Carmella Commands/Chapter 22
armella, watching from the window, saw the Barrington sedan arrive, and saw also that Dixon was not driving. Instead was a tall, angular individual whose manner and words, when he spoke, revealed him as recently from England. He had, indeed, so lately learned to turn right instead of left, as in England, that he was still easily confused.
“Where’s Dixon?” asked Carmella. “I don’t know, ma’am,” he replied, narrowly avoiding a turn to the left in meeting another machine. If only these Americans would stop chattering to the driver! “I think he was allowed to go, ma’am,” he added, after regaining control of his wheel.
Mrs. Barrington greeted Carmella warmly. Luncheon was announced immediately. Neither Margaret nor John was present. The hostess explained that both were lunching with school friends.
“I see so little of them now!” she mourned. “So many engagements! It’s so very different from when I was a girl.”
Carmella reflected that Margaret was only a year older than she, and made a mental note. Mrs. Barrington went on:
“But I’m really glad we’re alone, because I want to have you to talk with about our new Girl Scout troop at Hope House.”
“I’m not a Girl Scout.”
“No? But you could be. And before long I’m sure you could be a lieutenant, and then maybe a captain. It’s a wonderful opportunity.”
“Maybe it would be, if I liked it,” said Carmella.
“Oh, but I’m sure you would. We have new equipment for athletics this year. I’m sure you’d enjoy Hope House, if you came.”
“I don’t like folks that try to do you good,” said Carmella abruptly.
“But—but⸺”
“I want folks to look straight at me instead of down at me. I shall not go to Hope House again.”
“But,” said the bewildered social personage, “the Girl Scout troop needs you. It is for girls of your own people. Several girls have said they would join if you did.”
“Does your girl Margaret belong to the Girl Scouts?” asked Carmella, gazing steadily into Mrs. Barrington’s eyes.
“Well, not yet, exactly. I’ve urged her, and she’s thinking of it, with the St. Andrew’s church troop. I hope she will soon, but—you see—she has—well, so many other interests.”
Mrs. Barrington was actually floundering.
“So have I other interests,” said the girl. “I shall not join.”
“But—but—that’s what I asked you here for.”
An instant afterwards, and thenceforth for many years, Mrs. Barrington grew crimson every time she recalled that remark. Never even did she find an excuse for it that saved her self-respect.
Carmella laid down her fork—she was eating salad at the moment.
“Then I shall eat no more of your food, Mrs. Barrington. I’m sorry for what I’ve eaten. You asked me here to join. I will not join. I will not eat under false pretenses.”
A blow in the face would have been a kindness to Mrs. Barrington at that instant. Again she had underestimated this strange child. And this time her own social genius had deserted her, while the Italian child sat calmly victorious. Her conversational recovery, however, did credit to her skill.
“But, Kid Kate dear, I asked you here to talk about several things.”
“Then let’s talk about Dixon,” said Carmella suddenly, scoring a follow-up blow that again almost unnerved her hostess. This was a subject on which Mr. Barrington had raged far beyond his wont, and she had grown to hate the name.
“But, my dear,” she said, “Dixon doesn’t work for us any more.”
“So I hear. Why not?”
“Because, you see, he was taken sick. He’s in the hospital.”
“You mean you fired him?”’
“Of course not. But you know one can’t wait weeks and weeks for one’s chauffeur to be ill. Mr. Barrington was very liberal with him, and he’ll have no difficulty in getting another place. I shall give him a recommendation.”
“But couldn’t you have hired a man just while Dixon was in the hospital?”
“I don’t know. Good chauffeurs are hard to find. Barclay is a treasure, and he insisted on a permanent place.”
“He’s English, all right. He’ll ditch you some day. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. What hospital is Mr. Dixon in?”
“But, Kid Kate, we haven’t finished luncheon, and⸺”
“Excuse me! What hospital is Dixon in?”
“In the Memorial, but⸺”
“I’m going to call on Mr. Dixon, and I think you’re a damned heathen, Mrs. Barrington, to fire a man for being sick. I’ll bet he caught cold driving for you.”
She left the dining table abruptly, and ran from the house. Mrs. Barrington, thus dramatically deserted, had no heart to finish her luncheon.
At home that evening Carmella curled herself on the arm of her father’s favorite chair for a talk in Italian.
“Mrs. Barrington has discharged Dixon, padre.”
“What for?”
“For getting sick. Just a few weeks, the doctor said, but she fired him for it.”
“This is America,” said Tommaso, puffing his pipe.
“He’ll be out of the hospital before long, and out of a job. Padre mio, may I ask a question?”
“What is it?”
“Why don’t you get Mr. Dixon for a partner?”
Tommaso smoked heavily, without answering.
“Why don’t you get him for a partner? He’s American, and he knows about real estate. He can drive a car or a truck. He knows a lot of men.
“You know what he does not, padre, and he knows what you do not. You’re going to be a big contractor some day. Dixon could help it happen.”
Tommaso puffed long and earnestly. Once he emptied his pipe and refilled it without speaking. At last he spoke:
“You think it good, Carmella?”
“You bet!” she cried in English. But he understood.
