CHAPTER III
Inthe twenties, years slip by with the flimsy rapidity of soap-bubbles blown from the breath of time, unless the person experiencing them has found an unusually cloistered or passionless existence. As Blanche sat in the Beauty Parlor where she worked as a hair-curler, she remembered that she was twenty-two and that her birthday was only twenty-four hours distant.
The year which had elapsed since her brother’s expulsion as a prize-fighter seemed to be little more than a crowded and instructive month. As she sat in the Parlor, during an afternoon’s pause between patrons, she said to herself: “Gee, here I am, already twenty-two! I’ll be ’n old dame before I know it. It’s enough to give you the jimjams, it is.” Something that was not wisdom but rather an engrossed search for wisdom rested on the smooth plumpness of her face. Again, a light within her eyes came near to the quality of self-possessed skepticism and shifted against the survival of former hesitations and faiths. Life to her was no longer a conforming welter of sexual advances and retreats, with moments of self-disapproval bearing the indistinct desire “to get somewhere”—thoughts and emotions had snapped within her; problems were assuming a more unmistakable shape; the people in life were displaying to her more indisputable virtues and faults; and a spirit of revolt was simply waiting forsome proper climax. Her past year of argument and contact with Rosenberg had given her a more assured tongue and a more informed head. The books that he had supplied her with had now crystallized to specific inducements—tales about men and women whose lives were brave, or distressed, pursuits of truth, and an ever keener knowledge of each other, and a sexual freedom that was not merely the dodging of lust to an eventual marriage ceremony, and a dislike for the shams and kowtowings of other men and women. Frequently, she invited the scoffing of her family by remaining at home and reading some novel until well after midnight, with her eyes never leaving the pages. Her sister and brothers, and her parents, felt that she was getting “queer in the dome,” wasting her time like that when she might have been picking up some fellow with serious intentions, or enjoying herself, and though she still went out with men three or four nights of every week, the family were beginning to fear that she was not a “regular” girl and that silly, unwomanly ideas had gotten into her head. In their opinion twenty-two was the age at which a woman should either be married or be moving toward that end, and they couldn’t understand her apathy in this matter. They cast most of the blame on Rosenberg—that dopey mut that she was always afraid to bring around had evidently turned her against her family and filled her with junk from the foolish books he loaned her.
Even her mother had begged her to stop going with him and had complained: “It’s you that’s not me own sweet girl any more. You oughta stop traipsin’ aroundwith that Jew boy, you oughta. He won’t never marry you, and it’s I that wouldn’t let you, anyways. He’s got no money and he’s not right in his head, he’s not!”
Harry had threatened to “beat up” Rosenberg, if he ever saw him, and her father had railed at her, but she had seemed to look upon their objections as a huge joke, which had angered them all the more but left them powerless to do anything except to lock her in her room at night—an expedient that could hardly be tried on a twenty-two-year-old daughter who earned her own living and could leave the family roof whenever she pleased.
On her own part, Blanche had treated their railings with a perverse resentment. “I’ll go on seeing him just to spite them—who’re they to boss me around,” she had said to herself. In reality, she had lost much of her old respect for Rosenberg’s mind and verbal talents, and she was beginning to see flaws in his make-up.
“He never does anything but talk—he’s a wonder there,” she had said to herself once. “He takes it all out in wind. I’ll bet you he’ll be working in that library for the rest of his life, ’r in some other place just like it. ’N’ again, he always says he’s going to write big things, but I never see him doing it. I’d like to meet a fellow that’s doing something—making a name for himself. Gee, ’f I could ever run across one of those nov’lists, for instance. That man, Ronald Urban, who wrote Through The Fields—wouldn’t it be all to the mustard to talk to him! He could tell me all kinds of things I’ve never dreamt of.”
Still, she continued to see Rosenberg because he was the best prospect at hand, and because she pitied his longings for her, and to show her family that she could not be intimidated.
