What a curious question, that of Hawkins, "How did you come to get
mixed up in this crowd?" And the inane response he had made to the
counter as though it all were a mystery too vast for solution. Oh,
well, Hawkins was a queer bird, inexpressive and glum and commonplace.
Could not be expected to register much. His thoughts probably were too
rusty and old by the time they formed in his head to issue forth in
sparkling deeds or words. Joe slipped a knot into his tie, gave his
hair a final swipe with the brush, caught a quick glance at himself in
the glass, and then rushed to the door and rattled down the stairs
whistling.
It was a fine morning, the kind that gave one lots of "pep," high
cloudless sky, dazzling sun, hot and bracing. The morning paper had a
column on the first page listing the names of those who had succumbed
to the heat; but Joe had no eyes for such morbid news. A man never
felt the heat when he had plenty of good work to do and was in good
shape, and things were going well with him. Funny, how much suffering
of any sort was due entirely to the state of mind. He whistled as he
swung along on his way to the garage. And when he stepped into the
door of the garage office he mopped his streaming face and shouted to
the night man who was just leaving, "'D you get those gaskets put into
the old boat, Harry?"
"Whadda you think this is?" growled the man, "a mad-house? This ain't
no flivver fact'ry--build you a car while you change yer shirt--course
I ain't changed them gaskets." Harry clumped sullenly out of the door
and down the street, keeping close to the wall, in the shade. Harry
was an old married man and his feet were leaden. Joe chuckled as he
gazed after him speculatively. And then he passed through the door
back into the shop.
It was Saturday and only four hours till noon. There were no
demonstrations scheduled for the afternoon. There was not a flaw in
the sky. And yet the morning dragged. The streets were hot; great
waves of heat came curling up from the asphalt, which was soft and
gummy and showed the ruts of passing tires.
Toward twelve things began to quicken. Two or three insignificant
details brazenly presented themselves and Joe fell upon them with
feverish irritation. For a time they threatened to encroach upon a
golden afternoon. A lady had sent in an inquiry about a winter top;
Mrs. LeMasters was having trouble with her doors squeaking. They could
just as well have waited until Monday.
It was two o'clock when he finally quieted Mrs. LeMasters, using a
small oil can on the hinges and a few honeyed words upon her ruffled
spirits. He drew a deep breath of exasperation and relief as he
clambered into his car and drove away. He looked at his watch, paused
a moment in deep thought, stopping his car dead in the middle of the
street and was almost run over from behind by a nervous, excitable
"flivver." The driver waved at him wildly, shouting obscenities as he
swerved past and went careening down the street.
He would not have time to eat lunch. There was so much to do.
Inspired, he stopped at a corner drug store and gulped down a malted
milk. Then with enforced calm, and with a glance at the clock, he
brushed down his clothes, looked at himself in the glass above the
counter, and walked with much careless aplomb out to the car. He had
timed it to a nicety.
When he got out of the car in front of the Macomber dwelling he had
another struggle to keep from appearing self-conscious. As he
approached the house a rosy little vision of the afternoon in prospect
flitted into his mind. He glanced patronizingly at the sky. Never had
there been serener blue. Descending a notch, he caught a surreptitious
glimpse at upstairs windows. The one above the front door was chastely
shrouded by inside shutters. But through a slight gap and beneath a
raised sash he saw a flutter of white and turned away his eyes. It
was _her_ room. He pulled the old bell knob and stood thoughtfully
humming to himself on the steps.
No one came. Slightly jarred, he realized it and pulled the bell
again. He stopped humming. Quite a while he waited, in growing
irritation. The bell was probably broken. After many minutes--it may
have been two--he stepped to the edge of the porch and speculated on
going around to the back, when the door flew suddenly open and Mrs.
Macomber stood peering at him through the screen.
He jerked off his hat. "How do you do?" and gave her a radiant smile.
Mrs. Macomber scowled. She was an impregnable griffin even in still
life. She had on an untidy apron and her hair was squeezed back from
her yellow, greasy face.
"Well?" she said.
"I've--er--Miss Myrtle?" sparkled Joe, conquering the vapours.
"Not in," said Mrs. Macomber shortly.
Joe fell back a step. The shadows swept down upon him. For a moment he
was at a loss for words. "But--Mrs. Macomber--we were going to Stony
Point this afternoon!" He was aghast, and he bared his feelings to the
world before he sank in the engulfing sea of negation. "Are you sure?"
Mrs. Macomber smiled grimly. "My eyes haven't gone back on me
entirely, I reckon."
Joe stepped up to the level of the porch which stood inviting off to
the right. "Listen, Mrs. Macomber," he began, striving to be
respectful. "What's wrong?" In the face of the threatening debacle he
could not calmly let matters drift. He felt himself rushing into
action.
Mrs. Macomber considered and then apparently made up her mind. She
opened the door and stepped out upon the vine-covered porch. For a
moment she stood facing him as if taking in her ground. There was
something deep and lurking and resentful in her narrow eyes.
"Well, I'll tell you," she began. "You've been taking up a mighty lot
of Myrtle's time here, lately."
