Peter saw Maria only once after that and then for a few minutes. Most of
the time she wept. "She's getting along splendidly," said Dr. Clay. "Her
nervous condition isn't good," he added as an afterthought. "Somehow or
other she doesn't take much interest in the baby. You would almost think
she didn't like it. She'll get over that. The maternal urge is bound to
have its effect in time."
Of course Peter could not know that this urge, of which the bearded
doctor spoke so confidently, might be tardy. That was something which he
was to learn later for two days after the baby was born he went to
Goldfield for the big fight. He had made the stipulation with the
managing editor that somebody else should cover the story in case his
son was not yet born. The consent had been somewhat grudging and so he
had no inclination to call for another respite now that the baby had
actually arrived. It would have embarrassed him to say to the managing
editor, "I don't want to go away now because Maria--that's my
wife--doesn't like the baby." Anyhow Dr. Clay had said she was getting
along splendidly except for her nerves and the maternal urge would
attend to that.
And so Peter went to Goldfield and when he came back two weeks later
they told him at the hospital that Maria had gone leaving the baby
behind her. They were slightly apologetic. Miss Haine had been a little
careless. Twelve days after Peter started for the fight Maria had
dressed and walked out. Nobody around the hospital knew anything more
than that about it. She had left a note and Dr. Clay had taken the
extreme liberty of reading it. Medically speaking, he could not say that
it indicated anything more than a highly neurotic condition. The woman
was rational. He could not see his way clear to sending out a general
alarm. After all he did not suppose that there was any legal way of
making the young woman come back. She said she was going to sail for
Paris and he supposed she had. Dr. Clay offered sympathy and some
observations gleaned in twenty years of practice about the Latin
temperament.
Peter said nothing in reply. He did not want to discuss it. He felt lost
and gone but not altogether startled. Now that it had happened he
realized that he should have known that Maria might do something just
like that. It was an altogether silly arrangement that she should have
had a baby.
"The youngster's fine," said Dr. Clay. "It must be a comfort to you to
know that you've still got him. I believe he's having his bath now.
Wouldn't you like to come up and see him. It's quite an exciting event I
can assure you."
Peter didn't want to be excited and it didn't appeal to him as a
sporting event anyhow. Would Dr. Clay allow him to lie down on his couch
for a little while. Later he'd come up and talk about what to do with
the baby. He supposed the hospital didn't want it very much longer
anyway. After Clay had gone he cried a little. That didn't necessarily
mean much. Only the Thursday before he had cried at the ringside in
Goldfield when Battling Nelson knocked out Joe Gans. Then it had been
partly rage because thousands around him had shouted "Knock his block
off. Kill the nigger." And he had seen someone very beautiful slowly
crumple up before a slab-sided, bristling, little man who had no quality
of skill or grace. Nelson had just kept coming in and in. He never
stepped back. Often he took a blow in the face rather than bother to
stop for an instant from swinging his own short arms at the brown belly
in front of him. The victory had seemed altogether mechanical. Gans had
not been knocked out so much as clawed to pieces by a threshing machine.
And it was Gans Peter had thought of two years ago when he first saw
Maria Algarez dance. She had that same amazing suddenness of movement.
When he first saw her she was standing still in the middle of the huge
stage. And then everything about her had come to life. There was never
any feeling that she was thinking about what to do. No roll call was
carried on in her mind before she kicked or leaped, or flung an arm
above her head. The left jab of Joe Gans was like that too.
Peter went to the stage door and thought he had made up his mind to stop
her and speak to her. He found that he hadn't. She came out slowly and
when he stared at her she looked straight at him and almost smiled. He
could not be quite sure of it because that was the very moment something
inside rapidly wheeled him about and sent him all but running out of the
alley. Later he was more enterprising. The dramatic critic at his
request introduced him to the press agent of "Adios" and the press
agent introduced him to Maria Algarez. She had just finished her dance.
Peter was standing in the wings and people were telling him not to.
"Perhaps Mlle. Algarez will take us up to her dressing-room," said the
press agent.
"It is not mine," said Maria, "I am not a star. The eight Bandana
Sisters dress with me. But never mind. Here they come. It is now their
turn on the stage. You will have to climb two flights of stairs, Mr.
Neale. You do not mind? Yes?"
"I do," said the press agent. "But that scores for you. You're the one
he wants to see."
And so Peter found himself alone in one corner of the long dressing-room
of Maria Algarez and the eight Bandana Sisters. All sorts of clothes
were scattered over the room. Maria sat down on a chair and stretched
out her feet. There was another chair nearby but somebody's stockings
were on it. Peter stood up. Maria looked at him and smiled with no
particular merriment. She was tired. Peter shifted from one foot to
another through a long pause.
"Are they really sisters?" he asked.
"Just two," said Maria. "Vonnie is the sister to Boots. The rest they
are all mixed. It could not be that there should be eight such bad
dancers in the one family."
"I think you're the greatest dancer I ever saw."
Maria nodded. "Yes, I am the great dancer. It is smart for you to know
that. The others they do not know. When Boots was sick, Mr. Casey--he is
our stage manager--he wanted me to go on in her place. He said he would
give me $5 a week more. He is stupid Mr. Casey. I do not dance like
that. It is not for me."