Harry was still barred from the ring, and the family had lapsed back to its old tilts with poverty. Both Blanche and Philip had to give part of their earnings toward the maintenance of the apartment, as well as Mabel, who had gone to work as a dress-model for a wholesale cloak-and-suit firm. She pronounced it “cluck ’n soot,” and affected a great disdain for her environs and her Jewish employers, but she was not at all averse to dining and dancing with some of the more prosperous buyers who frequented her place. Harry had become more of a wastrel, and did little except loaf around during the day, with an occasional bootlegging venture and sojourns with women, while the father loitered about poolrooms and complained of his son’s persecution, or sat in poker and pinochle games.
As Blanche lolled in the Beauty Parlor, tinkering with her nails, the image of Joe Campbell was in her head. He had ignored her for six months and then had bobbed up again on the previous day, and she had an engagement with him for the coming night. “It’s no use—I can’t get you out of my head,” he had told her over the telephone. “I stopped seeing you because I thought you were playing me for a sucker, but go right ahead, girlie, I’ll bite again. You’re deuces wild and the sky for a limit with me!” “You didn’t get hoarse telling me that for the last few months,” she had replied, amused and a little flattered. “Sure not,I was trying to forget you,” he had responded. “It can’t be done, little girl. Come on now, let daddy act like a millionaire to-night—he’s good that way.”
When she had mentioned his call to her family, they had all urged her to “make a play for him” and angle for a proposal of marriage.
“He must be nuts about you ’r else he wouldn’t always come back for more,” Mabel had said. “I’ll bet you’re always freezin’ him out, that’s the trouble. You’ll be a fool ’f you don’t try to land him this time. He’s loaded with jack, and he’s got a rep, and he’s not so bad-lookin’ at that. What more d’you want, I’d like to know—you’re no Ziegfeld Follies girl yourself.”
Now, as she sat and polished her finger-nails, Blanche wondered whether it might not be best to marry Campbell after all. Most of his past glamor to her had been rubbed away, and she saw him as a second-rate actor, always laughing to hide what he wanted to get from a girl, and drinking and spending his money because he wanted people to believe that he was much more important than he really was, and caring nothing for the “fine” part of life which she had begun to realize—books, and paintings, and such things. Still, if she married him he would give her a leisure and an independence in which she could find out whether anything was in her or not, and whether she was gifted for something better than marcelling hair or punching registers. Then she would be able to sit most of the day and just read and think, or maybe go to some school and learn something, andmeet new kinds of people. How could she ever make something out of herself if she had to work hard every day, and give half of her limited dollars to her family, and listen to their naggings and pesterings? Of course, she did not love Campbell, and the thought of continuous physical relations with him was not as pleasant as it had once been—somehow, when you began to “see through” a man’s blusterings and boastings, his hands and his kisses lost part of their thrill—but still, hewasphysically agreeable to her, and it might be idle to hope for more than that from any man. He wouldn’t talk about the new things that she was interested in, or sympathize with her desires for knowledge and expression, but when, oh, when, would she ever find a man who had these responses? Such men lived and moved in a different world, and were hardly likely to meet, or to care for, a questioning Beauty Parlor girl—they could easily procure women who were more their equals. Besides, it was silly to sit and mope around and wait for your “ideal” to arrive. You might wind up by becoming a dull old maid, with nothing accomplished.
The one thing that counseled against marriage to Campbell was her unfounded but instinctive distrust of him. She could never rid herself of the feeling that he was secretly cruel and heartless, and that there was something “phony” about all of his smiles and laughters, and that he was not nearly as intelligent as he seemed to be, but knew how to manipulate an all-seeing pose.
