Place in the City (7 page)

“Hop in,” he told her. “There's time for a spin and a bite to eat, and then I'll have to leave you. Just tonight, darling.”

“I wanted to be with you tonight,” she said slowly. “I wanted to, Danny. I'm afraid.”

“Now what are you afraid of?” He started his motor, raced it, and then the car pulled away. He drove easily. Alice smiled. He was just right, not too short, not too tall, clean, the sort of a boy she always wanted. And he would go places. He was a lawyer, and he had his office together with Timy Dolan. Everybody knew what a powerful man Timy Dolan was, and more than one said Danny was his brains. She told him what had happened at school that day.

“—Oh, it's not the only thing, Danny. I'm so tired. I want to marry you. We will be married soon, won't we, Danny?” She looked sidewise at him, and she saw that he was smiling complacently to himself, keeping his eyes on the road.

“But, Danny, I'm afraid. It means breaking everything off. I'm Jewish—you're a Catholic. Danny, I don't care about that; I'd do anything in the world for you. You know that, don't you?”

“Sure I do, baby.”

“I'd do anything for you, Danny—because I love you. Well, why do things come out this way? Maybe you could tell me.”

“I guess I love you, baby. I guess that's the only reason why.”

She sat back then, let the wind blow into her face. In front of her, the city was turning itself over and over; if she was afraid, she was still happy: wherever she went with Danny, she was happy.

“What will I tell my father and mother?”

“Nothing—”

“No.” She shook her head. “I can't do it that way, Danny. I don't want to.”

They sat in silence then, until they came to the park. Then Danny stopped the car. Drawing her close to him, he kissed her, and she closed her eyes, imagining how it would be to have those arms there all the time, whenever she wanted them. If he married her, it would be day and night and always. If he was uncircumsized, how did that affect her? He was Danny, and all in all, that was what mattered. He was good and clean, and the only thing she wanted. What did Jew matter? What did Christian matter? What did either word mean to her? It was her only chance to live, and if she passed it by—

Danny was speaking, and while he spoke he held his hands on her face, caressed her cheeks slowly and softly. “Baby,” he said, “I got the license. I got a friend who'll marry us tonight, maybe in an hour. Why don't you?”

“Danny—”

“We love each other, don't we? Sure I know you're Jewish. But I'm not going to stop loving you. It's not easy come and easy go with me.”

“I know, Danny.”

“So what? I want to marry you. I love you. I got enough money to make it easy for both of us, and Timy says he'll put me on the ticket for the assembly next fall. That means I'm going up. Up and up, baby, right to the stars. I'm going to put you where you deserve to be. I'm going to make you the wife of a senator, the wife of a governor, and after that, who knows what? Look at me. Do I look good to you? Well, I'm your own Danny, and I'm going where you want me to. There's no limit. Alice baby—marry me tonight.”

“All right, Danny.”

“I got the ring here—what do you think of that? Maybe I didn't know you'd say yes? Maybe I didn't! Well, listen, we got time to get it done, and then have a little supper of our own. Then I got to rush over to the club for a little while, not for long, but I got to show my face. You know how Timy is about me. I show my face there for maybe an hour or two, and meantime you go home and fix things. You don't need to tell them all, and if they yell, let 'em. I pick you up later, and we shoot over to the best hotel. Then we'll figure things out from there on.”

“But, Danny—school tomorrow.”

“Don't you worry about that. Maybe I don't want my wife to work. You just let me do things from here on. Geesus, baby, I love you.”

“I know, Danny.”

Later, when it was over, it was terribly difficult for her to realize the fact. She stood in the snow with the tall, slim boy next to her, and he was her husband. It was nice, awfully nice, but it was hard to get used to. Not all at once, anyway. She had to stare quite a while at the gold band around her finger.

Even when they were eating, opposite one another, all she could say was, “I'm married, aren't I, Danny?”

“You're my wife.”

“It's hard to believe, it happened so quickly. Like becoming another person all in a moment. Now what will we do?”

