Meantime, Joe had written his name at the top of a new sheet. He drew
up to the curb on Broadway just below Fourth and stopped the motor. He
leaned back against the tufted arm and stretched himself. Then he idly
viewed the passing show before him. It was past mid-afternoon and dry
and dusty. The keen edge of the sun had slightly dulled, but a Negro,
seated high up on a pile of shabby furniture on a moving van, mopped a
shining black face with the end of a very dirty undershirt sleeve. A
boy came wavering along on a bicycle, swerved in to the curbing across
the street, stopped, got off and went in to the Baptist Seminary,
leaving the bicycle sprawling in the gutter. An old woman came out of
nowhere; he heard her uncertain steps before he saw her as she
approached him; the wide pavement the moment before had been entirely
deserted. She walked as though she had no definite destination, not
straight ahead in a plumb line. She had an old-fashioned bonnet with
dangles on her head and a straw basket over one arm. Somehow he
thought of his aunt Lorry. She came peering up at him from under her
lashes. She seemed drawn by the brightness of the car. And her dim
eyes seemed searching in the shadow of the top for a definite
assurance. As she drew near, Joe smiled, a little absently; the rusty
steel aigrette perched on top of the bonnet like the horn of a unicorn
was nodding so gravely. The old thing caught the smile. Her face
brightened. Her mouth spread in a toothless grin. She reached out a
hand and touched the car lightly with a withered finger on the fender.
"Such a pretty buggy," she said. The voice was tremulous and
high-pitched and the articulation thick and indistinct.
Then she looked at Joe; her rheumy gaze passed over him from the tips
of his shiny new shoes to the crown of his hat. Admiration now spoke
from her with perhaps greater eloquence even though her lips were
still, parted a little. The pause had been but momentary.
Joe reached over and threw the door open.
"Climb in," he said. "I'll take you for a ride."
The old woman shrank back from the car, wide-eyed in alarm.
"Come on," he urged, quite gently, "I'm not a masher. I'll bring you
right back here, all safe and right side up."
The old face wrinkled in a shrewd, crafty grin. She lingered on the
pavement for a moment in indecision, then came slowly forward and
paused at the running board, peering upward into Joe's face.
"Take me for a ride?" she lisped, tremulously eager.
"Sure," said Joe. "I'm selling 'em." He held the door open invitingly.
"Maybe you'll buy one some day."
Again the swift flash of a smile passed over the slack mouth and there
was a gathering in the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. Painfully
she pulled herself up into the car and sank into the seat beside him.
He switched on the motor, threw out the clutch, engaged the starting
gear, and paused with his hand on the lever.
"We'll go around this way. It's not so crowded and I think the air's
better."
She smiled at him confidently.
They started. At the corner he swung around in a wide sweep. He caught
a glance at her and saw her sitting with eyes glued intently on the
street before them, her hands gripping the edge of the seat. Then the
block ahead was straight and smooth and free of traffic.
He patted the chest of his coat.
"I've just put an order away in here," he said. "It's very easy.
They're scrambling over each other to buy these cars."
She gave him a fleeting glance and returned to her desperate business
of watching the road.
For a moment he was silent. They rounded another corner.
"I'm not really expecting you to buy a car--merely speak a good word
for it with your friends. That is, if you like it. It is all right,
isn't it?"
At his questioning tone she again ventured a look at him and smiled
again uncertainly, still gripping the edges of the seat.
One more corner and they were on the return trip. Directly they were
rolling up toward the curb from whence they had started. They stopped
and Joe reached over and opened the door again. The old woman caught
the import of the movement and clambered stiffly out, stooping low
with her head to avoid the top brace. She stood on the curbing,
bewildered and blinking, apparently lost.
Joe reached out and handed her a card.
"You're headed just the same way you were when I picked you up," he
said. "And in the same spot." And as she made no move and apparently
did not hear him, "Call on me if I can serve you. I can do other
things besides sell motor cars.
"Good-bye," he said, tipping his hat and slamming the door shut. Then
he moved away. He left her standing there, watching.
He turned in Fourth Street and slowed down to about six miles an hour.
The lengthening shadows were bringing out the ephemeral creatures that
might otherwise wither in the heat. The west pavement was already
crowded and there was a stream of motors idling along in a sluggish
tide, southward. It was the time of day when the city, as it were,
stretches itself after its siesta and takes long, lazy, satisfied
looks at itself.
