Free The Collected Stories by Grace Paley Page A

they’re not kidding.” Then he said, “I beg your pardon,” to Mrs. Raftery. He took hold of me with his two arms as though in love and pressed his body hard against mine so that I could feel him for the last time and suffer my loss. Then he kissed me in a mean way to nearly split my lip. Then he winked and said, “That’s all for now,” and skipped off into the future, duffel bags full of rags.
    He left me in an embarrassing situation, nearly fainting, in front of that old widow, who can’t even remember the half of it. “He’s a crock,” said Mrs. Raftery. “Is he leaving for good or just temporarily, Virginia?”
    â€œOh, he’s probably deserting me,” I said, and sat down on the stoop, pulling my big knees up to my chin.
    â€œIf that’s the case, tell the Welfare right away,” she said. “He’s a bum, leaving you just before Christmas. Tell the cops,” she said. “They’ll provide the toys for the little kids gladly. And don’t forget to let the grocer in on it. He won’t be so hard on you expecting payment.”
    She saw that sadness was stretched worldwide across my face. Mrs. Raftery isn’t the worst person. She said, “Look around for comfort, dear.” With a nervous finger she pointed to the truckers eating lunch on their haunches across the street, leaning on the loading platforms. She waved her hand to include in all the men marching up and down in search of a decent luncheonette. She didn’t leave out the six longshoremen loafing under the fish-market marquee. “If their lungs and stomachs ain’t crushed by overwork, they disappear somewhere in the world. Don’t be disappointed, Virginia. I don’t know a man living’d last you a lifetime.”
    Ten days later Girard asked, “Where’s Daddy?”
    â€œAsk me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” I didn’t want the children to know the facts. Present or past, a child should have a father.
    â€œWhere
is
Daddy?” Girard asked the week after that.
    â€œHe joined the army,” I said.
    â€œHe made my bunk bed,” said Philip.
    â€œThe truth shall make ye free,” I said.
    Then I sat down with pencil and pad to get in control of my resources. The facts, when I added and subtracted them, were that my husband had left me with fourteen dollars, and the rent unpaid, in an emergency state. He’d claimed he was sorry to do this, but my opinion is, out of sight, out of mind. “The city won’t let you starve,” he’d said. “After all, you’re half the population. You’re keeping up the good work. Without you the race would die out. Who’d pay the taxes? Who’d keep the streets clean? There wouldn’t be no army. A man like me wouldn’t have no place to go.”
    I sent Girard right down to Mrs. Raftery with a request about the whereabouts of Welfare. She responded R.S.V.P. with an extra comment in left-handed script: “Poor Girard … he’s never the boy my John was!”
    Who asked her?
    I called on Welfare right after the new year. In no time I discovered that they’re rigged up to deal with liars, and if you’re truthful it’s disappointing to them. They may even refuse to handle your case if you’re too truthful.
    They asked sensible questions at first. They asked where my husband had enlisted. I didn’t know. They put some letter writers and agents after him. “He’s not in the United States Army,” they said. “Try the Brazilian Army,” I suggested.
    They have no sense of kidding around. They’re not the least bit lighthearted and they tried. “Oh no,” they said. “That was incorrect. He is not in the Brazilian Army.”
    â€œNo?” I said. “How strange! He must be in the Mexican Navy.”
    By law, they had to hound his brothers. They wrote to his brother who has a