"F-f-f--" The bewilderment in Orville Platt's face gave way to anger.
"Do you mean to tell me that you screeched like that because my--because
I moved my elbow?"
"Yes."
His anger deepened and reddened to fury. He choked. He had started from
his chair with his napkin in his hand. He still clutched it. Now he
crumpled it into a wad and hurled it to the centre of the table, where
it struck a sugar bowl, dropped back, and uncrumpled slowly,
reprovingly. "You--you--" Then bewilderment closed down again like a fog
over his countenance. "But why? I can't see--"
"Because it--because I can't stand it any longer. Flapping. This is what
you do. Like this."
And she did it. Did it with insulting fidelity, being a clever mimic.
"Well, all I can say is you're crazy, yelling like that, for nothing."
"It isn't nothing."
"Isn't, huh? If that isn't nothing, what is?" They were growing
incoherent. "What d'you mean, screeching like a maniac? Like a wild
woman? The neighbours'll think I've killed you. What d'you mean,
anyway!"
"I mean I'm tired of watching it, that's what. Sick and tired."
"Y'are, huh? Well, young lady, just let me tell _you_ something--"
He told her. There followed one of those incredible quarrels, as
sickening as they are human, which can take place only between two
people who love each other; who love each other so well that each knows
with cruel certainty the surest way to wound the other; and who stab,
and tear, and claw at these vulnerable spots in exact proportion to
their love.
Ugly words. Bitter words. Words that neither knew they knew flew between
them like sparks between steel striking steel.
From him--"Trouble with you is you haven't got enough to do. That's the
trouble with half you women. Just lay around the house, rotting. I'm a
fool, slaving on the road to keep a good-for-nothing--"
"I suppose you call sitting around hotel lobbies slaving! I suppose the
house runs itself! How about my evenings? Sitting here alone, night
after night, when you're on the road."
Finally, "Well, if you don't like it," he snarled, and lifted his chair
by the back and slammed it down, savagely, "if you don't like it, why
don't you get out, h'm? Why don't you get out?"
And from her, her eyes narrowed to two slits, her cheeks scarlet:
"Why, thanks. I guess I will."
Ten minutes later he had flung out of the house to catch the 8.19 for
Manitowoc. He marched down the street, his shoulders swinging
rhythmically to the weight of the burden he carried--his black leather
hand-bag and the shiny tan sample case, battle-scarred, both, from many
encounters with ruthless porters and 'bus men and bell boys. For four
years, as he left for his semi-monthly trip, he and Terry had observed a
certain little ceremony (as had the neighbours). She would stand in the
doorway watching him down the street, the heavier sample-case banging
occasionally at his shin. The depot was only three blocks away. Terry
watched him with fond, but unillusioned eyes, which proves that she
really loved him. He was a dapper, well-dressed fat man, with a weakness
for pronounced patterns in suitings, and addicted to brown derbies. One
week on the road, one week at home. That was his routine. The wholesale
grocery trade liked Platt, and he had for his customers the fondness
that a travelling salesman has who is successful in his territory.
Before his marriage to Terry Sheehan his little red address book had
been overwhelming proof against the theory that nobody loves a fat man.
Terry, standing in the doorway, always knew that when he reached the
corner, just where Schroeder's house threatened to hide him from view,
he would stop, drop the sample case, wave his hand just once, pick up
the sample case and go on, proceeding backward for a step or two, until
Schroeder's house made good its threat. It was a comic scene in the
eyes of the onlooker, perhaps because a chubby Romeo offends the sense
of fitness. The neighbours, lurking behind their parlour curtains, had
laughed at first. But after awhile they learned to look for that little
scene, and to take it unto themselves, as if it were a personal thing.
Fifteen-year wives whose husbands had long since abandoned flowery
farewells used to get a vicarious thrill out of it, and to eye Terry
with a sort of envy.
