The Collected Stories of William Humphrey (17 page)

“Rachel,” he said, and at once all his defenses, his anxieties, his sham fell from him, leaving him frightened, deflated, almost physically smaller, but for a moment relieved, “Rachel, without you what would ever become of me?”

“There, there,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his mustache and stroking the nape of his neck, “don't you even think of it.”

She helped him unbutton her, then as she unbuttoned him she smiled to think, without any spite or feeling of triumph, that her Jewish looks were just what he loved—it was, despite him, poor dear, his style of beauty.

The slight chill of the room only excited them further.

They were getting into bed when there came a knock at the door. They looked at each other and silently agreed to make no sound. The knock came again. Still they made no sound. The fourth time they gave up.

Only Homer Austin could be that persistent. He knew that the Ruggles were always at home. Besides, only Homer ever came to see them. Only Homer could be sure to be so ill-timed.

Homer's certainty that he would always find them there and that he was always welcome annoyed James. Today it infuriated him. Scantily dressed, he stood at the door with his hands on his hips and demanded, “Who is it?”

“It's me,” said the voice; the tone was: Who else?

“Who is me?”

The door opened and Homer peeped in. “I was just passing by …”

“On your way to the city dump?”

Homer laughed and came in. Since no one ever seemed glad to see him he did not notice that James was not. He said:

“So the Gallery has expelled you. Art is now the tool of the artist class.”

Homer watched eagerly for every sign of the imminent death of art, individual freedom, human values. His mind was filled with anticipations of persecution. He was ready to go underground any day, though with no hope that he would not very soon be caught and shot, or buried in a prison. He bestowed on James Ruggles, as his friend, the distinction of being the second victim after him of the coming totalitarianism. Occasionally this view of him suited James's own mood.

So far as James was concerned, Homer's radicalism, indeed all radicalism, was nothing but a defense. Since Homer couldn't fit into society, he damned sure wasn't going to. But James enjoyed the flow of Homer's political jargon. He did not want to see society done over—the very notion seemed comical to him—but he loved to hear its condition criticized. As James in one of his lucid moments had said, he and Homer ate sour grapes together.

Today, however, James was in no mood to have his misfortunes treated as incidents in a general disaster.

“Of course,” said Homer, beginning to relax into his chair and clasping his hands behind his head, “of course you can't blame the men personally. It's the age. They merely manifest the decay of mutual aid and the general vulgarization of taste that has followed the dissolution of the Left.”

“Can't blame them personally! Listen,” said James, “I'm not so broad-minded as I like to seem. When I think of David Peterson with his Brooks Brothers suits and sturgeon on his table!”

“You can have all that,” said Homer. “All you have to do is paint pictures that make you sick at your stomach. Of course, then you get ulcers and your sturgeon doesn't do you any good. You see, in a society like this you're beat any way you turn. Maybe you think David Peterson is a happy man? He'd change places with you in a minute.”

“And Carl Robbins,” said James. “Did you see that new Buick? I remember him when he didn't have a sole to his shoe. Did you see that Buick?”

“Yes, and someday he'll kill himself in it driving drunk. Not that he won't be better off. Alcoholism, ulcers, hypertension—that's the price you pay. The wages of sin. Or the wages of virtue—they get you either way.”

Rachel came in from behind the screen doing her hair into a bun. With a tender look at James, she said she was going down to the mailbox.

“Well,” said Homer, “let me tell you …”

“No,” said James, “let me tell you.” He got up and paced down the room and back. “Do you know why they want to get rid of me? They're afraid. The only reason for hating anybody is because you're afraid of him. And it's not me so much as what I stand for in their minds. They live in terror of anything new. They're afraid of young men coming up.”

Suddenly, as he was getting his breath and about to go on, it stole over James that he had been saying that for a good while. He thought of Robbins, Peterson, Fraleigh. He had come to Redmond only a little later than they. It struck him for the first time that they were not much if any older than he; the difference was that they had arrived.

