(From _Broom_)
Eddie Gordon sprawled face upward on the living-room couch, asleep.
His head was at the foot of the couch, hanging partly over the
edge, and his shod feet lay nearly buried where the pillows and his
overcoat were jumbled together. One arm hung over the side of the
couch, and his hand, crumpled against the floor, lying limp in the
shadow, resembled a cast-off gray glove. He lay so still with his
clothes all tumbled and his head turned and hanging back against one
shoulder, one might have thought him dead. But he only slept.
At six o’clock a lively step sounded in the hall. A key snapped in
the lock. The door opened and Sally Gordon came in.
She turned her head deliberately toward the couch as she closed the
door. A sigh, rather tremulous but brief, whispered in the gloom.
She went quickly to the table in the middle of the room, felt
about for a match, and lighted the gas chandelier. Without looking
again toward the couch she removed her overcoat and hat, went into
the bathroom, turned high the gas and washed her face and hands,
vigorously brushing the ink-stains from her fingertips. She turned
from the bathroom into the bedroom, turned up the light there, and
brushed her hair with soft, slow strokes. She touched her face
rather indifferently with a powder-puff, and stood then stroking her
eyebrows with the tips of her fingers, looking long into the mirror.
She gazed at her reflection and her face wore a look of pleasure.
Once with her palm she smoothed back the hair from her forehead
with a slow, caressing stroke, as one would stroke back the hair
from the forehead of a child. She regarded herself steadily with
the unaffected and unconcealed tenderness with which she would have
regarded a child.
At last, reluctantly, she turned down the light and walked back into
the living room.
She stood by the couch and stared down at her husband. Her eyes had
the peculiar intent look of a mother who watches her sleeping baby.
Her eyes roamed the whole length of his body, looking at his untidy
clothing, his uncombed hair, at his muddy boots that had muddied
his overcoat and the pillows. At last she slipped one arm under his
shoulders and with a great effort pulled him up on the couch so that
his head had a better resting place. She reached for a pillow and
tucked it under his head. She picked up his limp, hanging arm and
laid it across his body, pulled his gaping coat together and buttoned
the bottom button. She made quick, sure movements, the movements of
one who performs an accustomed human task.
Having made him easier, less ungraceful in his inertness, she sat
down on the edge of the couch and gazed intently into his face. Her
eyes dwelt in turn on every one of his features and to every one she
gave some sort of touch, his tousled hair a pat, his forehead a slow
stroke, his closed eyes a touch of her finger-tips, and still in her
face was that peculiar intent and anxious look, the look of a mother
who dotes on her fragile treasure.
Eddie Gordon slept, hardly breathing, not moving. His sleep was
profound, sodden, the sleep of a hard and habitual drinker who gets
drunk every night and sleeps until morning, drunk every morning and
sleeps until night. His face had a greenish yellow color about the
forehead and eyes, was flushed at the cheeks and swollen at the mouth.
Sally knew what ailed him. It was a daily event in her life, and she
found herself reacting to it this time exactly as she had many times
before, as she did every time she saw her husband lying so still
and helpless, his heart barely beating, his breath barely stirring.
Always when she saw him thus, so profoundly helpless, so utterly and
mystically babelike, the feelings of a mother for awhile possessed
her completely. It possessed her as one is possessed by a mood. It
possessed her against her will, this common emotion that had not
yet found expression in her life. She dreaded this slow welling up
of morbid desire to fondle and nurse that helpless, still baby, her
husband. But it was not to be resisted while it ran its course. In
that desire, during its beginning and even during the moments of her
surrender to it, was something that filled her with self-horror. She
felt herself tricked and made worse than silly. She felt herself
infected with moral decay. Always she had fought against it, as she
had this time, with little devices, delays, as one in sleep fights
the approach of a bad dream which comes on regardless. And always she
surrendered, for awhile. Always, for awhile, something in her was
glad to have this man even thus dependent, thus her own.
So she sat, prinking her husband’s hair, straightening his disordered
clothing, lost in this strange little orgy of motherliness.
But after awhile a look of distaste ruffled a little her face. Little
dimples puckered the middle of her forehead. The wide pupils of her
eyes narrowed a little. She turned her face a little away, still
looking, cocked her head a little sideways, bit her lip and drew
her hands back, hesitating. The man’s mouth was sagging open, and
impulsively, with a studious, earnest air, like a child modeling
clay, she took his face in both her hands and firmly pressed his
mouth shut, and for a moment held it so. But when she took her hands
away his mouth again sagged open. He slept.