He sinkingly realized the truth of this statement as he felt the
fixity of her gaze. He was silent. The front door opened over to his
left, but he was too absorbed to notice. There was a sound of someone
stirring in the vestibule.
Mrs. Macomber did not like his silence. She had decided on conflict.
"A man's got no right to take up a girl's time unless he means right
by her. Just because a girl's good lookin' 's no sign she's a
play-thing for any Tom, Dick, or Harry comes along."
Joe was stunned by the baldness of the statement.
"But, Mrs. Macomber," he managed to stammer, "I didn't know that's the
way Myrtle--Miss Macomber felt about it. I'm awfully sorry----"
"Keeps other men away," she interrupted him ruthlessly, determined to
have her say. "Spoils everything for her. She's just a young girl----"
"There, there, Ma," broke in a voice. Mr. Macomber joined the group, a
sheepish, kindly look upon his face, and raising a restraining hand.
He came and took Joe by the shoulder. There was something familiar in
his round, stolid face. "Don't take on so. Gonna get a cigar. Wouldn't
you like one?" he added casually to Joe, at the same time propelling
him to the steps.
Joe felt he was being manipulated. He turned again in a desperate
effort to regain some of the lost ground and his tone was very
respectful, quite abject.
"Mrs. Macomber, please accept my humble apologies. Perhaps I should
have spoken to you." He struggled. A final shred of self-respect
prevented him from laying bare the throbbings of his heart, or perhaps
it was a tiny, rising suspicion of doubt. There were signs of dross in
his vision of pure gold. "I hope," he concluded, "that you will give
me a chance to square myself."
The old woman glared at him, blocking the doorway, like a faithful
dragon at the castle gates where sleeps the queen of beauty.
"Sure you will," insisted Mr. Macomber, still urging him forward. He
seemed distressed in a vague sort of way.
They sauntered out of the gate, prisoner and captive, to the corner
drug store. Joe mechanically selected a cigar from a proffered box.
Mr. Macomber did likewise and gravely and deliberately clipped the end
in the mechanical clipper on the counter, lighted it, and took a few
ruminative puffs, gazing at the ceiling. Then he and Joe walked slowly
to the street.
"Women fly off the handle," he ventured at length without looking at
Joe. "You mustn't mind what the old lady says."
"She misunderstood," said Joe. "I suppose I was a bit too much on the
job." It was not easy to express himself and he laughed nervously.
"But I don't think you can blame me much." He looked at the old man
for encouragement and found none. "What I can't understand is, that
nothing was said to me before. It could have been prevented if it was
so objectionable. You don't think there is anything wrong, do you?"
Mr. Macomber shook his head and Joe proceeded to vent the vials of his
dismay. A taxi driver escaping from the drug store passed them as they
were absorbed in their conversation and stared at them in curiosity.
The old man stood chewing his cigar, his eyes on the ground, the
breeze softly ruffing the nebulous hairs that fringed his bald head.
Joe concluded his oration. There was nothing more he could add. And
Mr. Macomber, raising his eyes, looked at him frankly. "Seen you
before, ain't I? Used to be at Bromley's?"
"Yes."
"I'm foreman there. Cultivator room."
And Joe remembered. It did not exactly add to his satisfaction. "Sure
you are," and he tried to make his voice heartily friendly.
They walked slowly back toward the house. At the gate they paused for
an awkward moment, and then Mr. Macomber held out his hand.
"See you again," he said. "Don't worry about what the old lady said to
you. It's the heat. It's all right. It's all right." He turned to go.
He had made no reference to Myrtle at all.
It was over. Joe stood on the curbing and watched the sturdy figure in
its sagging vest and collarless shirt plod up the walk to the house.
He could not help looking furtively for just a glance at that upstairs
window and caught a flash of white and then vacuity. And then
crestfallen and hot and sullen and ashamed, he sprang into the car and
drove away.
On his way down Broadway he had a puncture. Fortunately it occurred
just half a block away from the "Kum-quik Tire Company's" repair shop.
He covered that half block on a flat tire and went in for help.
Hawkins came and stood silently beside him as a boy removed the tire.
It was a solemn occasion. They stood there on the pavement,
thoughtful, intently watching the operation. Hawkins was coatless; he
had pink elastics holding up his sleeves and his hair stood up in a
solemn pompadour and his high stiff collar had a spot of grease on it.
"What was the idea of the question you asked me last night, Hawkins?"
There was a moment's silence. Then Hawkins looked up and smiled
queerly. "Oh, nothing particular."
Joe was not satisfied. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't be runnin'
around in that crowd? What's the matter? Aren't they--isn't she--all
right?"
There was a quick, sudden turning of the slim hatchet face and Hawkins
looked hard into his eyes. "It isn't that," he said brusquely. "I'm
engaged to marry her."
"Oh, yes," replied Joe.
The boy wrenched loose the tire and was rolling it into the shop.
Slowly they followed him. Hawkins proceeded to the desk and picked up
a pad of repair forms and started to scribble something on the top
sheet. Joe watched his narrow, bent shoulders under the sleazy shirt.
There was something pathetic in the proud crest of hair above his
forehead and the pucker of lines in his brows.