He had to sit. Homer went on talking. For the first time James began assigning the actual dates to the events of his life. He realized that 1919, 1925, even 1937 were no longer just a little while ago, no longer in the last decade. “One of the young Redmond painters,” he called himself. It must have been sounding mighty foolish for quite a while now.

Gradually, without the loss of any of its poignance, the humor of it began to appeal to him. He did not mind sounding foolish so long as he was aware of it. In fact, then he enjoyed it.

“As I was saying,” he brought himself back. His mustache assumed an amused tilt. “As I was saying, young men have to live, too.” He waited for Homer to reveal that he saw the humor in this. Had Homer seen through him at that moment James would have been delighted with him. Homer merely arched his brows and nodded his head wearily. Homer, James decided, still thought of himself as a young man.

The door flew open and Rachel scrambled in. She caught herself up, tried to appear controlled, hoping to spring a surprise, but her excitement was too much for her. Flushed with her secret, she stood trying to build up James's suspense. But she was the one who could not stand the suspense. She thrust a letter at him. “From the Gallery,” she gasped.

Hope and suspicion mingled in his face. But Rachel's certainty and enthusiasm decided him. They had changed their minds, were writing to beg his pardon. Phrases from the letter raced already through his mind: “a grievous mistake … a hasty faction … by no means representative … forgive any anxiety … an ugly misunderstanding.…” He had ripped open the envelope, when he stopped abruptly. He gaped at it. His face went blank, then filled with disgust. He handed the envelope slowly back to Rachel.

She stared fully a minute at it before it began to dawn on her—the letter was addressed to her. Still she could not believe it. She was sure she had read it three or four times coming back from the mailbox; it had read, “James Finley Ruggles.” It seemed she had even read the letter it contained, begging James to forgive them. She gave an embarrassed little laugh. She drew out the letter.

She unfolded it and lifted out a narrow strip of yellow paper. “It's a check,” she whispered. “For five hundred dollars!”

“Dear Miss Ravich, we take great pleasure in informing you that your picture
Mother and Child
has won …” She stole a glance at James.

He was stunned. The thing he could not grasp was that the time had rolled around for the awarding of the prizes. He had waited, convinced each day that the Gallery Board would appear in a body to tell him that he had been accepted. He had not realized that the time was past for any possibility for that. Of course he had submitted a picture; he had never been able to believe they would really exclude him.

Rachel found herself spun around by her shoulders. “This is wonderful!” cried Homer. There were tears of joy in his eyes. “Rachel, wonderful! I'm so proud of you!”

“Yes,” said James in an unsteady voice, “congratulations,” and he got up and walked out of the house.

Breakfast the next morning was hardly finished when James said, “I'll do the dishes,” though he did not stir from his chair.

“What!” cried Rachel. It was the last thing he might have been expected to say. Not since Rachel had known him had he ever offered to dry a cup. He scorned men who shared their women's work, and Rachel agreed with him.

“I said I'll do the dishes. I'll do all the housework from now on. It's only right. You must paint. You're a success now. You mustn't let your public down.”

Rachel winced at every word. He went on, disregarding the plea on her face. “Move my easel and put yours under the north light. And use my brushes. Yours are getting pretty worn down for a famous painter.” (They were pretty well worn when he passed them on to her.) “Yes, you'll have no time for housework from now on. If you keep on like this, though, maybe we can have a maid, and let me get a little painting done, just for the sake of amusement.”

“I've been thinking,” she said timidly, “of giving up painting altogether.”

“What!” He was infuriated at her thinking her success hurt him. “Have you gone out of your mind?”

So, although he had no intention of doing the housework, he gave her no peace until she left it off. He sent her in to paint. He squeezed out her colors for her—generous gobs of each, and sat her in front of a canvas of terrifying dimensions. “Now paint!” he commanded.

Of all James Ruggles' irritations the worst had always been the notion of women painting. And more of them were taking it up every day. It was getting so any self-respecting man was ashamed to go in for it.

