watching their own hearts. Carol’s beat slowly, with a regular, bovine
thump. Roberts’ beat quickly, irregularly, with acuity and despair. He
was in such despair that he tried to find camaraderie within the boy
beside him. His monologue pretended to be a conversation, but his bright
words of indictment against Martin rolled across Carol’s porcine cheek
and were reflected, turning in to himself, weighting his bitterness more
heavily.
“Yes, Carol,” he said, “we must forget ourselves in this issue. We must
save our friends from this domestic suicide. Clutching an insane illusion
of love, they are bemused by carnal appetite. Lost on the horizon of
flesh, their perspective becomes astigmatic. Drowned in beast’s blood,
they deliberately blind themselves to an obvious incompatibility. It
is our duty to our strength, our lives, our God, to break this union.”
Roberts’ mouth became loose and wet. “We must show them the truth....
Martin! Martin!” The adviser’s eyes were like those of a sick horse.
“Martin is so young—so fruitful. We must forgive him.... And that lovely
woman—upset so terribly by him—we must give her our strength.” Roberts
dropped his head, unable to speak further.
Carol smiled vacuously.
“Yes,” he replied.
And while Roberts cried into the vacant moon the boy beside him,
uncomprehending, drooled on.
“Yes. We must give our strength. We must give ourselves. We must give—”
Carol’s voice became fainter and disappeared into the sound of leaves. He
could feel Martin’s arm around him, petting—forcing. Carol’s face became
curiously beautiful.... He was giving himself....
Roberts, taken from his sadness by this incoherent dribbling—Roberts,
sensing the thought beside him, moved away. He looked at Carol, at the
fat thighs, the fat cheeks, the desire; and he was suddenly sick. To have
Martin touched, even in thought, was unbearable. Unsteadily he pushed
himself off the bench and walked away without speaking. The moon was
beautiful, but it was not for him. There was magic in the wind, but it
made him feel more lonely.... For a long time he walked. The cornstalk
he had left sitting on the bench was but a mild irritant now. It became
less and less so until Roberts laughed.
Carol was not aware of the change. He knew only that Martin was
closer—that his dream was real.
The bonfire had long been extinguished and the guards had left. There was
no sound of skates; there was a hush of wings; and the moon looked down
on the Italian lovers with their quick, dark hands.
_CHAPTER XIII_
Carol did not sleep well that night. He had dreams of strong and muscular
things; but they felt good. Early in the morning his child-mind was
tired. His fantasies and adult body had exhausted him. He awoke and
turned over to be spanked. His father had always spanked him when he had
been bad. But now he did not feel his father’s calloused hand against
him, nor could he see his father’s frown and long, unshaven jaw. Carol
turned over again, realizing vaguely where he was.... His father was
dead. He was not being spanked. Something had been taken from him and his
mouth trembled.... The strong nostalgia made him sick. He wanted to be
bad, and then feel the hard hand and weep happily as his father struck
him.
Carol was now fully awake. He got out of bed, rubbing his sticky eyes.
Over the wash-basin there was a mirror in which he saw himself. He turned
on the cold water, dipped his head in the bowl and rubbed his cheeks
until they glowed. Then he bathed with a washcloth and afterwards,
squirted toilet water under his arms. The hotel room was small and hot.
He opened the window a little wider, returned to his bed and made it up
carefully, patting the corners. At last, he put on a dressing gown with
long, flowing sleeves, smiled at the reflection of his pink, clean face
in the mirror and picked up the telephone.
“Give me outside,” he said.
“What number do you want?” asked the operator, sucking her teeth.
Carol was startled. Then he gave the number.
Deane answered a little sleepily.
Carol lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in flat, blue layers.
“Did I get you out of bed, sweet?”
Deane smiled easily, the smooth skin at the corners of her eyes forming
tiny lines.
“Of course not, Carol,” she replied. “I’m glad you called. Did you enjoy
your evening with Mr. Roberts?”
“Oh!” said Carol, “I had _such_ a good time. Mr. Roberts is so
interesting. And we talked about so many things. It was such a beautiful
evening and so—” Carol’s sibilant words came through the wire to Deane,
awakening her thoroughly. “Let’s have lunch together,” he continued. “How
about twelve, at the Astor?”
“I have some shopping to do,” she answered, “but I’ll be through by one.
Suppose we make it then.”
“All right, dear. I’ll see you then,” he said, stressing every other
word. “I’ll see you then. Good-by, dear.”
Deane left the apartment in confusion, half amused and yet severe.
