"He got back."
"Oh!"
"You lay down in the front room and read till I get back, hon, and
maybe--maybe I'll bring you a surprise."
The meal continued in silence, but after a few seconds her throat seemed
to close and she discarded the pretense of eating.
"Now don't you get sore, Mil; you never used to be like this. It's just
because you're not right strong yet."
"I ain't--ain't sore."
"You are. You got a foolish idea in your head, Mil."
"Why should I have an idea? I guess I'm getting all that's coming to me
for--for forcing things."
"Now, Mil, I bet anything you're still feeling sore about last night.
Aren't you?"
"Sore? It ain't my business, Phonzie, if you can stay out till one
o'clock one night and the next want to begin the same thing over again."
"We had to stick around last night, Mil. Gert was drawing off the models
under her handkerchief and on the dance program. That's how we got the
yellow charmeuse, just by keeping after it and drawing it line for
line."
"I know, I know."
"Then give me a kiss and when I come back maybe--maybe I'll bring you a
surprise up my sleeve, hon."
She sat beside her cold meal, tears scratching her eyes like blown grit.
"It's like I told you this morning, Phonzie; when you get tired, all
you got to do is remember I got the new trunk standing right behind the
cretonne curtains, and I can pack my duds any day in the week and find a
welcome over at--at Ida May's."
"Mil, ain't you ashamed!"
"Why, I could pack up and--and find a welcome there right to-night, if
the kid wasn't too little for the night air."
"Mil, honest, I--I just don't know what to make of you. I--I've just
lost my nerve about going now."
"I'm not going to be the one to say stay."
With his coat unhooked from the antlers and flung across his arm, he
stood contemplating, a furrow of perplexity between his eyes.
"If I--I hadn't promised--"
"You go. I guess it won't be the last evening I spend alone."
"Yes it will, hon."
"I know, I know."
He buttoned his coat and stooped over her, the smell of damp exuding
from his clothes.
"Just you lay down in the front room till I get back, Mil. Here, look at
some of these new fashion books I brought home. I'll be back early, hon,
and maybe wake you and the kid up with--with a surprise."
"Quit!"
"Just a French kiss, hon."
She raised a cold face. He tilted her head backward and pressed his lips
to hers, then went out, closing the door lightly behind him.
For a breathing space she remained where he had left her, with her lips
held in between her teeth and the sobbing breath fluttering in her
throat. The pink rose lay on the table, its beautiful silk-velvet leaves
concealing its cotton heart. She regarded it through a hot blur of tears
that stung her eyeballs. Her throat grew tighter. Suddenly she sprang to
her feet and to the hallway. A full-length coat hung from the antlers
and a filmy scarf, carelessly flung. She slid into the coat, cramming
the sleeves of her negligée in at the shoulders, wrapping the scarf
about her head and knotting it at the throat in a hysteria of sudden
decision. Then down the flight of stairs, her knees trembling as she
ran. When she reached the bubbly sidewalk, cool rain slanted in her
face. She gathered her strength and plunged against it.
At the corner, in the white flare of an arc-light, chin sunk on his
chest against the onslaught of rain, and head leading, Alphonse
Michelson stepped across the shining sea of asphalt. She broke into
a run, the uneven careen of the weak, keeping to the shadow of the
buildings; doubling her pace.
When he reached the hooded descent to the Subway, she was almost in his
shadow; then cautiously after him down the iron stairs, and when he
paused to buy his ticket, he might have touched her as she held herself
taut against the wall and out of his vision. A passer-by glanced back at
her twice. From the last landing of the stairway and leaning across the
balustrade, she could follow him now with her eyes, through the iron
gateway and on to the station platform.
From behind a pillar, a hen pheasant's tail in her hat raising her above
the crowd, her shoulders rain-spotted and a dripping umbrella held well
away from her, emerged Gertie Dobriner, a reproach in her expression,
but meeting him with a pantomime of laughs and sallies. A tangle of
passengers closed them in. A train wild with speed tore into the
station, grinding to a stop on shrieking wheels. A second later it tore
out again, leaving the platform empty.
