Physics can answer whence goes the candle-flame when it vanishes into
blackness and what becomes of sound when the great maw of silence
digests it. But what science can know the destiny of the pins and pins
and pins, and what is the oblivion which swallows that great army of
street-walking women whose cheeks are too pink and who dwell outside the
barbed-wire fence of respectability?
Let the pins go, unless one lies on the sidewalk point toward you, and
let this be the story of Mae Munroe, herself one of the pink-cheeked
grenadiers of that great army whose destiny is as vague as the destiny
of pins, and who in more than one vain attempt to climb had snagged
her imitation French embroidery petticoats on the outward side of that
barbed-wire fence.
Then, too, in the years that lead up to this moment Mae Munroe had taken
on weight--the fair, flabby flesh of lack of exercise and no lack of
chocolate bonbons. And a miss is as good as a mile, or a barbed-wire
fence, only so long as she keeps her figure down and her diet up. When
Mae Munroe ran for a street-car she breathed through her mouth for the
first six blocks after she caught it. The top button of her shoe was no
longer equal to the span. But her eyes were still blue, rather like sky
when you look straight up; her hair yellow to the roots; and who can
gainsay that a dimple in the chin is not worth two in the cheeks?
In the florid disorder of a red velvet sitting-room cluttered with
morning sunshine and unframed, unsigned photographs of stage favorites,
empty bottles and dented-in cushions, Mae Munroe stirred on her high
mound of red sateen sofa-pillows; placed her paper-bound book face down
on the tabouret beside her; yawned; made a foray into an uncovered box
of chocolate bonbons; sank her small teeth into a creamy oozing heart
and dropped a particle of the sweet into the sniffling, upturned snout
of a white wool dog cuddled in the curve of her arm; yawned again.
"No more tandy! Make ittsie Snookie Ookie sick! Make muvver's ittsie
bittsie bow-wow sick! No! No!"
Each admonition she accompanied with a slight pat designed to intimidate
further display of appetite. The small bunch in her arms raised his head
and regarded her with pink, sick little eyes, his tongue darting this
way and that in an aftermath of relish; then fell to licking her bare
forearm with swift, dry strokes.
"Muvver's ittsie bittsie Snookie! Him love him poor muvver! Him poor,
poor muvver!"
A cold tear oozed through one of Miss Munroe's closed eyes, zigzagged
down her face, and she laid her cheek pat against the white wool.
"Muvver just wishes she was dead, Snookie. God! don't she just!"
An hour she lay so. The morning sunshine receded, leaving a certain
grayness in the cluttered room. From the rear of the flat came the
clatter of dishes and the harsh sing of water plunging from a faucet.
The book slid from its incline on the pillow to the floor and lay with
its leaves crumpled under. The dog fell to snoring. Another while ticked
past--loudly. And as if the ticking were against her brain like drops of
water, she rose to a half-sitting posture, reached for the small onyx
clock on the mantelpiece and smothered it beneath one of the red sateen
sofa-pillows. When she relaxed again two fresh tears waggled heavily
down her cream-colored cheeks. Then for a while she slept, with her
mouth ever so slightly open and revealing the white line of her teeth.
The tears slid off her cheeks to the mussed frills of her negligée and
dried there.
The little dog emerged from his sleep gaping and stretching backward his
hind legs. Mae Munroe yawned, extending her arms at full length before
her; regarded her fair ringed fingers and the four dimples across the
back of each hand; reached for a cigarette and with the wry face of
nausea tossed it back into its box; swung to a sitting posture on the
side of the sofa, the dog springing from the curve of her arm to the
floor, shaking himself.
Her blowsy hair, burned at the ends but the color of corn-silk, came
unloosed of its morning plait and she braided it over one shoulder, her
blue eyes fixed on space. Tears would come.
Then she rose and crossed to the golden-oak piano between the windows,
her negligee open its full length and revealing her nightdress; crossed
with a slight limp and the dog yapping at the soiled and lacy train;
fell to manipulating the self-playing attachment, peddling out a
metallic avalanche of popular music.
At its conclusion she swung around on the bench, her back drooping as if
under pressure of indolence; yawned; crossed to the window and between
the parted lace curtains stood regarding the street two stories beneath,
and, beyond the patches of intervening roofs, a limited view of the
Hudson River, a barge of coal passing leisurely up center stream, a tug
suckling at its side.