This morning Orville Platt did not even falter when he reached
Schroeder's corner. He marched straight on, looking steadily ahead, the
heavy bags swinging from either hand. Even if he had stopped--though she
knew he wouldn't--Terry Platt would not have seen him. She remained
seated at the disordered breakfast table, a dreadfully still figure, and
sinister; a figure of stone and fire; of ice and flame. Over and over in
her mind she was milling the things she might have said to him, and had
not. She brewed a hundred vitriolic cruelties that she might have flung
in his face. She would concoct one biting brutality, and dismiss it for
a second, and abandon that for a third. She was too angry to cry--a
dangerous state in a woman. She was what is known as cold mad, so that
her mind was working clearly and with amazing swiftness, and yet as
though it were a thing detached; a thing that was no part of her.
She sat thus for the better part of an hour, motionless except for one
forefinger that was, quite unconsciously, tapping out a popular and
cheap little air that she had been strumming at the piano the evening
before, having bought it down town that same afternoon. It had struck
Orville's fancy, and she had played it over and over for him. Her right
forefinger was playing the entire tune, and something in the back of her
head was following it accurately, though the separate thinking process
was going on just the same. Her eyes were bright, and wide, and hot.
Suddenly she became conscious of the musical antics of her finger. She
folded it in with its mates, so that her hand became a fist. She stood
up and stared down at the clutter of the breakfast table. The egg--that
fateful second egg--had congealed to a mottled mess of yellow and white.
The spoon lay on the cloth. His coffee, only half consumed, showed tan
with a cold grey film over it. A slice of toast at the left of his plate
seemed to grin at her with the semi-circular wedge that he had bitten
out of it.
Terry stared down at this congealing remnant. Then she laughed, a hard,
high little laugh, pushed a plate away contemptuously with her hand, and
walked into the sitting room. On the piano was the piece of music
(Bennie Gottschalk's great song hit, "Hicky Bloo") which she had been
playing the night before. She picked it up, tore it straight across,
once, placed the pieces back to back and tore it across again. Then she
dropped the pieces to the floor.
"You bet I'm going," she said, as though concluding a train of thought.
"You just bet I'm going. Right now!"
And Terry went. She went for much the same reason as that given by the
ladye of high degree in the old English song--she who had left her lord
and bed and board to go with the raggle-taggle gipsies-O! The thing that
was sending Terry Platt away was much more than a conjugal quarrel
precipitated by a soft-boiled egg and a flap of the arm. It went so much
deeper that if psychology had not become a cant word we might drag it
into the explanation. It went so deep that it's necessary to delve back
to the days when Theresa Platt was Terry Sheehan to get the real
significance of it, and of the things she did after she went.
When Mrs. Orville Platt had been Terry Sheehan she had played the piano,
afternoons and evenings, in the orchestra of the Bijou theatre, on Cass
street, Wetona, Wisconsin. Any one with a name like Terry Sheehan would,
perforce, do well anything she might set out to do. There was nothing of
genius in Terry, but there was something of fire, and much that was
Irish. The combination makes for what is known as imagination in
playing. Which meant that the Watson Team, Eccentric Song and Dance
Artists, never needed a rehearsal when they played the Bijou. Ruby
Watson used merely to approach Terry before the Monday performance,
sheet-music in hand, and say, "Listen, dearie. We've got some new
business I want to wise you to. Right here it goes '_Tum_ dee-dee _dum_
dee-dee _tum dum dum_. See? Like that. And then Jim vamps. Get me?"
Terry, at the piano, would pucker her pretty brow a moment. Then, "Like
this, you mean?"
"That's it! You've got it."
"All right. I'll tell the drum."
She could play any tune by ear, once heard. She got the spirit of a
thing, and transmitted it. When Terry played a march number you tapped
the floor with your foot, and unconsciously straightened your shoulders.
When she played a home-and-mother song that was heavy on the minor wail
you hoped that the man next to you didn't know you were crying (which he
probably didn't, because he was weeping, too).
At that time motion pictures had not attained their present virulence.
Vaudeville, polite or otherwise, had not yet been crowded out by the
ubiquitous film. The Bijou offered entertainment of the cigar-box tramp
variety, interspersed with trick bicyclists, soubrettes in slightly
soiled pink, trained seals, and Family Fours with lumpy legs who tossed
each other about and struck Goldbergian attitudes.
