the things in his life were
going better than they had ever
gone before. When he got off the train
at his station he shook his head
at an importunate taxi man, and be-
gan to walk up the long hill
toward his house through the crisp
December twilight. It was only
six o'clock but the moon was out,
shining with proud brilliance on
the thin sugary snow that lay over
the lawns.
As he walked along drawing his
lungs full of cold air his happiness
increased, and the idea of a baby
party appealed to him more and
more. He began to wonder how Ede
compared to other children
of her own age, and if the pink
dress she was to wear was something
radical and mature. Increasing
his gait he came in sight of his own
house, where the lights of a defunct
Christmas-tree still blossomed
in the window, but he continued
on past the walk. The party was
at the Markeys' next door.
As he mounted the brick step and
rang the bell he became aware
of voices inside, and he was glad
he was not too late. Then he raised
his head and listened the voices
were not children's voices, but
they were loud and pitched high
with anger ; there were at least three
of them and one, which rose as he
listened to a hysterical sob, he
recognized immediately as his
wife's.
"There's been some
trouble," he thought quickly.
Trying the door, he found it
unlocked and pushed it open.
The baby party began at half past
four, but Edith Andros, cal-
culating shrewdly that the new
dress would stand out more sensa-
tionally against vestments
already rumpled, planned the arrival of
herself and little Ede for five.
When they appeared it was already a
flourishing affair. Four baby
girls and nine baby boys, each one
curled and washed and dressed
with all the care of a proud and
jealous heart, were dancing to
the music of a phonograph. Never
more than two or three were
dancing at once, but as all were con-
tinually in motion running to and
from their mothers for encourage-
ment, the general effect was the
same.
As Edith and her daughter
entered, the music was temporarily
drowned out by a sustained
chorus, consisting largely of the word
cute and directed toward little
Ede, who stood looking timidly about
and fingering the edges of her
pink dress. She was not kissed this
is 'the sanitary age but she was
passed along a row of mamas each
one of whom said
"cu-u-ute" to her and held her pink little hand
before passing her on to the next.
After some encouragement and
a few mild pushes she was
absorbed into the dance, and became an
active member of the party.
Edith stood near the door talking
to Mrs. Markey, and keeping
one eye on the tiny figure in the
pink dress. She did not care for
Mrs. Markey; she considered her
both snippy and common, but
John and Joe Markey were
congenial and went in together on the
commuting train every morning, so
the two women kept up an
elaborate pretense of warm amity.
They were always reproaching
each other for "not coming
to see me," and they were always plan-
ning the kind of parties that
began with "You'll have to come to
dinner with us soon, and we'll go
in to the theatre," but never
matured further.
"Little Ede looks perfectly
darling," said Mrs. Markey, smiling
and moistening her lips in a way
that Edith found particularly
repulsive. "So grown-up I
can't believe it ! "
Edith wondered if "little
Ede" referred to the fact that Billy
Markey, though several months
younger, weighed almost five pounds
more. Accepting a cup of tea she
took a seat with two other ladies on
a divan and launched into the
real business of the afternoon, which
of course lay in relating the
recent accomplishments and insouci-
ances of her child.
An hour passed. Dancing palled
and the babies took to sterner
sport. They ran into the
dining-room, rounded the big table, and
essayed the kitchen door, from
which they were rescued by an
expeditionary force of mothers.
Having been rounded up they
immediately broke loose, and
rushing back to the dining-room tried
the familiar swinging door again.
The word "overheated" began to
be used, and small white brows
were dried with small white handker-
chiefs. A general attempt to make
the babies sit down began, but
the babies squirmed off laps with
peremptory cries of "Down!
Down ! " and the rush into
the fascinating dining-room began anew.
This phase of the party came to
an end with the arrival of refresh-
ments, a large cake with two
candles p and saucers of vanilla ice-
cream. Billy Marke>', &
stout laugh'mg baby with red hair and
somewhat bowed, blew out the
candles, and placed an experimental
thumb on the white frosting. The
refreshments were distributed, and
the children ate, greedily but
without confusion they had behaved
remarkably well all afternoon.