“Be happy.”

“That's right, isn't it, Danny? We do have to be happy. That's our right, and nobody can take it away from us, can they, Danny?”

“Nobody.”

She stared at him, and then she stared at her ring. Things could happen so fast that you couldn't quite understand them. But there was the ring on her finger, and in fact she was Danny's wife.

W
HEN
Timy left Mary White alone in the back room of Kraus' saloon, she was frightened. No reason to be, no good reason, because nothing could happen to her now that hadn't happened before; nevertheless, she was frightened. After all, a stag was a stag, no more than that; and men were the same all over. She thought she knew men; how could you be a whore for any length of time without getting to know men? Yet she didn't hate them. True, most men weren't good, but then again, most men were not bad. Most men had too little in them to be either really good or bad; and if they did not have a burning desire for women, they would have nothing at all. So why should she be afraid?

Men were men; they came and they went, and all the time they were no more than pale slides on the screen. You didn't love them, but how could you hate them?

She walked over to the window, discovered that she was trembling. Timy had tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table, and now she went to the table and lit one. It trembled in her hand. Well, if anything, she was worried about the children. She always worried about them when she wasn't home at night, because no matter how well they knew how to take care of themselves, they were still kids. But she had worried before without trembling like this.

The truth was that she was no longer young. In this racket, you had to be young; but you grew old quickly. The thing to do was to put away as much money as you could, and hope for the best. In a year, if she didn't get sick, she would have enough, and then she would be able to take the kids away somewhere. If only they never found out, life might begin again after that.

Back at the window, she looked out at the night and the snow. Something about snow made you want to take hold of it, plunge yourself deep into it. It was cleansing. Maybe there was some kind of snow that could cleanse your soul, after long lines of men had taken it away from you and made it rotten. The cigarette fell to the floor.

Picking it up, she looked at her white hand. “Careless of me,” she muttered. “I guess I got to take a grip on myself. Geesus, I wish I had a drink. I'll ask Timy. I wish I was with the kids tonight.”

She felt hot, close; little beads of sweat appeared on the back of her hands, and she felt that she was choking. Opening a window, she breathed deeply. The cold night air rushed in like a tonic.

“Dot's enuff, sister,” someone said.

She whirled about. Kraus was standing there with a tray of food. He opened the dishes, and set them upon the table for her. Then he motioned to her.

“Feed up. You'll need id.”

Stamping out the cigarette, she sat down at the table; but she had no appetite, and the first mouthful of food tasted dry and bitter. Kraus went out, to return in a moment with a glass of beer.

“Get me a drink,” she told him.

“Vy not?” He smiled until his face was like a moon. He went out, and he was back in a moment with a bottle of rye. She poured herself a stiff drink, gulped it; she was thankful for the way it burned her throat.

Well, her nerve was gone—all gone. Her hand with the glass in it shook, and when she set it down, she was afraid to look up at Kraus. No, there was no denying that she was too old. Very slowly, she turned her eyes to Kraus, who was bending over the table, upon which he leaned with both his hands.

“Get away,” she said. “Get out of here and let me eat. I don't need you.”

“Yeah, get out,” Timy told him from the door. “She don't want you, Dutch. Go take a walk for yourself.”

“All right, Timy.”

When Kraus left, Timy pulled up a chair and lit a fresh cigar. He glanced at the open window, hesitated, then walked over and closed it. Chewing on his cigar, he turned and looked steadily at Mary White. For only a moment, she returned his gaze; then she avoided his eyes and made another attempt to eat. Reaching back, Timy squeezed some of the wet snow that had blown through onto the sill between his fingers; then he wiped the wet fingers on his pants.

“Geesus Christ,” he muttered.

Then he sat down at the table again. “Go ahead and eat, sister,” he nodded, “it's on the house.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You ain't no chicken. Say—you been in this long?”

“Since my husband died. It seems like a long time now—it seems like all my life.”

