"My misfortune," I returned, feeling that I was talking like some
hackneyed, if gallant, character in a cheap novel. "But how do you
manage in winter?"
"Oh, I don't, really. You see I'm from the South where you can get
angry as often as you like without catching pneumonia or bunking your
head on a cake of ice."
That got us onto the subject of her past life. I found out that she
came from Florida--Palatka--and had come North after her father died.
"But you don't sound like a Southerner," I said. "I haven't noticed
the slightest trace of an accent."
"Why should I have?" she retorted. "My dad was an English teacher in
the Palatka school. What do you think? Only Yankees can speak the
King's English?"
Lest the Civil War break forth anew, I changed the subject.
Another hour flew by. I scarcely realized the passage of time. By
virtue of the four fingers of brandy I had consumed, I had grown more
bold and I was commencing to call her by her first name. She, sadly,
did not reciprocate. I remained, as far as she was concerned, nameless.
But this was better than being addressed as "Mr. Thatcher."
We had discussed at some length the matter of her getting back to Mrs.
Michaelson's and had arrived at the decision that she had much better
wait until morning. I owned no car and she could not possibly walk that
long distance through the streets clad only in bathing costume and
wearing my slippers. Furthermore, it would not be right to awaken Mrs.
Michaelson at this ungodly hour of the morning and ask her to wrap up
one of Anita's dresses. Therefore, it had been agreed that we'd sit up
the few remaining hours until daylight, at which time I would pay a
call on Mrs. M.
To my way of thinking, Anita proved herself to be a very good sport in
her predicament. Should anyone find out that she had been in my house
the entire night, clad only in my bathrobe, a dreadful scandal was
sure to follow, and her name, as far as Ithaca was concerned, would
be ruined. Nevertheless, Anita maintained a sublime indifference to
this possibility ... and even a reckless disregard for the accepted
conventions. I must admit that this rather surprised me. I had not
thought of Anita as daring.
I remarked that I was spiritually drunk that evening; I am loathe to
admit that that was not all. I also become quite drunk with brandy
and, I am afraid, so did Anita. As I have explained earlier, I am
not accustomed to hard liquors and, in congenially keeping up with
my pretty guest, I soon felt my tongue thicken and my head begin to
spin. Although my faculties dulled with the alcohol, they did not take
leave of me completely and I can remember the events which took place
between the time Anita splashed into my life and the moment I first
took her into my arms. However, if some of the moments seem vague in
description, you may put it down as a combination of too much drink and
too many years having elapsed since. But to me, this night stands out
with absolute clarity. It was the happiest night in my entire life.
Now nobody respects a drunken woman. Hence, I had better remind you
that Anita had every reason to try to drown her sorrows that night.
Besides, she did not look or act drunk ... except that she cried
continually. But her face did not grow red and ugly, and this is
funny because I have since witnessed many of Anita's tantrums and she
certainly erases her good looks with her tears.
"I hate him! Oh, I hate him!" she kept muttering between racking sobs.
I tried to comfort her as best I could but my soothing words seemed
to pass unnoticed. As she babbled on, I found myself unconsciously
hanging on her words. I wished to plumb her depths, learn her true
feelings. While I recognized that she was not herself and might easily
say something she would later regret, I was afforded the delicious
sensation of hearing her denounce Leo Carpenter. Her very vehemence as
she spoke his name began to infect me. I commenced to hate him, too.
Previously I had regarded his attentions to Anita only with jealousy
and distaste; and except for that day in the store when he had tried to
induce me to sell him a contraceptive, I harbored no great hatred for
the man. After all, he had never been anything but friendly to me and,
I daresay, had he suspected how I felt about Anita, he would not have
come into _my_ store on such an errand.
Anita's wrath seemed genuine enough and I had no suspicions but that
she really despised the man. Had I not been so happy that her love
for him had died, I think I would have been a little alarmed at her
capacity for enmity.
After her rage had exhausted her and had subsided into dry,
body-racking sobs, she leaned forward on the kitchen table with her
head buried in her arms. Before her, like some grisly tombstone, stood
the empty brandy bottle. She had wrapped the bathrobe so tightly around
her body that every line of her form was clearly defined. Through the
thin material her breasts showed. They quivered an accompaniment to her
choking convulsions.