They were modern babies who ate
and slept at regular hours, so
their dispositions were good, and their
faces healthy and pink such a
peaceful party would not have been
possible thirty years ago.
After the refreshments a gradual
exodus began. Edith glanced
anxiously at her watch it was
almost six, and John had not arrived.
She wanted him to see Ede with
the other children to see how
dignified and polite and
intelligent she was, and how the only ice-
cream spot on her dress was some
that had dropped from her chin
when she was joggled from behind.
"You're a darling," she
whispered to her child, drawing her sud-
denly against her knee. "Do
you know you're a darling? Do you
know you're a darling?"
Ede laughed. "Bow-wow,"
she said suddenly.
"Bow-wow?" Edith looked
around. "There isn't any bow-wow."
"Bow-wow," repeated
Ede. "I want a bow-wow."
Edith followed the small pointing
finger.
"That isn't a bow-wow,
dearest, that's a teddy-bear."
"Bear?"
"Yes, that's a teddy-bear,
and it belongs to Billy Markey. You
don't want Billy Markey 's
teddy-bear, do you?"
Ede did want it.
She broke away from her mother
and approached Billy Markey,
who held the toy closely in his
arms. Ede stood regarding him with
inscrutable eyes, and Billy
laughed.
Grown-up Edith looked at her
watch again, this time impatiently.
The party had dwindled until,
besides Ede and Billy, there were
only two babies remaining and one
of the two remained only by
virtue of having hidden himself
under the dining-room table. It was
selfish of John not to come. It
showed so little pride in the child.
Other fathers had come, half a
dozen of them, to call for their wives,
and they had stayed for a while
and looked on.
There was a sudden wail. Ede had
obtained Billy's teddy-bear by
pulling it forcibly from his
arms, and on Billy's attempt to recover
it, she had pushed him casually
to the floor.
"Why, Ede ! " cried her
mother, repressing an inclination to laugh.
Joe Markey, a handsome,
broad-shouldered man of thirty-five,
picked up his son and set him on
his feet. "You're a fine fellow,"
he said jovially. "Let a
girl knock you over ! You're a fine fellow."
"Did he bump his head?"
Mrs. Markey returned anxiously from
bowing the next to last remaining
mother out the door.
"No-o-o-o," exclaimed
Markey. "He bumped something else, didn't
you, Billy? He bumped something
else."
Billy had so far forgotten the
bump that he was already making an
attempt to recover his property.
He seized a leg of the bear which
projected from Ede's enveloping
arms and tugged at it but without
success.
"No," said Ede
emphatically.
Suddenly, encouraged by the
success of her former half-accidental
manoeuvre, Ede dropped the
teddy-bear, placed her hands on Billy's
shoulders and pushed him backward
off his feet.
This time he landed less
harmlessly; his head hit the bare floor
just off the rug with a dull
hollow sound, whereupon he drew in his
breath and delivered an agonized
yell.
Immediately the room was in
confusion. With an exclamation
Markey hurried to his son, but
his wife was first to reach the injured
baby and catch him up into her
arms.
"Oh, Billy" she cried,
"what a terrible bump! She ought to be
spanked."
Edith, who had rushed immediately
to her daughter, heard this
remark, and her lips came sharply
together.
"Why, Ede," she
whispered perfunctorily, "you bad girl 1 "
Ede put back her little head
suddenly and laughed. It was a loud
laugh, a triumphant laugh with
victory in it and challenge and
contempt. Unfortunately it was
also an infectious laugh. Before her
mother realized the delicacy of
the situation, she too had laughed, an
audible, distinct laugh not
unlike the baby's, and partaking of the
same overtones.
Then, as suddenly, she stopped.
Mrs. Markey's face had grown red
with anger, and Markey, who
had been feeling the back of the
baby's head with one finger, looked
at her, frowning.
