Place in the City (20 page)

“Jessie,” she said.

Jessica glanced up, looked Marion over carefully, and then turned back to her magazine. But her eyes were quick, and in the single glance she saw that Marion's shoes were run down at heel and toe, that her stockings had long open seams in them, and that the black suit she was wearing was the same one she had bought a year before she married. It was very shiny at the elbows now.

“Oh, it's you,” she murmured.

Marion said: “Jessie, I don't know why you should hate me. We've always been good pals, haven't we?”

“Yeah?”

“Listen—don't hate me. I'm going away, but I'll write to you. You must write me, and tell me what happens, how they are. If I get money, I'll send him things, you too. I love him, Jessie.”

“Yeah?”

“Jessie—Jessie, don't look at me like that!”

“Oh, you little sap. Get out of here!”

“Yes.”

But after Marion had gone, Jessie wondered about it, because she didn't hate her; only Marion was such an entire damn fool, smaller and smaller: the priest with holes in his shoes. Just the priest, always the priest.

“Geesus,” Jessica said.

Meyer sat upstairs looking at Bessie. Always, of late, there had been pictures, for instance an open picture of the store with the rooms over it. He would see it as a cross section, and in that way he was seeing it now. His life was like a squirrel-cage. Up from the store, down to the store, up to the room; Bessie was fat and old, he was lean and old.

“Bessie,” he said, and she looked at him.

He said: “Bessie, you remember how beautiful the rooms were. Why are you looking at me?”

“I'm not looking at you, Meyer.”

“I'm ugly, am I? Ugly and old—”

“No, Meyer.”

“Bessie—she went away.”

“Yeah—”

“She went away.”

Bessie said to him: “I'll put some water up, and we'll have tea. Tea with a piece of strudle—will that be nice, Meyer? Or do you want I should make you toast and butter?”

“It don't matter.”

He heard her draw the water, and he heard the gas hiss as she made a light on the stove. Everything was the same; everything would always be the same.

Then he thought of the watch he had gotten for Jessica, and how her face lit up; his own face matched the expression, and he almost smiled. Then it fell, literally. The muscles sagged, and very suddenly his age appeared.

“Why did I send her away?” he whispered.

And from the kitchen, Bessie called: “Meyer, the water's boiling.”

A
FTER
Claus ate his supper, they shaved him and slit the legs of his trousers. He sat very still and straight while the barber clipped his hair short, then shaved it carefully with a razor. And while he was being shaved, he realized that he was still hungry. He had eaten everything they brought him, and now he was hungry. Now that was strange, because he had expected to vomit up the food as soon as it touched his lips.

When the barber finished, Claus asked for his mirror. Then he adjusted his glasses carefully, looked at himself. If Anna had seen him that way, his long naked head spreading just at the top, as if it were inflated.

He smiled at the barber. “An ugly man, yes?”

The barber went out silently, and the guard, who had been standing by the door, gave him a pack of cigarettes.

“I got plenty,” Claus said. “But thanks.”

“Sure—you'll need these too.”

Then the guard locked the door carefully behind him. “Seven-thirty,” he told Claus.

“Three hours,” Claus thought. “I want to be afraid, and I can't.” He remembered a boy, who had been shot during the war for deserting. He cried and cried like a baby, and Claus, who had been one of the firing squad, began to vomit just as he pulled the trigger. All men are afraid; so now he considered that he didn't realize yet what was going to happen. Soon he would break; and he reasoned this way:

“I don't want to die. I am even beginning to forget Anna. If they take me out of here, I know I will be great. I will take my music and go all over.”

Then he said: “No—I'm fooling myself. Nobody would look at the music.”

“Tomorrow,” he thought, “I'll ask for paper and write out that thing with the chords—”

“No tomorrow,” he said.

“Hey, Dutch!” from the next cell.

“Yeah?”

“What time's it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

A sudden silence had fallen in the death house. Claus went to the door and looked at the guard, who was biting his fingernails and staring at the floor. Then the lights dimmed. Claus gripped the bars of the door, feeling drops of cold sweat appear on his brow.