"How long have you been the lucky man?"
Hawkins looked up from his paper. Faint surprise was written in his
face. "Oh, a little over three years. Want to wait for this tube or
will you come back for it? Man can put on your spare."
"I'll come hack for it Monday," said Joe.
A few moments later he drove away.
For an hour he drove without thought of where he was going. Detail
after detail of the affair presented itself to his mind in endless
repetition. It had been a humiliating experience. The old woman's
vulgarity; Macomber's stolid, iron hand clearing the air, like
brushing trash from his doorstep; the consciousness of prying eyes at
that upstairs window! "I've been a feeble cuckoo," he thought. "Mighta
supposed two years in the army would have taught me better'n that.
Played me for a good thing as long as it lasted and then the old lady
called a showdown. Hawkins must stand in with the old lady. Poor
Hawkins!"
He discovered that he was rolling along on the Bloomfield pike about
two miles from town.
"Funny how these hard-workin' folks sink all their money in a
butterfly like that. Bet she uses up the meat bill every month. And
look what she gets out of it. Bet she's twenty-six if she's a day. And
all she got was Hawkins. I must have looked good to her for a day or
two."
Bitterly he waited at the grade crossing while "Number Twenty-seven"
went lumbering by. It shrieked a high, exasperating whistle as it
passed, exulting in its trembling, shaking twenty-five miles per hour.
On he drove. Hot blasts of air came crushing about him, with the
sunlight shimmering white hot on the bare, dry pike. There was much
dust from countless automobiles hurrying by in both directions. He was
constantly churned up in clouds of fine white particles thrown back at
him by passing tires, hurrying on in a mad drive to get somewhere. He
was suddenly unbearably hot. But he drove on blindly.
About five miles out he came to a shady lane. It ran like a cool brown
gash between arching trees, off from the pike to the right. Away in
the distance the fields dipped and rose to the skyline, a golden waste
with here and there a patch of withering green. The lane was
irresistible. He swung suddenly into it and was caught in a shifting,
squirming quagmire of fine yellow sand. For a hundred yards he
struggled on, with the car careening back and forth across the road
and with much churning and slipping of tires. His shoulders began to
ache and he wearied of the effort. It was a useless waste of energy.
Spying a huge tree standing on the fence line on up ahead, he drew up
to it and stopped in its shade. There was barely room for any one to
pass on the other side of him.
For a moment he sat and dully stared out across the landscape. Then he
got out of the car, climbed over the fence and threw himself down on
the ground in the shade of the big tree.
A stupor seemed to have come over him. There was the splotchy edge of
shade just beyond his feet; there stretched a parched and drying
furrow. Withered stubs of corn-stalks poked up forlorn heads at
intervals in an endless row. Beyond them were more rows, and all about
him lay the scarred and cracking earth in yellow heaps and clods, with
the wind twisting fine spirals of dust from its rest and spewing it
broadcast. In the air was a drone of drab creatures being happy in
their drabness, rejoicing in the waste, thoughtless of the future.
That was it, the whole field, unkept, idle, lazying, was thoughtless
of the future. There stood the dead stubble, blackening and hopeless.
Winter might come with its frost. Here was no worry over failing
crops. One year's work had done for two. And the grasshoppers and the
midges and the gnats and the flies were likewise quite content.
He brushed the dust from a trouser leg. He looked at the trouser leg.
The suit had cost him ninety dollars. And he was a creature of
Bromley's rigged out like a butterfly and lying in the dust of a
rotten old cornfield. Barely two months had passed and great changes
had laid their hands upon him. Seemingly great changes. Three hundred
dollars a month! Princely wages; but in what respect was he lifted? He
had on a ninety-dollar suit, with dust from a cornfield fouling it. He
had a few more bills in the haberdasher shops, an enamelled tub to
bathe in, and more time to think about himself, to chase elusive
lights and shadows. Otherwise, he was the same old Joe, the same tired
old Joe. He realized how tired he was. In spite of the heat his face
felt dry and parched, his lips were cracking, his bones ached, and his
eyes burned. Well, he had caught up with himself; he would have to
snap out of it. No use to lie around and gather dust on one's self and
not lay anything by, like the farmer who owned this field, and like
the gnats that buzzed around in the dust. He had no idea what he would
do, but he would be careful--from now on.
He climbed back across the fence and into the car. The lane was so
narrow that he had to back clear to its juncture with the pike. It was
slow, tedious, grinding work. "Glad I didn't go down a couple of
miles," he thought. And as he backed slowly away, the dry, hot wind
came in rattling gusts and swept the dust in yellow eddies after him,
bearing the voice of the grasshoppers, the monotone of futility.
When at six o'clock he passed through the cool, smelly garage entrance
that was wet and shiny with grease and blue with the breathings of
many cars, he was met by the "boss." The latter looked critically at
the dust-bespattered panels and then at Joe.
"Seems to me you're spending a lot of time in the country. Don't need
to take 'em all over the earth to show 'em what the car will do. You
must be doing a lot of educating."
"I have been," said Joe. "Guess I'll have to slow up on it a bit. Have
to brush up my salesmanship."
The "boss" grunted.