"We'll be miss, miss, missed in Mississip," she hummed and made a face.
"One, two, three, four, lie down on the stomach and kick first the right
leg and then the left leg and then kick both legs. That was what he
wanted Maria Algarez to do. How is it you know? It is so smart. Here
throw down those stockings on the floor and take the chair. I want to
hear you say more about why I am so great a dancer."
Peter lifted the stockings as if they had been little kittens and placed
them on the long shelf under the electric lights.
"I don't know why," he said. "It just seems so easy when you do things.
And the thing you dance to; I think that's the best tune in the show."
Maria was merry now for the first time. "Again you are smart. It is 'The
Invitation to the Waltz' of Weber. 'Miss, Miss, Missed' is not so good.
That is right. And some time you will tell about me in your newspaper
and say that I am a great dancer?"
"I can't," said Peter. "I don't write about the theatre. I only write
about sports. Baseball, you know and football and prizefights and things
like that."
"Never mind, you and I know, it will be our secret. We will tell none of
the others."
Up the stairs there came a tramping and shouting and all eight Bandanas
rushed into the room approximately at the same time.
"I'm going," said Peter jumping up hastily.
"Don't you mind us Bandanas," shouted Vonnie across the room. "We don't
take off anything for half an hour."
"Goodbye," said Peter. "Excuse me, ladies."
Maria held his hand for one and two thirds seconds. "You must come
again. I want that you should tell me more about our secret."
Vonnie held the door open for Peter. "You come when we're all here,"
she said. "There isn't a nickle's worth of harm in the lot of us. But
that Maria there is a vamp, a baby Spanish vamp. Will you remember
that."
"I'll remember."
As Peter went down the stairs he was trying to see if he could hum the
thing that Maria said was "The Invitation to the Waltz" by Weber. He
wasn't good at it. And besides it was all mixed up and racketing around
in his head with, "We'll be miss, miss, missed in Mississip."
Peter went to the show the next night and after that the alley. He stood
scrunched up against a wall for a time but he felt too conspicuous. He
was afraid that somebody would come up to him suddenly and say, "What
are you hanging around here for?" It didn't make much difference who
said it, the door man, a stage hand, a scrub woman, anyone would have
sufficient authority to terrify him. His mind leaped beyond that and he
had a vision of a policeman laying a hand upon his shoulder and saying,
"I arrest you on the charge of mashing." After that would come the trial
and the sentence. Peter moved out of the alley. He had no notion of just
what were the fixed post rights of anybody waiting at a stage door to
see an actress. Walking seemed safer and he took up a beat along the
side street which ran at right angles to the alley.
His pace was brisk and he succeeded pretty well in developing the air of
a man bent upon getting to some important engagement five or six miles
away. Of course, every time he passed the alley it was possible to sweep
it with a glance over his shoulder. Even a man in a hurry has a right to
notice a tributary of chorus girls, musicians and actors sweeping into
his street. First came the musicians. Then one girl. Then two and
presently the flood. Peter did not dare to be too detached any more.
Fortunately he found the window of a cigar store just at the corner
where the alley turned into the street. By pretending an interest in the
special sale of genuine imported English briar pipes Peter was able to
keep close watch upon everyone who came from the stage door and at the
same time seem not quite a prominent clubman. But one of the pipes,
possibly the calabash cut to $2.21, must have commanded more than
fictitious interest, for Peter was suddenly startled by a clutch at his
left arm. He tugged away and turned at the same moment.
"Unhand me, woman," said Vonnie, but she immediately took his arm again.
"I knew you'd come," she said. "It was that look you threw at me over
your shoulder when you went out yesterday."
"I haven't come," said Peter. "I just happened to be going by."
"But you are glad to see me?"
"Of course I am."
"And you'll walk home with me to keep me from being unprotected on the
streets of a great city at night. It's only about twelve blocks. You
don't need to take a taxi."
"Honest, I can't. I wish I could. I'm awful sorry."
Vonnie began to laugh. "I wonder why it is that when they come big they
haven't got any sense. 'I knew I could rule you the day we were wed,'
she hummed, 'for thick in the middle is thick in the head.'"
"What did I do that was stupid? And I'm not thick in the middle."
"Well, that's a fact. I don't know your name but your figure is grand. I
guess you find being so handsome you don't need any sense."
"I have so too got sense. What have I done?"
"Well, you're just so serious I can't go on kidding you. Don't you
suppose I knew you were waiting for Maria? And I know a lot more than
that. You keep looking at that girl the way you did yesterday afternoon
and all of a sudden you'll find rice in your ears."
"All right," said Peter, "I guess I can stand that."
"Here comes the bride--watch your step," and Vonnie went up the street
as Maria came around the corner.
"Hello," said Maria, "what was it you talked about to Vonnie?"
"She thinks we're going to get married."
"And what is it you think?"
"I'd like it."
"Because I am the great dancer you think I ought to be the wife. So? It
is funny. But it is not so funny. We can talk about it again. Now I am
so tired that I just want to hear you say one thing and that is about
the dancing and me."
"I think you were just fine," said Peter.