would mean that for nine weeks he would have to give her
ten dollars instead of five. And that, in view of his present
aspirations to dress, live and enjoy himself in a way entirely
different from what he previously considered necessary,
was by no means a pleasure to contemplate. Nevertheless
he decided to do it. After all he owed his mother something.
She had made many sacrifices for him and the others in
days past and he could not afford to be too selfish. It was
not decent.
But the most enduring thought that now came to him was
that if his mother and father were going to look to him for
financial aid, they should be willing to show him more
consideration than had previously been shown him. For one
thing he ought to be allowed to come and go with more
freedom, in so far as his night hours were concerned. And
at the same time he was clothing himself and eating his
meals at the hotel, and that was no small item, as he saw it.
However, there was another problem that had soon arisen
and it was this. Not so long after the matter of the hundred
dollars, he encountered his mother in Montrose Street, one
of the poorest streets which ran north from Bickel, and
which consisted entirely of two unbroken lines of wooden
houses and two-story flats and many unfurnished
apartments. Even the Griffiths, poor as they were, would
have felt themselves demeaned by the thought of having to
dwell in such a street. His mother was coming down the
front steps of one of the less tatterdemalion houses of this
row, a lower front window of which carried a very
conspicuous card which read “Furnished Rooms.” And
then, without turning or seeing Clyde across the street, she
proceeded to another house a few doors away, which also
carried a furnished rooms card and, after surveying the
exterior interestedly, mounted the steps and rang the bell.
An American Tragedy
136
Clyde’s first impression was that she was seeking the
whereabouts of some individual in whom she was
interested and of whose address she was not certain. But
crossing over to her at about the moment the proprietress
of the house put her head out of the door, he heard his
mother say: “You have a room for rent?”“Yes.”“Has it a
bath?”“No, but there’s a bath on the second floor.”“How
much is it a week?”“Four dollars.”“Could I see it?”“Yes, just
step in.”
Mrs. Griffiths appeared to hesitate while Clyde stood below,
not twenty-five feet away, and looked up at her, waiting for
her to turn and recognize him. But she stepped in without
turning. And Clyde gazed after her curiously, for while it was
by no means inconceivable that his mother might be
looking for a room for some one, yet why should she be
looking for it in this street when as a rule she usually dealt
with the Salvation Army or the Young Women’s Christian
Association. His first impulse was to wait and inquire of her
what she was doing here, but being interested in several
errands of his own, he went on.
That night, returning to his own home to dress and seeing
his mother in the kitchen, he said to her: “I saw you this
morning, Ma, in Montrose Street.”
“Yes,” his mother replied, after a moment, but not before he
had noticed that she had started suddenly as though taken
aback by this information. She was paring potatoes and
looked at him curiously. “Well, what of it?” she added,
calmly, but flushing just the same—a thing decidedly
unusual in connection with her where he was concerned.
Indeed, that start of surprise interested and arrested Clyde.
“You were going into a house there—looking for a furnished
room, I guess.”
An American Tragedy
137
“Yes, I was,” replied Mrs. Griffiths, simply enough now. “I
need a room for some one who is sick and hasn’t much
money, but it’s not so easy to find either.” She turned away
as though she were not disposed to discuss this any more,
and Clyde, while sensing her mood, apparently, could not
resist adding: “Gee, that’s not much of a street to have a
room in.” His new work at the Green-Davidson had already
caused him to think differently of how one should live—any
one. She did not answer him and he went to his room to
change his clothes.
A month or so after this, coming east on Missouri Avenue
late one evening, he again saw his mother in the near
distance coming west. In the light of one of the small stores
which ranged in a row on this street, he saw that she was
carrying a rather heavy old-fashioned bag, which had long
been about the house but had never been much used by
any one. On sight of him approaching (as he afterwards
decided) she had stopped suddenly and turned into a
hallway of a three-story brick apartment building, and when
he came up to it, he found the outside door was shut. He
opened it, and saw a flight of steps dimly lit, up which she
might have gone. However, he did not trouble to
investigate, for he was uncertain, once he reached this
place, whether she had gone to call on some one or not, it
had all happened so quickly. But waiting at the next corner,
he finally saw her come out again. And then to his
increasing curiosity, she appeared to look cautiously about
before proceeding as before. It was this that caused him to
think that she must have been endeavoring to conceal
herself from him. But why?
His first impulse was to turn and follow her, so interested
was he by her strange movements. But he decided later
that if she did not want him to know what she was doing,
An American Tragedy
138
perhaps it was best that he should not. At the same time he
was made intensely curious by this evasive gesture. Why
should his mother not wish him to see her carrying a bag
anywhere? Evasion and concealment formed no part of her
real disposition (so different from his own). Almost instantly
his mind proceeded to join this coincidence with the time he
had seen her descending the steps of the rooming house in
Montrose Street, together with the business of the letter he
had found her reading, and the money she had been
compelled to raise—the hundred dollars. Where could she
be going? What was she hiding?
He speculated on all this, but he could not decide whether it
had any definite connection with him or any member of the
family until about a week later, when, passing along
Eleventh near Baltimore, he thought he saw Esta, or at
least a girl so much like her that she would be taken for her
anywhere. She had the same height, and she was moving
along as Esta used to walk. Only, now he thought as he
saw her, she looked older. Yet, so quickly had she come
and gone in the mass of people that he had not been able
to make sure. It was only a glance, but on the strength of it,
he had turned and sought to catch up with her, but upon
reaching the spot she was gone. So convinced was he,
however, that he had seen her that he went straight home,
and, encountering his mother in the mission, announced
that he was positive he had seen Esta. She must be back
in Kansas City again. He could have sworn to it. He had
seen her near Eleventh and Baltimore, or thought he had.
Had his mother heard anything from her?
And then curiously enough he observed that his mother’s
manner was not exactly what he thought it should have
been under the circumstances. His own attitude had been
one of commingled astonishment, pleasure, curiosity and
sympathy because of the sudden disappearance and now
An American Tragedy
139
sudden reappearance of Esta. Could it be that his mother
had used that hundred dollars to bring her back? The
thought had come to him—why or from where, he could not
say. He wondered. But if so, why had she not returned to
her home, at least to notify the family of her presence here?
He expected his mother would be as astonished and
puzzled as he was—quick and curious for details. Instead,
she appeared to him to be obviously confused and taken
aback by this information, as though she was hearing about
something that she already knew and was puzzled as to
just what her attitude should be.
“Oh, did you? Where? Just now, you say? At Eleventh and
Baltimore? Well, isn’t that strange? I must speak to Asa
about this. It’s strange that she wouldn’t come here if she is
back.” Her eyes, as he saw, instead of looking astonished,
looked puzzled, disturbed. Her mouth, always the case