After Simmons had been married two years he began to feel as though he
needed a night off. But he hesitated to mention the fact, for he knew
his wife would feel hurt to think that he could dream of an evening
spent elsewhere than in their cosy sitting room. However, there were no
two ways about it: the old unregenerate male in Simmons yearned for
something more exciting than the fireside armchair, the slippers and
smoking jacket, and the quiet game of cards. Visions of the old riotous
evenings with the boys ran through his mind; a billiard table and the
click of balls; the jolly conversation at the club, and glass after
glass of that cold amber beer. The large freedom of the city streets at
night, the warm saloons on every corner, the barrooms with their
pyramids of bottles flashing in the gaslight--these were the things that
made a man's life amusing. And here he was cooped up in a little cage in
the suburbs like a tame cat!
Thoughts of this kind had agitated Simmons for a long time, and at last
he said something to Ethel. He had keyed himself up to meet a sharp
retort, some sarcastic comment about his preferring a beer garden to
his own home, even an outburst of tears. But to his amazement Ethel took
it quite calmly.
"Why, yes, of course, dear," she said. "It'll do you good to have an
evening with your friends."
A little taken aback, he asked whether she would rather he didn't go.
"Why, no," she answered. "I shall have a lovely time. I won't be
lonely."
This was on Monday. Simmons planned to go out on Friday night, meeting
the boys for dinner at the club, and after that they would spend the
evening at Boelke's bowling alley. All the week he went about in a glow
of anticipation. At the office he spoke in an offhand way of the
pleasant evenings a man can have in town, and pitied the prosaic beggars
who never stir from the house at night.
On Friday evening he came home hurriedly, staying just long enough to
shave and change his collar. Ethel had on a pretty dress and seemed very
cheerful. A strange sinking came over him as he saw the familiar room
shining with firelight and the shabby armchair.
"Would you rather I stayed at home?" he asked.
"Not a bit," she said, quite as though she meant it. "Diana has a steak
in the oven, and I've got a new book to read. I won't wait up for you."
He kissed her and went off.
When he got on the trolley a sudden revulsion struck him. He was tired
and wanted to go home. Why on earth spend the evening with a lot of
drunken rowdies when he might be at his own hearth watching Ethel's face
bent over her sewing? He saw little enough of her anyway.
At the door of the club he halted. Inside, the crowd was laughing,
shouting jests, dicing for cocktails. Suddenly he turned and ran.
He cursed himself for a fool, but none the less an irresistible force
seemed to draw him home. On the car he sat glum and silent, wondering
how all the other men could read their papers so contentedly.
At last he reached the modest little suburb. He hurried along the street
and had almost entered his gate when he paused.
Through the half-drawn curtains he could see Ethel sitting comfortably
by the lamp. She was reading, and the cat was in her lap. His heart
leaped with a great throb. But how could he go in now? It was barely
eight o'clock. After all his talk about a man's need of relaxation and
masculine comradeship--why, she would never stop laughing! He turned and
tiptoed away.
That evening was a nightmare for Simmons. Opposite his house was a
little suburban park, and thither he took himself. For a long while he
sat on a bench cursing. Twice he started for the trolley, and again
returned. It was a damp autumn night; little by little the chill pierced
his light coat and he sneezed. Up and down the little park he tramped,
biting a dead cigar. Once he went as far as the drugstore and bought a
box of crackers.
At last--it seemed years--the church chimes struck ten and he saw the
lights go out in his house. He forced himself to make twenty-five more
trips around the gravel walk and then he could wait no longer. Shivering
with weariness and cold, he went home.
He let himself in with his latch key and tiptoed upstairs. He leaned
over the bed and Ethel stirred sleepily.
"What time is it, dear?" she murmured. "You're early, aren't you?"
"One o'clock," he lied bravely--and just then the dining-room clock
struck half-past ten and supported him.
"Did you have a good time?"
"Bully--perfectly bully," he said. "There's nothing like a night with
the boys now and then."