The Bird’s Nest (18 page)

“Name?”

“Richmond. Elizabeth Richmond. Or maybe Elizabeth Jones.”

“Make up your mind, which.”

“She'd be up there now, getting ready; we were going to have a party because it's her birthday.”

“No noise allowed after ten
P.M.
No parties any time.”

“Just for our birthday celebration. Just my mother and me and I'm going to buy her a necklace.”

“No parties here. Try somewhere else.”

“But my mother—”

“Try over across the way.”

She went out proudly, because she was ashamed at having been misled into talking to strangers about her mother and giving both these people her mother's name; what would the man on the ledge think of her if he knew she was going around telling people where her mother lived? Here she was, so close to her mother, and she could have spoiled it all right then by telling the fish; “I beg your pardon,” she said, and took the arm of a lady passing by, “you're not my mother, are you?”

“Well,
really,
” said the lady, and then laughed. “Your error,” she said. “Excuse it, please.”

“Richmond,” she said. “Elizabeth Richmond.”

The woman turned, and scowled. “Her calls herself Lili?” she demanded. “Lili?”

“Maybe.” Betsy tried to draw away, but the woman held her tight. “If that's your mother, young lady,” she said, “and I'm not saying it
isn't,
you're the one to know, after all, but if
that's
your
mother,
I'd be ashamed to say so, and that's final.”

“Richmond,” Betsy said.

The woman nodded, keeping hold of Betsy's arm. “And that's the one,” she said, nodding, “and I'd be ashamed if it wasn't that
I
had nothing to be ashamed of in all of it, and doing my share and pulling my weight and here all the time he was after
her,
see? And coming to me with a straight face, and me not even knowing, what I mean, unless you got a suspicious turn of mind you don't
think
about that kind of thing.”

“Robin,” Betsy said. “I already know about Robin.”

“Another one, is it? But of course sooner or later they're going to find out, what I mean. What I mean,
some
thing's going to happen, you can't stay a dope forever. So when he came to me there I was and he said hello same as usual and me—what I mean, I wasn't letting on at first, see?—I said hello and then he says what's wrong and I don't answer and he says it again, like this, ‘Hey, what's wrong?' and then, what I mean, I let him have it. You think I'm a dope, I said to him, you think I'm going to stand for this thing forever, you think I'm going to wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and you after
her
all the time? It isn't the money, I told him straight out, it isn't the money—”

“It was Robin,” Betsy cried out, pushing against the woman, “it wasn't anybody except Robin, I
know.
”

“Maybe you
do
know, too,” said the woman with hatred, holding Betsy off to look at her, “maybe you
do
know all about it, and I for one wouldn't be surprised, being well aware that I was the
last
to know, so he says what are you talking about—innocent, see?—and I said how long you think I'm going to wait and wait and wait and wait and wait for
you?
People are talking already, I said, and I guess I'm the last to know. You think I'm crazy? I asked him right out. So then don't you think he had the gall to admit it? And
tell
me? I was so mad I couldn't even
cry
and me, I cry when I'm mad, whenever I'm real mad I can't help it, you know what I mean? And so he says she's nice. What do you mean, I ask him, nice? You mean nice? What's a nice girl got to do with you? I asked him right out.”

“Not Robin,” Betsy said forlornly. “I'm a nice girl, aren't I?” She caught her breath and said tightly, “You wouldn't let me go around Robin again?”

“Carnal,” the woman said with satisfaction. “Carnal desires, and that's what you call
nice!
And, what I mean, can you take that kind of thing forever? So I came right out with it and I told him, either her or me, I said, and you can make up your mind while I stand right here waiting, either her or me. I mean I wasn't going to make any kind of a fuss, if he wanted her, she was what he got, and if he wanted me, all he had to do was prove it. So I came right out with it, see, I never liked beating around the bush and I wasn't going to give him any satisfaction, see, and any chance to say I tried to hold him when he wanted to go, you know, if he wanted to waste his carnal desires with her he could go ahead with my blessing. Because it had gotten to that point, see, where it was either her or me.”