From the hallway and in the act of mopping a margin of floor, a
maid-of-all-work swung back from all-fours and sat upright on her heels,
inserting a head of curl-papers through the open doorway.
"Play that over again, Miss Mae. That Mustard Glide' sure does tickle my
soles."
Miss Munroe turned to the room with the palm of her hand placed pat
against her brow. "God!" said she, "my head!"
"Aw, Miss Mae, can't you get yourself in a humor? What's the matter with
you and me going to a movie this afternoon, eh?"
"Movie! The way every damn thing gets on my nerves, I'd be a hit at a
movie, wouldn't I? I'd be a hit anywheres!"
"I tell you, Miss Mae, all this worry ain't going to get you nowheres.
He'll come around again all right if you only give him time. And if he
don't, you should worry! I tell you there ain't one of 'em breathes is
worth more than his bank-book."
"God! my head!"
The figure on all-fours rose to full height, drying each forearm on her
apron.
"Lay down, dearie, and just don't you worry. I've seen 'em get spells or
get holy and stay away for two months on a stretch, and the checks not
coming in regular as clockwork like yours, neither. Two months at a time
I've seen 'em stick away. Why, when I worked on the lower West Side they
used to stick away two and three months like that and then come loafing
in one night just like nothing hadn't happened. You ain't got no kick
coming, Miss Mae."
A layer of tears rose immediately to Miss Munroe's eyes, dimming them.
She wiped them away with one of her sleeve frills.
"Max ain't like that and you know it. You've seen for yourself how
he 'ain't missed his every other night in three years. You seen for
yourself."
"They're all alike, I tell you, Miss Mae. The best way to handle 'em is
to leave 'em alone."
"How he's been falling off. Loo, all--"
"'Sh-h-h, now, Miss Mae, don't begin getting excited--all last night
while I was rubbing your head that's what you kept mumbling and mumbling
even after you fell asleep. That--don't help none."
"All last month so irregular and now only once last week, and--and not
at all this week. Good heavens! I just wonder, I--just wonder."
"Now, just whatta you bet he'll be up to supper to-night, Miss Mae? If
I was you, dearie, I wouldn't be scared, I'd just go right to the
telephone and--"
"He gets so sore, Loo. You remember that time I telephoned him about
that case of wine he sent up and it came busted, and his mother--his old
woman was in the office. He raises hell if I try to telephone him during
business."
"Just the same, I got a hunch he'll be up to supper to-night, and when I
get a hunch things happen."
"It's his old woman, I tell you. It's his old woman is sniffing things
again. Say, if he'd ever let me clap eyes on that old hag, wouldn't I
learn her how to keep her nose out of his business alrighty. Wouldn't I
just learn her! God! my head!"
"Lay down on the sofa, dearie, and rest up your red eyes. Take my tip
he'll be up to supper to-night. I'm going to order him a double sirloin
and a can of them imported--"
"Ugh! For Pete's sake cut it, Loo! If anybody mentions bill of fare to
me I'll yell. Take them empty bottles out of here, Loo, and choke that
damn clock with another pillow. My head'll just bust if I don't get some
sleep."
"There, there, dearie! Here, lemme pull down the shades. Just try to
remember there ain't one of them is worth more than his bank-book. I
ain't going down to the dance with Sharkey to-night; I'm going to stay
right here and--"
"No, no, Loo. You go. You can have that blue silk waist I promised you
and wear them red satin roses he--he brought me that time from Hot
Springs. Wear 'em, but be careful of 'em."
"Aw, Miss Mae, with you here like a wet rag, and if he comes who'll
fix--"
"He--he ain't coming, Loo, and if he does I'm the one he likes to fix
his things, anyway. I wanna be alone, Loo. I--I just wanna be alone."
"That's just it, Miss Mae, you're too much alone; you--"
"For Pete's sake, Loo, cut it or I'll holler. Cut the conversation,
dearie!"
"I'll fix the candied sweet-potatoes this morning, anyway, Miss Mae, so
if he does come--"
"I tell you I'm going to yell, Loo, if you mention bill of fare to me.
Cover up my feet, like a good girl, and take them bottles out and lemme
sleep. My head'll bust if I don't get some sleep."