The Beauty Parlor was a sweetly smirking, pinkand whitish, overdraped place, trying so hard to look femininely dainty and insipidly refined and still preserve something of a business-like air. Cream-colored satin panels were nailed to the walls and pink rosebud arrangements shaded all of the electric lights except the green-shaded, practical ones placed beside the tables and the chairs where the work was done. There were Persian rugs on the hardwood floor, and amateurishly piquant batiks, and the reek of cheap incense and dryly dizzy perfume was in the air. Outside of three prosaic, ordinary barber-chairs, the place had several dressing-tables with long mirrors, enameled in shades of ivory and pink with thin, curved legs. Bottles of perfume and jars of paste and powder were scattered over the place, and many framed photographs of actresses were on the walls, most of them signed: “With affection (or with regards) to my dear friend, Madame Jaurette” (some of them had cost Madame a nice penny). These picture-testimonials had a potent effect upon the Beauty Parlor’s clientele, owing to the humorous misconception on the part of many women that actresses and society queens alone are acquainted with the mysteries and abracadabras of remaining physically young, beautiful, and unwrinkled. Photographs of society women were much more difficult for Madame to procure—money was of no avail in their case, ah,mais non!—but she did have one of Mrs. Frederick Van Armen, one of the reigning upper-hostesses of the day, which she had secured after a year of plotting, and of pleading notes.
The entire shop had an air of sex running to anartificial restoration place to repair the ravages of time, or to add an irresistible exterior to its youth, but there was something hopeless and thickly pathetic attached to the atmosphere. It was sex that had lost its self-confidence and its unashamed hungers—sex that hunted for tiny glosses and protections, and had a partly mercenary fear and precision in all of its movements.
Blanche’s thoughts of Campbell were interrupted by the advent of the proprietress, Madame Jaurette, and a young patroness. Madame was fat, and too short for her weight, but through the use of brassieres, bodices, reducing exercises, and diets, she had kept her curves from emulating a circus side-show effect. It was a strain on her nerves, however, and she had that persecuted but uncomplaining look on her face. Like a great many middle-class, nearly middle-aged French women, with very moderate educations, she was a preposterous mixture of dense cupidities and romantic sentiments, and while the cupidities had their way with her most of the time, they were always apt to be knocked galley-west by some gentleman with an aquiline nose, or the destitution of some weeping girl. She had a round, almost handsome face, with the wretched hint of a double chin that was never allowed to go any further, and bobbed, black hair—it didn’t become her but it had to be mutilated for business reasons—and she dressed in dark, lacy, expensive gowns.
“Ah, Ma’m’selle Palmaire, you will take so good care of Mees White, she is vairy fine lady,” she babbled. “Mees White, she always have Nanette tofeex her hair, but Nanette she is here no more. Ma’m’selle Palmaire, she is really ex-pert, Mees White. She will geeve you, what you call it?—the curl that won’ come off!”
“’F I’m so good, why don’t you raise my wages once in a while,” Blanche thought to herself, but she said: “Sure, I guess I know my work all right. I’ll do the best I can for her.”
The patroness was a slim girl with a disproportionately plump bosom, a dumbly child-like, near-pretty face, and a great shock of blonde, bobbed hair. As Blanche heated the curling-irons, the other girl said: “It’s just the hardest thing to keep my hair wavy. It never does last more than two or three days. I’ll spend a fortune on it before I’m through.”
“Why don’t you get a permanent wave—it’s cheaper in the end,” Blanche answered.
“Oh, I’m never able to afford it when I do get the impulse, and then I might want it straight again any time. It’s all so much a question of what you’re wearing and how you feel, you know. D’you think I look good in curls?”
Blanche had no opinion whatever on the subject, but she replied: “Yes, indeed, I think they go well with your face.” Patronesses, to her, were simply blanks to be dealt with in rotation, unless they exhibited an ill-temper or an impatience. A spell of silence came as Blanche bent to her task, and then the other girl said: “Don’t you get tired of working all day in this stuffy place? I know I could never stand it myself.” Blanche was used to this question—women who tried hard toshow an interest in the beauty-parlor workers but rarely ever really felt it.
“It’s no worse than lots of other things,” she answered. “I’ve got to earn my living some way. I won’t be here all my life though, believe me.”
The conversation continued in this casual strain, with neither woman caring much about what the other said, but with both desiring to lessen the tedium of an hour. Two-thirds of all the words that human beings talk to each other are merely unaffected protections and tilts against an impending boredom.
When Blanche came home from work that night, the members of her family were seated at the supper-table. After she joined them they began to twit her about her approaching engagement with Campbell.