“Yeah—it's a tough racket, ain't it? It ain't no cinch. Well, you just pull along tonight, and I'll make it worth your while, see? I'll give you something on the side, along with what you get from Shutzey.”

She wondered how he sat there, talking like that; as if they were two people, which they obviously were not. Timy was a man, but she was a commodity, bought and sold. It was curious that she could speak at all. Inside, she was numb, cold, just as if the coldness of the night had crept deep into her, so deep that she would never be able to root it out. But she didn't care any more; she was all shot to hell.

Timy sat there staring at her, round and healthy as a baby. His fat cheeks were pink, and his little mustache was yellow. It curled up, and the ends were waxed; and his lips were as red as if they had been rouged. When he smiled, his teeth were china white. He was altogether a round, healthy image of a man.

“Go ahead and eat, sister,” he said again; it seemed that he had to say something.

She pushed the food away and tried to light a cigarette, but she couldn't strike a match without flicking it out. Timy leaned over and lit it for her.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Don't mention it. I'm going now, but you just stay here until I come back. There won't nobody throw you, so don't you be afraid. Just sit tight, and you can drink as much out of that bottle as you want to. It's all on the house.”

“Yes.”

“Awright. Take it easy.”

Alone, the minutes dragged past; the cigarette butts made a little heap in the ash tray; higher and higher, and still her hands trembled: and the room filled with a haze of blue smoke. How could she breath in that? Maybe—if she had another drink—But she had two already, and she didn't want to be drunk. She needed air, fresh air.

Why should tonight be any different from another night, she wondered. Why should it matter what they did with her, when she had always been something to buy and sell. She could take anything to her by this time. A man was a man. When it was over, he might laugh at you, beat you or kiss you. What difference did it make?

Anyway, she poured herself another drink. Do what she might, think what she might, she was afraid. No getting away from that. Tonight she was afraid, a bundle of nerves, all of them with raw, jagged ends. Soon, if this kept up, she would be living in a nightmare. Men, men, men—Peering with red eyes through the smoke, it seemed to her that there was a long line of them, a line that was as endless as it was still and waiting; each waiting for his turn and trembling just a little. They would tear out her insides; they would leave an empty shell, and still they would come on.

Once it had been different. The first time—well, she could hardly remember the first time. But if it had been beautiful the first time, she had forgotten. Peter came. What had being a mother to do with the long line of men, all waiting?

Peter and Sasha—For a little while she cried, but then she dried her face, shook her head and stumbled to her feet. For no good reason, she was making a wreck of herself. Her nerve was gone, but still—

Outside, the wind was blowing, the snow whirling like smoke against the window. The touch of the window was cold and good against her face; there was a blessing in it, and cool relief.

Inch by inch, she raised the window, until the full blast of the wind swept against her bosom and face. She didn't know how long she stood there like that; she stood there until they called her.

Snookie Eagen put his head in the door. “C'mon, sister,” he said.

“Awright,” she smiled.

His eyes took in the bottle on the table; the room was full of a rank smell, smoke and whisky.

“You tight?” he wanted to know.

“No, I ain't.”

“C'mon.”

J
OHN EDWARDS
dressed himself, carefully; it was an experience. With each movement, he was conscious of the new life that had been granted him. The weakness was gone. Many things were gone, but the great triumph lay in the fact that he no longer pitied himself. Now, with a calm and knowing smile, he could look back on the wretched thing that had been John Edwards.

“Poetry,” he whispered—“you wanted to write, to make songs; but what did you know of songs? of any song?”

He laughed—the first, full, hearty laugh he had known for months. Inside of him, he could feel the song, a new song brimming over with new consciousness. Wrapped in his coat, he strode back and forth in the little room.

Dying—well, he was not dying any more. He coughed, doubled up, and then smiled at the pain. Of course it pained; he was suffering from consumption, but he wasn't dying. There was too much will in him to live. Now they couldn't kill him. He wasn't afraid, he wasn't even doubtful; he was sure of himself, terribly sure of himself.