"It's swollen already,"
he said with a note of reproof in his voice.
"I'll get some
witch-hazel."
But Mrs. Markey had lost her
temper. "I don't see anything funny
about a child being hurt ! "
she said in a trembling voice.
Little Ede meanwhile had been
looking at her mother curiously.
She noted that her own laugh had
produced her mother's and she
wondered if the same cause would
always produce the same effect.
So she chose this moment to throw
back her head and laugh again.
To her mother the additional
mirth added the final touch of
hysteria to the situation.
Pressing her handkerchief to her mouth she
giggled irrepressibly. It was
more than nervousness she felt that in
a peculiar way she was laughing
with her child they were laughing
together.
It was in a way a defiance those
two against the world.
While Markey rushed up-stairs to
the bathroom for ointment, his
wife was walking up and down
rocking the yelling boy in her arms.
"Please go home!" she
broke out suddenly. "The child's badly
hurt, and if you haven't the
decency to be quiet, you'd better go
home."
"Very well," said
Edith, her own temper rising. "I've never seen
any one make such a mountain out
of "
"Get out ! " cried Mrs.
Markey frantically. "There's the door, get
out I never want to see you in
our house again. You or your brat
either!"
Edith had taken her daughter's
hand and was moving quickly
toward the door, but at this
remark she stopped and turned around,
her face contracting with
indignation.
"Don't you dare call her
that ! "
Mrs. Markey did not answer but
continued walking up and down,
muttering to herself and to Billy
in an inaudible voice.
Edith began to cry.
"I will get out ! " she
sobbed, "I've never heard anybody so rude
and c-common in my life. I'm glad
your baby did get pushed down
he's nothing but a f-fat little
fool anyhow."
Joe Markey reached the foot of
the stairs just in time to hear this
remark.
"Why, Mrs. Andros," he
said sharply, "can't you see the child's
hurt? You really ought to control
yourself."
"Control m-myself ! "
exclaimed Edith brokenly. "You better ask
her to c-control herself. I've
never heard anybody so c-common in
my life."
"She's insulting me ! "
Mrs. Markey was now livid with rage. "Did
you hear what she said, Joe? I
wish you'd put her out. If she won't
go, just take her by the
shoulders and put her out ! "
"Don't you dare touch me !
" cried Edith. "I'm going just as quick
as I can find my c-coat ! "
Blind with tears she took a step
toward the hall. It was just at
this moment that the door opened
and John Andros walked anx-
iously in.
"John ! " cried Edith,
and fled to him wildly.
"What's the matter? Why,
what's the matter?"
"They're they're putting me
out ! " she wailed, collapsing against
him. "He'd just started to
take me by the shoulders and put me out.
I want my coat ! "
"That's not true,"
objected Markey hurriedly. "Nobody's going to
put you out." He turned to
John. "Nobody's going to put her out,"
he repeated. "She's "
"What do you mean 'put her
out'?" demanded John abruptly.
"What's all this talk,
anyhow?"
"Oh, let's go ! " cried
Edith. "I want to go. They're so common,
John!"
"Look here!" Markey's
face darkened. "You've said that about
enough. You're acting sort of
crazy."
"They called Ede a
brat!"
For the second time that
afternoon little Ede expressed emotion
at an inopportune moment.
Confused and frightened at the shouting
voices, she began to cry, and her
tears had the effect of conveying
that she felt the insult in her
heart.
"What's the idea of
this?" broke out John. "Do you insult your
guests in your own house?"
"It seems to me it's your
wife that's done the insulting ! " answered
Markey crisply. "In fact,
your baby there started all the trouble."
John gave a contemptuous snort.
"Are you calling names at a little
baby?" he inquired.
"That's a fine manly business!"
"Don't talk to him,
John," insisted Edith. "Find my coat!"
"You must be in a bad
way," went on John angrily, "if you have
to take out your temper on a
helpless little baby."