She frowned and again put out her hands, but drew them back. She
recoiled a little and turning her head swept his body from head to
foot with one swift glance. She took his limp hand in hers, held
it up to the light and looked at it narrowly. His hand was unclean
all over and the nails were black. She flung it down hurriedly, and
without getting up she turned her back to him, and bending over, her
elbow on her knee, her mouth resting against her fist, stared at the
floor a long while. The silence was absolute.
Minutes passed. She arose and walked aimlessly about for awhile,
tucking at her hair, rearranging the furniture. Once she glanced at
her watch. She came and leaned back against the table, looking at her
husband. Her hands arranged and rearranged a bunch of violets pinned
between the buttoned lapels of her jacket.
After awhile she called sharply, “Eddie! Eddie!” Silence.
She bit her lip and shook her head slowly a long time, gripping the
edge of the table and holding her body rigid. She lifted up her head
and gazed at the ceiling.
“Oh, God!” she whispered, as though she believed God might be in
the room above. Her body sagged while she gazed at the ceiling. She
sobbed without making a sound. Tears glinted in her eyes but did not
roll down her cheeks.
The man lay regardless.
At last the woman smiled, a wry smile; looked at her watch; and
turned toward her coat and hat.
A step sounded in the hall, heavy and rather slow, coming toward
her door. It stopped at her door, there was a wait, a firm rap. She
opened the door at once.
“You, Allen?” she exclaimed in an undertone.
A tall man was looking in at her. He was rather angular and awkward.
His eyes were deepset and gray, and his large, rather bony face had a
sober look.
“May I come in?” he said.
She led the way into the room. He followed slowly, closing the door
behind him. She looked at him with a question in her face.
“I could not stay away any longer,” he said.
“I never told you not to come,” she replied.
He had not appeared to notice the man on the couch. Now, as if he had
known all the time, he turned slowly and looked down at Eddie. After
some moments he again faced her.
“The same as ever,” he said.
She shrugged her shoulders and a poor smile flickered on her lips. He
looked at her steadily but not offensively, and she could not take
her eyes from his face. The steady, full breathing of this man could
be heard in the room. He put out his great hand and stroked back the
hair from her forehead as she herself had done when she stood before
the mirror in the bedroom. Her head was thrust a little back by the
weight of his hand, but she continued to look up into his eyes. Her
hands trembled on the edge of the table.
“You’ve had enough,” he said at last. “You’re going away with me this
evening. You are going now.”
The pupils of her eyes widened. Her face grew pale and her lips
seemed brilliant by contrast. She put both of her hands against his
shoulders. The quick gesture seemed to warn him not to come any
nearer, yet the touch of her hands against his coat was almost like a
caress.
A sort of eagerness animated the face of the man, tempered by
hesitancy and grave concern. The look of his face plainly said, “I
want you, but I wouldn’t hurt you.”
He held his head in an awkward fashion and moved his lips, searching
for words. They gazed at each other without speaking.
The man on the couch flung his head fretfully about, opened his eyes
and blinked up at the light, turned his body a little more and raised
himself on his elbow. His swollen lips made a grotesque attempt to
draw themselves down, and failed; but the stare of his eyes was
fixed, unwinking and terrible. He saw how her bare arm, the sleeve
slipped back, gleamed like a bar of silver against the tall man’s
shoulder. He stared and then his face became dull. Quietly he laid
himself down again.
The tall man said at last, “Pack your suitcase and come away. I’m not
asking you to.... You know. You understand me, don’t you, Sally? I
love you. But that’s not it, not entirely. I wouldn’t try to break
up your home, not if you had a home. I see you wearing yourself out
here. This is breaking you, this business. You’ve said so yourself.
Now it’s time to cut it out, anyway, for awhile. I saw that look in
your eyes when I came in. Leave him a note. I’ll take you anywhere
you say. You can go to my mother’s, or you can go to a hotel. But
you’ve got to have a rest for awhile anyway. I saw that look in your
eyes when I came in. Now you’ve got to give this business a let-up.
Don’t worry about him. Leave him a note and some money. Anyway, I
have always managed to look him up every day or so, I’ll see to it
that he gets along. You know that Eddie and I understand each other,
Sally, I mean, when he’s sober. And I don’t have to tell you, do I
Sally, that I am honest about it with both of you, no matter how much
I want you? You and Eddie and I, we’ve always been friends, and we
always will be, no matter what happens. I’ll see him and I’ll talk to
him straight out. It will be for the best all the way round, for him
too. He’ll see the thing straight. He’s not so unreasonable, not when
he’s sober. I know he will consent. I know it can be settled in the
right way. Pack a suitcase and come away with me tonight.”