“Gonna make him buy the license, Blanche?” Harry asked.
“Yes, a dog license,” she answered.
“That’s a fine crack to make against a fellow like Joe,” Harry replied. “You’re not good enough f’r him, ’f you askme.”
“’F you give me one of your hankies I’ll cry about it,” she said. “Maybe that’ll suit you.”
Harry looked at her dubiously—it sure was hard to “get her goat” these days.
“You’re gettin’ sillier ev’ry day,” Mabel said to her sister. “You’ll never find another chance like Joe Campbell—they don’t grow round on bushes. S’pose you’d rather sit all night ’n’ read one of those no-ovuls uh yours. It’s hard to figure you out.”
“In the first place he hasn’t asked me to marry himyet,” Blanche answered, “and besides, I don’t see why all of you have to butt into my affairs so much. I never tell any of you people what to do.”
“Well, don’t forget, I’m your father, and I’m gonna have somethin’ to say ’bout who you hitch up with,” Will Palmer said.
“Nobody’ll stop you from saying it, but I’m no good at being bossed around,” she retorted coolly.
“We’ll see ’bout that, we’ll see,” her father responded with a heavy emphasis.
This daughter of his was becoming too high-handed, and he would probably have to use harsh measures to her for her own good, but as long as the matter remained one of verbal exchanges there was nothing that he could do about it. Just let her start something, though!
“We’re all jes’ tryin’ to look out f’r you, Blanie dear,” her mother said. “You shouldn’t get so uppity about it, you shouldn’t.”
“I can take care of myself—I’ve had to do it long enough, ma,” Blanche responded.
“We’ll, I’m with you all the time, and that’s no lie,” Philip said.
He did not understand Blanche to any great extent, but he liked her independence (“spunk”) because it spoke to the similar feeling within himself which he was too cowardly to express.
“You’re about the only one in this fam’ly who leaves me alone,” Blanche answered, with a little dolorous affection.
She knew that Philip was weak and hedging but shewas grateful for his lack of hard interference and pitied his spineless spirit.
As she dressed to meet Campbell she had a don’t-care, tired-out mood. Let them all talk their heads off—they couldn’t preventherfrom doing what she wanted to do.
When Campbell came up, the rest of her family had departed, with the exception of her mother, who greeted him with a timid cordiality. How she wished that her daughter would marry this good-natured, prosperous man! She herself would have been much better off if she had been more prudent in her youth and not so much concerned with this “lovin’ and mushin’” thing. Why, any woman could get to lovin’ a man if he took care of her, and acted kind and true, and didn’t bother with other women, and had a nice, jolly nature. Of course, Campbelldidgo around with a fast, booze-lapping crowd—she knew what those Broadway people were, but leave it to Blanche to tame him down if she married him. Well, maybe Blanche would come to her senses before it was too late.
When they reached the street, Campbell said to Blanche: “What’s on your mind, to-night, old dear? You’ve said about six words since I came up. You haven’t gone back on me, have you?”
“I don’t feel much like gabbing to-night,” she answered. “I guess I won’t be very entertaining to you.”
“Just be yourself, that’s all I want,” he said, as he squeezed her arm. He sensed that something might be “going wrong” with her at home, and after theyhad entered a cab he asked: “What’s the matter, your family been razzing you any?”
“Oh, they’re always doing that,” she responded. “They’re great ones on telling me what I should do.”
“Why don’t you make a break?” he queried. “I’ve always thought you were a fool to stay in that rotten dump of yours. It’s no place for a girl with any class to be living in, you know that. You could get a couple of rooms of your own and do as you please, and sit on the top of the world.”