“Not afraid,” he muttered. But his legs were weak, and he went back to sit on his bed, swallowing to keep down his surging stomach. It revolted him to imagine that he would spend his last three hours in a wet and stinking cell.

“My Anna,” he whispered, “I'm going to die.” Anna wasn't dead; she had gone away from him, and he was all alone.

“Dutch,” softly, from the next cell, “Dutch.”

He rose, wiped away the sweat, took a step toward the door. “Yeah, O'Mally?”

“I'm sick—Geesus, I don' wanna die this way, Dutch.”

“Maybe they'll come—and pardon?”

“It's seven-thirty. I got until ten. I tell yu I only got until ten!”

“Yeah—” Claus went back to his bed.

“—What time's it, Dutch?”

“I told you.”

“Awright—awright, don't get sore. Sometimes I don't figger you out, Dutch, like a school-teacher, wid all that fancy phony English of yours. Don't get sore at me now, Dutch. I got my skin crawlin'.”

“I'm not—angry.”

“Dutch!”

“For God's sake,” Claus moaned, “what do you want?”

“Dutch—”

“Shut up!” from the corridor.

“Yu yeller bastard, shut up!”

“Tu hell widyu!”

“Dutch—”

In the next cell, he began to laugh. The guard had thrown in a pail of water, and Claus, sitting there with his hands clenched, could hear the water swirling, the man laughing—or crying. Claus didn't know. He threw himself on the bed, buried his face in the pillow, and tried to drown out the noise.

A
ND AS
the night fell, that night, the wind shifted; clouds ruffled the sky. It began to rain, very softly, and then harder. It rained until the plane tree was soaked and heavy with water, loaded with water, until the buds bent and dripped.

Miserable, O'Lacy walked in the rain, his wet club wet in his hand. And walking, something timeless settled about him; he was the eternal in the street, the one living thing beside the plane tree that was as much there as the brown houses. He rounded the corner, nodding to Timy Dolan, who was just going into Meyer's store; but under his breath O'Lacy growled, cursing Timy. O'Lacy went on, head down, water rolling from his stubb-toed shoes. At Kraus' saloon he shook his head savagely. Prohibition made no difference here; they went on selling liquor openly. O'Lacy went on through the hissing rain. His figure blended with the night, into which he disappeared.

Timy Dolan went into Meyer's store, and pointed to a fifteen cent brand. He was preoccupied with something, so preoccupied that he didn't notice Jessica until he had torn the tinfoil wrapper from the cigar. Then he nodded at her, watched her through half-closed eyes while he bit off the end of the cigar and lit it. He took off his derby and tilted the water out onto the floor.

“Lousy weather,” he said, the while studying her, and wondering just how she was connected with Shutzey, and whether she had had anything to do with Shutzey's proposition that they hijack a truckload of Canadian rye.

She stared at him coolly, half smiled, and then nodded.

Beautiful, Timy considered, but ice; and that was an admission for him to make. If she was in it, she was running Shutzey; Shutzey was a fool.

“You're a beautiful girl,” he said, giving his voice a dignified turn, looking at her fatherly.

“Yeah?”

“You could go a long way with that face—and brains.”

“Yeah?”

“Seen Shutzey?” he demanded suddenly.

“Why should I see Shutzey?”

He had gripped the counter with his pudgy white hands when he said that, but now he relaxed. He took the cigar out of his mouth, blew a cloud of smoke, and relaxed.

“No reason,” he said, thinking: “The hell with Shutzey. I got trouble enough of my own, without thinking about that dumb pimp.”

“No reason,” he said again, and then he went out of the store.

Then, for the first time, it occurred to Jessica that Shutzey might not come back tonight. She hadn't really thought of it that way before, but now something in Timy's manner caught her up. If Shutzey got it tonight, he would lie there in the wet, all of his big animal body sprawling, with his face up to the rain. And the water would make a sheen on his bluish cheeks.

“Timy ain't no dope,” she said slowly.

But he was a small man, fat and round, with pink cheeks, with little blue eyes that popped out from under his brows. Not like Shutzey. With one big hand, Shutzey could take him and squeeze him and break him.

