Place in the City (23 page)

“Meyer, Meyer,” she crooned, “don't excite yourself about nothing. If you don't want to go nowhere, then I don't want to go nowhere. That's all.”

“All right.” He glared at her; then his expression changed. “I'm sorry, Bessie,” he said.

“For what? For what should you be sorry, Meyer? Is it like we don't understand each other?”

He nodded. She was good to have there, good to look at, solid. Without her, where would he be? Worse than a dog, he considered.

“Something to eat?” she said. At hard moments, she always thought of food, always attempted to fill in with it. Somehow, there was an enduring quality about food. When you ate, you were functioning, living.

“All right,” he nodded.

He heard the pots clanking after she had bustled into the kitchen, and he smiled feebly. He rose awkwardly and followed her; he stood at the door of the kitchen, looking at her.

“Some tea?”

He nodded. It would be nice, he thought, to sit over a cup of tea and talk about the latest murder in the paper. There wasn't much else to do now; but it would be nice.

O
UTSIDE
in the rain, Jessica paused, peered about her as if uncertain of what direction to take, and then took a few steps and stumbled full into the tall, thin figure of O'Lacy. She clung to him to keep herself from falling, then thrust herself away.

“Sure—I'm sorry,” he said.

“Then watch where you're going.”

He shook his head, walked past her, a dismal certain figure that left her trembling and afraid. Where could she go? She had to find Shutzey, speak to him; not that her speaking to him would make any difference. What could she tell him? Call it off now? No, she couldn't call it off now; things happened, and you had to let them go ahead with themselves. Otherwise, you stayed where you were. But at least she could speak to Shutzey and hold his hands, put her arms around him and feel the rubber-like muscles of his back tense and contract. If she loved Shutzey—

Very slowly, she walked along the street, her steps taking no particular direction, and hardly conscious herself of where she was going. The rain was stopping; as it died away the air turned suddenly cool and sweet. Spring showers; they came and then they went away, and afterwards it was as though the air had been sprayed by a gigantic atomizer. Spring and Shutzey;—he had hired a boat, and they were going fishing. He had a boy's unspoiled delight for fishing.

She found herself outside of Shutzey's house. Not the first time she had been in front of it, but she had never been in it. If Shutzey were there—But what did one do? Simply go in and ask, or ring? Would the door be open? Strange thrills of apprehension raced down her spine; just to look at the outside of the house, knowing what was behind the brown walls, was delightfully provoking, nor was the delight entirely erotic. More or less, she could see Shutzey ruling over these women, as over a harem. And that enhanced Shutzey in her eyes. Over them, but not over her.

She went up the stairs and rang the bell, noticing how quiet and discreet it all was, curtained windows with soft lights behind them, nothing to suggest—

The door opened slowly, and a stout woman observed her carefully from head to foot, looked at her, but opened the door no further, nor made any move to let her in.

“What do yu want?”

“Shutzey—he's here, ain't he?”

“Who told yu he wuz here?”

“Oh, I know. I want to see him.”

“Who're you?”

“That doesn't matter. Call Shutzey.”

“Well, he ain't here.”

“Call him,” Jessica snapped. “Don't tell me he ain't here.”

The fat woman smiled. “You take it easy, dearie,” she said, “because he ain't. He was just here, but he ain't here now.”

“Where is he?”

“Maybe you want his personal history, dearie? How do I know where he is. If yu want a job—”

“Go to hell!”

The door slammed in her face. Turning, she went back to the street. She stood a moment, glanced at the house, and then moved away.

After she had gone about a dozen paces, she stopped again. Burning inside, she glared angrily at the house. He would be out of it after this, well out of it, throw them into the street; she felt like going back and hurling her wrath at them; she felt like screaming, like crying—

She cooled slowly, and walked away. If he wasn't there,. where would he be? The rain had stopped, and it was good to walk now. Was she angry? Then what had become of her. anger? What made her wonder what was going on inside of her? Tomorrow, they would go fishing; and it was funny that she had never thought of fishing or cared for it before. She walked on thinking and nodding, the expression of her face changing with each turn of thought. Shutzey in a boat, hauling on a line, the muscles of his forearms tensed and tight. Spray on her hair. Shutzey sitting close to her, attempting to make his fingers delicate, fingering her hair. If she made Shutzey into a gentleman, taught him to speak—with money anything could be accomplished.