He had an idle sympathy for her, and he felt that she would be much more accessible if she were removed from the guardian eyes of her family. Funny, how he couldn’t get this girl out of his mind. She had a “thoroughbred” touch, a high-headed, brave, exclusive something that he had rarely found in women and could scarcely define. It wasn’t her looks and she certainly wasn’t particularly talented in any way—it was a straightness in conduct and word, and an untouched, defiant essence that seemed to cling to the physical part of her. Some women were like that—their affairs with men never left any impress upon them. Guess they never really gave in to any man—that was it.... Should he ever ask this girl to marry him? Marriage—brr! Wasn’t he still paying alimony on the first one that he had contracted? No, he’d be willing to live with Blanche and give other women “the air,” for some time at least, but no more marrying for him. Even this would be quite an important concession for a man of his kind, who could have his pick of pretty girls every night. His firstwife had attracted him just as Blanche did, and what had happened? Everything sweet and snug for the first six months, and then a first quarrel because she caught him kissing a girl in his show—nothing but handcuffs and a prison cell ever satisfiedthem—and then more quarrels about where they should eat, and what kind of ties he ought to buy, and a dozen more trivial frictions. And money—two hundred a week for her expenses got to be like two dollars in her estimation. Then he had felt the gradual letting down of his desire for her—she had not become less attractive but less imperative and more a matter of pleasant convenience. He had returned to unfaithfulness, after drunken parties—how could any man help it?—and he’d certainly never forget the cheap, blah-blahing night when she had burst into a hotel room, with two private detectives, and found him with a woman. No more of that kind of joke for him.
These thoughts occurred to him irregularly as he talked to Blanche in the cab, and afterwards as they sat in a corner of The Golden Mill.
“You’re a simp to work like a nigger all the time,” he said. “What’s it bring you, anyway? Three dimes and a crook in your pretty back, that’s about all.”
“It’s easy for you to talk,” she replied. “Tell me how I’d ever get along without working?”
“I’ll keep you up any time you say,” he responded, caressing her hand that rested on the table, “and don’t think I’m spoofing you, either. I’ll give you anything you want, and no strings tied to it. I mean it. Don’t think I hand this spiel around ev’ry night! You’vehad me going ever since I first saw you—you’ve got the class and I know it.”
She looked at him meditatively—it would be necessary to “call him down” for this open proposal, but—just saying it to herself—why shouldn’t she be supported by a man? How would she ever get a breathing spell otherwise?
“When I take money from any man I’m going to be married to him first,” she replied, “and don’t think I’m giving you any hints, either. ’F I wanted to be free and easy with men, I’ve had plenty of chances before this—plenty. I hate to work at something I don’t care much for, sure, ev’ry girl does, but it’s better than living with some fellow till he gets tired of you and then passing on to some one else. They’ll never play baseball with yours truly ’f she can help it.”
He was divided between admiration for her “spunk” and candor, and a suspicion that she might be testing him.
“I’ll stop dealing from the bottom of the deck,” he said, slowly. “I’ve known you for two years, now, Blanche, and it’s time that we came to some understanding. This loving stuff’s all apple-sauce to me—you always think you’re nuts about a girl till she falls for you, and then you change your eyesight. I’ve had one bum marriage in my life, and I never was fond of castor-oil and carbolic acid on the same spoon. If you’ll hook up with me, old girl, I’ll treat you white, but I can’t hand out any signed testimonials about how long it’ll last, for you ’r me. What’s the use of all this worrying about next week and nextyear? It’s like not sitting down to your meal, ’cause you don’t know what you’re going to have for dessert.”
“Well, what’s the proposition?” she asked, surprised at her own lack of indignation, and liking his unveiled attitude.
“I’ll get you a swell apartment up in the West Seventies,” he said, “and you can put up a bluff at studying something—music ’r acting ’r something like that—just a stall to keep your folks in the dark. I’ll get a wealthy dame I know to take an interest in you, see? She’ll be the blind. She’s a good sport and she’ll do anything for me. You’ll be known as aprotégéeof hers, and your family’ll never know I’m putting up the coin. Why, it’s done ev’ry day in the year.”
“So, I’m to be your miss-tress, like they say in the novels,” Blanche answered, with a struggle of irritation and tired assent going on within her. “I suppose I ought to bawl you out for your nerve, but I won’t take the trouble. I’d like toreallystudy something, and get somewheres, but I’m not so sure I want to take it like that.”