Her tiny hat, which was like an autumn leaf, revoked the tailoring of
her rust-colored velvet suit. On the street, old women smiled at her
without knowing why; and newsboys became quiet for one starry-eyed,
adolescent moment as she passed. But she kept thinking of Martin. She
remembered him as he had been on the previous night. She loved him, but
he was a problem. If his were artistry, it would be good to get back to
solidity and minds that ran in clear, straight lines. She had thought
this as she left the apartment. But in the shops she changed her mind.
She saw strong, competent men and women and she liked them. But thoughts
of Martin persisted—Martin with his hair sticking up—Martin, fumbling
with design and people and dreams. He might find it! He _must_ find it!
Deane put her small, gloved hand to her throat. She wanted him suddenly,
strongly. She wanted his incoherent sentences, his slippery body and
his crazy, adoring heart. She laughed self-consciously in front of the
pencilheads, typewriter-heads and blotting-paper faces, and made a few
reckless purchases.
Carol met her at precisely one o’clock. His face was pink, natty
and smiling. His belted coat showed his figure and he wore no hat.
His astonishing scarf had been replaced by an ascot tie whose vivid
background was accentuated by purple stripes. He took both of Deane’s
hands with sisterly affection, completely unconscious of the mild
attention he had attracted in the lounge.
“A _dreadful_ morning,” he said wearily. “One can’t eat in New York, can
one?”
Deane was a little piqued.
“Well,” she said, biting her scarlet underlip, “one’s going to.” More
kindly she took his arm. “We’re going to eat heartily, Carol. I’m hungry.”
They went into the bar. The buttons on Carol’s topcoat stuck out like
feathers. He was conscious now of the atmosphere and of the woman with
him. His exuberance spilled, porridge-like, over the barren years of his
life and reached out toward the other patrons in the bar. Ostentatiously,
he led Deane past a table where two elderly ladies were having whisky
and soda. One of them wore three wedding rings. The other’s plume on her
tiny hat colored the dark fur over her shoulders. Carol’s good nature
manifested itself again and he nodded intimately to them. The old ladies
looked at each other and went on drinking their whisky.
At last, Carol selected a table and held a chair for Deane. She wanted
a glass of sherry, but tried to enjoy the drink he ordered. It was a
fragile looking concoction of pale pink, with a lace of foam.
“At home, we call it a ‘raspberry kiss,’” said Carol proudly.
Deane knew that he thought he was living. He sipped on, and sang on,
hesitating briefly to glance at every man who walked into the bar.
One or two of them looked at him in amused recognition, but most of
them were absorbed in other matters and passed him, unnoticing. As the
alcohol sifted through his mind, his sentences became more vapid, more
pretentious, and louder. He began to simper—call attention to unimportant
things. There was an angry moment with the waiter, who accepted his
ridiculous complaints with thinly veiled contempt. It was difficult to
embarrass Deane—the outside of Deane. But she refused a second drink,
suggesting food instead, and together they went upstairs to the dining
room.
The head waiter courteously guided them to a corner table. No one was
close to them and Deane relaxed. Carol sighed, lit a cigarette and
ordered the luncheon. Suddenly he leaned toward Deane.
“We have been friends too long, dear,” he said, “for me to mince words.
You don’t mind my speaking?”
“Of course not,” said Deane. “I don’t mind at all.”
“I have heard rumors,” said Carol, shaking his head over his plate. “They
have bothered me and I feel that you ought to know.”
Deane looked amused.
“Rumors?” she repeated. “Honestly?”
“This,” said Carol sternly, “is not a frivolous joke. It has no
frivolity.” He looked less stern now. Frivolity. He liked that word. He
leaned back in his chair and tried, ineffectually, to blow a smoke ring.
“This,” he continued, “concerns your happiness. It will probably hurt
you. But I know you will face it. I must forget myself in this issue.”
“Issue?” asked Deane, frowning a little.
“Yes, Deane,” went on Carol. “It’s Martin and you. It is domestic
suicide. I watch you clutch this insane illusion of love—bemused by
carnal appetite. Lost on the horizon of flesh, your perspective becomes
astigmatic. Drowned in beast’s blood, you deliberately blind yourself to
an obvious incompatibility. It is my duty to my strength, my life, my
God, to break this union.” He let his head rest against the wall for a
moment, hypnotized by the magnificence of his words.