“Where is she?” said Betsy.

“Halfway down the block. See that light, there? Likely,” said the woman, whom Betsy now perceived to be Aunt Morgen, “you'll find them together.”

 • • •

Now, she thought, striding greatly down the street, now I am really very angry with this mother of mine, hiding away with Robin and trying to keep me from finding Robin all this time, and all I ever wanted was to be happy and it was lucky Aunt Morgen happened to tell me, because otherwise they'd just keep on getting away with it, and pretending it was her birthday all the time. No fish here, she noticed, coming up the low step which compensated for itself by going immediately down again; lucky for
them;
“I want my mother, please,” she said to the man at the desk just inside. “They'll be trying to hide.”

“Your
mother?
”

“They probably haven't been here very long. They wanted to be all by themselves, and hide. But she's my mother.”

The man at the desk smiled. “The rose room?” he suggested significantly.

“Yes,” said Betsy, “the rose room.”

“Miss Williams,” said the man, leaning back in his chair to speak to the girl at the telephone switchboard. “Anyone in, in
372
?”

“I'll check, Mr. Arden. That would be our rose room?”

“I believe so, Miss Williams. This young lady is inquiring.”

“Number
372
is busy, Mr. Arden. There must be someone there, since they're using the phone. In our rose room, Mr. Arden.”

“The rose room,” said Mr. Arden tenderly. “Miss Williams, did the management send up champagne?”

“I'll check, Mr. Arden. Champagne and a rose corsage. Compliments and congratulations. This morning, Mr. Arden.”

“Splendid, Miss Williams. And now this young lady is inquiring.” He turned and smiled on Betsy. “A little ceremony,” he explained. “Compliments of the establishment. The . . .” he hesitated. “The
personal
touch,” he said, and blushed visibly.

“Can I go right there?” Betsy asked.

“Are you expected?” he asked in return, raising his eyebrows.

“Of course,” Betsy said. “They're waiting for me.”

“Well,” said Mr. Arden, and turned one hand eloquently. “Are you
sure?
”

“Of course,” said Betsy. “And I'm late now.”

Mr. Arden bowed. “Miss Williams,” he said, “take the young lady up to our rose room.”

“Certainly, Mr. Arden. Will you come with me, please, miss?”

There were no fish painted on the walls of the elevator and that was a very
very
good sign, and the walls upstairs were pale green and not at all like sea water, even though pale green was a color for deepness and going down and losing and fading and sinking and failing; “Our rose room is very popular,” Miss Williams said walking softly as they left the elevator. “The management
invariably
sends up champagne and a corsage of roses for the bride. Compliments of the hotel, of course. Such a charming custom.”

“They'd be wanting to hide,” Betsy said.

“Right down here. Last room on the left. Privacy, you know.” Miss Williams giggled, but very softly.

“Here?”

“No, no,” said Miss Williams. “Let
me
knock, if you please.” She giggled again. “Always knock
twice
on the door of our rose room,” she said, and giggled.

“Someone said to come in,” Betsy said.

“Good evening,” Miss Williams said, opening the door. “Here's a young lady you were waiting for, Mr. Harris.”

“Good evening, Betsy,” said Robin, grinning hideously from across the room.

“No, no,” said Betsy, stumbling back against Miss Williams, “not
this
one, not Robin again?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Miss Williams, staring, “I
beg
your
pardon?
”

“I won't let you, not ever any more,” Betsy said to Robin, “and neither will my mother.” She turned and struggled violently past Miss Williams in the doorway, broke free, and ran. “I'm
terribly
sorry, Mr. Harris,” Miss Williams said behind her, “in our rose room . . . I didn't dream . . .”

“It's perfectly all right,” he said. “A mistake of some kind.”

