BUtterfield 8 (4 page)

 • • • 

The man carrying the black Gladstone refused the help of the Red Caps. Who wanted a little thing like that carried for him? A little thing like that. What did they think? Did they think he wasn’t strong enough to carry it? Didn’t he look strong enough to carry a little bag, a little Gladstone like this? Did they think he wasn’t young enough to carry a bag like this? Did they think he—they didn’t think he was old, did they? Huh. If they thought that they had another think coming, by Jove. Ablative of Jupiter. They were young and looked pretty strong, most of these Red Caps, but the man drew a deep breath as he walked rapidly up the ramp and out into the great station. He would wager he was as strong as most of them. He could break them in half, and they thought he was old and wanted to carry his little Gladstone! He thought of how they would look on a chain gang, with the sweat pouring down on their satiny hides. Satiny hides. That was good. Ugh. He wanted to be sick, he wanted to think away from bodies; he patted his belly and pinched his Phi Beta Kappa key and started to curl the watch-chain around his finger, but this was somehow getting back again to the things of the flesh, and he wanted to think away from things of the flesh. He wanted to think of the ablative, the passive periphrastic, the middle voice, the tangent and cotangent, the School Board meeting next Tuesday. . . . He wished he hadn’t thought of the School Board meeting next Tuesday or any Tuesday. He wished he’d always thought of the School Board meeting next Tuesday.

He got into a taxi and gave the address, and the driver was so slow starting the meter that the man repeated the address. The driver nodded, showing half his face. The man looked at the face and at the driver’s picture. They didn’t look much alike, but they never did. He supposed this was a reputable taxicab company that operated the taxicabs at the station. Oh, well, that wasn’t important.

“If only I’d always thought of the School Board meetings I wouldn’t be here now, in a filthy New York taxicab, living a lie by being in this city on a cooked-up pretext. Living a worse, worse lie by having any reason to be here. God damn that girl! I am a good man. I am a bad man, a wicked man, but she is worse. She is really bad. She is bad, she is badness. She is Evil. She not only is
evil
, but she
is
Evil. Whatever I am now is her fault, because that girl is bad. Whatever I was before, the bad me, was nothing. I never was bad before I knew her. I sinned, but I was not bad. I was not corrupted. I did not want to come to New York before I knew her. She made me come to New York. She makes me trump up excuses to come to New York, makes me lie to my wife, fool my wife, that good woman, that poor good woman. That girl is bad, and hell’s fire is not enough for her. Oh,
more
fresh air! It is good, this fresh air, even in a taxicab. Fresh air taxicab! God! Amos and Andy. Here I’m thinking of Amos and Andy, and all that they mean. Home. Seven o’clock. The smell of dinner in preparation, ready to be served when Amos and Andy go off the air. Am I the man who loves to listen to Amos and Andy?” The door opened and he got out and paid the driver.

The young man got out of bed and went to the kitchenette and pushed the wall button that unlatched the front door. He was in his underwear, one-piece cotton underwear and it had not been fresh the day before. He rumpled his hair and yawned, standing at the door and waiting until whoever it was that rang would ring the apartment bell. It rang, and he opened it half a foot.

“Oh,” he said, and opened the door all the way.

“Hel-lo, darling, look what I brought you.” Gloria held up the parcel, a wrapped-up bottle.

“Oh,” he said, and yawned again. “Thanks.” He went back to the bed and lay on it face down. “I don’t want any.”

“Get up. It’s a lovely Spring morning,” said Gloria. “I didn’t think you’d be alone.”

“Uh, I’m alone. I haven’t any soda. You’ll have to drink that straight, or else with plain water. I don’t want any.”

“Why?”

“I got drunk.”

“What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Listen, Gloria, I’m dead. Do you mind if I go to sleep a little while?”

“Certainly I do. Where are your pajamas? Did you sleep in your underwear?”

“I haven’t any pajamas. I have two pairs and they’re both in the laundry. I don’t even know what laundry.”