Joe slumped in the seat. This lazy panorama had not begun to pall on
him. He luxuriated in it. It was something of a holiday to him. The
change that had come over his life was inexplicable; without effort he
had lifted himself. The selection of an occupation had been haphazard;
he had merely taken the first thing that had offered itself--selling
automobiles. And there had been no difficulty in selling them, none
whatever. The very first month his commissions had amounted to
considerably more than twice the sum Bromley's had paid him.
The motor was thrumming along slowly and regularly, giving out soft
little ticks like a clock. Everything about it was shining and new.
Everything about Joe was shining and new. He felt sleek, lazy, and
comfortable. He made no effort to analyze the change that had come
over him, merely accepted it as a matter of course. At times would
come vague wonderings why he had been such a "chump" as to hang on in
that treadmill of an office as long as he had.
He thought about the old woman and her grenadier bonnet and her
bewildered pleasure, and chuckled to himself. The old soul had
probably never been in an automobile before. He had raised the
standard of her desires. She might not be satisfied again until she
had another ride, maybe many more. It might even stir her up. That
was what it was. Ignorance was what kept most people down. They did
not know what they were missing. And so they just plugged along taking
things as they came, most of them. That was what had been the matter
with him. Hard work never got a man anywhere, just hard work. He shut
his mind resolutely on the thought and turned again to the inspection
of the evening parade.
As he came in sight of the windows of Bessire's Department Store he
remembered that there was something there that he needed. And there
was no need of his hurrying back to the office. He had done enough for
the day. So he turned the corner and squeezed into an opening on the
side street. He stepped out on to the pavement and indulged in a
luxurious stretch of the arms. The sudden glare of the sun on the
pavement made him sneeze. It was delightful. He walked lazily through
the revolving doors of the department store.
As he gained the interior a woman brushed past him so that he had to
stop in his tracks. As she passed she looked into his eyes. Something
in him stopped with a click like a notch on a reel.
He gazed after her, trying to remember. But all there was was a faint
lingering scent that was difficult and alluring. There was something
familiar about the curve of the neck, something about the tilt of the
hat, he had seen before. It disturbed him. All he had caught was a
flicker of her eyes, as though she had thought to recognize him and
then had changed her mind. She turned a corner into a distant aisle
and was gone.
He had a momentary impulse to follow to the end of that aisle and see
where it led to, but he checked it. He gathered himself together and
lazily strolled along in search of the counter he wanted. Quiet had
descended upon the store. It was almost deserted of shoppers and the
yellow light came streaming down the cross aisles heavy laden with
dust particles. The little bundle girls leaned from their stalls
behind the counters and chatted. There was a pleasant buzz in the air.
He made his purchase and lingered for a moment at a counter of
notions. Then he strolled back toward the door, steeped in the feeling
of well being. A girl at a curved counter was tucking in a wisp of
hair and taking off her paper sleeve protectors. Over beyond, there by
the west entrance, they were already shutting the doors. He paused and
watched the day's closing pleasantly settle down. Then he reached out
a hand to push open the door before him. Somebody jostled against him.
A small collection of paper bundles spilled out on to the floor at his
feet and he mechanically stooped to pick them up. They were manifestly
feminine. There were four of them, all small; he gathered them all up
in one hand.
Then he rose to his feet and turned to restore them to their owner.
He looked into a pair of limpid violet eyes.
They dropped and long lashes shaded them. A delicate colour rose and
splashed the softest of cheeks.
Joe stood, holding the bundles.
Directly she looked at him again. It was a very timid, gentle,
apologetic look. She seemed to be gathering courage.
"Oh," she burst out in a sudden sweet abandonment to friendliness.
"I'm so sorry." She paused then, uncertain what next to do or say.
Joe held the door open for her, keeping tight hold of the packages. He
felt a little warm behind the ears.
She preceded him to the pavement. He got a good look at her as she
passed through the door. Still the baffling resemblance!
Then she turned and faced him on the pavement. Again she looked at him
shyly, and there were little dimples in her cheeks as she tried hard
not to smile.
"I knew I'd get into trouble when I loaded myself down with all these
bundles," she explained, reaching out for them.
Confidence was returning to him. He felt the old lazy relaxation of
being amused.
"Can't I help you out of your difficulty--see that you get safely home
with them?" he asked quietly. "I've my car here."
