There is a sort of waking nightmare that sets in sometimes when one
has missed a sleep or two, a feeling that comes with extreme fatigue
and a new sun, that the quality of the life around has changed. It is
a fully articulate conviction that somehow the existence one is then
leading is a branch shoot of life and is related to life only as a
moving picture or a mirror--that the people, and streets, and houses
are only projections from a very dim and chaotic past. It was in such
a state that Roxanne found herself during the first months of
Jeffrey’s illness. She slept only when she was utterly exhausted; she
awoke under a cloud. The long, sober-voiced consultations, the faint
aura of medicine in the halls, the sudden tiptoeing in a house that
had echoed to many cheerful footsteps, and, most of all, Jeffrey’s
white face amid the pillows of the bed they had shared--these things
subdued her and made her indelibly older. The doctors held out hope,
but that was all. A long rest, they said, and quiet. So responsibility
came to Roxanne. It was she who paid the bills, pored over his
bank-book, corresponded with his publishers. She was in the kitchen
constantly. She learned from the nurse how to prepare his meals and
after the first month took complete charge of the sick-room. She had
had to let the nurse go for reasons of economy. One of the two colored
girls left at the same time. Roxanne was realizing that they had been
living from short story to short story.
The most frequent visitor was Harry Cromwell. He had been shocked and
depressed by the news, and though his wife was now living with him in
Chicago he found time to come out several times a month. Roxanne found
his sympathy welcome--there was some quality of suffering in the man,
some inherent pitifulness that made her comfortable when he was near.
Roxanne’s nature had suddenly deepened. She felt sometimes that with
Jeffrey she was losing her children also, those children that now most
of all she needed and should have had.
It was six months after Jeffrey’s collapse and when the nightmare had
faded, leaving not the old world but a new one, grayer and colder,
that she went to see Harry’s wife. Finding herself in Chicago with an
extra hour before train time, she decided out of courtesy to call.
As she stepped inside the door she had an immediate impression that
the apartment was very like some place she had seen before--and almost
instantly she remembered a round-the-corner bakery of her childhood, a
bakery full of rows and rows of pink frosted cakes--a stuffy pink,
pink as a food, pink triumphant, vulgar, and odious.
And this apartment was like that. It was pink. It smelled pink!
Mrs. Cromwell, attired in a wrapper of pink and black, opened the
door. Her hair was yellow, heightened, Roxanne imagined, by a dash of
peroxide in the rinsing water every week. Her eyes were a thin waxen
blue--she was pretty and too consciously graceful. Her cordiality was
strident and intimate, hostility melted so quickly to hospitality that
it seemed they were both merely in the face and voice--never touching
nor touched by the deep core of egotism beneath.
But to Roxanne these things were secondary; her eyes were caught and
held in uncanny fascination by the wrapper. It was vilely unclean.
From its lowest hem up four inches it was sheerly dirty with the blue
dust of the floor; for the next three inches it was gray--then it
shaded off into its natural color, which was--pink. It was dirty at
the sleeves, too, and at the collar--and when the woman turned to lead
the way into the parlor, Roxanne was sure that her neck was dirty.
A one-sided rattle of conversation began. Mrs. Cromwell became
explicit about her likes and dislikes, her head, her stomach, her
teeth, her apartment--avoiding with a sort of insolent meticulousness
any inclusion of Roxanne with life, as if presuming that Roxanne,
having been dealt a blow, wished life to be carefully skirted.
Roxanne smiled. That kimono! That neck!
After five minutes a little boy toddled into the parlor--a dirty
little boy clad in dirty pink rompers. His face was smudgy--Roxanne
wanted to take him into her lap and wipe his nose; other parts in the
vicinity of his head needed attention, his tiny shoes were kicked out
at the toes. Unspeakable!
“What a darling little boy!” exclaimed Roxanne, smiling radiantly.
“Come here to me.”
Mrs. Cromwell looked coldly at her son.
“He _will_ get dirty. Look at that face!” She held her head on one side
and regarded it critically.
“Isn’t he a _darling?_” repeated Roxanne.
“Look at his rompers,” frowned Mrs. Cromwell.
“He needs a change, don’t you, George?”
George stared at her curiously. To his mind the word rompers
connotated a garment extraneously smeared, as this one.
“I tried to make him look respectable this morning,” complained Mrs.
Cromwell as one whose patience had been sorely tried, “and I found he
didn’t have any more rompers--so rather than have him go round without
any I put him back in those--and his face--”
“How many pairs has he?” Roxanne’s voice was pleasantly curious. “How
many feather fans have you?” she might have asked.
“Oh,--” Mrs. Cromwell considered, wrinkling her pretty brow. “Five, I
think. Plenty, I know.”
“You can get them for fifty cents a pair.”
Mrs. Cromwell’s eyes showed surprise--and the faintest superiority.
The price of rompers!
“Can you really? I had no idea. He ought to have plenty, but I haven’t
had a minute all week to send the laundry out.” Then, dismissing the
subject as irrelevant--“I must show you some things--”
They rose and Roxanne followed her past an open bathroom door whose
garment-littered floor showed indeed that the laundry hadn’t been sent
out for some time, into another room that was, so to speak, the
quintessence of pinkness. This was Mrs. Cromwell’s room.
Here the hostess opened a closet door and displayed before Roxanne’s
eyes an amazing collection of lingerie.
There were dozens of filmy marvels of lace and silk, all clean,
unruffled, seemingly not yet touched. On hangers beside them were
three new evening dresses.
“I have some beautiful things,” said Mrs. Cromwell, “but not much of a
chance to wear them. Harry doesn’t care about going out.” Spite crept
into her voice. “He’s perfectly content to let me play nursemaid and
housekeeper all day and loving wife in the evening.”
Roxanne smiled again.
“You’ve got some beautiful clothes here.”
“Yes, I have. Let me show you----”
“Beautiful,” repeated Roxanne, interrupting, “but I’ll have to run if
I’m going to catch my train.”
She felt that her hands were trembling. She wanted to put them on this
woman and shake her--shake her. She wanted her locked up somewhere and
set to scrubbing floors.
“Beautiful,” she repeated, “and I just came in for a moment.”
“Well, I’m sorry Harry isn’t here.”
They moved toward the door.
“--and, oh,” said Roxanne with an effort--yet her voice was still
gentle and her lips were smiling--“I think it’s Argile’s where you can
get those rompers. Good-by.”
It was not until she had reached the station and bought her ticket to
Marlowe that Roxanne realized it was the first five minutes in six
months that her mind had been off Jeffrey.