Deane was now frankly amazed. Where did these words come from? They were
brilliant, hateful words. Carol was incapable of such expression. She
hunted through her memory for the explanation. Then she recalled Martin’s
analogy of the parrot. Carol had heard the words and had remembered them.
Where had he heard them? No one knew Martin—ah! The good friend Roberts.
That sounded like Roberts. That _was_ Roberts.
She watched Carol—his eyes closed, three fingers on his holder.
Retentiveness—that was it. Carol, the parrot. Retentiveness. Carol did
not know what had broken from his memory. Deane knew that he believed it
was himself speaking. She began to fear Roberts. Fear him so much that
she forgot Carol was with her.
Carol squinted and nodded his head approvingly. That had done it. His
great understanding had brought Deane to her senses. Her face showed
it—pale, constricted. Carol cocked his flat, moist hands at her in
sympathy.
“I know it’s hard,” he said, reaching womanishly toward her.
Deane did not move away from him, but she had an odd feeling. Once, she
had had a dream that had given her the same sensation. She dreamed that
in an adventurous moment she had descended to the bottom of the ocean,
there to play with the mermaids, look at the starfish, and perhaps start
a flirtation, harmless or otherwise, with friendly old Poseidon. She had
dropped softly to the sands of the sea and it was more beautiful than
she had expected. The water was the kind of blue pretty girls like in
nightgowns. It was cool and restful and it felt good around her legs
and her waist. She walked slowly and gracefully over the white sand and
through the blue water. At last she saw a rock, half-embedded in moss;
and there, holding it tightly, was her starfish. She knelt down to look
at it. It was a large one of delicate yellow—not at all like those dried,
smelly things she had studied at school. It was yellow, and it clung to
the green moss. It seemed to be in love; but it was quiet. Deane knew it
was asleep when she looked closer. Its crisp points were symmetrical and
straight. Deane blushed, and through the twilight blue of the water the
color of her cheeks was attractive to King Poseidon who had been peeking
at her through a wall of seaweed. He was infatuated. She was different
from Amphitrite. He loved Amphitrite—her long green hair, her white face
and jeweled hips. Nevertheless, he wanted to kiss this strange woman. He
wanted to kiss the color in her cheeks and touch her. But King Poseidon
shook his head. Amphitrite could be very difficult if she became angry.
Confound these appetites for rare and inedible dishes! Poseidon smiled
though, a boyish, sheepish, proud smile. He had appetites. He was getting
to be a little gray; and still, he had appetites. He looked at Deane once
more, wistfully, and took his appetites to Amphitrite.
Amphitrite combed his beard. Poseidon looked at her and poked his finger
at her and winked. She regarded him suspiciously, but when she saw the
expression in his eyes something happened to her. Through the darkening
blue her white cheeks softened, became pink and sent out threads of
coral. Poseidon shook his head in wonderment and happiness. It was just
what a man wanted. That was all. The memory of Deane faded from him as
Amphitrite, her face still coral, gently removed his crown.
As the water became darker, Deane’s dream became less happy. She couldn’t
compete with green hair, a white face and those commanding, jeweled hips.
She was despondent. She didn’t want King Poseidon. She wanted the earth
again and stars and a warm, comfortable hand. It was the didactic part of
her spoiling a beautiful dream.
Some dreams can’t be shut off. As she drifted toward the surface of the
water a white shadow crossed above her and twisted under her face. Its
white was not a pure white, and there were dark objects fastened to its
shoulders. Deane wasn’t afraid. The creature didn’t want her. It didn’t
have any sense; but it was close and revolting. In her dream she floated
slowly upward. She was strong and disdainful, but that didn’t push the
creature from her. She rose slowly, grimly, with hate—motionless. Her
hair caught the surface of the water. Stars poured into her eyes, the
white shadow faded, and she awakened. She had gone into the bathroom and
washed her teeth.
In the dining room Deane remembered this dream and her feeling for the
snub-faced shadow. Carol leaned toward her. She did not fear him. She did
not move from him, but she wanted clean air and a chance to brush her
teeth.
“Carol,” she said, “Martin and I are very good friends. I believe in him.”
Carol lit another cigarette. He was bewildered. It was unfair. He had
gone to Deane as a pal. He had tried to help her. His eloquent monologue
still boomed within him. Then a friendly sorrow for himself killed some
of the pain. He had done his duty although it had been unappreciated.
He saw women—all womankind rotating under the phallic thumb of bestial
domination. He shivered, reached for the check and stood up. Deane
noticed that he left no tip for the waiter.
