Main Street, Sinclair Lewis [red white and royal blue hardcover txt] 📗

found a dependable intellectual companionship. They looked down on Willis Woodford the bank-clerk, and his anxious babycentric wife, the silent Lyman Casses, the slangy traveling man, and the rest of Mrs. Gurrey’s unenlightened guests. They sat opposite, and they sat late. They were exhilarated to find that they agreed in confession of faith:

“People like Sam Clark and Harry Haydock aren’t earnest about music and pictures and eloquent sermons and really refined movies, but then, on the other hand, people like Carol Kennicott put too much stress on all this art. Folks ought to appreciate lovely things, but just the same, they got to be practical and⁠—they got to look at things in a practical way.”

Smiling, passing each other the pressed-glass pickle-dish, seeing Mrs. Gurrey’s linty supper-cloth irradiated by the light of intimacy, Vida and Raymie talked about Carol’s rose-colored turban, Carol’s sweetness, Carol’s new low shoes, Carol’s erroneous theory that there was no need of strict discipline in school, Carol’s amiability in the Bon Ton, Carol’s flow of wild ideas, which, honestly, just simply made you nervous trying to keep track of them.

About the lovely display of gents’ shirts in the Bon Ton window as dressed by Raymie, about Raymie’s offertory last Sunday, the fact that there weren’t any of these new solos as nice as “Jerusalem the Golden,” and the way Raymie stood up to Juanita Haydock when she came into the store and tried to run things and he as much as told her that she was so anxious to have folks think she was smart and bright that she said things she didn’t mean, and anyway, Raymie was running the shoe department, and if Juanita, or Harry either, didn’t like the way he ran things, they could go get another man.

About Vida’s new jabot which made her look thirty-two (Vida’s estimate) or twenty-two (Raymie’s estimate), Vida’s plan to have the high-school Debating Society give a playlet, and the difficulty of keeping the younger boys well behaved on the playground when a big lubber like Cy Bogart acted up so.

About the picture postcard which Mrs. Dawson had sent to Mrs. Cass from Pasadena, showing roses growing right outdoors in February, the change in time on No. 4, the reckless way Dr. Gould always drove his auto, the reckless way almost all these people drove their autos, the fallacy of supposing that these socialists could carry on a government for as much as six months if they ever did have a chance to try out their theories, and the crazy way in which Carol jumped from subject to subject.

Vida had once beheld Raymie as a thin man with spectacles, mournful drawn-out face, and colorless stiff hair. Now she noted that his jaw was square, that his long hands moved quickly and were bleached in a refined manner, and that his trusting eyes indicated that he had “led a clean life.” She began to call him “Ray,” and to bounce in defense of his unselfishness and thoughtfulness every time Juanita Haydock or Rita Gould giggled about him at the Jolly Seventeen.

On a Sunday afternoon of late autumn they walked down to Lake Minniemashie. Ray said that he would like to see the ocean; it must be a grand sight; it must be much grander than a lake, even a great big lake. Vida had seen it, she stated modestly; she had seen it on a summer trip to Cape Cod.

“Have you been clear to Cape Cod? Massachusetts? I knew you’d traveled, but I never realized you’d been that far!”

Made taller and younger by his interest she poured out, “Oh my yes. It was a wonderful trip. So many points of interest through Massachusetts⁠—historical. There’s Lexington where we turned back the redcoats, and Longfellow’s home at Cambridge, and Cape Cod⁠—just everything⁠—fishermen and whale-ships and sand-dunes and everything.”

She wished that she had a little cane to carry. He broke off a willow branch.

“My, you’re strong!” she said.

“No, not very. I wish there was a Y.M.C.A. here, so I could take up regular exercise. I used to think I could do pretty good acrobatics, if I had a chance.”

“I’m sure you could. You’re unusually lithe, for a large man.”

“Oh no, not so very. But I wish we had a Y.M. It would be dandy to have lectures and everything, and I’d like to take a class in improving the memory⁠—I believe a fellow ought to go on educating himself and improving his mind even if he is in business, don’t you, Vida⁠—I guess I’m kind of fresh to call you ‘Vida’!”

“I’ve been calling you ‘Ray’ for weeks!”

He wondered why she sounded tart.

He helped her down the bank to the edge of the lake but dropped her hand abruptly, and as they sat on a willow log and he brushed her sleeve, he delicately moved over and murmured, “Oh, excuse me⁠—accident.”

She stared at the mud-browned chilly water, the floating gray reeds.

“You look so thoughtful,” he said.

She threw out her hands. “I am! Will you kindly tell me what’s the use of⁠—anything! Oh, don’t mind me. I’m a moody old hen. Tell me about your plan for getting a partnership in the Bon Ton. I do think you’re right: Harry Haydock and that mean old Simons ought to give you one.”

He hymned the old unhappy wars in which he had been Achilles and the mellifluous Nestor, yet gone his righteous ways unheeded by the cruel kings.⁠ ⁠… “Why, if I’ve told ’em once, I’ve told ’em a dozen times to get in a sideline of lightweight pants for gents’ summer wear, and of course here they go and let a cheap kike like Rifkin beat them to it and grab the trade right off ’em, and then Harry said⁠—you know how Harry is, maybe he don’t mean to be grouchy, but he’s such a sorehead⁠—”

He gave her a hand to rise. “If you don’t mind. I think a fellow is awful if a lady goes on a walk with him and she can’t trust him and he tries to flirt