Turn a parable upside down, and nearly everything falls out of it.
Even the beautiful legend of the prodigal son returning home to his
parents could not retain its value when it was topsy-turvied by the
Thropps.
Their son was a daughter, but she had run away from them to batten
on the husks of city life, and had prospered exceedingly. It was her
parents who heard of her fame and had journeyed to the city to ask her
forgiveness and throw themselves on her neck. Kedzie was now wonderful
before the nation under the nom de film of Anita Adair; but if her
father had not spanked her that fatal day in New York she might never
have known glory. So many people have been kicked up-stairs in this
world.
But Kedzie had not forgiven the outrage, and her father had no intention
of reminding her how much she owed to it. In fact, he wished he had
thought to cut off his right hand, scripturally, before it caused him to
offend.
When the moving-picture patrons in Nimrim, Missouri, first saw Kedzie's
pictures on the screen they were thrilled far beyond the intended effect
of the thriller. The name “Anita Adair” had meant nothing, of course,
among her old neighbors, but everybody had known Kedzie's ways ever
since first she had had ways. Her image had no sooner walked into her
first scene than fellows who had kissed her, and girls who had been
jealous of her, began to buzz.
“Look, that's Kedzie.”
“For mercy's sake, Kedzie Thropp!”
“Yep, that's old Throppie.”
“Why--would you believe it?--that's old Ad Thropp's girl--the one what
was lost so long.”
In the Nimrim Nickeleum films were played twice of an evening. The
seven-thirty audience was usually willing to go home and leave space
for the nine-o'clock audience unless the night was cold. But on this
immortal evening people were torn between a frenzy to watch Kedzie go by
again and a frenzy to run and get Mr. and Mrs. Thropp.
A veritable Greek chorus ran and got the Thropps, and lost their seats.
There was no room for the Thropps to get in. If the manager had not
thrown out a few children and squeezed the parents through the crowd
they would have lost the view.
The old people stood in the narrow aisle staring at the apotheosis of
this brilliant creature in whose existence they had collaborated. They
had the mythological experience of two old peasants seeing their child
translated as in a chariot of fire. Their eyes were dazzled with tears,
for they had mourned her as lost, either dead in body or dead of soul.
They had imagined her drowned and floating down the Bay, or floating
along the sidewalks of New York. They had feared for her the
much-advertised fate of the white slaves--she might be bound out to
Singapore or destined for Alaskan dance-halls. There are so many fates
for parents to dread for their lost children.
To have their Kedzie float home to them on pinions of radiant beauty was
an almost intolerable beatitude. Kedzie's mother started down the aisle,
crying, “Kedzie, my baby! My little lost baby!” before Adna could check
her.
Kedzie did not answer her mother, but went on with her work as if she
were deaf. She came streaming from the projection-machine in long beams
of light. This vivid, smiling, weeping, dancing, sobbing Kedzie was only
a vibration rebounding from a screen. Perhaps that is all any of us are.
One thing was certain: the Thropps determined to redeem their lost lamb
as soon as they could get to New York. Their lost lamb was gamboling in
blessed pastures. The Nimrim people spoke to the parents with reverence,
as if their son had been elected President--which would not have been,
after all, so wonderful as their daughter's being a screen queen.
There is no end to the astonishments of our every-day life. While the
Thropps had been watching their daughter disport before them in a little
dark room in Missouri, and other people in numbers of other cities were
seeing her in duplicate, she herself was in none of the places, but in
her own room--with Jim Dyckman paying court to her.
Kedzie was engaged in reeling off a new life of her own for the
astonishment of the angels, or whatever audience it is for whose
amusement the eternal movie show of mankind is performed. Kedzie's story
was progressing with cinematographic speed and with transitions almost
as abrupt as the typical five-reeler.
Kedzie was an anxious spectator as well as an actor in her own life
film. She did not see how she could get out of the tangled situation her
whims, her necessities, and her fates had constructed about her. She had
been more or less forced into a betrothal with the wealthy Jim Dyckman
before she had dissolved her marriage with Tommie Gilfoyle. She could
not find Gilfoyle, and she grew frenzied with the dread that her
inability to find him might thwart all her dreams.
Then came the evening when Jim Dyckman telephoned her that he could
not keep his appointment with her. It was the evening he responded to
Charity Coe's appeal and met Peter Cheever fist to fist. Kedzie heard,
in the polite lie he told, a certain tang of prevarication, and that
frightened her. Why was Jim Dyckman trying to shake her? Once begun,
where would the habit end?
That was a dull evening for Kedzie. She stuck at home without other
society than her boredom and her terrors. She had few resources for
the enrichment of solitude. She tried to read, but she could not find a
popular novel or a short story in a magazine exciting enough to keep
her mind off the excruciating mystery of the next instalment in her
own life. Her heart ached with the fear that she might never know the
majesty of being Mrs. Jim Dyckman. That almost royal prerogative grew
more and more precious the more she feared to lose it. She imagined the
glory with a ridiculous extravagance. Her theory of the life lived by
the wealthy aristocrats was fantastic, but she liked it and longed for
it.
The next day she waited to hear from Jim till she could endure the
anxiety no longer. She ventured to call him at his father's home. She
waited with trepidation while she was put through to his room, but his
enthusiasm when he recognized her voice refreshed her hopes and her
pride. She did not know that part of her welcome was due to the fierce
rebuke Charity Coe had inflicted on him a little before because he had
mauled her husband into a wreck.
That evening she waited for Jim Dyckman's arrival with an ardor almost
akin to love. He had begged off from dinner. He did not explain that he
carried two or three visible fist marks from Cheever's knuckles which he
did not wish to exhibit in a public restaurant.
So Kedzie dined at home in solitary gloom. She had only herself for
guest and found herself most stupid company.
She dined in her bathrobe and began immediately after dinner to dress
for conquest. She hoped that Dyckman would take her out to the theater
or a dance, and she put on her best bib and tucker, the bib being
conspicuously missing. She was taking a last look at the arrangement of
her little living-room when the telephone-bell rang and the maid came to
say:
“'Scuse me, Miss Adair, but hall-boy says your father and mother is
down-stairs.”
Kedzie almost fainted. She did not dare refuse to see them. She had not
attained that indifference to the opinions of servants which is the only
real emancipation from being the servant of one's servants.
While she fumbled with her impulses the maid rather stated than asked,
“Shall I have 'em sent up, of course?”
“Of course,” Kedzie snapped.