She hurried home and Carol returned to his hotel. He sat carefully on the
edge of his bed and looked out at the moving cars and people. His face
was serious. Deane needed him. His affection would win over this—this—he
put his head down on the pillow and refused to think any more.
* * * * *
Deane glanced at the clock. Only an hour to wait. She was glad that
Martin was coming at five. She was glad to get out of her tailored
clothes and into the bath. It would be comfortable to feel her skin
against the warm porcelain; to smell the soap and to watch the steam
cover the glass. There was no aroma from the step-ins dropped upon the
tile. Only the faint resonance of a discriminate healthiness from the
underclothes was in the corner. Deane slipped into the tub, still wearing
her brassiere and her wristwatch. Impatiently she took them off and now,
she lay flat across the shoulders of the tub. Reaching around, with her
eyes closed, she felt the cake of soap next her hips. She weighed it in
her hands for an absent moment, thinking of Martin, and with a slow smile
laid the bar upon one breast, which she had candidly lifted out of the
water. The pride she held in her own body seemed an important thing to
her and she constantly soaped the skin around her nipple in amusement—but
laved it also, in possibilities too far to speak of, even to herself.
At last the warmth of the bath claimed her more expressively than she
had believed it could; and she remembered, with a shiver, the snows of
childhood and buried herself again in the heat of the tub. One of her
hands went gently, but shockingly to her knee; and again with a smile,
not understandable, she lifted her body out of the water, which rang in
constant drops of different colors from her naked throat.
While she dressed, she thought of her earrings. She chose a slender East
Indian pair of beaten silver. They were long, nearly touching her bare
shoulders, and of a deceptive quietness. She looked at her slippers—gold,
vermilion, rust—at last selecting ones of purple from which she decided
her gown. Its bodice, which she laced and tied, peasant fashion, closed
tightly about her waist. The skirt swung slowly from her hips. She looked
once more into the mirror and fastened her hair on one side behind her
ear.
When Martin came, he put his arms around her, kissing her earrings and
her throat, the scented smooth hollow under her arm, pressing her so
close to him that she trembled.
“Tell me—what did you do to-day?” he whispered, holding her hand to his
cheek.
“I went shopping,” she said. “And later, I had lunch with Carol.”
Martin spoke irritably.
“That one again? Why doesn’t he go back to the Dust Bowl?”
“He isn’t that bad, Martin.” Deane tried to sound convincing.
“I should think,” Martin said bitterly, “that you would be the last one
to question my judgment where such people are concerned.”
Deane lifted her delicate eyebrows.
“I’m glad I’m your sweetheart,” she said. “That remark would sound
curious to others.”
“I suppose it would,” replied Martin, a bit unhappily. “I’ll admit, I’m
prejudiced as the devil, but I can’t help but see it. Carol’s learning
new tricks. The crust is breaking. He lives among his fantasies—dreams
fired by sagebrush and loneliness. His desire is volatile and his friends
right now may affect the nature of his entire life. I’m sorry Roberts is
mixed up in it.”
Deane was thoughtful for a moment. She cupped her chin in her hands and
drew her small, slippered feet up under her.
“I believe you’re right, Martin,” she observed at last. “For the first
time I see that it’s a dangerous combination. I still believe, though,
that Roberts is the one who, ultimately, will try to harm you. He’s done
it once and although you came out, he will try it again. He seems to know
your vulnerable points.”
Martin sounded a little angry.
“Why can’t we just eliminate them?”
“It isn’t quite so simple as that, Martin,” answered Deane. “Roberts and
I have mutual friends. I’d always be running into him. As for Carol—he
has no one; and I couldn’t bear to hurt him.” Deane stared before her.
“Besides,” she added, “I’m wondering if elimination could bring about
anything but superficial results. Roberts is ingenious.” She turned to
Martin impulsively and put her hand upon his arm. “Martin!—somehow, I
don’t know how—but somehow, Roberts will strike at us!”
In the city light, in the dusk, Deane’s eyes were wide, as though some
new and frightening thought had crossed her mind.
_CHAPTER XIV_
Rio left the bitt on which he had been sitting. He crossed the deck and
walked down the ladder as the sea caught the ship and sent her rolling in
long swells toward the Gulf Stream. He was going to his bunk when a man
with a blue chin and hard, bloodshot eyes got up from the table where he
had been drinking beer and went to him.
“Where’s your book?” the man said abruptly, in a high, angry voice.
“That ain’t no way to ask for it,” Rio said slowly.
The sailors’ delegate swore.
