Double Jeopardy (4 page)

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 Ziegfield 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.