She awoke to the fact that she was half-running, and she forced herself to walk slowly. Then she remembered Kraus' saloon, and recalled that Shutzey went there on and off. It was an unofficial headquarters for the whole crowd of pimps and touts and heelers. But if he was there, wouldn't he be angry with her for seeking him out?

That didn't matter. She went to Kraus' saloon. But outside she paused, because she was afraid; all the cold reason in her couldn't stoop to something like this, and in the end it was her passion to see Shutzey that drove her through the swinging doors. Just inside she halted, conscious of all the eyes in the place being fixed upon her, waiting eyes, attempting to place her and waiting for her to make the first move.

She recognized Timy Dolan; the others she didn't know. Timy stood there with a small beer half raised to his lips, eying her curiously, and at the same time attempting to instill a sort of confidence that would bring her to him instead of to the others. Timy thought quickly, recognized her, and wondered that he had never before realized how completely beautiful she was. He nodded, and walked towards her, noticing that she was nervous, and deciding that this was the first time she had ever been inside a saloon.

“How do you do,” Timy said. “Looking for somebody?” Anyway, it was obvious that she was looking for somebody, from the way her eyes darted about, from person to person.

“G'wan, Timy.”

“Don't lose no chances.”

He whirled and shot a finger at them, more to impress her than out of any annoyance their remarks might have given him. “This ain't none of your business! Don't you know a lady—?”

“Can I talk to you?” she asked.

“Certainly—just come back here.” He led her to the back room. The pivoting eyes remained fixed upon her, while she followed self-consciously. She took in all of the back room at a glance, winced at the sodden odor of stale beer. Timy motioned her to a chair, but she remained standing. Then they regarded each other, eye to eye. She puzzled Timy, more because she was Meyer's daughter.

“Lookin' for somebody, ain't you?” he said.

“For Shutzey.”

He started, but managed to preserve his outward calm; from head to foot, his eyes roved over her, rested finally upon her eyes which were hard and slightly contemptuous.

“What do you want him for?” he demanded.

“What?” Then it came to her that Shutzey wasn't here, that she wouldn't see him until it was over, if indeed it were over at all. And very slowly, she began to smile. She sank into a chair and let her smile caress Timy, who drew up a chair next to her.

“No—Shutzey ain't here,” he said. His hand slid out and touched hers, and then her eyes caught his, and he smiled. sheepishly. “Maybe you want a drink?” he suggested.

“No.”

“A beer, maybe?”

She began to laugh at him, a slow calculated laugh that she cut off abruptly. Then she rose and made her way to the door.

“Wait a minute,” Timy said.

Then the door closed, and Timy stood there, staring and fingering a round cheek.

T
HE QUIET
was as long as the night, it seemed.

Once Danny went over to Alice, bent down and kissed her, so tenderly that she simply stared at him with wet eyes, and whispered:

“Danny, Danny.”

“Geesus Christ, how I love you,” he said; and it was quite true, for he had never loved anything so fiercely, so singly as he now loved his wife. They looked at each other, helpless, she not knowing yet what had happened, he wondering how he could explain to her, what effect it would have.

He went over to the window, and looked out. The rain had stopped. The park was dark, faint light glittering on the other side. It was a cool, quiet night, a splendid night.

He turned back to her, glanced over the room, taking in each separate detail of furniture, thinking automatically of where he had bought each piece, of the small arguments they had had about it, and of how in the end Alice's taste had always prevailed over his. Well, he knew that his taste wasn't any good; how could it be when from the beginning it had been like Timy said—out of the gutter? Then he fixed his eyes on the piano, which had been Timy's gift. Twelve hundred dollars it had cost, and Timy paid it and never even mentioned the price. That was like Timy; that was the way Timy did things. Whatever you said about Timy, you had to admit there was nothing cheap about him.