She raised her eyebrows, looked startled a moment, and then flushed
slightly. "Oh, don't bother. I can get a taxi."
She made no further resistance and directly he was slamming the door
behind her. He had caught a glimpse of black-silk stocking above a
white buckskin pump that somehow disturbed his poise. As he walked
around to the other side of the car he was wondering where it was he
had seen her before. He could not remember.
He climbed into his place behind the steering wheel and observed her
again. It was a setting that became her. Her shyness seemed to have
all vanished. She was powdering her nose as he climbed in; a silver
vanity case lay open on her lap. He noticed it, saw a hairpin and two
nickles and a card or two. She had said she might take a taxi.
Directly she was smiling into his eyes. It made him just a little bit
giddy in spite of himself. How old was she, he wondered? For a moment
he busied himself with the car. There was nothing made up about her;
it was a clear case of good looks. And she knew how to wear her
clothes.
"I think I'm terrible," she was saying.
"How?" he answered, hardly hearing her.
"Letting you take me up this way." She finished her renovation to her
evident satisfaction and packed away the puff with a snap.
"You couldn't expect to manage those bundles any other way," he
assured confidently and quietly. It was an amusing game.
She gazed off toward the corner and wetted her lips.
He started the car. They turned the corner into Fourth Street and
moved south. As if sensing the need of further explanation here on the
esplanade, where all seemed acquainted, she began in a slightly more
animated tone:
"Of course, it's not like we had never met."
He felt she was looking at him, but being busy with the car he was
silent.
"I really believe you've forgotten."
He caught a glance at her. She looked charmingly provoked. The fact
that she was centring her attention on him was in itself flattering.
"Not at all," he assured her and wondered to what she referred.
"It was at the American Legion Ball," she reminded him.
And then he remembered. It all came back to him. It had been a dismal
evening, way back in April. He had noticed her that evening. She had
worn a weird thing of silver and black. She had even sat beside him on
a sofa by the door--she and her partner. But he had not met her; he
was sure of that. He had remarked, he remembered now, how curiously
alert her eyes were, how alive, taking everything in.
"You were in uniform," she continued.
"Yes," he replied. Nearly every man present had been.
For a few moments silence. Then reaching Broadway and less traffic
they rolled along a little more easily, with less tension.
"I'm Myrtle Macomber," she at length essayed. "In case you had
forgotten."
Joe grinned. Then he turned to her, "And my name's Hooper."
She gave him another one of her roguish glances through her lashes.
"I was trying to remember," she laughed.
Then he asked her the way home and she told him. After that she
chatted more freely, made comments on some of the people they passed.
The evening had turned out fine. Broad orange pennons streamed out of
the west. The little fountain in the city park tinkled delightfully as
they passed.
"It's a pretty car," she said once; "so roomy and comfortable."
He made no reply and wondered if his silence were reprehensible.
Under her direction they turned into a quiet side street and stopped
before a grayish frame house with a fancy bulbous tower at one corner
and bilious green outside shutters. A woman was stooped over a flower
bed in the centre of the yard. She arose stiffly at their approach.
Miss Macomber turned to Joe, but he had already alighted from the car
and gone around to help her out. As he held the door open for her she
seemed a bit distrait. Slowly they walked across the pavement to the
gate. The woman in the yard came forward to meet them.
There was a moment's pause. And then: "This is Mr. Hooper, mama."
The woman gave him an appraising look, glanced at the car, then smiled
and held out her hand. It was damp and flabby.
"Please excuse my appearance, Mr. Hooper," she smirked. "I was getting
some flowers for the table, dearie," she added to the girl.
Joe wondered vaguely at the contrast. Here was another of nature's
paradoxes. Mrs. Macomber looked worn and quite untidy. She was fat;
her figure looked as though it had been allowed to run wild. Her face
was heavily lined with wrinkles and was not too clean. And her eyes
were tired. The house dress that she wore open at the neck and held
together by a bleak-looking cameo pin might have been destined for
dust rags in some families, and not extravagantly, either.
She gazed at her daughter with open admiration.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Hooper," said the latter, and as she spoke she
barred the entrance through the wooden gate with a dainty arm in a
long, white-silk glove. But she smiled at him archly. "Call me up
sometime."
And then she turned and, gently pushing the drab creature before her,
went up the walk and into the house.
Joe looked back over his shoulder at them as he drove away.