He went to see how Rachel's picture was coming. The canvas was blank. “You'll never get anywhere that way,” he said.

By noon she still had done nothing. He gave her about ten minutes to finish her lunch, insisted that she leave the dishes and sent her back to the studio. By this time his feelings were mixed. He had come to want her to paint. Visions of the money she would bring him filled his mind. He could see himself painting all day on the Riviera, in Mexico, on some tropic island. Her painting was only woman's painting anyway. If it could bring in money for him to do serious painting then he had the laugh.

James Ruggles had strict theories on the proper way for women to paint—if paint they must. There was a time when he began to detect the influence of his own work on Rachel's. He took her to museums and stood her in front of pictures in sweet fuzzy colors of plump girls and pretty children. That, he told her, was the way for her to paint, that was woman's painting. She never doubted him; she was grateful to him for setting her right. He tried now to enjoy the irony of this, but he was forced to admit his vexation.

In the middle of the afternoon he startled her by asking how she meant to spend the money.

She came into the kitchen looking puzzled and pained. “Why, James,” she said, “I hadn't thought about it. Of course there are a good many things we need. I thought we might talk it over and decide. I thought we …”

“We?”

“Oh, I wish I'd never seen that check!” she cried. “I'll send it back!” she whispered in a shaky voice. “I'll refuse it. We were so happy before it came. Oh, James!”

“Just think of the things you can buy yourself that I never got you,” he said. “Vacuum cleaner, electric washer, television set. You could get a Persian lamb coat and look like a real
yenta
.” And he went on like this all afternoon, growing more bitter and outlandish.

As they sat down to supper, “It seems to me,” he said, “that this calls for a celebration. We have to throw a party.”

Even in her present state of torment, the word “party” could not help but bring a smile to Rachel's lips. The storm was over, she thought; this was his way of making up. But the smile which lingered on his lips, even she could see, was unmistakably sardonic. A shudder of apprehension ran down her spine.

The first guests to arrive were the Sam Morrises. James met them at the door.

“Good evening, James!” Sam shouted.

Just to walk into the Ruggles' house was a delight for Sam Morris. Such unconventional beauty! He stood beaming, inviting his wife to respond to the charm of the place.

Edith Morris made no effort to conceal that she had expected something very different from life as a doctor's wife from what she had got with Sam.

“Good evening, Mr. Ruggles,” she said.

A smile began to play in James's mustache. “Just call me Mister Ravich,” he said. Rachel was just coming from the bedroom. Her hands flew to her cheeks in horror.

Fortunately more guests arrived at that moment. Rachel led the Morrises away. The new ones whom James greeted were the John Woosters. Whether out of guilt over their share in expelling him from the Gallery, or anxiety to show that they were not among those responsible, they had not dared refuse his invitation. Their discomfort inspired James with cruelty. His way of punishing them was to abase himself before them.

“So very good of you to come,” he said. His tone was savagely obsequious. “Do come in,” he urged.

By this time Rachel was hurrying to extricate them. When she saw who it was she grew flustered. Faye Wooster was a person she could never see without blushing. Faye used to be a model, and James had told her something simply unheard-of about Faye, something horribly funny, though it was cruel to think so. These thoughts reminded Rachel that she would also see Martha Phillips tonight. How would she manage to greet Martha, knowing all the things she now knew about her? Then there would be Carl Robbins, about whom James had told her recently. How did James manage all that coolness before these people that he knew such scandalous and personal things about?

She came to herself to hear James saying, “And please let us not stand on ceremony. Just call me what everyone will from now on—call me Mister Ravich.”

Rachel led them away.

James could not understand himself. For earlier in the day he had come actually to look forward with pleasure to the evening. He had known it would be somewhat painful to him, but he had also admitted to himself that he was lonely, and had resolved to be pleasant. He had even craftily imagined that Rachel's success might open a path to his own recognition.