"I tell you, Miss Mae, there ain't one of 'em is worth more than his
bank-book. You're always giving away everything you got, Miss Mae.
Honest, you'd give your best blue silk coat off your back if--"
"If that's what you're hinting for, Loo, for pity's sake take it! I
don't want it. It's too tight for me in the arms. Take it, Loo. I don't
want it. I don't want anything but to be let alone."
"Aw, now, Miss Mae, I didn't mean--"
"Get out, I tell you! Get out!"
"Yes, Miss Mae." With a final pat to the rug across Mae Munroe's feet
she scooped the litter of empty bottles under one arm and hurried out
smiling and closing the door softly behind her and tiptoeing down the
hallway to the kitchen.
On the couch Mae Munroe lay huddled with her face to the wall, her
cheeks crumpled against the white wool of the dog in her arms, her lips
dry, each breath puffing them outward. Easy tears would flow, enhancing
her lacy disorder. Noon slipped into afternoon.
The dusk of the city which is so immediately peppered with lights came
gradually to press against the drawn blinds. On the very crest of her
unrest, as if her mental travail had stimulated a cocaine courage, Mae
Munroe kicked aside the rug from her feet; rose and advanced to the wall
telephone; unhooked the receiver; hooked it up again; unhooked it this
time with a resolution that tightened and whitened her lips and sent the
color high into her face; placed her mouth close to the transmitter.
"Broad three-six." And tapped with one foot as she stood.
"Zincas Importing Company? I want to speak to Mr. Max Zincas."
Wrinkles crawled about her uncertain lips.
"This is his--his mother. Yes, Mrs. Zincas."
She closed her eyes as she waited.
"Hello, Max? That you, Max?"
She grasped at the snout of the instrument, tiptoeing up to it.
"It's me, dear. But--I had to get you to the 'phone somehow. I--I--No,
no, don't hang up, Max! Don't hang up, dear, I--I got to tell you
something; I got to, dear."
She raised herself closer to the mouthpiece for a tighter clutch of it.
"I'm sick, dearie. I--I'm dog sick, dearie. 'Ain't been about in a week.
The limp is bad and I'm sick all over. I am, dear. Come up to supper
to-night, dearie. You 'ain't been near for--for a week. I got to see you
about something. Just a quiet talk, dearie. I--I just got to see you,
Max. I--I'm sick, dog sick."
Her voice slipped up and away for the moment, and she crammed her lacy
fribble of a handkerchief tight against her lips, tiptoeing closer to
the transmitter.
"No, no, Max, I swear to God I won't! Just quiet and no rough stuff. For
my sake come home to supper to-night, dearie! I swear. It's my thigh,
and I got a fever, dearie, that's eating me. What? Eight! No, that
ain't too late. Any time you can come ain't too late. I'll wait. Sure?
Good-by, dearie. At eight sharp. Good-by, dearie."
When she replaced the receiver on its hook, points of light had come
out in her eyes like water-lilies opening on a lake. The ashen sheaf of
anxiety folded back from her, color ran up into her face, and she flung
open the door, calling down the length of hallway.
"Loo! Oh, Loo!"
"Huh?"
"Put a couple of bottles of everything on ice before you go, dearie;
order a double porterhouse; open a can of them imported sausages he sent
up last month, and peel some sweet-potatoes. Hurry, Loo, I wanna candy
'em myself. Hurry, dearie!"
She snatched up her furry trifle of a dog, burying her warming face in
his fleece.
"M-m-muvver loves her bow-bow. Muvver loves whole world. Muvver just
loves whole world. M-m-m-m, chocolate? Just one ittsie bittsie piece and
muvver eat half--m-m-m! La-la! Bow-wow! La! La!"
Along that end of Riverside Drive which is so far up that rents begin to
come down, night takes on the aspect of an American Venetian carnival.
Steamboats outlined in electric lights pass like phosphorescent phantoms
up and down the Hudson River, which reflects with the blurry infidelity
of moving waters light for light, deck for deck. Running strings of
incandescent bulbs draped up into festoons every so often by equidistant
arc-lights follow the course of the well-oiled driveway, which in turn
follows the course of the river as truly as a path made by a canal
horse. A ledge of park, narrow as a terrace, slants to the water's edge,
and of summer nights lovers drag their benches into the shadow of trees
and turn their backs to the lampposts and to the world.