Then Madam Moores turned her face to the rainswept street and retraced
her steps, except that a vertigo fuddled her progress and twice she
swayed. When she climbed the staircase to her apartment she was obliged
to rest midway, sitting huddled against the banister, her soaked scarf
fallen backward across her shoulders. She unlatched her door carefully,
to save the squeak and to avoid the small maid who sang over and above
the clatter of her dishes. The yellow lamp diffused its quiet light the
length of the hallway, and she tottered down and into the bedroom at the
far end.
A night lamp burned beside a basinette that might have been lined with
the breast feathers of a dove, so downy was it. An imitation-ivory clock
ticked among a litter of imitation-ivory dresser fittings. On the edge
of the bed, and with no thought for its lacy coverlet, she sat down
heavily, her wet coat dragging it awry. An hour ticked past. The maid
completed her tasks, announced her departure, and tiptoed out to meet an
appointment with a gas-fitter's assistant in the lower rear hall.
After a while Madam Moores fell to crying, but in long wheezes that came
from her throat dry. The child in the crib uncurled a small, pink fist
and opened his eyes, but with the gloss of sleep still across them and
not forfeiting his dream. Still another hour and she rose, groping
her way behind a chintz curtain at the far end of the room; fell to
scattering and reassembling the contents of a trunk, stacking together
her own garments and the tiny garments of a tiny white layette.
Toward midnight she fell to crying again beside the crib, and in audible
jerks and moans that racked her. The child stirred. Cramming her
handkerchief against her lips, she faltered down the hallway. In the
front room and on the pillowed couch she collapsed weakly, eyes closed
and her grief-crumpled face turned toward the door.
On the ground floor of a dim house in a dim street, which by the
contrivance of its occupants had been converted from its original
role of dark and sinister dining-room to wareroom for a dozen or more
perambulators on high, rubber-tired wheels, Alphonse Michelson and
Gertie Dobriner stood in conference with a dark-wrappered figure, her
blue-checked apron wound muff fashion about her hands.
Miss Dobriner tapped a finger against her too red lips. "Seventy dollars
net for a baby-carriage!"
"Yes'm, and a bargain at that. If he was home he'd show you the books
hisself and the prices we get."
"Seventy dollars for a baby-carriage! For that, Phonzie, you can buy the
kid a taxi."
In a sotto voice and with a flow of red suffusing his face, Alphonse
Michelson turned to Gertie Dobriner, his hand curved blinker fashion to
inclose his words.
"For Gawd's sake, cut the haggling, Gert. If this here white enamel is
the carriage we want, let's take it and hike. I got to get home."
Miss Dobriner drew up her back to a feline arch. "The gentleman says
we'll take it for sixty-five, spot cash."
"My husband's great for one price, madam. We don't cater to none but
private trade and--"
"Sure you don't. If we could have got one of these glass-top carriages
in a department store, we wouldn't be swimming over here to Brooklyn
just to try out our stroke."
"Mrs. Nan Ness, who sent you here, knows the kind of goods we turn out.
She says she's going to give us an order for a twin buggy yet, some
of these days. If the Four Hundred believed in babies like the Four
Million, we'd have a plant all over Brooklyn. Only my husband won't
spread, he--he--"
Mr. Michelson waved aside the impending recitation with a sweep of his
hand. "Is this the one you like, Gert?"
"Yes, with the folding top. Say, don't I want to see madam's face when
she sees it. And say, won't the kid be a scream, Phonzie, all nestled up
in there like a honey bunch?"
He slid his hand into his pocket, withdrawing a leather folder. "Here,
we'll take this one with the folding top, but get us a fresh one out of
stock."
"We'll make you this carriage up, sir, just as you see it now."
"Make it up! We've got to have it now. To-night!"
"But, sir, we only got these samples made up to show."
"Then we got to buy the sample."