“Here. Here’s twenty dollars. Buy yourself some pajamas tomorrow, or else find the laundry and pay what you owe them.”

“I’ve some money.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, take this, you’ll need it. I don’t believe you have any money, either.”

“Why are you suddenly rich? Isn’t that a new coat?”

“Yes. Brand-new. You didn’t ask me to take it off. Is that hospitable?”

“Good God, you’d take it off if you wanted to. Take it off, if you want to.”

“Look,” she said, for he was closing his eyes again. She opened the coat.

He suddenly had the expression of a man who had been struck and cannot strike back. “All right,” he said. “You stole the coat.”

“He tore my dress, my new evening dress. I had to have something to wear in the daytime. All I had was my evening coat, and I couldn’t go out wearing that.”

“I guess I will have a drink.”

“Good.”

“Who is the guy?”

“You don’t know him.”

“How do you know I don’t know him? Damn it, why don’t you just tell me who it is and save time? You always do that. I ask you something and you say I wouldn’t know, or you talk around it or beat about the bush for an hour, and you make me so God damn mad—and then you tell me. If you’d tell me in the first place we’d save all this.”

“All right, I’ll tell you.”

“Well, go ahead and
tell
me!”

“His name is Weston Liggett.”

“Liggett? Liggett. Weston Liggett. I do know him.”

“You don’t. How would you know him?”

“I don’t know him, but I know who he is. He’s a yacht racer and he used to be a big Yale athlete. Very social. Oh, and married. I’ve seen his wife’s name. What about that? Where did you go?”

“His apartment.”

“His apartment? Is his wife—does she like girls?” He was fully awake now. “Did she give you the coat? You’re going in for that again, are you?”

“I think you’re disgusting.”

“You think
I’m
disgusting. That’s what it is. That’s started again, all over again. That’s why you came here, because you thought I had someone here. You know where you ought to be? You ought to be in an insane asylum. They put people in insane asylums that don’t do a tenth of what you do. Here, take your lousy money and your damn whiskey and get out of here.”

She did not move. She sat there looking like someone tired of waiting for a train. She did not seem to hear him. But this mood was in such contrast to her vitality of a minute ago that there was no doubting that she had heard him, and no doubting that what he was saying had caused her mood to change.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry, Gloria. I’d rather cut my throat than say that. Do you believe me? You do believe me, don’t you? You do believe I only said it because—”

“Because you believed it,” she said. “No. Mrs. Liggett is not a Lesbian, if you’re interested. I went to their apartment with her husband and I slept with him. She’s away. I stole the coat, because he tore my clothes. He practically raped me. Huh. You think that’s funny, but it’s true. There are people who don’t know as much about me as you do, you know. I’ll go now.”

He got up and stood in front of the door.

“Please,” she said. “Let’s not have a struggle.”

“Sit down, Gloria. Please sit down.”

“It’s no use, Eddie, I’ve made up my mind. I can’t have you for a friend if you’re going to throw things up at me that I told you in confidence. I’ve told you more than I’ve ever told anyone else, even my psychiatrist. But at least he has professional ethics. At least he wouldn’t get angry and throw it all up to me. I trusted you as a friend, and—”

“You
can
trust me. Don’t go. Besides, you can’t go this way. Listen, sit down, darling.” He took her hand, and she allowed herself to be guided to a chair. “I’ll call up a girl I know, I was out with her last night, and ask her to bring some day clothes over here. She’s about your build.”

“Who is she?”

“You wouldn’t—her name is Norma Day. She goes to N. Y. U. She’s very good-looking. I’ll call her and she’ll come right over. I have a sort of date with her anyway. All right?”

“Uh-huh.” Gloria was pleased and bright. “I think I’ll take a bath. Shall I? Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” she said. “You sleep.”

 • • • 

Weston Liggett walked up the platform to where the line of parked cars began, and as he reached the beginning of the line he heard a horn blown six or seven times. A Ford station wagon was just arriving. It was driven by a young girl, and two other girls about the same age were on the front seat with her. Liggett took off his hat and waved.

