From the Improvement Era, October 1939 –

Let a Fellow Build a Dream

By Irma Hegel

Mary Andrews heard Chug Philbin long before he entered the Andrews Flower Shop. Chug was whistling in an off-key manner, always a sign that he was in trouble of some sort. As he entered, Mary looked up from the roses and larkspur that she was arranging in a long, narrow box.

“And since when,” she demanded in a tone of mock severity, “does the Robert Holt Company let its young men out at ten o’clock in the morning?

“I’m the best-looking one,” said Chug, resting his long lankness against the counter, “that’s why they let me out.”

Mary smiled. He was good-looking, this Chug of hers — that curly brown hair — those laughing blue eyes. She shook her head.

“Most likely you’re fired.”

“Resigned would be the more polite term,” Chug answered.

Mary, startled, looked at him. Chug was not making fun — she could see that. His eyes were too solemn and his jaws were clamped so firmly together there was a crevice on each side of his stubborn mouth.

“Oh, Chug,” she cried, “you couldn’t be through? Not with the Robert Holt Company. Why, you were to be a junior partner there some day.”

“I’m going to have a business of my own,” said Chug, “a garage — that’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“A — a garage?” Mary stammered.

She suddenly saw a dirty, cluttered place of cars — piles of old machinery spilling out of corners — grease — pools of thick black oil upon the floor! She shuddered with actual distaste. The Robert Holt Company was a brokerage house of old standing, with rich, soft rugs, restful overhead lighting, luxurious chairs and lounges.

Chug scowled. “Don’t make a tragedy out of nothing, Mary, for that’s what you’re doing. I like cars, like to tinker with them — you know that. Let a fellow build his dream, will you? Because dreams jack you up when everything else fails. . . .”

Dreams, thought Mary contemptuously. They were intangible things you couldn’t put your fingers on. That position at Holt’s had been real. She had counted on it heavily for their future, together. Couldn’t Chug see that? Couldn’t he realize?

But Chug was nipping a rose from her box. Then pushing it into his buttonhole, he blew her a kiss and marched jauntily out of the shop.

“I’m going to look for our garage,” he called back over his shoulder.

Mary bent closer over the flowers so he could not see her tears.

It was not until noon that she heard the sequel. Glenna Gardner, who was Robert Holt’s personal secretary, came in to order dahlias for her mother’s birthday party.

“Did you hear about Chug?” Glenna asked at once. “And isn’t it the most ridiculous thing you ever heard of?”

“What happened?” Mary demanded.

Glenna said: “It’s the Woody fellow — Tristram, you know. He’s been working for Holt’s about six weeks now. Business has been a little slower than usual — it always is in summer — and Sam Bennett, who runs things in the main department, said he had to cut down and let a man go. He had Tris in mind and everyone knew it. But Chug, the big ninny, got right up and resigned.”

“For Tris?” asked Mary.

“For Tris,” echoed Glenna sarcastically. “Now you know and I know that Tris won’t make good, in spite of Chug’s sacrifice. Tris isn’t that kind. But Chug has those big, high motives. He thinks because Tris happens to be supporting a widowed mother and five younger brothers and sisters that he’s to be given a priority. Silly? Why the whole affair is utterly ridiculous.”

Mary thought, why couldn’t Chug have considered me instead of Tris? Chug knows we want to get married. . . .

Aloud she said: “Maybe it will work. Now what sort of dahlias did you want, Glenna?”

Later that day Mary saw Tris go slouching past the flower shop, his hat on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets. A dreadful sob, hard and dry, shook Mary’s slender shoulders. “That good-for-nothing — heading for the corner gang, just as I thought! What does he care? He’s so stupid he doesn’t even realize what Chug has done for him.”

And so another two weeks passed. Tris went his easy, lazy way. Chug worked day and night. A small share of business had come to his new garage — the Burlington Laundry — the Howell trucks —

Chug said, dropping in at the Andrews Flower Shop one August morning, “Why don’t you come over and see the place, Mary?”

And Mary, who was arranging dahlias on her knees in the display window, shook her dark head.

“I don’t like garages.”

“But Mary —” His blue eyes were wistful, like a little boy’s. “This is our garage.” I’m sorry.

“You’re still thinking about Holt’s — that’s what it is. Aw, Mary, forget it, will you? I’m glad I’m out of that place. By the way, I’ve got a surprise for you. Business has been so good the last few days that I’ve hired an assistant.”

Mary brightened. “I’m glad, Chug. Who is it — the young Italian fellow who’s been helping you out weekends?”

“No,” said Chug and shook his curly chestnut head. “This is Tris Woody.”

“What?” Mary stood up in the display window, the dahlias spilling over on the floor.

“Now, Mary darling. . . .”

