A Swell-Looking Babe (7 page)

Why doesn't she do it? Dusty though angrily. Just do it and get it all over with.

A voice rang in his ears, booming, familiar. Tug Trowbridge's confident, ever-cheerful bellow. It penetrated the chaos of Dusty's mind, clearing his terror-blurred vision.

Tug. It was he who stood at the cashier's window. Now, he stepped back politely, making room for the woman, and called again to the two men:

"Hey, you guys! Been waiting for you"

They looked up. They allowed themselves to discover him. They joined him.

The three of them stood in a semi-circle, only a few feet withdrawn from the cashier's cage. Ringing her in (although no one would have suspected it), while they held inaudible but patently earnest conversation.

She finished paying her bill. She picked up her change awkwardly, and turned away from the wicket. And Tug put an end to the conversation with another bellow.

"Well, that's that," he announced to the lobby at large. "We'll get busy on it right way, and – hey, you lug! Get out of the lady's way, will you?"

The man addressed stepped out of the "lady's" way. They all stepped out of her way, gesturing and murmuring politely.

She stood motionless for a moment Then, head bowed a little, she started toward the taxi entrance. The three men fell in behind her.

They followed her down the steps, and out to the street. They lingered on the walk while she tipped and dismissed the porter. Then…

Heart pounding with relief, his exultation growing again, Dusty moved out into the lobby at last. He stepped over to the front post, with its direct view of the sidewalk, and watched this final and most important step.

Not that he doubted its success. He and Tug had swung the deal this far, and they could swing this. But just how – now was something he hadn't thought through. It was a fearful stumbling block which only Tug knew how to surmount.

She had a cab waiting. It was her cab, called for her by the porter, and her baggage was loaded into it. And if they tried to pile in with her…

They did pile in with her. They almost shoved her inside and climbed in themselves. The door slammed, and the plain black vehicle pulled away from the curb, disappeared in the traffic. And Dusty was puzzled for a moment, but only a moment.

Naturally, the driver hadn't squawked. He was one of Tug's boys. He'd been posted at the entrance in advance, and with a cab already there,-why should the porter have called another one?

Dusty grinned. He turned back around, grinning, and looked straight into Bascom's eyes.

His throat went suddenly dry; his contorted lips felt as stiff as stone. For, obviously, Bascom knew. He had seen it all, and he knew what it was all about. He didn't know why it had happened, perhaps, but he knew what had happened. The fact of his knowledge was spread like a picture over his pale, old face.

"W-well?" Dusty said. And then louder, boldly, "Well?" for something else was spread over the room clerk's face: Terror and x sickness far greater than he, Dusty, had known that night.

"Bill…" Bascom's voice was quaveringly servile. "I – you don't hold any grudge against me, do you, Bill? I know I may have appeared to give you a pretty rough time, but it was only because I-"

"Yeah?." Dusty's grin was back. "What are you driving at?" "I don't want anyone else to suffer for it, Bill. For the way you might feel about me. You wouldn't do that, would you? You wouldn't try to put me on a spot by- by-" Dusty's grin widened. Bascom was scared out of his wits, and he damned well should be. The woman was his responsibility. He'd been flagrantly stupid in ever letting her have a room. Now, if something happened to her – if, through her, the hotel became involved in a scandal – Bascom's name would be mud.

Dusty stared at the clerk. He shrugged contemptuously. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Please, Bill. I know how you feel about me, but-"

"Do you? Well, that's good."

The old man's eyes blazed. Then all the fire went out of them, leaving nothing but lifeless ashes.

"I've got some calls here for you, Bill. I took care of them for you while you were gone."

"Well," said Dusty, ironically. "Well, well. Now, that was certainly thoughtful of you, Mister Bascom!"

He shuffled through the call slips, then glanced at the lobby clock. Yawning, he flicked the slips with a finger, scattering them over the counter, sending some of them down behind the counter. "Save them for the day shift," he said. "I'm about due to knock off."

Dusty could not say what it was about the old man that wrought such a sudden and sharp change in his mood. Perhaps, he admitted glumly, a little guiltily, there was really nothing. Mr. Rhodes had made himself fairly presentable. He looked and talked almost as well as he had in the old days, and for once – for once! – he did not need money. Still, there he was; that he was at all was the trouble. Someone who provided nothing, yet had to be provided for. Someone to be accounted to. Someone who served as a reminder of things that were best forgotten.

Feeling ashamed, Dusty gave the old man five dollars. ("Spend it on anything you want to, Dad.") But the gift, admittedly made for his own sake and not his father's, did nothing to dispel the pangs of conscience. He retired to his room, writhing inwardly, gripped in the black coils of an almost unbearable depression.

He undressed quietly. He turned on the electric fan, and lay back on the bed. He lighted a cigarette… and as the minutes ticked by he continued to light them. One from the butt of another.

The humid summer air moved back and forth across his body. It did not actually cool, but it dried. And always there was more to dry. He thought, forcing himself to think back to the beginning – the only beginning he was aware of – and the perspiration rolled out of his pores, dried under the lazy exhalations of the fan.