“What the hell's the matter with me?” she wondered. “If he don't come back—” She shrugged her shoulders, putting the box of cigars back in their place.

Her mother came down. “Go upstairs, Jessie,” she said. “Go up and stay with poppa a little while.”

She went up. Her father was sitting in a chair, his head in his hands, but when she came in, he glanced at her. Then he smiled.

“Come here, Jessie.”

She went over to him, hardly seeing him, thinking: “If Shutzey don't come back—is Timy Dolan next?”

“Sit down by me, Jessie.”

(I don't love Shutzey—I don't. Do I want him to come back, then? If he don't come back—Timy?)

“Jessie.”

She smiled at her father.

T
IMY
went on into Kraus' saloon. Nobody was there now but Kraus, who was polishing glasses. Timy laid his hat on the bar and asked for a small beer.

“Dis kind uf weder,” Kraus said, “makes me think.”

“Yeah?”

“I vunder veder—”

“Where's Danny?” Timy demanded impatiently. “Was he here yet?”

“Danny?”

“Was Danny here? Are yu deaf, you fat-headed Dutchman?”

“All right, Timy.”

Timy whirled; Danny was standing there at the door, grinning, his face wet with the rain, shining. Danny would grow old some day, suddenly; now he looked like a boy.

“All right, Timy,” he repeated. “What are you throwing a fit on the Dutchman for? I'm here, ain't I?”

“Yeah.” Timy picked up his hat, but remained where he was, staring at Danny, as if he hadn't seen Danny before, only now, as if he was wondering who Danny was, what he was. He shook his head, wiped a few drops of rain from his nose.

“Hullo, Danny,” Kraus said.

Danny swaggered up to the bar, ordered beer. Kraus was drawing it, when Timy took his arm. “Come on into the back room,” Timy said. “Bring a pitcher of beer in,” he told Kraus.

They sat down at the table, and Timy attempted to light his sodden cigar. After three matches, he swore savagely and threw it into a corner. Then Kraus came in with beer and glasses. He set the beer down and stood by the table, looking at Timy. Something was up; he wanted to remain and hear what was up.

“Get out, Dutch,” Timy told him.

Then Timy sat staring at Danny, who was blowing into the pitcher of beer, noticing how the suds spread themselves apart. Danny was happy. He was very content and happy, and he thought it would be nice if he could go on this way for a long, long time, content and happy. Alice had said to him tonight: “Don't be long, Danny. You know how I am now—and when you're away from me—”

Timy ought to know. Danny didn't spend so much time with the boys now, but he was as close to Timy as ever, and a thing like this Timy ought to know about. But Timy was worried about something, and maybe it wouldn't do to tell him now. Danny lit a cigarette and poured himself beer.

“What's up, Timy?” he wanted to know.

Timy stared at him.

“No trouble, Timy. We're straight enough, the way I figure it. What's eating you?”

“You're a friend of mine, ain't you, Danny?”

Danny laughed and drained the beer. “Am I a friend of yours? Now isn't that a hell of a question to ask me, Timy.”

“Yeah—”

Danny took a good laugh and blew suds from the pitcher. Then he looked at Timy fondly; he liked Timy.

“All right,” Timy went on, “you're my friend. I paid for your school. I put you on to things, and maybe you could say I put you where you are now.”

“Sure I could say it, Timy. Don't I know you pulled me out of the gutter and made me into a God damn good lawyer? I owe you a lot. I'd do anything for you, Timy—you know that.”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Listen, Timy. I got some news for you. Maybe you won't like this—”

“Wait a minute, Danny.”

Danny saw it in Timy's eyes then; they were cold and a little afraid—but hard, too. “What is it?” Danny asked slowly. “What happened, Timy?”

“The school contracts. You know how I'm in it with Haggerty—neck deep. So today the board grants an investigation, an' they're going through the bids. An' I'm on the wrong end. And I can't take it, Danny. I got to go to the senate next year. If this comes out, it'll queer me—for good.”

“I see.”

“Bryan on the board will get it in the neck—and spill.”

“Bryan don't know you're behind it,” Danny said slowly.

“Bryan dealed with you,” Timy nodded.