Dread Journey (13 page)

“That’s very nice of you, Miss Agnew.”

Dear, kind Miss Agnew. If he hounded her, she’d give him names. Let the names worry about getting rid of him.

His eyes moistened. “I’ve always been interested in radio.” She watched the wheels of his mind revolve. Radio paid high money. So many success stories in Hollywood stemmed from radio. He might return in a drawing room with his pick of contracts. Sidney Pringle, writer and producer of that great program…“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Maybe I’ll need a job someday,” she laughed and her eyes leaped to the doorway.

Seeing her eyes, he swallowed whole the piece of bread in his mouth. Hope bubbled from him. Hope it was someone important. It was Mike Dana. She came alongside the table. Kitten spoke gayly, “Hello, Mike.”

Mike didn’t want to stop. Her smile was thin as onion skin, beneath it was the bulwark of her knowledge that Kitten was through. Kitten held her, saying, “Mike, have you met Sidney Pringle? The writer.”

He fumbled to his feet. Mike Dana said, “How d’ you do, Mr. Pringle.” He searched hopelessly for recognition of his name in her face. He found none.

Kitten said, “By the way, he is in a state. He dropped by to insist I see him. I agreed. But I want everything in black and white. Will you go along, Mike?”

Pringle balanced there in the sparse space between table and chair. He tried to look as if he understood the pretense between the women, cloaked in matter-of-factness. There was a drop of red sauce on his chin.

“What time, Kitten?”

She was arrogant. “He said after dinner but I can’t make it then. I’ll drop in for you. About five.”

“Okay, Kitten.”

He squeezed down again as Mike passed.

Kitten said, “If you want anything at New Essany, get on to Mike. She’s practically the boss.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said humbly. The information was given too late. But he had no time for recriminations, the steward was handing him the check.

Pringle received it and he laid it down on the table while he wiped his damp palms on his napkin. Deliberately she let him suffer while he mawled the napkin, while he counted in his mind the cost of breakfast with Kitten Agnew, the deprivations he must suffer for this. She had no intention of being humiliated by his reluctant money, his meager tip. She waited just long enough before her hand reached across and lifted the check.

He protested, not wanting to protest, “You can’t do that. It’s been a pleasure eating with you.”

She said, “This is on Viv Spender. All expenses paid.” She wasn’t being kind. She was hard as nails as she signed the check. Viv had forced this companion on her, let Viv pay.

She walked ahead of him but she knew he followed, out of the diner, through the club car, through the Pullman, into their own car. She passed her door. When he stopped at his, she demanded, “Don’t you want to meet Hank?” Belatedly she remembered her pleasant smile.

He stammered, “Why, yes.” He didn’t understand her holding to his company; she didn’t care. Again he followed, waiting while she rapped at the door of D, waiting until she opened and closed it, reporting, “Nobody home.”

He followed close, past Viv’s door, through other cars until she saw them ahead. Cavanaugh, Leslie Augustin, Gratia Shawn. Gratia with her eyes glued on Hank Cavanaugh in the same revolting fashion of last night.

It was Les who first saw Kitten. He said, “Company, children.” Gratia’s eyes lifted, Hank turned.

They didn’t want her to intrude. She didn’t care what they wanted. She cried out gayly, “I found you at last!”

He had waked at ten o’clock. He struggled against waking but it did no good; it was inevitable he must open his eyes to rebirth, to another day of pain. His mouth had an ugly taste. His eyes in the small mirror were netted with blood vessels, the grooves about his mouth had worn deeper. He pulled on his trousers, halfway buttoned his shirt, took his kit and descended the ladder. Most of the Pullman was up, neat in dress, disdainful of eye. He felt like a leper as he went down the aisle to the men’s room. He should have stayed with Les last night. Why hadn’t he?

It was that girl, Kitten. He was afraid she’d follow him to Les’s room. He’d come back here so she couldn’t find him. He scrubbed his teeth. She’d asked him to come to her room for breakfast, fat chance. He’d said he’d come, anything to get her off his hands last night. He didn’t eat breakfast.

The idea of food this early brought revulsion. Her other ideas were worse. In the same breath she talked death and creation. He wasn’t interested in her problem. He must have been drunk to get het about it last night. It was that damn Augustin. What did he care now about putting Augustin in his place? Now that Augustin was surnamed the great, his offensiveness was gone.