… Yes, he remembered. He had been five at the time of the adoption. He knew that they were not actually his parents. But it had been an easy thing to forget. She made it easy, starved as she was for the motherhood she could not naturally achieve.

He was her own-est, dearest baby, Mama's very own darling-est sweetest boy. The days were one long round of petting and coddling, of wild outpourings of affection. She could not do enough for him. She would bathe him over and over, change his clothes a dozen times a day.

The old man – not an old man, then, but much older than she was – had protested mildly. But he never actually interfered. He was very much in love with her, very happy in the status of family man. And it took no more than a few tears or a hurt look from either of them, woman or boy, to silence him immediately.

Only once, to "Dusty's recollection, had his Dad (call him that; he had always called him that) demonstrated anything resembling firmness. That was' when he, Dusty, was about nine. He had insisted that the boy have his own room and his own bed; he simply had to, he declared, and that was that.

But that, as it«turned out, was not that. Mr. Rhodes was away from home a great deal during those days – lecturing in winter, attending college for doctorate credit in summer. And during these absences, his edict was generally ignored.

They would start off to obey, go through all the preliminaries. She would see him to his room, turn on the nightlamp, tuck him under the bedclothes. She would tuck him in very firmly, moving the bedclothes this way and that, adjusting and readjusting the lamp. She would look down at him, primly, her voice faltering a little as she explained why things had to be as they were. "You understand, don't you, darling? Dad's so awfully good to us and he knows what's best, and if he asks us to do something even if it doesn't make any sense – well, we simply must! It's not because Mother doesn't love you any more. She l-loves her boy s-s-so much that… Oh, darling, darling!" – a wail. "I can't! I won't. N-not tonight. Tomorrow but not tonight…"

He liked their bed best. It was larger than his, of course, and he derived a strangely satisfying sense of security from being in it. He did not always feel secure, otherwise, despite the daily demonstrations of her and his father's love. Almost always there was a feeling of unsatisfied want, of something withheld. Of incompleteness. But there with her in the big bed, just the two of them alone, he at last knew absolute safety: the haunting, indefinable hunger was fed. And he wanted for nothing.

He believed he had been about eleven when it happened. It was on a Sunday morning, and she had been awakened early by a rainstorm, and so she had awakened him (not intentionally) with drowsy kisses and hugs. He burrowed close to her. He moved his head, sleepily, feeling an unusual softness and warmth. And suddenly he felt it withdrawn, or, rather, since he did not release his hold, an attempt at withdrawal.

"Bill! Let go, darling!"

"Huh?" He opened his eyes, unwillingly. "What's the matter?"

"Well, you can see, can't you?" – her voice was almost sharp. "I mean, Mother has to fix her nightgown."

She fixed it hastily, blushing. She lay back down, rather stiffly, and then, seeing the innocence of his expression, she drew him close again.

"I'm sorry, darling. Mother didn't mean to sound cross to her baby."

"I'm not your baby," he said, and this time it was he who drew away from her.

"You're -? Oh, well, of course, you're not. Now you're Mother's big boy, her little man."

"I never was your baby," he said.

"B-but, sweetheart" – she raised up on one elbow, looked down troubledly into his face. "Of course, you were my baby. You still are. Has someone – did someone tell you that-"

"I know," he said. "I know what those are for. They're for babies, what Mamas feed babies with, and you never did so I'm not."

"But" – she laughed uncomfortably. A faint crimson was tinging the pale gold of her face, spreading down over her neck and into the deep shadowed hollow of her breasts. "But, sweetheart" – there was a catch to her laugh. "Of course, I did. You just don't remember!"

"No," he said, "I wasn't your baby, so you wouldn't want me to."

"But I would! I mean, I did! When you were a baby, I always – well, I always did!"

He turned his body, turning his back to her. She tried to put her arms around him, and he jerked away roughly.

"Darling! It's true, darling. You don't think Mother would lie, do you?"

He didn't answer her.

"You've g-got to believe me, dearest. You were Always my baby, no one's but mine. Why whose baby would you be if… if…"

He didn't answer her.

"Now listen to me, Bill! I will not let you carry on like this! It's an extremely foolish way for you to act, and… Oh, darling! My poor darling! What can I say to you?"

Silence.

"Darling… honey lamb… Mother wasn't angry a moment ago. She didn't really mind. She wouldn't have minded a bit if you were still a little baby I-like… You understand, don't you, darling?"

"Silence"

"If I… Would it be all right, darling, would you believe me if I – we – If now…?"

"He was still silent, but it was a different kind of silence. Warm, expectant, deliciously shivery. They lay very still for a moment, and then she sat up, and there was the sound of soft silk against silken flesh.

She lay back down. She whispered, "B-baby. Turn around, baby…" And he turned around.

Then, right on the doorstep of the ultimate heaven, the gates clanged shut.

She lay 'perfectly still, breathing evenly. She did not need to push him away, not physically. Her eyes did that. Delicately flushed a moment before, the lovely planes of her face were now an icy white.

"You're a very smart boy, Bill. "

"Am I, Mother?"

"Very. Far ahead of your years. How long have you been planning this?"

"P-planning what, Mother?"

"You had it all figured out, didn't you? Your – poor old Dad, sick and worn out so much of the time. And me, still young and foolish and giddy, and loving you so much that I'd do anything to save you hurt."

"I – you mad at me about somethin', Mother?"

"Stop it! Stop pretending! Don't deceive yourself, Bill. At least be honest with yourself."

"M-Mother. I'm sorry if I -"

"Not nearly as sorry as I am, Bill. Nor as shocked, or frightened…"

She was frightened. And being unable to live with her fear, she tried to deny its existence. It had never happened, she told herself – and she told him. That rainy Sunday morning was a bad dream, or at worst no more than a misunderstanding, exaggerated out of true and innocent proportion by sleep-drugged minds. It had no reality, she said, and should be forgotten completely. And he did forget-almost. His conscious memory forgot.

He was her son. He understood the importance of believing that, and so he believed. And ostensibly – even in the eyes of Mr. Rhodes – there was no change in their relationship. No untoward change. She was still lovingly affectionate with the boy, absorbed in his welfare. He was still mutely adoring in her presence. True, there was no longer any pouting and arguing about Bill's sleeping arrangements. And, true, the caresses exchanged between woman and boy seemed considerably less fervent. But that, those things, were as they should be. Bill was growing up. Naturally he was pulling away from his mother's apron strings.

Dusty rolled restlessly on the bed, still thinking. His disinterest in girls, his "lack of time" for them: was she the reason? She was. He admitted it now. She had been the woman, the only one. Until he met her counterpart, in Marcia Hillis, there could be no other.

So the years passed, and everything was forgotten. As far as it is within human capacity to forget. Mr. Rhodes remained active, but his health was failing. Their concern for him, and the necessity to take care of him, drew the two well members of the family closer and closer together.

There were long, almost nightly discussions in the living room after the old man had retired. Conferences held in whispers, lights dimmed, so as not to disturb him. There were cups of coffee shared, and cigarettes passed back and forth. There was an intimacy of silences and sighs. Occasionally there were tears, with Dusty soothing her, drawing her head against his shoulder and stroking the thick lustrous gray hair.

All the awkwardness between them disappeared. The bond of trust and interdependence strengthened. Some nights she fell asleep, and he carried her up to her room… a room no longer shared with her husband.

The first night it happened, she had waked up. She kept her eyes closed but he knew she was awake, and for a terrible moment he was afraid she might scream or strike out at him. Still, since there was nothing to do hut go ahead he went ahead, slipping off her robe, laying the thin-gowned body between the covers and carefully tucking them around its curving richness. Then, very gently, he had given her a chaste kiss on the forehead. And started to tiptoe from the room.

So I knew what I was 'doing. What of it? Was I supposed to make myself look like a heel?

She whispered, "Bill…" and he went back. She stretched out her

arms, and he went down on his knees at her bedside, and the arms

locked around him. "Bill, my darling Bill…" Her lips moved over his face. "How could I ever have – what would I ever do without you? You've been so good, so wonderful!"

"You're pretty wonderful yourself," he said. "And now you're going to sleep. Right now, young lady, understand?"… With superhuman effort, he forced himself to disengage her arms, to stand up and walk out of the room. It left him unnerved, sleepless throughout the night, but it proved worthwhile. The last shred of her caution was struck away. Carrying her to her room became an almost nightly happening, even when she did not fall asleep. She would demand it, playfully, moving drowsily into his embrace. "Soo tired, Bill. Help the old sleepy-head upstairs, hmm…?"

Her weariness was not pretended, he knew. She had worried herself into exhaustion, and the long years of sexual starvation, or near starvation, had robbed her of vitality. Now, at last, she had someone to lean upon, someone who loved as unselfishly as she. So she leaned willingly, anxiously.

The Free Speech petition… well, the old man had reacted exactly as he thought he would about that. He wasn't sure that he hadn't signed. In any event, he would not deny that he had and thus indirectly damn a cause he had believed in. He had stood pat, and, of course, the school board had promptly booted him out of his job. And with his failing health, the blow was almost fatal.

But, no. NO – Dusty almost shouted the word. That wasn't the way it was. It had worked out that way, but he hadn't planned it. A street-corner solicitor had offered him the petition, and he had signed it… without even thinking of the consequences. He had signed it simply William Bryant Rhodes, because there had not been enough space to add the Jr. (That was the only reason.) And he definitely had not faked his father's signature. Dad had taught him how to write. It was only natural that their signatures should be very similar.

She had been almost hysterical that night. She had been denied so much, real motherhood, real wifehood; she had had so little, and now that little – the modest security – had been lost. She was frightened; she was bewildered. In the dimly lit living-room, she lay sobbing in Dusty's arms, weeping and clinging to him like a lost child. Slowly drawing strength from his strength, reassurance from his softly whispered words.

She sniffled, and began to smile. He held a handkerchief to her nose and she blew obediently.

"J-just look at me," she smiled tremulously. "What a big crybaby!"

"My baby," he said. "My little baby. And you just cry all you want to."