Contact with these gave Terry Sheehan a semi-professional tone. The more
conservative of her townspeople looked at her askance. There never had
been an evil thing about Terry, but Wetona considered her rather fly.
Terry's hair was very black, and she had a fondness for those little,
close-fitting scarlet velvet turbans. A scarlet velvet turban would have
made Martha Washington look fly. Terry's mother had died when the girl
was eight, and Terry's father had been what is known as easy-going. A
good-natured, lovable, shiftless chap in the contracting business. He
drove around Wetona in a sagging, one-seated cart and never made any
money because he did honest work and charged as little for it as men who
did not. His mortar stuck, and his bricks did not crumble, and his
lumber did not crack. Riches are not acquired in the contracting
business in that way. Ed Sheehan and his daughter were great friends.
When he died (she was nineteen) they say she screamed once, like a
banshee, and dropped to the floor.
After they had straightened out the muddle of books in Ed Sheehan's
gritty, dusty little office Terry turned her piano-playing talent to
practical account. At twenty-one she was still playing at the Bijou, and
into her face was creeping the first hint of that look of sophistication
which comes from daily contact with the artificial world of the
footlights. It is the look of those who must make believe as a business,
and are a-weary. You see it developed into its highest degree in the
face of a veteran comedian. It is the thing that gives the look of utter
pathos and tragedy to the relaxed expression of a circus clown.
There are, in a small, Mid-West town like Wetona, just two kinds of
girls. Those who go down town Saturday nights, and those who don't.
Terry, if she had not been busy with her job at the Bijou, would have
come in the first group. She craved excitement. There was little chance
to satisfy such craving in Wetona, but she managed to find certain
means. The travelling men from the Burke House just across the street
used to drop in at the Bijou for an evening's entertainment. They
usually sat well toward the front, and Terry's expert playing, and the
gloss of her black hair, and her piquant profile as she sometimes looked
up toward the stage for a signal from one of the performers, caught
their fancy, and held it.
Terry did not accept their attentions promiscuously. She was too decent
a girl for that. But she found herself, at the end of a year or two,
with a rather large acquaintance among these peripatetic gentlemen. You
occasionally saw one of them strolling home with her. Sometimes she went
driving with one of them of a Sunday afternoon. And she rather enjoyed
taking Sunday dinner at the Burke Hotel with a favoured friend. She
thought those small-town hotel Sunday dinners the last word in elegance.
The roast course was always accompanied by an aqueous, semi-frozen
concoction which the bill of fare revealed as Roman punch. It added a
royal touch to the repast, even when served with roast pork. I don't say
that any of these Lotharios snatched a kiss during a Sunday afternoon
drive. Or that Terry slapped him promptly. But either seems extremely
likely.
Terry was twenty-two when Orville Platt, making his initial Wisconsin
trip for the wholesale grocery house he represented, first beheld
Terry's piquant Irish profile, and heard her deft manipulation of the
keys. Orville had the fat man's sense of rhythm and love of music. He
had a buttery tenor voice, too, of which he was rather proud.
He spent three days in Wetona that first trip, and every evening saw him
at the Bijou, first row, centre. He stayed through two shows each time,
and before he had been there fifteen minutes Terry was conscious of him
through the back of her head. In fact I think that, in all innocence,
she rather played up to him. Orville Platt paid no more heed to the
stage, and what was occurring thereon, than if it had not been. He sat
looking at Terry, and waggling his head in time to the music. Not that
Terry was a beauty. But she was one of those immaculately clean types.
That look of fragrant cleanliness was her chief charm. Her clear, smooth
skin contributed to it, and the natural pencilling of her eyebrows. But
the thing that accented it, and gave it a last touch, was the way in
which her black hair came down in a little point just in the centre of
her forehead, where hair meets brow. It grew to form what is known as a
cow-lick. (A prettier name for it is widow's peak.) Your eye lighted on
it, pleased, and from it travelled its gratified way down her white
temples, past her little ears, to the smooth black coil at the nape of
her neck. It was a trip that rested you.
At the end of the last performance on the second night of his visit to
the Bijou, Orville waited until the audience had begun to file out. Then
he leaned forward over the rail that separated orchestra from audience.