“Don’t you darling me,” cried Mary, her small face growing red. “Wasn’t it enough to give up your position at Holt’s for that — that lazy lout? Must you take him into a new business — let him ruin that for you too? I’ll tell you something, Chug Philbin — Tris never was grateful for the sacrifice you made for him. Every night he was off with the boys on the corner. I saw him. Now you want to make the same mistake all over again. All right, do it — but you get out of here. And don’t you ever come back. I want to marry a successful man, not one who helps weaklings until he turns weakling himself.”

“Do you think I’m a weakling?” asked Chug, staring up at her.

“Get out,” Mary sobbed and put her hands before her eyes.

When she looked down again, Chug was gone. And he did not return. Let him go, Mary thought — if he prefers Tris to me, let him have that no-account to his heart’s content.

Once again the weeks passed. The heat of August melted into the mellow ripeness of September. Mary no longer saw Tris hanging about the corners, nor did she see Chug. Glenna told her the garage was not prospering, but neither had it gone under. “They’re just holding on,” she ended up by saying.

Then, in the middle of September, Robert Holt entered the Andrews Flower Shop.

“Mary, will you help me out?” he asked. “My daughter, Mildred, is getting married this afternoon. Her fiance, Count Deschamps, has been recalled to Europe. I want the house decorated, of course. Because we are hurried, we mustn’t skimp matters — ”

“It will be everything you want it to be,” Mary promised.

And she reached for the phone to call the greenhouse.

All morning she worked with one assistant. At two o’clock the Holt home was a breathing, perfumed bower of flowers. The French period room was banked with roses, snapdragons, and snow-white budlea that gave a fragrant pink-and-white effect. From the chandeliers hung silvered leaves trimmed with white bells. I used to dream of a wedding like this, thought Mary, pressing a tired hand across her forehead. Every portion of her slender body ached with weariness and her heart was a leaden thing.

Mr. Holt, passing by, paused appreciatively.

“Come, child, I’ll have the caterer give you something hot and bracing. A check could never cover all you have done here this afternoon. I wish I could do as much for you as you have done for me.”

Mary looked up at the tall man, breathless.

“Could you take Chug Philbin back, Mr. Holt? He was valuable to you once, wasn’t he?”

The broker smiled. “I had almost forgotten that you two were sweethearts. Certainly, Mary, any time Chug wants to return he’ll find a hearty welcome — an increase, too.”

“Oh, thank you — thank you.” Tears streaked from Mary’s eyes. She excused herself from the cater- er’s tempting repast and fumbled her way out of the big mirror-lined room with its flowers and heavy fragrance.

I’ve helped Chug, helped him, she repeated over and over to herself. He won’t have to stay in that dirty garage now — he won’t have to help that lazy Tris. He can go back to Holt’s — back to Holt’s. She almost sang the words. Down the main street, through a narrow alley, she hurried, on into the foreign section of the city, across the broad boulevard to the site of Chug’s garage. She saw a big sign waving over a neat brick building — CHUG’S GARAGE. Coming closer, she saw the interior had an almost hospital cleanliness. No one was about, but a light burned far in the rear. Mary tiptoed in and saw two young men in overalls bent over an engine on a block.

“Will it work?” Tris was asking.

It was Tris, of course, but he looked different. His face was flushed with excitement and he bent over the block of the engine as if his very life depended on its action.

“Sure, it will work,” Chug was answering from the opposite side. “We haven’t spent all our evenings for nothing, have we? This is going to revolutionize the motor car industry — you’ll see. Say, if I could just put the royalties a thing like this might bring at Mary’s feet. . . .”

“Aw, shucks,” said Tris. “It isn’t the royalties she wants — it’s you. Money in itself doesn’t count. We had that at Holt’s — remember?”

There was a sputter and sizzling sound from the cylinders.

“It won’t go,” said Chug in a disappointed voice. “Blew out another condenser. We’ll have to try another angle. . . .”

“I have an idea,” Tris mumbled, bending over the model and chalking a line upon the side of the block. “We’ll change the intake and then. . . .”

Mary stood there without speaking. She was still watching Tris. There was no slouch to his shoulders now— no sullen droop to his mouth. Was Chug’s dream Tristam’s dream too? Did things work out that way? A dream was such a fragile thing, she thought. It could be crushed forever by lack of understanding, lack of sympathy, even well-meant kindness. Mary resolved she would see Mr. Holt tomorrow, explain why she had not delivered his message, why she never could. She thought of the Holt’s French period room banked high with flowers. No wedding like that for her — not now. Oh, well, thought Mary, grinning gamely. I wouldn’t want it anyway. All I’ll ever want is Chug, just as he is, without any alterations on my part.

She was still smiling as she moved forward toward the curly-haired young man in the smudgy overalls.