"No, no. My husband ain't home and I--I can't sell the sample. We--"
"But I tell you we got to have it to-night. To-morrow's Sunday and the
lady who--"
"No, no. With my husband not here, I can't let go no sample. As a
special favor, sir, we'll make you one up in a week."
Miss Dobriner stooped forward, her eyes narrow as slits. "Seventy-five,
spot down."
Indecision vanished as rags before Abracadabra.
"We make it a rule not to sell our samples, but--"
"That carriage has got to be delivered at my house to-night before ten."
"Sir, that can't go out to-night. It's got to be packed special and sent
over on a flat-top dray. These carriages got to be packed like they was
babies themselves."
"Can you beat that for luck?" He inserted two fingers in his tall collar
as if it choked him. "Can you beat that?"
"The first thing Monday morning, sir, as a special favor, but that
carriage can't go out to-night. We got one man does nothing but pack
them for delivery."
He plunged his hands into his pockets and paced the narrow aisle down
the center of the room. "We got to get that carriage over there to-night
if--if we have to wheel it over!"
Miss Dobriner clapped her hands in an ecstasy of inspiration. "Good!
We'll wheel it home. We can make it by midnight. What you bet?"
He turned upon her, but with a ray in his eyes. "Say, Gert, that ain't
such a worse idea, but--"
"No buts. The night is young, and I know a fellow used to walk from the
Bronx to Brooklyn with his girl every Sunday."
"Sure! What's an eight-mile walk on a spring night like this? It's all
cleared up and stopped raining. Only, gee! I--I hate to be getting home
all hours again."
She flipped him a gesture. "Say, it's not my surprise party you're
giving."
"It's not that, Gert, only I don't want to keep her waiting until she
gets sore enough to have the edge taken off the surprise when it does
come."
"Say, suit yourself. It's not my kid I'm going to wheel out to-morrow. I
should worry."
"I'll do it."
"You're not doing me a favor. With my cold and my marcel, a three-hour
walk ain't the one thing in life I'm craving."
"I'll roll it over the bridge and be home by twelve, easy. You take the
Subway, Gert; it's too big a trot for you."
"Nix! I don't start anything I can't finish."
She cocked her hat to a forward angle, so that the hen pheasant's tail
swung rakishly over her face, took an Hellenic stride through the aisle
of perambulators, flung her arms across her bosom in an attitude of
extravaganza, then tossed off a military salute.
"Ready, march!"
"You're a peach, Gert."
"I've tried pretty near everything in my life. Why not wheel another
fellow's baby-carriage for another fellow's wife's baby across Brooklyn
Bridge at midnight? Whoops! why not!"
"We're off, then, Gert."
"Forward, march!"
"Keep your eye on the steering-wheel, Phonzie, and remember, ten miles
is speed limit on the Bridge. One, two, three! Gawd! if my friend from
Carson City could only see me now!"
Out on the drying sidewalk they leaned to each other, and the duet of
their merriment ran ahead of them down the meager street and found out
its dark corners.
"Honest, Phonzie, won't the girls just bust when they hear this!"
"And Mil, poor old girl, she's right weak and full of nerves now, but
she'll laugh loudest of all when she knows why I went with Slews."
"Yes. She-can-laugh-loudest-of-all."
"What?"
"Come on, or we won't get home until morning."
And on the crest of her insouciance she thrust out her arm, giving the
shining white perambulator a running push from the rear, so that it went
rolling lightly from her and with a perfect gear action down the slight
incline of sidewalk. They were after it at a bound, light-heeled and
full of laughter.
"Whoops, my dear!"
"Whoa!"
* * * * *
At a turn in the dark street the lights of the Bridge flashed suddenly
upon them, swung in high festoons across an infinitude of night. Above,
a few majestic stars, new coined, gleamed in a clear sky.
"What do you bet that with me at the wheel we can clear the Bridge in
thirty minutes, Phonzie?"
"Sure we can; but here, let me shove."