And she could hear him after her, down the hall and down the stairs, praying not to stumble, not Robin again, it wasn't fair, not after all she'd done, not after all she'd tried, not Robin again, it wasn't fair, no one could do
that
again, praying to move quickly enough, to be safely out of it and away before he could touch her, to be safely out of it; “Robin,” she said, “Robin darling, call me Lisbeth, Lisbeth”; was he following? To be out of the light and invisible, to be easily around the corner and gone, to lose him long behind . . . was he below? In the doorway? Waiting grinning with his arms wide to catch her, could she go any faster? There was the end of the stairway ahead, and the door leading out, and she threw herself against the opening and it opened and there he was, as always, waiting for her always, and she said “No, no more,
please,
” and went under his hand and sobbed and hurried for the door; “Thief,” someone called in a loud voice, and someone else cried, “Help?” and beside her she heard him laughing as she hurried and she put her arms up to hide her face and ran and nearly stumbled on the low low step which went up and down; there were lights, and she opened her eyes a little and never dared to look behind her because she heard him coming.

“Robin,” she said, “Robin, call me Lisbeth, Lisbeth, call me Lisbeth, Robin darling, call me Lisbeth.” And fell, and fell, and could not be caught, and fell.

 • • •

She was in the hotel room, and trying to pack into her suitcase what fragments of clothing seemed worth taking with her. She had ripped and torn at the clothes and the curtains and the bedpillows because she was angry, but now she had the pocketbook and the key, and felt only a pressing need for hurry, because—and she knew clearly where her great danger lay—Betsy might come back at any moment. It was on the desk, among the broken pens and spilled ink, that she discovered the highly important paper which she knew was to be hidden among her things and delivered to someone as yet unidentified. Although she did not understand how anything of vast importance could be written on such a tiny slip, she knew perfectly that it must not fall into Betsy's hands; she had the swift impression that it was an artificially valuable thing, like the thimble in hide-the-thimble or the handkerchief in drop-the-handkerchief, of value only so long as the game went on, and then of interest to no one. Besides, she could not read it. It resembled the hundreds of small papers which come into people's hands every day, enclosed in packages of laundry, for instance, recommending dry-cleaning of curtains for the spring, or the labels which certify that Easter eggs are pure, or the slip of paper enclosed in the theatre program pointing out that there was an inadvertent mistake on page twelve, where Miss Somebody's name had been mistakenly rendered as Miss Something Else; at any rate, she could not read it.

She had no idea who had written it, or why, or who it was supposed to be given to, or how, or when, but she put it into her pocketbook anyway, since if Betsy was not to see it that in itself was sufficient reason for her to conceal it and make every effort to see that it was properly delivered. She wasted precious time attempting to read it, and, puzzling, could only decide that it seemed to contain numbers of some kind, and words which, while clear and distinct to any passing glance, turned into meaningless markings when she brought it close enough to read. Because she was so sure of its desperate importance she decided to pin the paper into the money in her wallet; she knew she would not take out a bill to pay for candy or magazines or the taxi to the bus station without considering very carefully, and so ran no chance of losing the little paper.

There was not much she could find to put in her suitcase. It was irritating to reflect that if Betsy had been sensible and given up the key without trouble none of this would have happened and her good clothes, which, after all, cost money, need not have been ruined, but Betsy was a dangerous, scheming girl, and was, besides, a wastrel; consider, for one thing, this hotel room, which must surely have been an unnecessary expense and would have to be paid for with other people's money. She badly wanted to be paid up and out of the hotel before the hotel people found out about the damage to the room; it had been Betsy's fault, after all, and they would almost certainly expect her to pay as well for the mirror which Betsy had broken.

When she had packed the suitcase with everything she thought could be mended, or patched together, or used for something else, she snapped the suitcase shut and stood up to look around the room for anything she might have overlooked. Then, moving quickly, she slipped into her coat and took up her pocketbook and the suitcase. Then she stopped and stood perfectly still; Betsy was coming back.