"Could you," he said, his tones dulcet, "could you oblige me with the
name of that last piece you played?"
Terry was stacking her music. "George!" she called, to the drum.
"Gentleman wants to know the name of that last piece." And prepared to
leave.
"'My Georgia Crackerjack'," said the laconic drum.
Orville Platt took a hasty side-step in the direction of the door toward
which Terry was headed. "It's a pretty thing," he said, fervently. "An
awful pretty thing. Thanks. It's beautiful."
Terry flung a last insult at him over her shoulder: "Don't thank _me_
for it. I didn't write it."
Orville Platt did not go across the street to the hotel. He wandered up
Cass street, and into the ten-o'clock quiet of Main street, and down as
far as the park and back. "Pretty as a pink! And play!... And good, too.
Good."
A fat man in love.
At the end of six months they were married. Terry was surprised into it.
Not that she was not fond of him. She was; and grateful to him, as well.
For, pretty as she was, no man had ever before asked Terry to be his
wife. They had made love to her. They had paid court to her. They had
sent her large boxes of stale drug-store chocolates, and called her
endearing names as they made cautious declaration such as:
"I've known a lot of girls, but you've got something different. I don't
know. You've got so much sense. A fellow can chum around with you.
Little pal."
Orville's headquarters were Wetona. They rented a comfortable,
seven-room house in a comfortable, middle-class neighbourhood, and Terry
dropped the red velvet turbans and went in for picture hats and paradise
aigrettes. Orville bought her a piano whose tone was so good that to her
ear, accustomed to the metallic discords of the Bijou instrument, it
sounded out of tune. She played a great deal at first, but unconsciously
she missed the sharp spat of applause that used to follow her public
performance. She would play a piece, brilliantly, and then her hands
would drop to her lap. And the silence of her own sitting room would
fall flat on her ears. It was better on the evenings when Orville was
home. He sang, in his throaty, fat man's tenor, to Terry's expert
accompaniment.
"This is better than playing for those bum actors, isn't it, hon?" And
he would pinch her ear.
"Sure"--listlessly.
But after the first year she became accustomed to what she termed
private life. She joined an afternoon sewing club, and was active in the
ladies' branch of the U.C.T. She developed a knack at cooking, too, and
Orville, after a week or ten days of hotel fare in small Wisconsin
towns, would come home to sea-foam biscuits, and real soup, and honest
pies and cake. Sometimes, in the midst of an appetising meal he would
lay down his knife and fork and lean back in his chair, and regard the
cool and unruffled Terry with a sort of reverence in his eyes. Then he
would get up, and come around to the other side of the table, and tip
her pretty face up to his.
"I'll bet I'll wake up, some day, and find out it's all a dream. You
know this kind of thing doesn't really happen--not to a dub like me."
One year; two; three; four. Routine. A little boredom. Some impatience.
She began to find fault with the very things she had liked in him: his
super-neatness; his fondness for dashing suit patterns; his throaty
tenor; his worship of her. And the flap. Oh, above all, that flap! That
little, innocent, meaningless mannerism that made her tremble with
nervousness. She hated it so that she could not trust herself to speak
of it to him. That was the trouble. Had she spoken of it, laughingly or
in earnest, before it became an obsession with her, that hideous
breakfast quarrel, with its taunts, and revilings, and open hate, might
never have come to pass. For that matter, any one of those foreign
fellows with the guttural names and the psychoanalytical minds could
have located her trouble in one _séance_.
Terry Platt herself didn't know what was the matter with her. She would
have denied that anything was wrong. She didn't even throw her hands
above her head and shriek: "I want to live! I want to live! I want to
live!" like a lady in a play. She only knew she was sick of sewing at
the Wetona West-End Red Cross shop; sick of marketing, of home comforts,
of Orville, of the flap.
Orville, you may remember, left at 8.19. The 11.23 bore Terry
Chicagoward. She had left the house as it was--beds unmade, rooms
unswept, breakfast table uncleared. She intended never to come back.
