Main Street - Sinclair Lewis (little red riding hood ebook .txt) 📗

it! Stop being a whining baby!” She stood up quickly; she said, “Isn’t it wonderful to be here at last!”

He trusted her so. She would make herself like the place. And she was going to do tremendous things⁠—

She followed Kennicott and the bobbing ends of the two bags which he carried. They were held back by the slow line of disembarking passengers. She reminded herself that she was actually at the dramatic moment of the bride’s homecoming. She ought to feel exalted. She felt nothing at all except irritation at their slow progress toward the door.

Kennicott stooped to peer through the windows. He shyly exulted:

“Look! Look! There’s a bunch come down to welcome us! Sam Clark and the missus and Dave Dyer and Jack Elder, and, yes sir, Harry Haydock and Juanita, and a whole crowd! I guess they see us now. Yuh, yuh sure, they see us! See ’em waving!”

She obediently bent her head to look out at them. She had hold of herself. She was ready to love them. But she was embarrassed by the heartiness of the cheering group. From the vestibule she waved to them, but she clung a second to the sleeve of the brakeman who helped her down before she had the courage to dive into the cataract of handshaking people, people whom she could not tell apart. She had the impression that all the men had coarse voices, large damp hands, toothbrush mustaches, bald spots, and Masonic watch-charms.

She knew that they were welcoming her. Their hands, their smiles, their shouts, their affectionate eyes overcame her. She stammered, “Thank you, oh, thank you!”

One of the men was clamoring at Kennicott, “I brought my machine down to take you home, doc.”

“Fine business, Sam!” cried Kennicott; and, to Carol, “Let’s jump in. That big Paige over there. Some boat, too, believe me! Sam can show speed to any of these Marmons from Minneapolis!”

Only when she was in the motor car did she distinguish the three people who were to accompany them. The owner, now at the wheel, was the essence of decent self-satisfaction; a baldish, largish, level-eyed man, rugged of neck but sleek and round of face⁠—face like the back of a spoon bowl. He was chuckling at her, “Have you got us all straight yet?”

“Course she has! Trust Carrie to get things straight and get ’em darn quick! I bet she could tell you every date in history!” boasted her husband.

But the man looked at her reassuringly and with a certainty that he was a person whom she could trust she confessed, “As a matter of fact I haven’t got anybody straight.”

“Course you haven’t, child. Well, I’m Sam Clark, dealer in hardware, sporting goods, cream separators, and almost any kind of heavy junk you can think of. You can call me Sam⁠—anyway, I’m going to call you Carrie, seein’ ’s you’ve been and gone and married this poor fish of a bum medic that we keep round here.” Carol smiled lavishly, and wished that she called people by their given names more easily. “The fat cranky lady back there beside you, who is pretending that she can’t hear me giving her away, is Mrs. Sam’l Clark; and this hungry-looking squirt up here beside me is Dave Dyer, who keeps his drug store running by not filling your hubby’s prescriptions right⁠—fact you might say he’s the guy that put the ‘shun’ in ‘prescription.’ So! Well, leave us take the bonny bride home. Say, doc, I’ll sell you the Candersen place for three thousand plunks. Better be thinking about building a new home for Carrie. Prettiest Frau in G.P., if you asks me!”

Contentedly Sam Clark drove off, in the heavy traffic of three Fords and the Minniemashie House Free Bus.

“I shall like Mr. Clark⁠ ⁠… I can’t call him ‘Sam’! They’re all so friendly.” She glanced at the houses; tried not to see what she saw; gave way in: “Why do these stories lie so? They always make the bride’s homecoming a bower of roses. Complete trust in noble spouse. Lies about marriage. I’m not changed. And this town⁠—O my God! I can’t go through with it. This junk-heap!”

Her husband bent over her. “You look like you were in a brown study. Scared? I don’t expect you to think Gopher Prairie is a paradise, after St. Paul. I don’t expect you to be crazy about it, at first. But you’ll come to like it so much⁠—life’s so free here and best people on earth.”

She whispered to him (while Mrs. Clark considerately turned away), “I love you for understanding. I’m just⁠—I’m beastly oversensitive. Too many books. It’s my lack of shoulder-muscles and sense. Give me time, dear.”

“You bet! All the time you want!”

She laid the back of his hand against her cheek, snuggled near him. She was ready for her new home.

Kennicott had told her that, with his widowed mother as housekeeper, he had occupied an old house, “but nice and roomy, and well-heated, best furnace I could find on the market.” His mother had left Carol her love, and gone back to Lac-qui-Meurt.

It would be wonderful, she exulted, not to have to live in Other People’s Houses, but to make her own shrine. She held his hand tightly and stared ahead as the car swung round a corner and stopped in the street before a prosaic frame house in a small parched lawn.

IV

A concrete sidewalk with a “parking” of grass and mud. A square smug brown house, rather damp. A narrow concrete walk up to it. Sickly yellow leaves in a windrow with dried wings of box-elder seeds and snags of wool from the cottonwoods. A screened porch with pillars of thin painted pine surmounted by scrolls and brackets and bumps of jigsawed wood. No shrubbery to shut off the public gaze. A lugubrious bay-window to the right of the porch. Window curtains of starched cheap lace revealing a pink marble table with a conch shell and a Family Bible.

“You’ll find it old-fashioned⁠—what do you