"I never heard anything so
damn twisted in my life," shouted
Markey. "If that wife of
yours would shut her mouth for a
minute "
"Wait a minute! You're not
talking to a woman and child
now "
There was an incidental
interruption. Edith had been fumbling on
a chair for her coat, and Mrs.
Markey had been watching her with
hot, angry eyes. Suddenly she
laid Billy down on the sofa, where he
immediately stopped crying and
pulled himself upright, and coming
into the hall she quickly found
Edith's coat and handed it to her
without a word. Then she went
back to the sofa, picked up Billy,
and rocking him in her arms
looked again at Edith with hot, angry
eyes. The interruption had taken
less than half a minute.
"Your wife comes in here and
begins shouting around about how
common we are!" burst out
Markey violently. "Well, if we're so
damn common, you'd better stay
away! And, what's more, you'd
better get out now ! "
Again John gave a short,
contemptuous laugh.
"You're not only
common," he returned, "you're evidently an
awful bully when there's any
helpless women and children around."
He felt for the knob and swung
the door open. "Come on, Edith."
Taking up her daughter in her
arms, his wife stepped outside and
John, still looking
contemptuously at Markey, started to follow.
"Wait a minute ! "
Markey took a step .forward ; he was trembling
slightly, and two large veins on
his temple were suddenly full of
blood. "You don't think you
can get away with that, do you? With
me?"
Without a word John walked out
the door, leaving it open.
Edith, still weeping, had started
for home. After following her with
his eyes until she reached her
own walk, John turned back toward
the lighted doorway where Markey
was slowly coming down the
slippery stej^He took off his
overcoat and hat, tossed them off the
path onto the snow. Then, sliding
a little on the iced walk, he took a
step forward.
At the first blow, they both
slipped and fell heavily to the side-
walk, half rising then, and again
pulling each other to the ground.
They found a better foothold in
the thin snow to the side of the
walk and rushed attach other,
both swinging wildly and pressing
out the snow into a pasty mud
underfoot.
The street was deserted, and
except for their short tired gasps and
the padded sound as one or the
other slipped down into the slushy
mud, they fought in silence,
clearly defined to each other by the full
moonlight as well as by the amber
glow that shone out of the open
door. Several times they both
slipped down together, and then for
a while the conflict threshed
about wildly on the lawn.
For ten, fifteen, twenty minutes
they fought there senselessly in
the moonlight. They had both
taken off coats and vests at some
silently agreed upon interval and
now their shirts dripped from their
backs in wet pulpy shreds. Both
were torn and bleeding and so
exhausted that they could stand
only when by their position they
mutually supported each other the
impact, the mere effort of a
blow, would send them both to
their hands and knees.
But it was not weariness that
ended the business, and the very
meaninglessness of the fight was
a reason for not stopping. They
stopped because once when they
were straining at each other on the
ground, they heard a man's
footsteps coming along the sidewalk.
They had rolled somehow into the
shadow, and when they heard these
footsteps they stopped fighting,
stopped moving, stopped breathing,
lay huddled together like two
boys playing Indian until the footsteps
had passed. Then, staggering to
their feet, they looked at each other
like two drunken men.
"I'll be damned if I'm going
on with this thing any more," cried
Markey thickly.
"I'm not going on any more
either," said John Andros. "I've had
enough of this thing."
Again they looked at each other,
sulkily this time, as if each sus-
pected the other of urging him to
a renewal of the fight. Markey spat
out a mouthful of blood from a
cut lip ; then he cursed softly, and
picking up his coat and vest,
shook off the snow from them in a sur-
prised way, as if their
comparative dampness was his only worry in
the world.
"Want to come in and wash
up?" he asked suddenly.
"No, thanks," said
John. "I ought to be going home my wife'll be
worried."
He too picked up his coat and
vest and then his overcoat and hat.
Soaking wet and dripping with
perspiration, it seemed absurd that
less than half an hour ago he had
been wearing all these clothes.
"Well good night," he
said hesitantly.