Now and then a picture of the chaos she had left behind would flash
across her order-loving mind. The spoon on the table-cloth. Orville's
pajamas dangling over the bathroom chair. The coffee-pot on the gas
stove.
"Pooh! What do I care?"
In her pocketbook she had a tidy sum saved out of the housekeeping
money. She was naturally thrifty, and Orville had never been niggardly.
Her meals when Orville was on the road, had been those sketchy,
haphazard affairs with which women content themselves when their
household is manless. At noon she went into the dining car and ordered a
flaunting little repast of chicken salad and asparagus, and Neapolitan
ice cream. The men in the dining car eyed her speculatively and with
appreciation. Then their glance dropped to the third finger of her left
hand, and wandered away. She had meant to remove it. In fact, she had
taken it off and dropped it into her bag. But her hand felt so queer, so
unaccustomed, so naked, that she had found herself slipping the narrow
band on again, and her thumb groped for it, gratefully.
It was almost five o'clock when she reached Chicago. She felt no
uncertainty or bewilderment. She had been in Chicago three or four times
since her marriage. She went to a down town hotel. It was too late, she
told herself, to look for a more inexpensive room that night. When she
had tidied herself she went out. The things she did were the childish,
aimless things that one does who finds herself in possession of sudden
liberty. She walked up State Street, and stared in the windows; came
back, turned into Madison, passed a bright little shop in the window of
which taffy--white and gold--was being wound endlessly and fascinatingly
about a double-jointed machine. She went in and bought a sackful, and
wandered on down the street, munching.
She had supper at one of those white-tiled sarcophagi that emblazon
Chicago's down town side streets. It had been her original intention to
dine in state in the rose-and-gold dining room of her hotel. She had
even thought daringly of lobster. But at the last moment she recoiled
from the idea of dining alone in that wilderness of tables so obviously
meant for two.
After her supper she went to a picture show. She was amazed to find
there, instead of the accustomed orchestra, a pipe-organ that panted and
throbbed and rumbled over lugubrious classics. The picture was about a
faithless wife. Terry left in the middle of it.
She awoke next morning at seven, as usual, started up wildly, looked
around, and dropped back. Nothing to get up for. The knowledge did not
fill her with a rush of relief. She would have her breakfast in bed! She
telephoned for it, languidly. But when it came she got up and ate it
from the table, after all. Terry was the kind of woman to whom a pink
gingham all-over apron, and a pink dust-cap are ravishingly becoming at
seven o'clock in the morning. That sort of woman congenitally cannot
enjoy her breakfast in bed.
That morning she found a fairly comfortable room, more within her means,
on the north side in the boarding house district. She unpacked and hung
up her clothes and drifted down town again, idly. It was noon when she
came to the corner of State and Madison streets. It was a maelstrom that
caught her up, and buffeted her about, and tossed her helplessly this
way and that. The corner of Broadway and Forty-second streets has been
exploited in song and story as the world's most hazardous human
whirlpool. I've negotiated that corner. I've braved the square in front
of the American Express Company's office in Paris, June, before the War.
I've crossed the Strand at 11 p.m. when the theatre crowds are just out.
And to my mind the corner of State and Madison streets between twelve
and one, mid-day, makes any one of these dizzy spots look bosky, sylvan,
and deserted.
The thousands jostled Terry, and knocked her hat awry, and dug her with
unheeding elbows, and stepped on her feet.
"Say, look here!" she said, once futilely. They did not stop to listen.
State and Madison has no time for Terrys from Wetona. It goes its way,
pellmell. If it saw Terry at all it saw her only as a prettyish person,
in the wrong kind of suit and hat, with a bewildered, resentful look on
her face.
Terry drifted on down the west side of State Street, with the hurrying
crowd. State and Monroe. A sound came to Terry's ears. A sound familiar,
beloved. To her ear, harassed with the roar and crash, with the shrill
scream of the crossing policemen's whistle, with the hiss of feet
shuffling on cement, it was a celestial strain. She looked up, toward
the sound. A great second-story window opened wide to the street. In it
a girl at a piano, and a man, red-faced, singing through a megaphone.
And on a flaring red and green sign: