Crazy Cock (17 page)

It was almost a half hour later when the two of them reappeared.

“Well, how do I look?” said Vanya.

“Fierce! Simply fierce! Where in Christ's name did you get that hat?”

“Well, you wanted me to look respectable, didn't you?”

They hailed a cab. When they were within a block of their destination they stopped the cab and got out.

“Listen, Hildred, get her looking like something, will you?” he begged.

Hildred giggled. They were standing in front of a funeral parlor.

“This is no joke, Hildred. Christ, she looks like Bert Savoy.”

They stood in front of the show window in which there was a beautiful satin-lined casket and worked over Vanya. But it was no use. “Give me that hat,” he said, and when Vanya meekly surrendered it to him he crumpled it up and threw it in the gutter. “That's that!” he said. “Now come on . . . and look sad.”

H
IS MOTHER
answered the doorbell. The smile which she had ready for them faded the instant she glimpsed Vanya. The old gent was cordial, though the glance he gave his son was enough to say, “Was it necessary to pull this off today?”
Hildred, in her characteristically frantic manner, began telling the folks immediately what a genius her friend Vanya was, how wealthy her parents were, how famously they got along together, and more twaddle that made Tony Bring shudder inwardly. He tried desperately to catch her eye, but she rattled on like an infant, absolutely indifferent, or else oblivious, to the impression she was making. There was a tense moment or two when Tony Bring's sister was introduced. No one knew exactly what was wrong with Babette. She was only a few years younger than her brother, but she had the mentality of a child of eight. She suffered besides from a strange nervous affliction: her limbs moved uncontrollably, her head would jerk from side to side as she talked and then droop down on her bosom. She had a way of prattling on interminably, switching rapidly from one subject to another without the least continuity, and she would go on like that until she was ordered to stop. No sooner was she introduced to Vanya, for instance, than she began to stuff the latter with a meticulous drivel about the affairs of the church; she related with marvelous facility and swiftness how wonderfully the choir had sung that morning and what the minister had said about the spirit of Christmas—how we should all love one another, not only on this day, but every day in the year. Suddenly she turned to her brother and, fixing him with a half-silly, half-reproachful smile, she exclaimed: “You should have been here this morning, Tony. I was thinking of you all the time. When did you get to bed last night? Did you buy a tree? He's a lovely man, our pastor. . . .”

“That's enough!” said the old gent, and Babette ceased instantly, though her head continued to roll loosely and then suddenly sank forward and rested on her bosom.

During the course of the meal it grew dark and they were obliged to light the tree. An eerie, sanctimonious glow flooded the table. Vanya and Hildred enjoyed the food enormously, expressing a regret however that there was not some good Rhine wine to wash it down. After the third course Hildred broke the ice by lighting a cigarette; Vanya, to the astonishment of all, fished out a bag of Bull Durham and rolled her own. Here Babette was moved to remark that
ladies
never smoked—at any rate,
she
never smoked, whereupon everyone, including her mother, burst out laughing. This spontaneous outburst precipitated an animated discussion. They detailed the latest marriages and births in the family, described the lovely funerals they had been to, reviewed the drink question, quoted the price of turkeys, spoke of the responsibilities weighing upon the President's shoulders and the speeches they had listened to over the radio; remarked that the Prince of Wales was a poor orator, likewise General Pershing. Babette got in a word or two now and then apropos the good work the church was doing. The old gent dwelt on the sad condition of business throughout the country. Finally they wanted to know what sort of pictures Vanya painted, whether she painted landscapes—because Mother didn't like the cows and sheep they had hanging in the parlor upstairs. It was explained that the old gent had bought them off a bartender one day, when he was in his cups, and he had paid a good price for them. Mother had an idea that Vanya's things might be more pleasant.

Hildred commenced to titter.

“I'll tell you, Mother,” said Tony Bring, trying to hide his embarrassment, “I'm afraid you wouldn't care much for Vanya's paintings.”

“Why, aren't they nice?”

“Oh, they're nice, sure . . . they're fine, but they're not the sort of pictures that would appeal to you.”

The old man broke in. He understood quite well what Tony had in mind. Vanya was probably a
modern
. He turned to his wife—“You know those crazy things we saw in Loeser's last year . . . that's what she does most likely. Isn't that so, Tony?”

The latter looked at Vanya, who very charmingly took it into her head to toss a nod of acquiescence. The old man was quite pleased with his critical discernment.

“No rhyme nor reason to it . . . isn't that it?” he added.

“That's it, Father,” Hildred chirped up. “They're all a little cracked. My friend Vanya, she's cracked too. . . .” She couldn't say any more because the idea had struck her as so amusing that she was growing hysterical. Tony Bring meanwhile was cursing her under his breath. It was such a good joke that everyone grew embarrassed over it. He was extremely relieved when Vanya, who by some miracle had attained to an amazing sense of discretion, switched the conversation to another topic. Life in the far West! Ah, how glorious it was! A gallop to the lake every morning, at dawn, a plunge into the icy waters, a meal outdoors over a wood fire. . . . (Nothing about the cult of the nude, thank God!) Satisfied with the effect she was producing, Vanya rambled on. She told them of her wanderings through Mexico and Central America, described for them in a language slightly mystifying the art and the customs of these far-off places.

“But weren't you afraid to travel about like that, all alone?” It was Tony Bring's mother who asked this.

His father spoke up instantly. “What?” he exclaimed.
“She
afraid? Why, she's just like a man, can't you see that?” He beamed at Vanya indulgently, as if he had just paid her a
mark of the highest esteem. Hildred was on the point of breaking out again, but Vanya forestalled her.

And then Tony Bring spoke up too. “Yes, Mother,” he said, “it was a fine, healthy life she lived out there. You can see what a wonderful constitution she has.” Whereupon Vanya was subjected to a general scrutiny, quite like a picture which has escaped everybody's attention until suddenly some enterprising person points out its merits.

At this point Tony Bring's mother asked an embarrassing question. She wanted to know what they were doing to earn a living, and particularly whether Tony was doing anything. Hildred at once became serious. Tony had his book to finish, and after that—well, after that, she felt that they would be through with their worries.

“I think you're all a little daffy,” said Tony Bring's mother. “I've been hearing about this book business for the last three years. How do you know he will get any money for it? There are so many writers already, and most of them are starving. I think he ought to look for a job. It's a disgrace to be slaving for him all the time. Why, you'll be an old woman before he's recognized.”

“That's enough of that,” said the old gent. “Mother always sees the gloomy side of things. Let's talk about something more cheerful. . . . How did you enjoy Christmas Eve? Did you go to the theater?”

Vanya and Hildred looked sheepish. It was left to Tony Bring to explain the wonderful time they had had.

Babette wanted to know if they had bought a tree. And how much did they pay for it? “We paid a dollar and a quarter for ours,” she said. She told them where they could buy trimmings for the tree next year—very cheap.

Hildred invented a long yarn about the tree which they had
not bought. The folks listened with an absorbed air. Far more interesting, this yarn about the Christmas tree, than the tales which Vanya had spun about Mexico and Central America where the idols were hidden in the depths of the forests, and where the
chicleros
roamed with their machetes, gathering gum for the Wrigley Chewing Gum Corporation.

Toward evening they rose from the table, and while Babette helped her mother wash the dishes, Tony Bring seated himself in a rocker and gave ear to the old gent. The latter had grown pensive; he nestled back in his morris chair, his head propped up on one elbow, and mused aloud on the sad state of affairs in the financial world. He had lost the old animation which had endeared him to his barroom companions. It was fifteen years now since he had sworn off; whenever he referred to this turning point in his life it was with a note of mournful resignation, as if he had made a great blunder, for ever since that memorable day things had simply gone to the devil with him. One by one his customers were dying off, and no new ones appearing to take their places. The small fry, such as himself, were gradually being ousted by the big fellows, who in turn were forming still larger combinations. Everyone seemed to be hard up; some of his customers hadn't bought anything for the last five years. It were far better, said the old man, if people were to acquire the habit of spending money instead of saving it. It was one of those
bad
Christmases again.

As Tony Bring listened, it appeared to him that the old man was lapsing into senility. The old fire and sparkle was gone; he was just a shell filled with a hollow, plaintive murmur. Subdued and placid, the old man lay back in his armchair, baffled and paralyzed by the devastating march of events. He bemoaned the passing of the good old days, the passing of a
generation whose customs and virtues he understood and respected. Once, for a brief spell, he had turned to religion, but the church, with its empty promises and its sad faces, proved even less hopeful than the Republican Party.

In the midst of these dreary speculations Hildred and Vanya had fallen asleep on the couch. Drugged by the meal, which they had devoured gluttonously, they rolled up like two cats and fell into a deep slumber. Tony Bring apologized for them by saying that they had been working very hard of late.

After a time his mother reappeared. She drew up a rocker, and folding her hands peacefully over her stomach, prepared herself for the enjoyment of a quiet little nap. But before dozing off she could not refrain from passing a few remarks. “You're not leading the right sort of life,” she said. “It isn't fair to let Hildred work like that. You ought to be making something of yourself now.” He had to listen all over again while she told him how futile it was to expect anything from his writing.
Scribbling
, she called it. “You were doing so well once. . . . Now you're leading a loafer's life, you drift from one thing to another, you have no money, nothing . . . nothing. You're going to regret it someday. And when we're gone what's going to become of Babette? Don't you ever think of her? Don't you ever think about the future?”

“Of course I do, Mother,” Tony Bring answered. “But . . .”

“But!
That's just it . . . always
but!”

“But Mother, listen to me. . . .”

She put her hand up wearily. It was useless to try to deceive her. He might deceive himself, if he chose, but she was too old to be taken in by this nonsense of his. Babette listened to her mother with grave, round eyes that tortured him. Poor Babette, he thought, what will I ever do with her?

Meanwhile his father had dropped off to sleep. The bald head hung loosely from its bony hinge, the mouth had fallen open and remained thus, with that peculiar rigidity as of death. A few gray hairs which had formed a fringe above the large ears stuck out in thin wisps. Like a mummy, said Tony Bring to himself. Just like a mummy, with real hair and skin drawn tautly over the bones. . . .

The bell rang. It was a neighbor calling to see what a fine tree they had. Every now and then, in the course of a decidedly erratic conversation, he introduced the subject of Cain and Abel. But no one evinced the least concern in Cain and Abel. They would deliberately veer the conversation around to the Christmas tree, and put the glittering ornaments in his hand. He stayed but a few minutes, and then, so it seemed to Tony Bring, they deliberately ushered him out. In the vestibule, as he was being pushed toward the door, he stopped a minute and said good-bye again to Tony Bring. He wished him a very merry Christmas—and then, as if he were casually asking for directions to the subway, he inquired if the latter had any idea where the land of Nod might be.

“My son doesn't read the Bible,” said Tony Bring's mother, and taking the man's hand, she shook it vigorously and opened the gate. When he was gone she explained that the poor man had lost his wife and child recently.

“He's religious,” said Babette.

W
HETHER IT
was the result of the nap or the consoling reflection that he had narrowly escaped such a sad fate himself, at any rate, the old man suddenly came to and began to display some of his old verve. Bringing out a Berlitz primer, he explained to his son that he was studying French. It was a
very handy thing to know, as he put it. He could say, in French, “How do you do,” “How are things going with you,” or “Take me to the Gare St. Lazare, I'm in a hurry.” They were useful little expressions to have up one's sleeve in case one should ever go to France. What puzzled him were words like
fut
. He could never decide whether to pronounce it
foot
or
fee
.

“I wouldn't let those things disturb me, Father,” said Tony Bring. “You'll probably never get to France anyway.”