There was another girl somewhere, a girl with a face that was innocence. A girl who had the promise of peace in her quiet voice. He had found her. He had meant to hang on to her but he’d been out-maneuvered between Kitten and Augustin. He’d take that girl to breakfast. He remembered as he scraped at his chin; he couldn’t get to Gratia Shawn without also getting to Kitten. They were in the same room.

When he was dressed, he went along to the club car. He needed a drink. And again he found Gratia. She was sitting there in a chair, reading the small green book. Last night was last night and she might not want to know him today. But he spoke. He spoke awkwardly as a colt, “Hello, there.”

She raised her eyes and when she saw him she smiled. Her smile was even lovelier by sober day than by night. She said, “Hello.”

There was an unoccupied chair beside her and he sat down in it. “Had breakfast?”

“Long ago,” she answered. “Have you?”

“I’m going to. If I can ever catch that rascal’s eye.”

She looked a little sorry. “Not so early.”

He said, “If I had some dark glasses you’d never notice.” He ordered a straight one, swallowed its burning brand, left the water untouched. If she hadn’t been here beside him, he would have had another. But he was somehow ashamed to in the face of her goodness.

He said, “If you really want to save me from a place on the barroom floor, let’s get out of this saloon. I don’t know why you’re sitting here anyway.”

She folded her book together. “I don’t want to disturb Kitten. She sleeps late.”

“We’ll go back to my place. Not so private but we won’t be bothered by anyone but strangers.” He hurried her because he was afraid Les might come along and spoil things. Or Kitten.

He hadn’t yet seen who shared his section. There was a man’s briefcase and topcoat laid on the seat but no man. Must have a friend with better accommodations. Hank put Gratia by the window; he sat beside her. He said. “I wanted to talk to you last night but something happened.”

“Yes, something happened.”

He’d meant to make a speech, to tell her she was something he’d forgotten existed, to doubt that she hadn’t been created for his protracted despair. He didn’t need the words. She understood there was something between them. She was neither coy nor bold, simply, she understood.

He was chastened. “How long will you be in New York?”

“About two weeks.”

“And then?”

“I go back to Hollywood. To start work.”

“Do you want to be a movie star?”

She laughed. “You asked me that yesterday. Of course I do. Aren’t we always all of us looking for a chance to be in a fairy story? That’s what daydreaming is.” She said, “I’ve always daydreamed.”

“Of being a movie star?”

“Never of that.” Her eyes were wondrous large, the lashes like delicate fans.

“Of what?”

She protested, “You’re persistent, Mr. Cavanaugh. That’s because you’re a newspaperman. Isn’t it?”

He was agreeable. “That’s because I’m a newspaperman, Miss Shawn. For God’s sake, I was Hank last night. Of what?”

She was slightly embarrassed. “The usual thing, I guess. A handsome prince and a magnificent palace.”

“Marriage and money. The usual girlish dream,” he grimaced. “Then why the movie angle?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Don’t you see, that’s the fairy tale part of it? Receiving what you wouldn’t have dreamed of dreaming. And it wasn’t as crass as you make it sound.” She was hurt rather than angry. “He didn’t have to be a millionaire.” Her cheeks flushed. “Just—love. Although it sounds silly. Only you can dream that he’ll be able to give you everything along with love.” Her mouth twisted. “You’ve mixed me all up. And made me sound like an idiot. What were your dreams?”

“The usual, too,” he shrugged. “Fame and fortune. Writing that really great novel. Like the one you’re reading.”

“You already have part of it, haven’t you? Fame—”

“No, lady. No fortune. No fame. I’m going to write a book but it won’t be great. It’ll make me some money, maybe, maybe not.”

She stated, “What you’ve written has been important. For peace.” She was speaking slowly, “You don’t know. Maybe your dream has come true more than you know. Maybe when you get to New York you’ll find you have fame and fortune, and you will write the great book.”

“Maybe not.” His smile was crooked.

“Or it might be like me. Your own dream hasn’t come true yet but you’ve been given another one first.”

“You think this Hollywood venture is going to bring you your pretty prince and his golden spoon?”

She shook her head. “You don’t believe in dreams. Yes, I think so.”