From the far side of the river, against the night sky and like an
ablutionary message let slip from heaven, a soap-factory spells out
its product in terms of electric bulbs, and atop that same industrial
palisade rises the dim outline of stack and kiln. Street-cars, reduced
by distance to miniature, bob through the blackness. At nine o'clock of
October evenings the Knickerbocker River Queen, spangled with light and
full of pride, moves up-stream with her bow toward Albany. And from her
window and over the waves of intervening roofs Mae Munroe cupped her
hands blinker fashion about her eyes and followed its gay excursional
passage, even caught a drift of music from its decks.
Motionless she stood there, bare-necked and bare-armed, against the cold
window-pane, inclosed from behind with lace curtains and watching
with large-pupiled eyes the steamer slip along into the night; the
black-topped trees swaying in the ledge of park which slanted to the
water's edge; the well-oiled driveway and its darting traffic of two
low-sliding lines of motor-cars with acetylene eyes.
At five minutes past eight Max Zincas fitted his key into the door and
entered immediately into the front room. On that first click of the
lock Mae Munroe stepped out from between the lace curtains, her face
carefully powdered and bleached of all its morning inaccuracies, her
lips thrust upward and forward.
"Max!"
"Whew!"
He tossed his black derby hat to the red velvet couch and dropped down
beside it, his knees far apart and straining his well-pressed trousers
to capacity; placed a hand on each well-spread knee, then ran five
fingers through his thinning hair; thrust his head well forward,
foreshortening his face, and regarded her.
"Well, girl," he said, "here I am."
"I--I--"
"Lied to me, eh? Pretty spry for a sick one, eh? Pretty slick! I knew
you was lying, girl."
"I been sick as a dog, Max. Loo can tell you."
"What's got you? Thigh?"
"God! I dun'no'! I dun'no'!"
She paused in the center of the room, her lips trembling and the light
from the chandelier raining full upon her. High-hipped and full-busted
as Titian loved to paint them, she stood there in a black lace gown
draped loosely over a tight foundation of white silk, and trying to
compose her lips and her throat, which arched and flexed, revealing the
heart-beats of her and the shortness of her breath.
"Is this the way to say hello to--to your Maizie, Max? Is--is this the
way?" Then she crossed and leaned to him, printing a kiss on his brow
between the eyes. "I been sick as a dog, Max. Ain't you going to--to
kiss me?"
"Come, come, now, just cut that, Mae. Let's have supper and get down to
brass tacks. What's eating you?"
"Max!"
"Come, come, now, I'm tired, girl, and got to stop off at Lenox Avenue
to-night after I leave here. Where's your clock around here, anyways, so
a fellow knows where he's at?"
"There it is under the pillow next to you, Max. I smothered it because
it gets on my nerves all day. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, right
into my head like it was saying all the time: 'Oh-Mae! Oh-Mae! Oh-Mae!'
till I nearly go crazy, Max. Tick-tock--God! it--it just gets me!"
He reached for the small onyx clock, placing it upright on the mantel,
and shrugged his shoulders loosely.
"Gad!" he said, "you wimmin! Crazy as loons, all of you and your kind.
Come, come, get down to brass tacks, girl. I'm tired and gotta get
home."
"Home, Max?"
"Yes, home!"
"Max, ain't--ain't this home no more, ain't it?"
He leaned forward, an elbow on each knee and striking his left hand
solidly into his right palm. "Now if that's the line of talk you got me
up here for, girl, you can cut it and cut it quick!"
"No, no, Max, it ain't my line of talk. Here, sit down, dearie, in your
own chair and I'll go and dish up."
"Where's Loo?"
"Her night off, poor girl. Four nights straight she's rubbed my head
and--"
"Where's my--"
"Right here, dearie, is your box of pills, underneath your napkin.
There, dearie! See? Just like always."
She was full of small movements that were quick as grace notes: pinning
the black lace train up and about her hips; drawing out his chair;
darting with the scarcely perceptible limp down the narrow hall, back
with dishes that exuded aromatic steam; placing them with deft, sure
fingers. Once she paused in her haste, edged up to where he stood
with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, placed an arm on each of his
shoulders and let her hands dangle loose-wristed down his back.