“We will see,” he finally said. “Time for bed now, piccola ragazza.”
Early the next morning Carmella presented herself at the hospital, only to be told that visiting hours were in the afternoon.
“But,” she exclaimed, “I’ve got to see him. It’s business.”
Carmella Watched His Face Intently
“Business!” the office clerk exclaimed, in surprise.
“Yes, business. My father is Tommaso Coletta, the big contractor. Mr. Dixon is going to be his American partner.”
“Then why doesn’t your father come?”
“Because he can’t talk English and Mr. Dixon can’t talk wop. I’m their official interpreter. And it’s very important.”
Her insistence led the office clerk to telephone the ward nurse, and then to the assistant superintendent. He turned back to Carmella:
“You may see him, in the corridor, for ten minutes. You can’t go into the ward at this time of day.”
The nurse met her as she emerged from the elevator, and directed her to the far end of the corridor, along which a bathrobed figure was slowly walking.
“Well, hello, kid!” Dixon exclaimed, as she caught up with him. “I wondered who was coming, and sort of hoped it was you.”
“How do you do?” asked Carmella, suddenly diffident. “I mean, are you getting well? I mean I’m glad to see you.”
“Feeling finer every day,” said Dixon, chuckling at the jumble of Carmella’s greeting, “Just a case of neuritis, the doc said, from driving all day and not getting enough husky exercise. Be all right soon.”
“Then are you going back to the Barringtons?”
Carmella watched his face intently, and saw it harden.
“No, I think not,” was all he said.
“I had lunch—I mean part of a lunch—with Mrs. Barrington yesterday,” said Carmella. “She said you were here. She’d fired you.”
“That’s right, kid! What did she say she fired me for?”
“For being sick.”
“Well, that’s right, I reckon. A servant isn’t allowed to be sick, you know. Not in some families, anyway.”
“Want to know what I told her?”
“Sure!”
“I told her she was a damned heathen, and ran away from lunch in the middle.”
Dixon laughed like a joyous boy.
“Oh, you told her that, did you? What did she say?”
“I think she was mad. She wanted to get me to join her Girl Scouts. I wouldn’t. She’s a bum Girl Scout, she is. She’s⸺”
“Throw out your clutch!” said Dixon, laughing. “You’ll crash gears. Don’t worry about me, kid. They paid me a month ahead, and I’ve got a little saved up.”
“Have you really?” asked Carmella eagerly. “Then dad will like you better than ever. He likes folks to save. And he likes you anyway.”
“That’s good!” He was beginning to wonder in what direction the talk was tending.
“He sure does,” said Carmella. “Listen, Mr. Dixon, I think he’s going to want you for a partner.”
“For a partner! Your dad! For the love of the late Mr. Moses!”
“He was speaking about it only last night. I told him you weren’t a chauffeur any more. You see, Mr. Dixon, he’s getting more and more business all the time. He’s going to be a big contractor some day. And he needs help—you and he could help each other get rich.
“You see, he can’t talk much American, and he’s poor on figures. But he knows an awful lot about jobs and men. He knows what you don’t, and you know what he don’t, and—and—well, you see⸺”
“And we’d make a team,” laughed Dixon.
“Well, you know what I mean. And I’d like it awfully well. And you’ll never get rich being a chauffeur, you know, no matter how good you are at it.”
Just then the nurse came hurrying down the corridor.
“Time’s up!” she said sharply. “You must go now, girl.”
“Dad wants to talk it over with you,” Carmella said to Dixon, taking his hand and leading him slowly down the corridor. “Maybe he could come here to see you, if you want him. Will you telephone this evening and make a date?”
“Hurry up!” cried the nurse, “or I’ll get called down.”
“Sure I’ll phone,” said Dixon, as Carmella responded to the nurse’s push on her shoulder by dashing for the elevator. He went back to bed, dizzy with ideas that were new to him. He had planned to own a garage some day.
That evening, again on the arm of his chair, Carmella said to Tommaso:
“I called on Mr. Dixon today.”
“Si! But you did not speak of what you said last night?”
“Not much. Just a little, padre. I told him maybe you might want to talk with him.”
Tommaso smoked for a time in silence, then asked:
“What did he say?”
“He was surprised. He did not know. I asked him to telephone tonight if he was interested. Will you go to the hospital to see him?”
“I have much work. When will he be well?”
“He can leave the hospital in about two weeks, the doctors told him.”
“And then he could come here to talk some evening?”
“Sure he would, padre. But why wait? Can’t you see him in the hospital?”
“It can wait till he is well,” answered Tommaso, and would speak no more about it.
Carmella thought her father stubborn and slow. She fretted, lest Dixon turn to something else. When he telephoned, she explained that the business must wait until he was out of the hospital, and criticized Tommaso as sternly as she dared.
What Carmella did not know was that Tommaso’s one experience with a hospital was after the Piave in the great war, where emergency operations were performed in an ancient farmhouse with scant medical equipment.
Never again did he want to see the beds of a hospital. The thought made him sick inside.
Carmella was later to find many things which she took as a matter of course, yet which were wonderment or misery or both for her parents.