His heavy manner, his blunt speech, his awkwardness, revealed the
heaviness of his desire and his anxious earnestness.
The woman had slowly drawn away from him. Now she leaned back against
the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hand smoothing
down the lapel of her jacket. She held her head sideways and cast at
the floor a troubled and pensive look, its pathos heightened by the
whiteness of her face and supple neck.
She thinned her lips and a frown puckered her forehead.
“No,” she said slowly, in a small voice. “No, I couldn’t do that. You
know I couldn’t, Allen. No. No.”
The tall man looked at her with an expression of benign indecision
and puzzlement. He turned his head toward the sprawled shape on the
couch. He bit his lip. A deep flush mounted to his forehead and made
the arteries in his temples swell. He stroked his chin, meditating.
“Sally,” he said at last. The constraint in his voice made the woman
look quickly up. “I’ll tell you, Sally, I haven’t talked to you about
this thing the way I feel like talking. Now I’m going to talk the way
I feel like talking. Maybe it’s brutal of me to do it, but I can’t
help that. I have to say what I think. I’m that way and you know me
well enough not to mind too much.”
But he paused and studied her face, hesitating, half afraid. Then he
said:
“You loved me before you met Eddie, didn’t you, Sally?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it.” His voice trembled a little, and he stopped for
a moment because he did not want to show how pleased he was at
her confession while he was still under the disadvantage of her
resistance.
His slow voice went on, “Yes, I used to feel almost sure of it. Even
though it was presumptuous of me, I did think so. You were always
straightforward. You were never ashamed of your feelings. But I
couldn’t ask you to marry me, not then. You remember how things were
with me--my kid sisters and all to be looked after. I had to wait.”
“I understood,” said Sally in a low voice. “I knew you cared, and why
you--didn’t say anything.”
“But you married Eddie just the same! And it wasn’t because you
didn’t care for me. I know why you married him. I’m going to tell you
why you married him.”
“Don’t! You needn’t tell me. I know. I didn’t know then. I just felt
something that was too strong for me. I didn’t know why I had to give
in to it. I just had to. Now I know what it was. I know why I had to
give in to it.”
She paused, pressed the back of one hand against her mouth. She bent
her head. Her hand trembled against her mouth and her shoulders
trembled a little too. She took her hand away from her mouth and
began to tug at one of the buttons of her coat. Her lips were white.
She pressed her upper lip against her teeth to keep it from quivering.
“I could have waited for you. I knew you would ask me some day. But
there was one thing I couldn’t wait for. I was twenty-four, and
natural. My whole feeling for life and people was full of a woman’s
desires. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. I was strong,
I could have waited if I had known it then. I know now that my
whole feeling for Eddie was that I wanted to mother him. I had to
mother somebody. But I didn’t know it was that, not then. I didn’t
understand it at all. I used to be afraid and ashamed because I still
loved you and here all the time Eddie and I were coming closer and
closer together. I didn’t understand myself at all. Yes, I still
loved you, but ... I couldn’t have children then, it takes money to
have children. Those days you were having your own struggles and I
could barely make my living. I couldn’t even allow myself to think of
having children.”
She stopped, turned her head and looked at the sleeper on the couch.
She knitted her brows and compressed her lips. The tall man moved his
lips as if to speak, but she went on:
“One night he came to see me. That was when he was on _The Sun_, and
he had made such a hit, you remember? He was drunk that night. He
came to the house drunk. I used to wonder how he could get drunk--how
he could--such a sweet boy. Now I know why. He got himself drunk so
he could run away from responsibilities--so he would be helpless--so
he could be a child, just as he is now. He was beautiful that
night--drunk. He was beautiful partly because he was drunk. Can you
understand that? Some men are that way. He was that way then. His
cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkled, and his yellow hair stood
up all over his head, glittering in the lamplight. He sat on the
couch and drew up his knees so that his feet were on the couch too.
He sat there and talked to me. He lisped when he talked. His head
was unsteady on his shoulders, like a baby’s. He talked to me about
his mother. You know she died when he was five. He had to grow up
unfinished. He had become a man but he was still a child. He told me
how beautiful his mother was and how he would have been different if
she had lived. I was like her, he said. He sat there and talked to
me just about as he would have talked to his mother, I suppose, if
she had been there in my place. The room was warm and after awhile he
couldn’t talk at all. But he was beautiful, as a child is beautiful.
