Main Street (Barnes & Noble Classics Ser - Sinclair Lewis [71]
The clatter was a relief to Carol after months of smug houses. She wished that she could work in the mill; that she did not belong to the caste of professional-man’s-wife.
She started for home, through the small slum. Before a tar-paper shack, at a gateless gate, a man in rough brown dogskin coat and black plush cap with lappets was watching her. His square face was confident, his foxy mustache was picaresque. He stood erect, his hands in his side-pockets, his pipe puffing slowly. He was forty-five, or -six, perhaps.
“How do Mrs. Kennicott,” he drawled.
She recalled him—the town handyman, who had repaired their furnace at the beginning of winter.
“Oh, how do you do,” she fluttered.
“My name’s Bjornstam. ‘The Red Swede’ they call me. Remember? Always thought I’d kind of like to say howdy to you again.”
“Ye—yes—I’ve been exploring the outskirts of town.”
“Yump. Fine mess. No sewage, no street cleaning, and the Lutheran minister and the priest represent the arts and sciences. Well, thunder, we submerged tenth down here in Swede Hollow are no worse off than you folks. Thank God, we don’t have to go and purr at Juanity Haydock at the Jolly Old Seventeen.”
The Carol who regarded herself as completely adaptable was uncomfortable at being chosen as comrade by a pipe-reeking odd-job man. Probably he was one of her husband’s patients. But she must keep her dignity.
“Yes, even the Jolly Seventeen isn’t always so exciting. It’s very cold again today, isn’t it. Well—”
Bjornstam was not respectfully valedictory. He showed no signs of pulling a forelock. His eyebrows moved as though they had a life of their own. With a subgrin he went on:
“Maybe I hadn’t ought to talk about Mrs. Haydock and her Solemcholy Seventeen in that fresh way. I suppose I’d be tickled to death if I was invited to sit in with that gang. I’m what they call a pariah, I guess. I’m the town badman, Mrs. Kennicott: town atheist, and I suppose I must be an anarchist, too. Everybody who doesn’t love the bankers and the Grand Old Republican Party is an anarchist.”
Carol had unconsciously slipped from her attitude of departure into an attitude of listening, her face full toward him, her muff lowered. She fumbled:
“Yes, I suppose so.” Her own grudges came in a flood. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t criticize the Jolly Seventeen if you want to. They aren’t sacred.”
“Oh yes, they are! The dollar-sign has chased the crucifix clean off the map. But then, I’ve got no kick. I do what I please, and I suppose I ought to let them do the same.”
“What do you mean by saying you’re a pariah?”
“I’m poor, and yet I don’t decently envy the rich. I’m an old bach. I make enough money for a stake, and then I sit around by myself, and shake hands with myself, and have a smoke, and read history, and I don’t contribute to the wealth of Brother Elder or Daddy Cass.”
“You——I fancy you read a good deal.”
“Yep. In a hit-or-a-miss way. I’ll tell you: I’m a lone wolf. I trade horses, and saw wood, and work in lumber-camps—I’m a first-rate swamper. Always wished I could go to college. Though I s’pose I’d find it pretty slow, and they’d probably kick me out.”
“You really are a curious person, Mr.——”
“Bjornstam. Miles Bjornstam. Half Yank and half Swede. Usually known as ‘that damn lazy big-mouthed calamity-howler that ain’t satisfied