He thought of Kitten and he wondered how long before Gratia would be gutted too. That is what fame and fortune did. Only you didn’t need them to empty you of spirit. Other things were as effective. The knowledge of your own family in the scheme of things did it just as well. Man had destroyed man, not only in his body but in his soul. Man was no longer large enough to defy. He was a monotonous tick-tack in a cosmic assembly line. He had forgotten that Good was an absolute. He believed in evil and not evil, but he no longer had knowledge of Good.

Her voice was quiet. “A new dream?”

He looked at her, looked long at her. He said, “You’re beautiful.”

The color was a wave across her face. “You kept saying that last night. As if I weren’t real. I am real. And I’m not beautiful, not the way you say it, not the way Kitten is and all those beautiful girls. You know I’m not. Why do you keep saying that?”

He thought out loud. “You are beautiful because you are innocent. You aren’t mean or evil or greedy. You don’t want to hurt anyone. You don’t believe anyone would hurt you. You aren’t real. You’re part of a dream and the dream is good. God help you when you wake up.”

He had disturbed her and regret ate into him. Because he could be wrong. She had walked thus far in a mixed world and her garments were yet as snow. He wanted to explain but how could he explain to her? How could he keep her from waking up, protect her from evil? He was no knight in shining armor; he wasn’t the prince she was awaiting. He hadn’t a thing to offer her except the gall of his despair.

He saw Leslie Augustin then, coming towards them up the aisle. He was as resentful of the intrusion as if he were young again, and Les a rival for her heart.

Les complained, “I don’t know why you wanted to hide.” He dropped down into the place of the unknown man.

“We’re exclusive,” Hank grunted.

Les was looking at her. Hank knew what was be hind Les’s false face because he himself kept a mask over his own emotions in her presence. He knew that Les felt the same as he about Gratia Shawn. He cherished her. Hank knew his own heart then; knew that cynicism had failed. He wanted to take this girl as his own, forever. He knew as well the idiocy of such an idea. He was too old, too tired, too spattered for that dream.

She said to Les, “I went to breakfast without you. I was too hungry to wait.”

“And I kept waiting for you to give me a signal.”

Her face was happy turned to Les. But Les Augustin couldn’t be the long-awaited prince. He looked like one; he could give her the marble palace, but not the true heart she expected. He was shopworn.

Hank said, “You can’t expect a lady to wait till you get up, Augustin.”

“And what happened to you last night?”

“I passed out. In my own upper. We might repair to your suite now and have a drink.”

Les said, “I don’t want to.” He caught Hank with his eyes. They weren’t light and lazy; they were trying to give meaning without words.

The memory of Kitten’s terror on the platform last night split into Hank’s brain. He asked quietly, “Anything happened?”

Les shook his head. “Nothing. Yet.”

Gratia’s mouth was puzzled. “What are you talking about?” There was concern on her brow. “Is it Kitten—”

“Kitten was in bed at noon. Mike told me when she came in looking for Hank.”

Hank demanded, “Who’s Mike and why me?”

“Mike is Viv Spender’s secretary as I told you last night. Spender requests audience with you. I presume he wants to make you a lordly offer.”

Gratia asked, “You mean to write for New Essany?” She lifted her eyes hopefully to Hank.

He said, “No thanks,” and to her, “That’s not in my dream. I’m sticking to the original.”

Leslie complained, “Now I’m out of it.”

Hank said, “We’ve been trading daydreams. I’ve tried to tell Gratia they don’t work.”

“They don’t,” Leslie said. “So we make out with second bests.”

She said, “Neither of you have any faith. If you believe, it’ll come true.”

Hank turned again to look on her face. “That’s it, isn’t it? Your secret. You believe in your dream and nothing you don’t want there can get into it.”

“I hadn’t thought about it.” She did now, solemnly. “Perhaps you’re right. I won’t let anything in that doesn’t belong there.”

Les asked, “What do you do when you’re hungry?”

“She’s never been hungry,” Hank told him. “If she were, she wouldn’t think about it. Because hunger doesn’t have a place in the dream.”

She pleaded, “I wish you’d stop discussing me. You’re both too smart for me. You make me feel that high and stuffed with sawdust.”

Les shoved the unknown man’s topcoat aside for more comfort. “You don’t appreciate your protectors. I’d already nominated myself for that position. Now I’ll have to share with Hank. Quite obviously he has the same idea.”