“Hello, pretty girls,” he said. He stood beside the right front door. The girl in the driver’s seat spoke to him:

“Daddy, this is Julie Rand; this is my father.”

“How do you do,” he said to the new girl, and then spoke to the girl in the middle: “Hello, Frances.”

“’Lomistliggett,” said Frances.

“Where’s Bar?” he said.

“She drove Mother over to the club. We’re all going there for lunch. Get in, we’re late.”

“No, we’re not. Mother knew I was coming out on this train.”

“Well, we’re late anyway,” said Ruth Liggett, the driver. “We’re always late. Like the late Jimmy Walker.”

“Oh, ho, ho.” Miss Rand laughing.

“Is that door closed, Daddy?” said Ruth.

“Think so. Yes,” he said.

“It rattles so. We ought to turn this in while we can still get something on it.”

“Uh-huh. We’ll turn this in and sell the house. Would that suit you?” he said.

“Oh. Always talking about how broke we are. And in front of strangers.”

“Who’s a stranger? Oh, Miss Rand. Well, she’s not exactly a stranger, is she? Aren’t you Henry Rand’s daughter?”

“No. I’m his niece. My father was David Rand. I’m visiting my Uncle Henry and Aunt Bess, though.”

“Well, then you’re not a stranger.
You
like this car, don’t you?”

“Don’t call it a car, Daddy,” said Ruth.

“I like it very much,” said Miss Rand. “It’s very nice, I think.”

“Ooh, what a prevaricator! She does not. She didn’t want to ride in it. You should have seen her. When she came out of the house she took one look and said, ‘Is this what we’re going in?’ Didn’t you? Own up.”

“Well, I never rode in a truck before.”

“A truck!” said Ruth.

“Aren’t there station wagons where you come from?”

“No. We just have regular cars.”

“She comes from—what’s the name of the place, Randy?”

“Wilkes-Barre, P A.”

“And a very nice town it is,” said Liggett. “I remember it very well. It’s near Scranton. I have a lot of very dear friends in Scranton.”

“Do you know anybody in Wilkes-Barre?” said Miss Rand.

“I don’t believe so—
Ruth!
”

“Well, he ought to stay on his own side of the road.”

“You can’t count on that. I don’t mind taking chances, but when there are other people in the car.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t have hit me.”

“That’s what you think. No wonder this car’s all shot.”

“Now you can’t blame that on me, Daddy. I don’t drive this car that much.”

“Well, I’ll admit you’re not responsible for this car, but the Chrysler, you are responsible for that. Clutch is slipping because you ride it all the time. Fenders wrinkled.”

“Who wrinkled it—not them. It. The left hind fender. That happened when someone else was driving, not me.”

“Well, let’s not talk about it.”

“No, of course not. I’m right. That’s why we won’t talk about it.”

“Is that fair? Do I change the subject when I’m in the wrong, Ruth? Do I?”

“No, darling. That wasn’t fair.” She reached her hand back to be held. He kissed it.

“Why, Daddy!” The others did not see.

“Shh,” he said and then was silent until they came to the club. “Here we are. I’ll go around and wash up. I’ll meet you in three minutes.”

In the locker room he rang for the steward and arranged to cash two checks. The club had a rule against cashing a check for more than twenty-five dollars on any single day, but he made them out as of two dates and the steward, who had done this many times before, gave him fifty dollars. The sixty dollars Liggett had left for Gloria and the other money he had spent on her had left him short, and he knew Emily would think it strange that he had spent so much in one night.

He had a highball, and as he prepared it and drank it he wondered what it was that made him feel so tender toward Emily, when he was sure that what he ought to be feeling was unwillingness to see her. Yet he wanted very much to see her. He wondered what had made him kiss Ruth’s hand. He hadn’t done that for a long time, and never had he done it quite so warmly and spontaneously. Always before this it had been a part of a game he played with Ruth in which Ruth played a flirtatious girl and he was a hick from the country. He joined the party in the grill.