His yellow head fell over against me. I put my arms around him and
pulled his head down and held him close to me. I didn’t know what I
was doing. Maybe I didn’t want to know.
“After that I couldn’t resist him. I didn’t try. I wouldn’t let
myself think about you. Eddie needed me. The whole thing with me was
pity. A woman must pity something! I told myself that Eddie needed
me. I loved him for his weaknesses.”
The tall man slowly nodded his head. “I knew that was why you married
him,” he said. “I can see how a woman would do that.”
The woman went on: “After we were married I used to go out and hunt
for him when he didn’t come home. I still do sometimes. I hunt for
him in the back rooms of saloons, at the bar, down at the Press Club.
I go along the streets where I know he is likely to be. I lead him
home by the hand. Yes, and he leans on me, and he babbles to me like
a baby as we go along the streets, he says the same things over and
over again the way a baby does. He comes with me through the streets
like a child that was lost and is glad to be found again. And when I
get him home I wash his face and feed him. I put my arm around him
and make him eat. I undress him and put him to bed. And he is glad of
it. He is glad to be like a baby; then he can live that part of his
life that was never finished. And I used to be glad too.”
“You used to be glad?” the tall man said. “That is hard to believe.”
“Yes, I think I must have been glad of his helplessness. Do you
understand? His helplessness gave me an excuse to mother him. I had
to mother somebody! The worst thing is, no good at all has come of
our being married--no good to either of us. No, it has hurt us both.”
She turned her head, holding it a little sideways as she had when she
sat on the couch by her husband, and looked at him again. There was
something childlike in the expression of her face and in her pose.
Her whole body expressed ingenuous bewilderment and trouble. She put
her finger to her lips.
The tall man, his hands at his side, studied her face. He said
nothing. He waited for her to go on.
She made a little gesture with her hand as if she were brushing
something away.
“See, now he has got to where he no longer wants even to be helped.
Now he doesn’t even want to be cared for.”
Her voice was tired and plaintive, the voice of a tired child.
“To be a coddled baby doesn’t satisfy him any more. He wants to be
a sleeping baby. Sleep! Sleep! Only let him sleep! He gets drunk
at night and sleeps till morning. He gets drunk in the morning and
sleeps till night. That is what drinking is with him. That is what
drinking is for. That is the way he escapes--he has always drunk
to escape--he is backing out of life entirely. Do you see? Now he
doesn’t want me to take care of him any more, for that reminds him
that he is alive and in the world. I know. He is trying to find again
the deep sleep that a baby has before it is born.”
The tall man would have spoken but she went on.
“Can’t you see how it is with me now? There is no longer any
satisfaction, not even the kind of satisfaction I got from it at
first. Maybe I should have known better at first. But we always say
that afterward, when it is too late.”
“It isn’t too late,” the tall man said. “You know it was a mistake.
It’s a simple thing to correct that mistake, and you know it’s
perfectly straight. As far as Eddie is concerned we will take care of
him.”
“But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t, somehow. You don’t know how
it is. But I know. The whole thing is like a habit, only it’s worse
than a habit. I know. I have tried to break it. But I didn’t use much
will power. Maybe I didn’t want to break it.
“You think I am strong. Maybe I am strong. But I am like most women.
My strength does just about as it pleases with me.”
She bowed her head and looked hopelessly at the floor.
The tall man had already taken her by the shoulders. She lifted her
head quickly. Her face wore a look of surprise and fear because of
his sudden and strong grip on her shoulders.
“You may call it a habit or whatever you like, you’ve had enough of
it,” he said. His face had turned pale and his mouth was stern. But
his eyes regarded her kindly. She made no attempt to pull away from
him. The frightened look left her face.
“You’ll put an end to this business. I’ll make you. Then you’ll be
glad.”
They looked at each other in silence. The sleeper on the couch seemed
to be holding his breath.
“I don’t know,” said the woman at last. “Maybe I would be glad. Yes,
maybe I would be glad. But I don’t know--I just don’t know how I
could make myself do it.”
“How about me?” said the tall man in a voice that had changed since
last he spoke. “Why do you always leave me out of it? Maybe if you
let yourself think about me once in a while....”
He had turned pale and his lips were trembling. He stopped speaking,
but not because he was ashamed of his emotion. He stopped speaking
because he was ashamed of what his emotion had impelled him to say.
She was looking at him in surprise and wonder. She put out one hand
and touched his coat with her finger-tips, unconsciously, lightly.
Her chin quivered.