“Break out that god-damned union book!”
“You’ll find it under this,” said Rio, rubbing his fist.
“Oh! That’s it!” said the delegate, coming closer, unconscious that his
lips were still moving.
“Sure,” continued Rio. “A chink in the Celebes told me wisdom came with
lost teeth.”
“Get wise then!” yelled the delegate, and swung hard.
Rio ducked, but the blow caught him across the jaw and a little blood ran
down his neck. For an instant, his face was the outlawed Baptist’s.
“Turn in,” he said, almost in a whisper. “The next time you might fall.”
The man swung again and Rio drove a wide fist straight into his face.
Blood squirted out all over, covering both men. The delegate fell
backwards; his head struck a stanchion. He rocked slowly and fell loosely
sideways, his shoulder hitting the deck. Rio stepped over to the table
and picked up the empty beer bottle.
“My God!” said one of the men. The rest of the crew turned the delegate’s
face over. They couldn’t see the features. They talked among themselves
quietly for a moment, then walked menacingly toward Rio. He jumped like
a monkey into a corner, with the bottle in his left hand and his right
fist cocked. He had pulled off his skivy-shirt and the men looked at his
chest. It was brown and curiously bare. There was the mark of a slice
bar and a dent across his ribs. They had never seen anything like it.
They stopped and seemed to smell the blood. Suddenly they recognized
the man—his style of fighting, the way animals do, without thought or
compassion. Rio stood there, silent, massive, and the men went back to
their bunks.
The able-bodied seamen carried the delegate into the washroom and started
working on him. Rio put the bottle back on the table. Then he took his
bucket and towel into the washroom. He didn’t look at the huddle in
the corner, or at the delegate crying softly on a bench, or hear an
occasional curse from one of the sailors. He took his bath and returned
to his bunk, turned in and stared at the overhead. He could feel the slow
roll and sudden pitch of the ship. He loved it and felt at home again....
There were swift movements in the dark around him. Then the main light in
the fo’c’sle came on and it was quiet for a moment. He could hear a man
cough.
“Is he?”
Another voice.
“Yeah. He’s dead.”
And still another.
“Let’s tell the mate on watch.”
“And have your gear turned inside out, you fool?” said the first voice.
“You’d look funny in the commissioner’s office, too,” answered the third.
“For God’s sake then, pipe down and let’s drop him to Davy. I can’t stand
him in here. We’ll say he got drunk ashore and when he came in he fell
on his face. He said his head ached and went on deck. We looked for him
an hour.... I go to the second mate. He’ll soon be on watch. I tell him
the story. Before he gets aft or calls the Old Man, you have the fo’c’sle
cleaned and the beer hid. Stick by the story. That’s all.”
“What about the fellow who done it? He’ll be on watch with the second.”
“That guy ain’t human. He won’t show nothin’. O.K.?”
“O.K.”
Rio heard the noise die down and went to sleep.
* * * * *
Rio felt his arm being shaken. He saw a figure bent over him, wearing
oilskins which glistened from a flashlight.
“Seven bells,” said the figure. “Coffee on the boatdeck. Watch it goin’
’midships. She’s takin’ a few seas.”
Rio dressed silently, pulled on his sea boots and fastened his oilskins
and sou’wester. On deck, he looked around the lee corner of the house
and waited for a sea to break over. A small one came under the rail and
hissed across the deck, winding up with a crash against the hatches. The
white water ran into the scuppers. As she started to roll back, Rio ran
as fast as he could to a ladder to the boatdeck. Then he went forward to
a small house where a light was burning.
In there was a young man pouring coffee. His face was white and anxious.
When he saw Rio he said, “They tell me you’re my watch partner.”
Rio smiled and nodded his head. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat
down to drink it.
The young man spoke again.
“I was told to report for lookout duty on the port side of the bridge. I
don’t know where that is.”
“I’ll show you.”
“But what do I do as lookout?”
“Ask the man you relieve,” said Rio. “And don’t be upset if the mate
yells a bit. It’s hard for some of ’em to fasten a twelve-inch neck in a
seventeen collar. Just lay low unless you see a ship comin’ up. Then tell
it to him as best you can and let him swear all he pleases. We better go
up now,” he added.
They went out into the wind and up the ladder to the bridge. The
quartermaster, seeing Rio, left the wheel.
“One ninety-five,” he said. “One ninety-five,” he called to the third
officer in the chartroom. The officer counted out the numbers and the
quartermaster left.
The second mate entered the chartroom, relieving the third officer.