I moved over to her and stood behind her, stroking her head soothingly
as though she were a little child. I put an arm around her shaking
shoulders and whispered that it was all right, Carpenter was gone and
she would never have to worry about him again. My words, this time,
took effect. But not in the way I intended. She began to feel sorry
for herself. Wave after wave of self-pity swept over her until she was
repeating that old, familiar masterpiece of spoiled children: "Nobody
loves me!"
I wanted to do something--I don't quite know what--to reassure
her. I wanted to pour out my love for her all at once and take the
consequences. But ... no words came and I found that I couldn't
galvanize myself into any action. Finally, I managed to sink to my
knees beside her chair and raised her head by tugging at her shoulders.
The bathrobe came loose, much to my dismay, and I caught a glimpse of
one curved thigh. With her face between my palms, I looked into her wet
eyes and said: "You're wrong, Anita. Somebody does love you."
I don't think that she heard me. If she did, she gave no sign. She
continued to sob with her head against my chest and I pressed my lips
to her forehead, her cheek and then at last I kissed her mouth.
It may appear disgusting that I should make love to a drunken woman,
too befuddled with alcohol to fully realize what was being done to her.
But remember that I was drunk myself. Even with this excuse, I am quite
ashamed to confess that my marriage was born in such a fashion. You can
readily understand why I have kept it a secret until now.
I vaguely recall lifting her in my arms and carrying her up the narrow
winding stairs to my bedroom. And she must have been nude, for the
next morning I came across my bathrobe lying on the kitchen floor.
Not wishing to delve into intimate details which normally should be
discussed only between the parties concerned, it would definitely be
misleading if I neglected to mention that when we eventually sobered
up, Anita did not appear so very horrified upon finding herself in bed
with me. On the contrary, she seemed to accept it as a matter of course
and, had I had any regrets for my actions before she became sober, they
swiftly took wing at her warm responses to my wooing.
I became thoroughly convinced that she had fallen in love with me.
Moreover, if her mind was still filled with resentment because of
Doctor Carpenter's desertion, at least she did not mention his name
again.
When I returned to the house before ten that day with a bundle of
her clothes, Anita was still in bed and sleeping soundly. The covers
were tucked tightly under her chin but one arm, round and very white,
dangled over the side. I stood and looked at her for a long time,
scarcely breathing. I could not believe that such a thing had come to
pass, that I, Peter Thatcher, had possessed the one woman in all the
world.
It was my plan not to awaken her. Since she no longer was employed
at the Knit Shoppe, there was no point in getting her up. But as I
deposited her clothes at the foot of the bed and turned to tiptoe out,
she called to me.
"What time is it?"
I whirled around and noticed that while she was certainly wide awake,
she was keeping her eyes tightly shut. I suppose that she did this out
of embarrassment.
"Ten o'clock, Anita," I stammered. When she said nothing further, I
went on, "Is ... is there anything I can get you? Some ... some tea?
There's no coffee in the house."
"No thanks. Nothing at all."
"I've brought your clothes."
"Thanks. I'll get up in a minute."
"Oh, there's no great rush," I hurried on to say, lest she think that I
wanted her to vacate the premises which, you may be sure, was not my
wish. "Stay as long as you like. I.... It's nice having you here."
"Thanks."
I did not get to the store before half past ten that morning and
furthermore I didn't care. The place did not seem a bit attractive
to me and I did something that day that I had never thought of doing
before. I watched the clock. My errand-boy, a colored chap by the name
of Jiggs, remarked on my obviously distracted manner. "Boss," he said,
"you sure look like somethin' shot at and missed, you do. Yes, sir!"
At five o'clock Anita made an appearance. I had half expected that she
would come around to the store. I couldn't think of any reason why
she should but.... Fortunately there were no customers present and I
immediately dispatched Jiggs on some needless errand so that we might
have privacy while I proposed to her.
"Anita," I said after several false starts, "I want you to be my wife."
I remember that she looked rather haggard and worn. There were faint
lines around her lovely eyes. I waited breathlessly for her to give me
her answer.