“Allen,” she said softly, “Allen, I didn’t mean--please--”
“Never mind,” he said slowly, in a constrained voice. “You know I
didn’t mean to talk to you that way. I don’t want to appeal to your
sympathy. And I don’t want to make you do anything. You know that.
I meant all along to appeal to your understanding. You know that.
I still mean to. And as far as understanding goes, you understand
everything as well as I do. It’s all a matter of making up your mind.
I don’t want to force you to do anything. I know how hard it is for
you. You take your time about it. Don’t think about me. Try to think
about what is the best thing to do. And just take your time about it.”
She still kept her head lowered and still her fingers touched his
coat. He knew that if he had taken her in his arms then and there the
decision would have been entirely of his own making, and to his own
liking. But his pride rebelled at the thought of reaching a decision,
above all a decision in his own favor, by such a primitive method, by
a method so contrary to his idea of how an issue between a man and a
woman should be met. He would have her make her decision through her
own understanding and by her own will! His hands left her shoulders
and he stepped a little away from her. They no longer touched each
other.
She nodded her head a little, looking at the floor.
He studied her, a little puzzled. “Then, may I come back next week,
say, next Monday evening?”
Again she nodded her head, without looking up.
“Will you try to make up your mind between now and then? Will you be
ready to tell me what you have decided to do?” He spoke almost as he
would have spoken to a child.
For a moment she still looked at the floor. Then she lifted her head.
She met his kind gaze timidly.
“Yes, Allen, I will,” she replied in a low voice.
He drew a deep breath. “Good night,” he said, awkwardly holding out
his hand.
“Good night, Allen.”
He was gone and she closed the door quickly behind him.
She stood by the door while the sound of his footsteps rang in the
hall. She looked wistfully about the room, sunk again in silence. She
puckered her brows, thinking.
She understood Allen. She knew why he had not followed up his
advantage. She respected him for it. But she almost hated him for it
as well.
She walked slowly back into the middle of the room. Again she leaned
back against the table. The uneasy breathing of the man on the couch
could be heard.
“Eddie,” she called.
Slowly he turned his face away from the wall. He opened his eyes and
for a moment stared without winking down the length of his body. Then
he crooked one arm, raised himself to a sitting posture, turned and
pulled his feet off the couch. He sat with his body toward her. But
he looked down at her feet. He put his hands down on either side of
him against the couch, as if to brace himself. He moved his dry lips
two or three times.
“So you let Allen go away without you,” he said.
“You were awake?”
“Most of the time.” He looked up at her. He had slept a long time
and he was quite sober. The pupils of his blue eyes were like black
pin-heads. He tried to control the uneasy movements of his swollen
upper lip.
“I heard what you told him,” he declared in a high, assertive voice.
“You’re right about me. I know it. But it’s worse than you think.
I’m done. I’ll be glad when I’m dead. Not on your account either. On
my own account. I’ll be glad when I’m dead, I tell you. You ought to
have gone away with him. What makes you so silly?”
“Please, Eddie.”
“I mean it. I wish you’d go away and leave me. I wish to God you
would.”
He stared defiantly at her, blinking his eyes.
She tried to speak. She moved her lips, searching for words.
Exasperation struggled with the pity in her face.
She looked at him without trying to hide her pity. Her forehead was
puckered with little dimples. She tilted her head a little to one
side and half extended one hand.
“Eddie!” she cried. “Eddie, my poor boy! If you’d only let me--”
“Ah-k!” He waved his hand in front of his face, brushing away her
words.
“Don’t I know what you’re about to say!” he sneered, twisting his
face and making his light-colored eyes glare at her.
“Save me--eh? Want to try that again, eh? What do you want to do that
for? You’ve tried that before. Now you want to try it again, eh? I
know. I know. What makes you so silly? I’m done. You know I’m done.
Allen’s right. Better chuck the whole thing and forget it. You’ll be
glad afterward.”
He wagged his head, smirked at her and added: “And maybe you don’t
know it but I’ll be damned glad of it too.”
“You mustn’t talk that way, Eddie. You mustn’t.”
“Yes I will,” he declared, pulling down his puffed upper lip. He
looked around at the floor, at the furniture, at her, with an
unchanging, hard stare. A silence followed. Nothing could be heard
but his quick, uneasy breathing and the uneasy motions of his body
on the couch. His hands moved all of the time. His yellowish face
moved. His eyes rested nowhere.
