BLACKIE’S VACATION COMES
The shabby blue office coat hangs on the hook in the little sporting
room where Blackie placed it. No one dreams of moving it. There it
dangles, out at elbows, disreputable, its pockets burned from many a
hot pipe thrust carelessly into them, its cuffs frayed, its lapels
bearing the marks of cigarette, paste-pot and pen.
It is that faded old garment, more than anything else, which makes us
fail to realize that its owner will never again slip into its
comfortable folds. We cannot believe that a lifeless rag like that can
triumph over the man of flesh and blood and nerves and sympathies. With
what contempt do we look upon those garments during our lifetime! And
how they live on, defying time, long, long after we have been gathered
to our last rest.
In some miraculous manner Blackie had lived on for two days after that
ghastly ride. Peter had been killed instantly, the doctors said. They
gave no hope for Blackie. My escape with but a few ridiculous bruises
and scratches was due, they said, to the fact that I had sat in the
tonneau. I heard them all, in a stupor of horror and grief, and
wondered what plan Fate had in store for me, that I alone should have
been spared. Norah and Max came, and took things in charge, and I saw
Von Gerhard, but all three appeared dim and shadowy, like figures in a
mist. When I closed my eyes I could see Peter’s tense figure bending
over Blackie at the wheel, and heard his labored breathing as he
struggled in his mad fury, and felt again the helpless horror that had
come to me as we swerved off the road and into the ditch below, with
Blackie, rigid and desperate, still clinging to the wheel. I lived it
all over and over in my mind. In the midst of the blackness I heard a
sentence that cleared the fog from my mind, and caused me to raise
myself from my pillows.
Some one—Norah, I think—had said that Blackie was conscious, and that
he was asking for some of the men at the office, and for me. For me! I
rose and dressed, in spite of Norah’s protests. I was quite well, I
told them. I must see him. I shook them off with trembling fingers and
when they saw that I was quite determined they gave in, and Von Gerhard
telephoned to the hospital to learn the hour at which I might meet the
others who were to see Blackie for a brief moment.
I met them in the stiff little waiting room of he hospital—Norberg,
Deming, Schmidt, Holt—men who had known him from the time when they had
yelled, “Heh, boy!” at him when they wanted their pencils sharpened.
Awkwardly we followed the fleet-footed nurse who glided ahead of us
down the wide hospital corridors, past doorways through which we caught
glimpses of white beds that were no whiter than the faces that lay on
the pillows. We came at last into a very still and bright little room
where Blackie lay.
Had years passed over his head since I saw him last? The face that
tried to smile at us from the pillow was strangely wizened and old. It
was as though a withering blight had touched it. Only the eyes were the
same. They glowed in the sunken face, beneath the shock of black hair,
with a startling luster and brilliancy.
I do not know what pain he suffered. I do not know what magic medicine
gave him the strength to smile at us, dying as he was even then.
“Well, what do you know about little Paul Dombey?” he piped in a high,
thin voice. The shock of relief was too much. We giggled hysterically,
then stopped short and looked at each other, like scared and naughty
children.
“Sa-a-ay, boys and girls, cut out the heavy thinking parts. Don’t make
me do all the social stunts. What’s the news? What kind of a rotten
cotton sportin’ sheet is that dub Callahan gettin’ out? Who won
to-day—Cubs or Pirates? Norberg, you goat, who pinned that purple tie
on you?”
He was so like the Blackie we had always known that we were at our ease
immediately. The sun shone in at the window, and some one laughed a
little laugh somewhere down the corridor, and Deming, who is Irish,
plunged into a droll description of a brand-new office boy who had
arrived that day.
“S’elp me, Black, the kid wears spectacles and a Norfolk suit, and
low-cut shoes with bows on ’em. On the square he does. Looks like one
of those Boston infants you see in the comic papers. I don’t believe
he’s real. We’re saving him until you get back, if the kids in the
alley don’t chew him up before that time.”
An almost imperceptible shade passed over Blackie’s face. He closed his
eyes for a moment. Without their light his countenance was ashen, and
awful.
A nurse in stripes and cap appeared in the doorway. She looked keenly
at the little figure in the bed. Then she turned to us.
“You must go now,” she said. “You were just to see him for a minute or
two, you know.”
Blackie summoned the wan ghost of a smile to his lips. “Guess you guys
ain’t got th’ stimulatin’ effect that a bunch of live wires ought to
have. Say, Norberg, tell that fathead, Callahan, if he don’t keep the
third drawer t’ the right in my desk locked, th’ office kids’ll swipe
all the roller rink passes surest thing you know.”
“I’ll—tell him, Black,” stammered Norberg, and turned away.
They said good-by, awkwardly enough. Not one of them that did not owe
him an unpayable debt of gratitude. Not one that had not the memory of
some secret kindness stored away in his heart. It was Blackie who had
furnished the money that had sent Deming’s sick wife west. It had been
Blackie who had rescued Schmidt time and again when drink got a
strangle-hold. Blackie had always said: “Fire Schmidt! Not much! Why,
Schmidt writes better stuff drunk than all the rest of the bunch
sober.” And Schmidt would be granted another reprieve by the Powers
that Were.
Suddenly Blackie beckoned the nurse in the doorway. She came swiftly
and bent over him.
“Gimme two minutes more, that’s a good nursie. There’s something I want
to say t’ this dame. It’s de rigger t’ hand out last messages, ain’t
it?”
The nurse looked at me, doubtfully. “But you’re not to excite
yourself.”
“Sa-a-ay, girl, this ain’t goin’ t’ be no scene from East Lynne. Be a
good kid. The rest of the bunch can go.”
And so, when the others had gone, I found myself seated at the side of
his bed, trying to smile down at him. I knew that there must be nothing
to excite him. But the words on my lips would come.
“Blackie,” I said, and I struggled to keep my voice calm and
emotionless, “Blackie, forgive me. It is all my fault—my wretched
fault.”
“Now, cut that,” interrupted Blackie. “I thought that was your game.
That’s why I said I wanted t’ talk t’ you. Now, listen. Remember my
tellin’ you, a few weeks ago, ’bout that vacation I was plannin’? This
is it, only it’s come sooner than I expected, that’s all. I seen two
three doctor guys about it. Your friend Von Gerhard was one of ’em.
They didn’t tell me t’ take no ocean trip this time. Between ’em, they
decided my vacation would come along about November, maybe. Well, I
beat ’em to it, that’s all. Sa-a-ay, girl, I ain’t kickin’. You can’t
live on your nerves and expect t’ keep goin’. Sooner or later you’ll be
suein’ those same nerves for non-support. But, kid, ain’t it a shame
that I got to go out in a auto smashup, in these days when even a
airship exit don’t make a splash on the front page!”
The nervous brown hand was moving restlessly over the covers. Finally
it met my hand, and held it in a tense little grip.
“We’ve been good pals, you and me, ain’t we, kid?”
“Yes, Blackie.”
“Ain’t regretted it none?”
“Regretted it! I am a finer, truer, better woman for having known you,
Blackie.”
He gave a little contented sigh at that, and his eyes closed. When he
opened them the old, whimsical smile wrinkled his face.
“This is where I get off at. It ain’t been no long trip, but sa-a-ay,
girl, I’ve enjoyed every mile of the road. All kinds of scenery—all
kinds of lan’scape—plain—fancy—uphill—downhill—”
I leaned forward, fearfully.
“Not—yet,” whispered Blackie. “Say Dawn—in the story
books—they—always—are strong on the—good-by kiss, what?”
And as the nurse appeared in the doorway again, disapproval on her
face, I stooped and gently pressed my lips to the pain-lined cheek.