Old Ben Westerveld was taking it easy.Every muscle taut, every nerve tense, his keen eyes vainly straining to pierce the blackness of the stuffy room--there lay Ben Westerveld in bed, taking it easy.And it was hard.Hard.He wanted to get up.He wanted so intensely to get up that the mere effort of lying there made him ache all over.His toes were curled with the effort.His fingers were clenched with it.His breath came short, and his thighs felt cramped.Nerves.But old Ben Westerveld didn't know that.What should a retired and well-to-do farmer of fifty-eight know of nerves, especially when he has moved to the city and is taking it easy?
If only he knew what time it was.Here in Chicago you couldn't tell whether it was four o'clock or seven unless you looked at your watch.To do that it was necessary to turn on the light.And to turn on the light meant that he would turn on, too, a flood of querulous protest from his wife, Bella, who lay asleep beside him.
When for forty-five years of your life you have risen at four-thirty daily, it is difficult to learn to loll.To do it successfully, you must be a natural- born loller to begin with and revert.Bella Westerveld was and had.So there she lay, asleep.Old Ben wasn't and hadn't.So there he lay, terribly wide- awake, wondering what made his heart thump so fast when he was lying so still.If it had been light, you could have seen the lines of strained resignation in the sagging muscles of his patient face.
They had lived in the city for almost a year, but it was the same every morning.He would open his eyes, start up with one hand already reaching for the limp, drab work-worn garments that used to drape the chair by his bed.Then he would remember and sink back while a great wave of depression swept over him.Nothing to get up for.Store clothes on the chair by the bed.He was taking it easy.
Back home on the farm in southern Illinois he had known the hour the instant his eyes opened.Here the flat next door was so close that the bed- room was in twilight even at midday.On the farm he could tell by the feeling--an intangible thing, but infallible.He could gauge the veryquality of the blackness that comes just before dawn.The crowing of the cocks, the stamping of the cattle, the twittering of the birds in the old elm whose branches were etched eerily against his window in the ghostly light--these things he had never needed.He had known.But here in the un- sylvan section of Chicago which bears the bosky name of Englewood, the very darkness had a strange quality.
A hundred unfamiliar noises misled him.There were no cocks, no cattle, no elm.Above all, there was no instinctive feeling.Once, when they first came to the city, he had risen at twelve-thirty, thinking it was morning, and had gone clumping about the flat, waking up everyone and loosing from his wife's lips a stream of acid vituperation that seared even his case-hardened sensibilities.The people sleeping in the bedroom of the flat next door must have heard her.
"You big rube! Getting up in the middle of the night and stomping around like cattle.You'd better build a shed in the back yard and sleep there if you're so dumb you can't tell night from day."Even after thirty-three years of marriage he had never ceased to be appalled at the coarseness of her mind and speech--she who had seemed so mild and fragile and exquisite when he married her.He had crept back to bed shamefacedly.He could hear the couple in the bedroom of the flat just across the little court grumbling and then laughing a little, grudgingly, and yet with appreciation.That bedroom, too, had still the power to appall him.Its nearness, its forced intimacy, were daily shocks to him whose most immediate neighbor, back on the farm, had been a quarter of a mile away.The sound of a shoe dropped on the hardwood floor, the rush of water in the bathroom, the murmur of nocturnal confidences, the fretful cry of a child in the night, all startled and distressed him whose ear had found music in the roar of the thresher and had been soothed by the rattle of the tractor and the hoarse hoot of the steamboat whistle at the landing.His farm's edge had been marked by the Mississippi rolling grandly by.
Since they had moved into town, he had found only one city sound that he really welcomed--the rattle and clink that marked the milkman's matutinal visit.The milkman came at six, and he was the good fairy who released Ben Westerveld from durance vile--or had until the winter monthsmade his coming later and later, so that he became worse than useless as a timepiece.But now it was late March, and mild.The milkman's coming would soon again mark old Ben's rising hour.Before he had begun to take it easy, six o'clock had seen the entire mechanism of his busy little world humming smoothly and sweetly, the whole set in motion by his own big work-callused hands.Those hands puzzled him now.He often looked at them curiously and in a detached sort of way, as if they belonged to someone else.So white they were, and smooth and soft, with long, pliant nails that never broke off from rough work as they used to.Of late there were little splotches of brown on the backs of his hands and around the thumbs.
"Guess it's my liver," he decided, rubbing the spots thoughtfully."She gets kind of sluggish from me not doing anything.Maybe a little spring tonic wouldn't go bad.Tone me up."He got a little bottle of reddish-brown mixture from the druggist on Halstead Street near Sixty-third.A genial gendeman, the druggist, white- coated and dapper, stepping affably about the fragrant-smelling store.The reddish-brown mixture had toned old Ben up surprisingly--while it lasted.He had two bottles of it.But on discontinuing it he slumped back into his old apathy.