"Tired boy, to-night! Huh? Maizie's poor tired boy!"
"Now, now!"
He removed her hands, but gently, and strolled over to where the table
lay spread beside the cold, gilded radiator, a potted geranium in its
center, a liberal display of showy imitation pearl-handled cutlery
carefully laid out, and at each place a long-stemmed wineglass,
gold-edged and the color of amber.
"Come," he said, "let's eat and get it over."
She made no sign, but with the corners of her lips propped bravely
upward in her too red smile made a last hurried foray into the kitchen,
returning with a covered vegetable-dish held outright from her.
"Guess!" she cried.
"Can't," he said, and seated himself.
"Gowan, guess like you used to, dearie."
He fell immediately to sampling with short, quick stabs of his fork the
dish of carmine-red pickled beets beside his plate.
"Aw, gowan, Max, give a guess. What did you used to pay for with six big
kisses every time I candied them for you? Guess, Max."
"Sit down," he said, and with his foot shoved a small stool before her
chair.
"Lordy!" she said, drawing up en tête-à-tête, unpinning and spreading
her lacy train in glory about her, "but you're some little sunbeam to
have around the house."
"What these beets need is a little sugar."
She passed him the bowl; elevated her left foot in its slightly soiled
white slipper to the footstool; fastened her napkin to her florid bosom
with one of her numerous display of breastpins; poured some opaque wine
into his glass, coming back to flood her own to the brim; smiled at him
across the red head of the potted geranium, as if when the heart bleeds
the heart grows light.
"Here's _to_ you, Max!"
He raised his glass and drank in through his rather heavy mustache, then
flecked it this way and that with his napkin "Ahh-h-h-h, that's the
stuff!"
"S'more?"
"Yah-h-h-h-h-h!"
"Such a cotton mouth my bad boy brought home."
"Aha! Fee, fie, fum! Aha!"
"I broiled it under the single burner, Max, slow like you like. Here,
you carve it, dearie. Just like always, eh?"
His fleshy, blue-shaved face took on the tenseness of concentrated
effort, and he cut deep into the oozing beef, the red juice running out
in quick streams.
"Ah-h-h-h-h!"
"No, no, you keep that, Max; it's your rare piece."
"Gravy?"
"Yes, dearie."
The small dog shook himself and rose from sleep and the depths of a
pillow, nosing at her bare elbow.
"Was muvver's ittsie Snookie Ookie such a hungry bow-wow?"
He yapped shortly, pawing her.
"Ask big bossie sitting over there carving his din-din if him got
chocolate tandy in him pocket like always for Snookie Ookie. No, no, bad
red meat no good for ittsie bittsie bow-wow. Go ask big bossie what
him got this time in him pocket for Snookie. Aw, look at him, Max; he
remembers how you used to bring him--"
"Get down! Get down, I said! For God's sake get that little red-eyed,
mangy cur out of here while we're eating, can't you? Good gad! can't
a man eat a meal in this joint without having that dirty cur whining
around? Get him down off your dress there, Mae. Get out, you little cur!
G-e-t out!"
"Max!"
"Chocolate candy in my pocket. Chocolate arsenic, you mean! My damn-fool
days are over."
"What's got you, Max? Didn't you buy him for me yourself that day at the
races five whole years ago? Wasn't the first things you asked for, when
you woke in the hospital with your burns, me and--and Snookie? What's
soured you, Max? What? What?"
"I'm soured on seeing a strapping, healthy woman sniveling over a little
sick-eyed cur. Ain't that enough to sour any man? Why don't you get up
and out and exercise yourself like the right kind of wimmin do? Play
tennis or get something in you besides the rotten air of this flat, and
mewling over that sick-eyed cur. Get out! Scc-c-c-c-c!"
The animal bellied to the door, tail down, and into the rear darkness of
the hallway.
"Max, what's got you? What do I know about tennis or--things like that?
You--you never used to want--things like that."
"Aw, what's the use of wasting breath?"
He flecked at his mustache, inserting the napkin between the two top
buttons of his slight bay of waistcoat; carved a second helping of meat,
masticating with care and strength so that his temples, where the hair
thinned and grayed, contracted and expanded with the movements of his
jaws.
"What's the use?"
"Max, I--"
"Thigh bother you?"
