The Home Journal

BEHIND
THE BARE
HALL
By Kathleen Donelson

"Lulamae, you will remember that you're in Chicago and quit being friendly with everyone in the apartment," David Blair pleaded as he kissed his wife at the door.

Lulamae rubbed her cheek fondly against his, "I'll try, but I don't see why. Down home " she began.

"Now you're not down home in Tennessee, you're in an apartment building on Chicago's south side. I don't like leaving you alone with your small town friendliness and your all consuming curiosity."

"If you mean that poor old Mr. Powell across the way in that horrible bare hall "

"Lulamae stop it! Whether that old man is lonesome or not is none of your business. Besides I know you. You just can't stand not knowing if the rest of his apartment is as bare as the hall."

"Now darling, don't get all steamed up. Get on about your law practice. I'll be good." With another kiss she pushed him out the door.

She glanced at the closed door across the way, visualizing the bare narrow hall which was all she could see when tradesmen made deliveries. About this time every morning the boy brought the newspapers. She hadn't really been curious about the papers, but when she gave the boy a sample of her southern pecan rolls, he had mentioned that the papers were all southern dailies. "Mr. Powell must be a fellow southerner."

In her effort to be casual she waited almost too long, and Mr. Powell had his papers and was about to close the door.

Apparently surprised, Mr. Powell's pale set features relaxed. "Good morning, yourself child, you must be from the South."

"Yes, si-r-r-r, late of New Orleans, more recently Tennessee," Lulamae purred sweetly. her eyes sweeping beyond his neatly dressed figure in the conservative black suit, to that mysterious door in the bare brown walled hall behind him.

Then Mr. Powell bowed curtly, slammed and bolted the door.

Now he wouldn't poke his head out until the man delivered that one meal a day, that always came at one. Lulamae stopped as if something had struck her. "Why didn't I think of it before?"

The rest of the morning Lulamae worked happily in her kitchen. Only occasionally did she recall Mrs. Gordon's accounts of mysterious big packages and heavy objects that were delivered at night to Mr. Powell by way of the back stairs.

"But I won't be scared by such talk," she reassured herself. "I'm going to be as neighborly as if Mr. Powell lived across the street at home." She carefully spread a linen napkin over the quivering contents of the cut glass dish.

So just as Mr. Powell paid the boy who brought his meal, Lulamae propelled herself through her own door and into his hall, with her own little tray extended.

"Please Mr. Powell," she said "I want you all to try my Grandma Clermont's, boiled custard. It's so light and digestible we children always called it 'fairy pudding'."

Mr. Powell's grim face relaxed. "Digestible uh? Lemon flavor?"

"Of course."

"Bring it in." He pushed open the inner door and taking the big tray from the restaurant motioned Lulamae to follow.

Her breath came out in one big gasp,when she saw the room behind the bare hall. "Beautiful!"

The man chuckled. "Being a southerner I thought you'd understand. I had a New Orleans grandmother, too. I like her beautiful things around me. Besides I like to buy any oriental rugs or tapestries that appeal to me and I like living in a dump so people don't bother me."