She came and sat by him. She put her hand on his shoulder. She
regarded him with a look of pity, watching his face. Her feeling for
him trembled on her lips. Her eyes watched every movement he made,
dwelt on every one of his features. Her fingers trembled.
But he would not look at her. He looked sideways at the floor.
“When he comes Monday you’ll go with him. You’d better.” His voice
was high and harsh.
“No I won’t go!” She put her arms around him and began to cry. “I
just couldn’t, somehow. What would become of you? How could I when I
know you would be alone and nobody to take care of you! Eddie, I feel
so sorry for you. I feel so sorry for you. As long as you need me I
shall stay. I shall stay. I don’t know what will become of us but I
shall stay. I can’t help myself.”
He stiffly put up his hands and pulled her arms away from his
shoulders. She turned away from him. He, bending over, propping his
elbows on his knees and his chin against his fists, stared at the
floor. He blinked his eyes and puckered his forehead as if he were
trying to think.
She stood half turned from him, with her head bent, staring at the
floor. She was half ashamed, half pensive. The silence lasted a long
time. In the silence the man made a despairing gesture and ejaculated:
“Oh, Jesus, what’s the use!”
Minutes passed. The woman stood without moving. The man’s lips
writhed, his forehead scowled, his eyes stared.
“There’s no use in talking about it, is there Eddie?” The woman
turned and looked at him with patient weariness. He let his hands
fall and dangle between his knees. He shook his head.
“Christ, no! What’s the use in talking!”
She slowly crossed the room and began putting on her hat.
“I’m going to dinner; will you come with me?” She looked at him with
a flash of wistfulness in her eyes.
He shook his head without saying anything. She put on her overcoat
and came over to him, stood by his side and stroked his hair. He
stared at the floor.
“I’ll be back in about an hour,” she said at last. “Good-by, Eddie.”
“Good-by.”
He listened to her footsteps in the hall until they died away. He sat
thrusting his head forward. The fixed stare of his light-colored eyes
defied the lines of his mouth which changed all of the time.
At last he stood erect in a crumpled sort of way and walked into
the middle of the room. His wrinkled trousers clung to his calves
and bagged at the knees. His coat had come unbuttoned and he held
it together with one hand like a woman wearing a shawl. He frowned,
sticking out his upper lip; and his forehead was broken by many
little wrinkles. His forehead was greenish-yellow in the gaslight. He
shivered and a whisper rang through the room:
“Jesus, it’s cold!”
He let go of his coat, felt in his pockets and brought out a sack of
tobacco and some papers, rolled a cigarette, lighted it and began to
smoke greedily, inhaling the smoke. He looked at the table, at the
chairs, at the floor. And all the time he made grimaces, scowled and
shivered. His movements were uncertain and halting, but he stared
intently this way and that. He was trying to reflect. But he was
dizzy and cold. His blood felt yellow.
Once he looked at the door where they had gone out. He listened a
long time while the cigarette smoked in his fingers.
At last he turned away from the door, back toward the middle of the
room. He happened to see her handkerchief lying at the foot of the
table. He threw away the cigarette and picked up the handkerchief and
stared at it. He shivered more than ever and pulled his coat together
at the bottom, but forgot to button it.
With a gesture of finality he threw the handkerchief from him, on
the table. With the manner of an idle or a sick man he walked to
the window, drew aside the curtain and looked down at the glittering
street. His mind became clearer and his thoughts began to arrange
themselves in more orderly fashion.
After a long time he turned away from the window.
“Yes,” he drawled in a fretful voice, “yes it would serve me right.
Christ, yes, she’d be doing the right thing.”
His forehead became smooth. His face ceased to pout and wrinkle. It
became calm. The pupils of his staring eyes became a little larger.
He lifted his head a little. His face had almost an eager look. One
would have said that he had reached some sort of a decision.
He found some paper and envelopes in the table-drawer and took a
pencil from his pocket. Craning over the table, his intent face
pallid in the gaslight, his hair gleaming like disordered gilt plush,
he began to write in a shaky large scrawl.
He wrote one sheet almost full; signed it; folded it crookedly; put
it in an envelope and scrawled a single line across the face of
the envelope. On another sheet he wrote six or seven short lines,
underlining each one; signed it boldly at the bottom and put it in
another envelope, which he addressed.
He stood the two envelopes against some books and looked at them
as he put the pencil back in his pocket. On the first envelope was
written: _For My Wife._ On the other: _For the Police._
He rolled and smoked another cigarette slowly, looking at one spot on
the carpet.