"Why not?" she sighed. And while the tone she employed struck me at the
time as being somewhat unenthusiastic for one who was in love, I put it
down as just another sign that she had spent an enervating night.
* * * * *
We were married quietly on July 4th. I, myself, would have selected
another day but she would have none of it. "I planned on getting
married on the Fourth and the Fourth it shall be." Seeing how set she
was in this whim, I raised no objection although I did not like the
feeling that I was stepping into someone else's shoes. All through the
short ceremony I half expected the name Leo to slip from the Justice's
tongue instead of my own.
I am not at all a superstitious person. Black cats and ladders and the
numeral 13 mean nothing to me. But in retrospect, marrying Anita on the
Fourth with firecrackers exploding out of doors and _Times_ headlines
reading: VICTORY FOR OUR NAVY IN 2 BATTLES, U-BOATS TWICE ATTACKED OUR
TRANSPORTS, OUR WARSHIPS SANK ONE, PERHAPS MORE, seems quite in keeping
with the turbulent events that ruined both our lives.
I can recite the contents of that newspaper, _The Times_ of July 4,
1917, almost completely. You see, some practical joker phoned in the
news of our wedding, making it sound so important that it was printed
on the Society page. Mr. and Mrs. Peter Thatcher were not really "news"
then. Now they are--only not Society news. Murderers and their victims
rate much more space. Anyway, on July 4th President and Mrs. Wilson
went yachting as far as the mouth of the Potomac, Herbert Hoover warned
the public through the medium of the press that "America Must Save to
Win War," Gimbels advertised a Clearance Sale of ladies' parasols, and
I married Anita.
No sooner had the ceremony ended, it seemed to me that Anita began to
make changes. I suppose all brides do that. I guess they like to have
some physical evidence about that by the token of marriage they are
effecting a radical metamorphosis not only in their husbands' lives but
in his effects as well. For several days following Anita's moving into
the house I stumbled over pieces of furniture which she had rearranged
and I felt very strange sleeping in what had always been my mother's
bedroom. After her death I had never thought of bunking there but had
kept my familiar little room at the head of the winding stairs.
"Don't you think that this table would look better over by that
window?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, Anita," I would reply.
"No.... I guess not. I'll try it in that corner."
"It looks fine there, Anita."
"Well, it will do for now."
On one or two occasions I kissed her while we were shifting the
furniture back and forth. Despite the dustcloth wound around her head,
the old house-dress and a pair of my slippers which were ludicrously
large on her feet, she looked very beautiful and I couldn't resist
taking her into my arms. However, when I did my best to maneuver her
onto the couch, she would push me away gently. "Oh, please, Peter!
We're so busy and I'm so tired."
I think that only a few weeks elapsed between the day we got married
and the day I rented the vacant bakery shop adjacent to my store. I had
made up my mind to celebrate my good fortune by enlarging the business.
Soon the workmen were at work, tearing down the thick wall separating
the two shops and while this was going on I could not conduct business.
So it was decided that Anita and I would take a belated honeymoon. I
suggested Montreal but Anita had ideas of her own.
"I want to spend all the time we can allow ourselves right in New
York City. We can go to the theatre every night and eat in the fine
restaurants and shop and...." She rambled on and on, becoming more
enthusiastic. When I reminded her that New York in summer was scarcely
the spot one would select for a vacation, she refused to listen.
Luckily my finances were in good shape so we stopped at the Waldorf.
For two weeks we were miserable. The pavement and the walls of the
high buildings surrounding us were unbelievably hot that summer and
it seemed to me that we were slowly being baked in some great oven.
Nevertheless, Anita did not complain and tried to pretend to me that
she was enjoying herself.
Every night found us in some stuffy theatre or cafe. We went to the
Ziegfeld Follies; we sat through "Hitchy-Koo," gasping for a breath of
air while Raymond Hitchcock, Grace LaRue, Leon Errol and Irene Bordoni
panted their speeches; but after a matinee of "The Thirteenth Chair,"
when Anita expressed the desire to inspect the new William Desmond
film--"The Paws of the Bear" I think--I emphatically refused. She
sulked all evening.