She elbowed him aside, the banter gone suddenly from her voice.
"No, let me."
She fell to pushing it silently along. Stars came out in her eyes. He
advanced to her pace, matching his stride to hers, fancies like colored
beads slipping along the slender thread of his thoughts.
"Swell sight, ain't it, Gert, the harbor lights so bright and the sky so
deep?"
Silence.
"Seeing so much sky all at once reminds me, Gert. You know about that
midnight--blue satin Hertz had the brass to dump back on us because the
skirt was too tight. Huh?"
Her eyes were far and away.
"Huh, whatta you know about that, Gert?"
Her hands, gripped around the handle-bars, were full of nerves; she
could feel them jumping in her palm.
"Huh, Gert?"
"What you say, Phonzie?"
"All right, don't answer. Moon all you like, for my part." And he fell
to whistling as he strode beside her, his eyes on the light-spangled
outline of the city.
* * * * *
At twelve o'clock the lights in the lower hall of the up-town
apartment-house had been extinguished. All but one, which burned like
a tired eye beneath the ornate staircase. The misty quiet of midnight,
which is as heavy as a veil, hung in the corridors. Miss Gertie Dobriner
entered first and, holding wide the door between them, Alphonse
Michelson at the front wheels, they tilted the white carriage up the
narrow staircase, their whispers floating through the gloom.
"Easy there, Phonzie!"
"There!"
"Watch out!"
"Whew! that was a close shave!"
"Here, let me unlock the door. 'Sh-h-h!"
"Don't go, Gert. Come on in, and after the big show I'll send you home
in a cab."
"Nix! After a three-hour walk, a street-car will look good enough to
me."
"Well, then, come on in, just a minute, Gert. I want you to see the fun.
What you bet she's asleep in the front room, sore as thunder, too? We'll
sneak back and dump the kid in and wheel him in on her."
"Aw no! I--I got to go now, Phonzie."
"Come on, Gert, don't be a quitter. Don't you want to see her face when
she knows that Slews has been all a fluke? Come on, Gert, I'll wake up
the kid if I try to dump him in alone."
"Well, for just a minute. I--I don't want to butt in on your and--and
her fun."
They entered with the stealthy espionage of thieves, and in the narrow
hallway she waited while he tiptoed to the bedroom and back again, his
lips pursed outward in a "'Sh-h-h."
"She must be in the front room. The kid's in his crib. Come on, Gert.
'Sh-h-h!"
He was pink-faced and full of caution, raising each foot in exaggerated
stealth. Between them they manoeuvered the carriage down the hallway.
"'Sh-h-h. If she's awake, she can hear every word in the front room."
From her wakeful couch Madam Moores raised herself on her elbow, cupping
her ear in her palm, and straining her glance down the long hallway. The
tears had dried on her cheeks.
"Here, Gert, you dump in these things and let me lift the kid."
"No, no; let me! Go 'way, Phonzie. You'll wake him! I just want her to
be too surprised to open her mouth when she sees him sleeping in it like
a top."
She threw back the net drapery and leaned to the heart of the crib, and
the blood ran in a flash across her face.
"Little darling--little Phonzie darling!"
"Don't wake him, Gert."
She was reluctant to withdraw herself. "His little darling fists, so
pink and curled up! Little Phonzie darling!"
He hung over each process, proud and awkward.
"Little darling--little darling--here, Phonzie help."
They transferred the burden, the child not moving on his pillow. In the
shallow heart of the perambulator, the high froth of pillows about him,
he lay like a bud, his soft profile against the lace, and his skin like
the innermost petal of a rose.
"Phonzie, ain't he--ain't he the softest little darling! Gawd! how--how
she'll love to--to be wheeling him!"
His fingers fumbled with excitement and fell to strapping and buckling
with a great show and a great ineffectually.
"Here, help me let down the glass top."
"'Sh-h-h-h! Every word carries in this flat."
"Now!"
"Now!"
"You wheel him down and in on her, Gert."