At last he tossed the remnant of the cigarette on the floor as if
something in him craved disorder. He walked slowly into the bedroom,
thrusting his head forward and his elbows out.
In the bedroom he turned up the light and without hesitation opened a
little drawer in the old-fashioned bureau, taking out a revolver. He
held it in both hands and cocked it. He stared into the mirror, and
with something of the manner of a man who prepares to take a new kind
of medicine he lifted the revolver and pointed it at his temple.
Then something in his whole mechanism seemed to stop and something
else seemed to start. His body sagged and quivered at the same time.
His eyes bulged. His mouth opened in such a way that his teeth
glittered. A loud groan rang through the room. Quickly he laid the
revolver down and walked back into the living room. He took unsteady
steps and held his hands against his forehead.
“Oh, Jesus!” he cried.
He stood still a long time, pondering. It seemed to him that the
silence of the room was lost in another silence.
His eye fell on a quart whiskey-bottle standing on a corner of the
table. The unusual character of his awakening had made him, thus far,
forget all about it.
It was nearly a third full of liquor. A little gleam came into his
eye, the faintest color into his cheeks. He looked at the bottle with
a sort of eagerness and went hopefully toward it.
He was thinking of the revolver on the bureau and it seemed to him
that some of the whiskey would make that business easier.
He picked up the glass and the bottle and poured out a large drink,
shuddered and swallowed it, making a face. He had eaten nothing all
day and at once the whiskey was racing in his blood. Color flashed
into his cheeks. He felt his blood becoming red again.
He took another drink and waited for the effect. After a little while
he took still another. There was only a little left in the bottle.
Now his eyes were brighter and they had a misty look. The pupils
were larger. He blinked his eyes and looked about. His face looked
almost cheerful. He appeared to be reflecting. Indeed his thoughts
raced rapidly but they began to tumble over each other. He hardly
understood his thoughts. Vague emotions stirred him.
A sort of courage was mounting in his body, warming him like a
new-kindled fire. But he felt mournful too.
He waited. He was about to have great thoughts. He was about to
discover some magnificent solution of everything.
He stood still a long time, pondering. A little smile began to
tremble on his mouth.
He poured out the last of the whiskey and shook the bottle to get the
last drop. But now his head was rolling a little and his eyes were
vague.
He lifted the glass. Just then his uncertain glance fell on his
wife’s handkerchief. He looked long at the handkerchief, blinking.
His head wobbled a little. He was trying to seize some idea that
eluded him. Thoughts rose up in his mind but they fell over one
another. His face wore a crippled look.
A long while he stood in thought, staring feebly at the handkerchief.
But at last a faint, self-satisfied smile appeared on his trembling
mouth.
Visibly swaying he turned around, his gaze wandering a little;
steadied himself a little bit, and began to look uncertainly in the
direction of the door. The smile flickered over his face like a blue
flame. His mouth moved. His lips picked at words.
But he remembered the whiskey. He lifted the tumbler and emptied it,
spilling some on his chin, half turned and with a single motion flung
the glass ringing on the table.
He turned toward the door again, peering uncertainly as a man peers
in the dusk. His head wagged. His voice blurred the silence:
“Di’ think I was ’sleep?”
Pleased, he laughed, rolling his head. But he stopped laughing to
look toward the door, listening. His mouth got ready to talk.
“Di’--di’ y’ think I was ’sleep? Di’ y’ think I was ’sleep?” he
called. No reply. Silence beyond the door. He smiled a satisfied
smile. He laughed at the silence beyond the door; wagged his head;
turned away; made two or three sidelong steps and brought up against
the table. He flattened one hand out on the table-top and leaned
against that hand. He stood there. His body swayed back and forth
to a certain rhythm, like a weed in a creek. A smile flickered back
and forth across his face like shadow on a shaking leaf. Sunk in
drunken revery he blinked his drunken eyes, smirked and blinked. Now
and again, when he leaned harder than usual, the legs of the table
creaked under his weight. The hiss of the hot gas-lamp mingled with
the noise of his breathing.
The little handkerchief lay on the table just under his nose. He had
to see it if he looked. And when at last, tired of leaning against
the table, he roused himself a little from his revery, he did see it
at once. Pulling himself up as straight as he could he confronted
the handkerchief with all his unsteady dignity, and with a righteous
smirk, as one confronts an offender. He took the handkerchief in both
his hands and turned it over and over. He stared at it as a baby
stares at a new plaything. He moved his mouth all the time, breathing
noisily. He blinked hard and often, looking and pondering. He seemed
to be trying to recall something the handkerchief almost reminded him
of, something he had forgotten.