The rug was wrinkled under one of the piano legs, and he bent down and fixed it. Still in that position, he caught Alice's eye; she was staring at him.

He grinned, went over and sat down next to her, taking her hand and fondling it.

“You're such a baby,” she said, very motherly because of the new possession her pregnancy had given her.

He nodded, went on stroking her hand.

“Tell me,” she said.

Then he told her, in a low, unhurried voice, as if he were recounting something that did not concern him in the least. He saw himself as a third person, considering the unjustness of it all from a great distance. When he was through, he let go of her hand and began to fumble for a cigarette.

“That's all,” he said. “Seems like I'm the goat, doesn't it? Maybe I am.”

She was just silent. He had expected her to cry, to take on in one way or another, but it seemed that she had used herself out with the nameless fear that had gripped her all evening. She was silent, staring straight ahead of her, and moving her shoulders with little shrugs. Finally, she remarked:

“Your Timy.”

“Look at all he did for me,” he said helplessly, and repeating Timy's suggestion: “Where would I be now without Timy—just another bum?”

“Yes—you still believe in him.”

“Aw, no—no, I don't, baby. It's not that—I don't know what it is. Maybe he's right. Geesus, I don't know anything any more.”

“And me?”

“Yeah, I was thinking—”

She rose.

“Where are you going, Alice?”

“Nowhere—just inside. I want to be alone for a while—I want to think. I want to—”

“All right,” he protested, “go ahead. Blame me. It's all my fault. Why don't you call me a cheap crook, and be done with it. That's what you're thinking.”

She shook her head, then shrugged. “What difference does it make? You worship him.”

She went into her bedroom; he sat where he was, puffing savagely upon his cigarette. Then he ground it out in an ash-tray. He began to pace back and forth, clenching his hands, rubbing them together, and then stopping all of a sudden to stare at them, as if they were no part of him and he had never seen them before.

“Alice!” he called. When there was no answer, he felt hurt and small, and he sat down again, staring between his legs at the floor. Then he heard her scream.

Paralyzed for a moment, he stayed still. Then he ran into the bedroom. It was dark there, but he could hear her moaning on the bed, just dimly make out her form.

“Don't put on the light!” she cried.

Then it was on, and he almost fainted at what he saw. And she was shaking her head and moaning futilely. Somehow, he got at the phone and called an ambulance. Then he remembered that there was a doctor in the house on the ground floor. He ran in to Alice, tried to tell her, but she lay there with her eyes closed, either faint or dead. He ran out to the elevator and begged the boy to call the doctor. Then back to Alice. Something should be done, but he didn't know what to do; and he made a futile attempt to clean her face with a wet rag. He stood above her, a tragic boy-man, knowing for the first time stark, terrible fear.

He looked at the doctor blankly when he came in; then he pointed to the bed, mute. The doctor took it in with a glance.

“Warm water,” he said. “Get some clean towels. Hurry, man!”

He was glad to have something to do. Water and towels. He brought them into the room, but he couldn't stay there. He went outside and tried not to hear anything at all. He smoked a cigarette, lit another from the end of that, and all the time he regarded very curiously the bloodstains on his hands.

Then the ambulance came. He sat there and nodded his head while they took her away; and after they had gone the doctor was speaking to him. He knew that the doctor was speaking to him, but he had no clear sense of what the doctor was saying. Finally he asked the doctor whether she would die.

“Hardly—modern methods, you know.” The doctor was writing down the name of the hospital on one of his cards. “Better get over there anyway—you know—cheer her.”

“Yes.”

“Damned shame,” the doctor said, “fine girl like that. Mess inside. Better get someone to clean it up—don't go in yourself. You need a drink.”

Danny realized that the doctor might want a drink, too. He poured them out, and they both gulped it. He saw that the doctor was a young man, not much older than he was. He poured two more drinks and then they both felt better.