Suddenly they both walked toward
each other and shook hands.
It was no perfunctory hand-shake
: John Andres's arm went around
Markey's shoulder, and he patted
him softly on the back for a little
while.
"No harm done," he said
brokenly.
"No you?"
"No, no harm done."
"Well," said John
Andros after a minute, "I guess I'll say good
night."
Limping slightly and with his
clothes over his arm, John Andros
turned away. The moonlight was
still bright as he left the dark
patch of trampled ground and
walked over the intervening lawn.
Down at the station, half a mile
away, he could hear the rumble of
the seven o'clock train.
"But you must have been
crazy," cried Edith brokenly. "I thought
you were going to fix it all up
there and shake hands. That's why I
went away."
"Did you want us to fix it
up?"
"Of course not, I never want
to see them again. But I thought of
course that was what you were
going to do." She was touching the
bruises on his neck and back with
iodine as he sat placidly in a hot
bath. "I'm going to get the
doctor," she said insistently. "You may
be hurt internally."
He shook his head. "Not a
chance," he answered. "I don't want
this to get all over town."
"I don't understand yet how
it all happened."
"Neither do I." He
smiled grimly. "I guess these baby parties are
pretty rough affairs."
"Well, one thing "
suggested Edith hopefully, "I'm certainly glad
we have beefsteak in the house
for to-morrow's dinner."
"Why?"
"For your eye, of course. Do
you know I came within an ace of
ordering veal? Wasn't that the
luckiest thing?"
Half.an hour later, dressed
except that his neck would accommo-
date no collar, John moved his
limbs experimentally before the glass.
"I believe 111 get myself in
better shape," he said thoughtfully. "I
must be getting old."
"You mean so that next time
you can beat him?"
"I did beat him," he
announced. "At least, I beat him as much as
he beat me. And there isn't going
to be any next time. Don't you go
calling people common any more.
If you get in any trouble, you just
take your coat and go home. Understand
?"
"Yes, dear," she said
meekly. "I was very foolish and now I under-
stand."
Out in the hall, he paused
abruptly by the baby's door.
"Is she asleep?"
"Sound asleep. But you can
go in and peek at her just to say
good night."
They tiptoed in and bent together
over the bed. Little Ede, her
cheeks flushed with health, her
pink hands clasped tight together,
was sleeping soundly in the cool,
dark room. John reached over the
railing of the bed and passed his
hand lightly over the silken hair.
"She's asleep," he
murmured in a puzzled way.
"Naturally, after such an
afternoon."
"Miz Andros," the
colored maid's stage whisper floated in from
the hall, "Mr. and Miz
Markey downstairs an' want to see you.
Mr. Markey he's all cut up in
pieces, mam'n. His face look like a
roast beef. An' Miz Markey she
'pear mighty mad."
"Why, what incomparable
nerve ! " exclaimed Edith. "Just tell them
we're not home. I wouldn't go
down for anything in the world."
"You most certainly
will." John's voice was hard and set.
"What?"
"You'll go down right now,
and, what's more, whatever that other
woman does, you'll apologize for
what you said this afternoon. After
that you don't ever have to see
her again."
"Why John, I can't."
"You've got to. And just
remember that she probably hated to
come over here just twice as much
as you hate to go down-
stairs."
"Aren't you coming? Do I
have to go alone?"
"I'll be down in just a
minute."
John Andros waited until she had
closed the door behind her ; then
he reached over into the bed, and
picking up his daughter, blankets
and all, sat down in the
rocking-chair holding her tightly in his arms.
She moved a little, and he held
his breath, but she was sleeping
soundly, and in a moment she was
resting quietly in the hollow of
his elbow. Slowly he bent his
head until his cheek was against her
bright hair. "Dear little
girl," he whispered. "Dear little girl, dear
little girl."
John Andros knew at length what
it was he had fought for so sav-
agely that evening. He had it
now, he possessed it forever, and for
some time he sat there rocking
very slowly to and fro in the dark-
ness.