The trip itself would be unimportant had it not marked the birth of
Anita's yearning to live in New York. She did not suggest that we move
there--in so many words--but I was soon to note her waning interest in
the alterations I was planning to make in the store. While I was down
in the city, I ordered a very fine composition-marble soda fountain and
I was justly proud of my purchase. However, when I insisted that Anita
accompany me to the showroom to view it, she was totally lacking in
enthusiasm.
"It's right down on Fourth Avenue, darling. We can hop a cab and be
there in five minutes."
"I'll see it when it's up in Ithaca, Peter."
Upon our return home, I lost no time in getting to the store for I
wanted to see what progress had been made in my absence. It was still
my dream some day to own a very large place--an elaborate place with a
long fountain and red-leather stools and a well-stocked drug department
with several clerks in white coats to wait upon customers.
After a cursory inspection, I started home again. Anita had warned me
about being late for supper and I had lingered quite a while with Doc
Turnbull whom I had chanced to encounter. I hurried along down State
Street at a good clip.
It was already growing dark as I passed the railroad station. The
lighted windows of a halted Pullman stretched like a string of yellow
beads far down the track. The train was preparing to creep out,
bound west; its engine snorted at ever decreasing intervals. The few
passengers who had alighted passed close to me, sweating beneath their
burdens of satchels and valises. They were all headed in the direction
from which I had come.
"Travel," I chuckled to myself, "is not all it's cracked up to be.
Moving all the time, packing and unpacking, sleeping in cramped
quarters, trying to keep the dust out of your eyes and ears.... They
can have it. I'll stay here."
One of the passengers looked very familiar and as he approached me
he saluted me with a cheerful wave of his hand. I squinted in his
direction.
It was Leo Carpenter.
* * * * *
You can imagine what conflicting emotions took possession of me as I
continued toward home. Since my marriage I had not thought of him, so
busy was I in accustoming myself to a wedded state. Leo was something
out of the past--a smoked cigarette, a match which had flared for a
minute and then been extinguished. And while Anita, of course, had not
forgotten his existence, I was certain that she had dismissed him from
her thoughts. That she no longer cared for him, she had proven to me by
the solemn act of marriage.
Yet, because we lived in a small community, we would have to rub elbows
with him often. It was a delicate situation and I was at a loss to know
the proper attitude to adopt. That Leo and Anita had been engaged was
common gossip; if we avoided contact with him it would seem as though
we were afraid of him. On the other hand, if we accepted him as a
friend and allowed him to call at our home, there might be malicious
rumors circulated that he still loved her and intended, if he could, to
win her away from me.
Naturally I expected Anita to bear him a grudge and refuse to have
anything to do with him, but when I informed her that I had seen him,
she evinced no anger. Indeed she gave no sign that it mattered one way
or the other except that her hand shook a little as she cut me another
helping of pie. She offered no comments. Neither did I ask her for
any. Anita, I reasoned, would be capable of deciding what course to
pursue. As for myself, comfortably assured of my wife's devotion, it
did not matter how we treated Carpenter.
There were two reasons, though, why I wished we could be friends with
him. First of all, I felt sorry for the fellow. He had lost what I had
won. Then, too, there was the store. Doctor Carpenter was a very good
customer. Like old Doc Turnbull, he brought me all his prescription
work. That trade alone netted me five hundred dollars a year and, in
the event that Anita decided to feud, he would be forced to trade at
Cavender's.
The evening after his arrival he came into the place. I could see by
his face that the news had reached him. He looked pale and tensely
drawn and not at all the dapper man-about-town. Of course our marriage
might not have been the cause of it all. He was in mourning clothes. I
remembered about his father being ill.
He came straight to the prescription counter with his hand
outstretched. "Congratulations, Pete," he said quietly. "I wish you
all the luck in the world. I know you'll make her happy."
I hardly expected that he would be such a good sport about it. In his
place I knew that I would have been absolutely miserable. But then
I remembered that he had never loved her--or so it had struck me.
"Thanks, doctor. You bet I will. I suppose it was something of a shock
to you, eh? So sudden and all that!"
"Yes. But that's the way things happen, you know. Suddenly."