At last he made the sort of motion a baby makes when it throws down a
plaything, and threw the handkerchief on the floor. He looked pleased
with himself and smirked down at the handkerchief. Satisfied, he
pondered no longer. He turned with studied care, aimed himself at the
bedroom door, made crooked long steps and went unsteadily in.
He looked at the revolver a long time. Sometimes he scowled.
Sometimes he smiled. After awhile he picked up the revolver in both
hands; turned and swayed back into the living room. He stood in the
middle of the room, his body bending to and fro, and peered at the
revolver with idiotic eyes. He stuck out his lips; blinked his eyes
with great deliberation, pondered over the thing he held in his hands.
Now he began to look at the door again, listening and watching more
and more attentively. At last he fixed his gaze wholly upon the door.
The pupils of his eyes were distended. Bending in the middle, his
legs trembling, his body swayed this way and that. His lips no longer
smiled, but writhed.
“Think I was ’sleep?” he called. “Di’ y’ think--steal m’ wife when I
was ’sleep?”
His voice shrilled in the room. He began to hurl at the door inept
anathemas against the treachery of wives and the cowardice of
men. He made uncouth accusations. He delivered himself of bizarre
philosophies; sometimes mumbling, sometimes shrilling his words. He
twisted his shoulders, stepping about in a small space. His voice
quavered, rising and falling. His head tossed as if he rode in a boat.
But the silence at last reduced him to silence.
The labor of thought again showed in his face. Something was eluding
him. Yes, he had forgotten something he was going to do. He tried
hard in his own way, opening and shutting his mouth, blinking and
searching the floor with his aimless eyes. Sometimes mutterings fell
out of his mouth.
He smiled again. Something stirred him. Now he remembered what he had
forgotten. He lifted the hand that held the revolver and aimed his
wavering gaze down toward it. He raised his eyebrows and blinked. He
turned the gun over this way and that, staring and blinking as if he
had never seen one before in all his life. His face was pulled out
of shape with the labor of cogitation. He began to smirk. He looked
toward the door again, opening and shutting his mouth; and at last he
delivered himself:
“Di’ y’ think I was go’ shoo’ m’self? Di’ y’ think I was go’ shoo’
m’self?”
His head sank on his breast and his eyes half closed. But he heaved
his head up again and opened his eyes.
“Ah, sure, sure,” he called. “Steal m’ wife an’ I shoo’ m’self. Sure!
sure!”
He laughed. But the laugh crumpled up in the silence.
His eyes were witless. It looked as though his pale head had talked
without his knowing it. He wagged his head and announced solemnly:
“I’ll shoo’ you.” He waited a moment, trying to keep his gaze on the
door, and repeated more loudly:
“I’ll shoo’ you. I’ll shoo’ you.”
He smiled down at the revolver and patted the barrel with an aimless
motion.
“We know where fin’ ’im, don’t we?” he said to the revolver.
His eyes brightened and he became a little steadier smirking at the
door, he called loudly, “We know where fin’ ’im. We know where fin’
’im.”
He turned, and like a man walking in the dark he made his way to the
couch. Here he laid the revolver down. With much labor and fumbling
he gathered up his overcoat. With much labor he began to put it on.
Half way through the job he paused, turned, and sent a wavering look
toward the door.
“Di’ y’ think I do’ know where fin’ im?” he jibed.
He got his overcoat on and put on his hat. He stood a long time with
a solemn expression on his face. He blinked studiously. He had become
steadier. A fixed purpose seemed to have got him under its control.
With great care he buttoned the overcoat and settled his hat as
straight on his head as he could. Now his eyes were no longer blurred
and wavering. They glowed as with fever and a flame was mounting in
his cheeks. But his mouth was a woeful thing, a wound that opened and
shut, writhing.
He picked up the revolver and looked at it, smirking. With the smirk
on his face he turned toward the door and began to shove the revolver
down into the inside pocket of his overcoat.
“We know,” he said, wagging at the door. “We know where--”
The trigger of the revolver must have caught in some part of his
clothing. The crash of the discharge tore the wavering smirk from his
face. Piteously intent, he stared for a second at the door. Then he
lay quickly down, as if he accepted everything.
He lay first on his face, and muzzled his face snugly between his
hands. Presently he turned over quietly on his back. One hand knocked
once or twice against the floor.
The look fixed on his countenance was the look of one who has at last
discovered something real.
[6] Copyright, 1921, by _Broom_.
Copyright, 1923, by Frederick Booth.