"A--a little."
"Didn't I tell you not to spare expense on trying new doctors if--"
"That ain't my real trouble, Max; it--"
"Been out to-day?"
"No, Max, I been sick as a dog, I tell you."
"No wonder you're sick, cooped up in this flat with nobody but a
servant-girl for company. Gad! ain't you ashamed to get so low that your
own servant-girl is your running-mate? Ain't you?"
"Max, she--"
"I know. I know."
"I been so blue, Max. Loo can tell you how I been waiting and wondering.
I--Lord, I been so blue, Max. She's good to me, Max, and--and I been so
blue."
"Never knew one of you wimmin that wasn't that way half her time. You're
a gang of sob sisters, every one of you--whining like you got your foot
caught in a machine and can't get it out."
"How you mean, Max?"
"Aw, you're all either in the blues or nagging. Why ain't you sports
enough to take the slice of life you get handed you? None of you ain't
healthy enough, anyways, I tell you, indoors, eating and sleeping and
mewling over poodle-dogs all the time. I'm damn sick of it all. Damn
sick, if you want to know it."
"But, Max, what's put this new stuff into your head all of a sudden? You
never used to care if--"
"And you got to quit writing me them long-winded letters, Mae, about
what's come over me. Sometimes a fellow just comes to his senses, that's
all."
"Max!"
"And you got to quit butting in my business hours on the telephone. I
don't want to get ugly, but you got to cut it out. Cut it out, Mae, is
what I said!"
He quaffed his wine.
"Max dear, if you'll only tell me what's hurting you I'll find a way to
make good. I--I can learn lawn-tennis, if that's what you want. I can
take off ten pounds in--"
"Aw, I don't want nothing. Nothing, I tell you!"
"If I only knew, Max, what's itching you. This way there's days when I
just feel like I can't go on living if you don't tell me what's got you.
I just feel like I can't go on living this way, Max."
Tears hot and ever ready flowed over her words and she fumbled for her
handkerchief, sobs rumbling up through her.
"I just can't, I--I just can't!"
He pushed back from his half-completed meal, rising, but stooping to rap
his fist sharply against the table.
"Now, lemme tell you this much right now, Mae, either you got to cut
this sob stuff and get down to brass tacks and tell me what you want,
or, by gad! I'll get out of here so quick it'll make your head swim. I
ain't going to be let in for no tragedy-queen stuff, and the sooner you
know it the better. Business! I'm a business man."
She swallowed her tears, even smiling, and with her hand pat against her
bosom as if to suppress its heaving.
"I'm all right now, Max. I'm so full up with worry it--it just slipped
out. I'm all right now, Max. Sit down. Sit down and finish, dearie."
But he fell to pacing the red carpet in angry staccato strides. His
napkin dropped from his waistcoat to the floor and he kicked it out of
his path.
"By gad! I didn't want to come, anyhow. I knew the sniveling I'd be let
in for. Gimme a healthy woman with some outdoors in her. Gimme--"
"I ain't going to let out any more, Max; I swear to God I ain't. Sit
down, dear, and finish your supper. Looka, your coffee's all cold. Lemme
go out and heat it up for you. I--"
"I'm done. I'm done before I begin. Now, Mae, if you can behave yourself
and hold in long enough, just say what you got me up here for, and for
God's sake let's have it over!"
He planted himself before her, feet well apart, and she rose, pushing
back her chair, paling.
"I--I 'ain't got much of anything to say, Max, except I--I thought maybe
you'd tell me what's eating you, dearie."
"I--"
"After all these years we been together, Max, so--so happy, all of a
sudden, dear, these last two months dropping off from every other night
to--to twice a week and then to--to once, and this last week--not at
all. I--I--heavens above, Max, I 'ain't got nothing to say except what's
got you. Tell me, dearie, is it anything I've done? Is it--"
"You talk like a loon, Mae, honest you do. You 'ain't done nothing.
It's just that the--the time's come, that's all. You know it had to. It
always has to. If you don't know it, a woman like--like you ought to.
Gad! I used to think you was the kind would break as clean as a whistle
when the time came to break."
"Break, Max?"
"Yes, break. And don't gimme the baby-stare like that, neither. You know
what I mean alrighty. You wasn't born yesterday, old girl!"