He went straight to Emily and kissed her cheek.

“Oh-ho, somebody had a highball,” she said.

“Somebody needed a highball,” he said. “Somebody has a hangover and badly needed a drink. How about the rest of you? Cocktail, dear?”

“Not I, thanks,” said Emily, “and I don’t think the girls had better have anything if they’re going to play tennis. Let’s order, shall we?”

“Steak,” said Ruth. “How about you, Randy? Steak?”

“Yes, please.”

“We all want steak,” said Ruth. “You do, don’t you, Frannie?”

“
I
don’t,” said Barbara, the younger Liggett girl. “Not that it makes any difference to Miss Smarty Pants, but steak is exactly what I don’t want. Julie, if you’d rather not have steak just say so. You too, Frannie. Mother, do you want steak?”

“No, dear, I think I’d rather have just a chop. Will that take too long, Harry?”

“ ’Bout ten minutes, Mizz Liggett. Course you be having soup maybe, first, ’n’ by the time yole get finished with your soup chop’ll be ready.”

“Daddy, steak?” said Ruth.

“Right. Tomato juice cocktail first for me, if that’s all right, Ruth?”

“Absolutely. Have we decided? Chops for how many? Mother, chops. Miss Barbara, chops. Randy, chops. Daddy, steak. Frannie, steak, and me, steak. Have you got that, Harry?”

“Yes, Miss Liggett. What about vege’ables?”

“Just bring in a lot of vegetables,” said Ruth.

All through the ordering Liggett watched Ruth and thought of Emily. Emily—and he did not remember this at the moment—who retained the mouth, nose, chin, bone structure and, to some extent, the complexion Emily had had and that made her handsome; but she was handsome no longer. What Emily retained only made you ask what had happened that left her a plain woman with good features. The eyes, of course they made the difference. They looked nowadays like the eyes of someone who has many headaches, although this did not happen to be the case. Emily was apparently very healthy.

Now he watched her busying herself with her hands; unfolding her napkin, touching without changing the position of the silverware, folding her hands. She had a way of watching her hands when she was using them. He wondered about that, noticing it for the first time. He could not recall ever having seen her watching her hands when they were resting and still, the way she would have if she were conscious of them in the sense of being vain. What she did was to watch them as though she were checking up on their efficiency, their neatness. It was just another part of the way she lived. Her life was like that.

Often she would sit at home with a book of poems in her hand and she would be looking in the direction of the window, a dreamy look in her eyes. He would look again and again at her, wondering what pretty thoughts had been started by what line in what poem. Then she would say suddenly something like: “Do you think I ought to ask the Hobsons for Thursday night? You like her, don’t you?” Liggett supposed a lot of husbands were like him; two or three, at least, of his own generation had confided to him that they didn’t know their own wives. They had been married, some of them, as much as twenty years; reasonably if not strictly faithful, good providers, good fathers, hard workers, and temperate. Then after a year or so of the depression, when they saw it was not a little thing that was going to pass, these men began taking stock of what life had given them or they had taken. Usually men of this kind began counting with, “I have a wife and two children . . . ” and go on from there to their “investments,” cash, job, houses, cars, boats, horses, clothes, furniture, trust fund, pair of binoculars, club bonds, and so on. They were—these men—able to see right away that the tangible assets in the Spring of 1931 were worth on the whole about a quarter of what they had cost originally, and in some cases less than that. And in some cases, nothing. By the time the depression had reached that point such men accepted as fact the fact that nothing that you could buy or sell was worth what it once had been worth. At least it worked out that way. Then a few men, a few million men, asked themselves whether the things they had bought ever had been worth what had been paid for them. Ah! That was worth thinking about, worth buying heavy and expensive books to find out about. Some of the keenest practical jokers on the floor of the Stock Exchange went home nights to see what the hell John Stuart Mill said—to find out who the hell John Stuart Mill was.