“What’s the matter, don’t you like my style?” he asked.
“You’re not so bad ’s far as you go,” she replied, “but I don’t happen to be in love with you.”
“What of it?” he asked. “You know you like to be with me—that’s what counts. Most of this love stuff’s a lot of hokum, that’s all. I never saw a couple in my life that stayed crazy about each other for more than two years, and that’s a world’s record.If they stick to each other after that it’s because they haven’t got nerve enough to make a break, ’r for the sake of their kid, ’r a hundred other bum reasons. But they’ve lost the first, big kick ev’ry time—don’t fool yourself.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said slowly. “’F a girl finds a man that loves her for what she is—her ways of acting and talking—I don’t see why they can’t get along even ’f they do get tired of hugging and kissing all the time. They’ve got to have the same kind of minds, that’s it.”
“We-ell, how’s my mi-ind diff’rent from yours?” he asked, amused and not quite comprehending (she sure had acquired a bunch of fancy ideas since his last meeting with her).
“It’s this way, you don’t like to read much, real good books, I mean,” she replied, “and you never go to swell symf’ny concerts where they play beautiful music, and you don’t care for paintings and statues and things like that. I never thought much of them myself, once upon a time, but I’m beginning to get wise to what I’ve been missing. I mean it. I’ve been going around for a long time with a fellow that likes those things, and I’m not as dumb’s I used to be.”
Campbell laughed inwardly—doggone if she hadn’t become “highbrow” since their last time together! This was an interesting, though absurd, turn of affairs. She had probably been mixing with some writer or painter, who had stuffed her head with “a-artistic” poppycock, which she didn’t understand herself, but which she valued because it was her idea of somethinggrand and elegant. Girls like Blanche were often weathercocks—not satisfied with their own lack of talent and ready to be moved by any outburst of novel and impressive hot air that came along. Well, it would be easy to simulate a response to her new interests and captivate her in that way, unless the other man had already captured her.
“How do you know I don’t like those things?” he asked. “I’ve never talked much about them because I never knew they mattered to you. I thought you believed that this guy, Art, was a second cousin to artesian wells. How was I to know?”
She caught the presence of an insincerity in his glibness.
“’F they’d been first on your mind, you couldn’t have helped talking about them,” she replied. “Anyway, ’f I ever went to live with you, I’d never do it roundabout, like the thing you had in mind. I’m not much on lies and hiding things. When I leave home it’ll be a clean break, and anybody that doesn’t like it’ll have to mind his own business.”
“Well, I only wanted to make it easier for you,” he said. “If you don’t care whether your family gets sore, or not, it’s all the same to me.”
“Say, you talk as though I’d said yes to you,” she answered. “Don’t take so much for granted, Joe. I’ve listened to you like a good sport, instead of bawling you out, but I’m not going to rush off with youthisweek.”
“Now, now, I’m not trying to force myself on you,” he said, soothingly.
Shewasa wary one, and no mistake, but it looked as though he finally had her on the run, and it was all a question of whether he cared to exert a little more patience and persuasiveness in the matter. Of course, he’d continue the game—he had nothing to lose, and it would be a distinction to have her lovingly in his arms, and he really liked her defiance and her immunity from ordinary wiles and blandishments. She was somebody worth capturing—no doubt of that. A degree of cruelty also moved within his reactions. Just wait till he had her where he wanted her—he’d do a little bossing around himself then, and if she didn’t like it....
When they departed from The Golden Mill, the whisky that she had had played tiddledywinks with her head, aided by the abrupt change from the heated cabaret to the cooler street air, and she felt an Oh-give-in-to-him-what’s-the-dif’ mood, and her thoughts grew mumbling and paralyzed. She swayed a bit on the sidewalk and he put an arm around her waist, to steady her.
“Say, Blanche, don’t pass out on me,” he said, anxiously. “We’ll go over to my shack now, that’s a good girlie. I won’t eat you up, don’t be afraid.”
“I’ll go anywheres ... give my he-ead a rest ... feels like a rock ... that’s funny ... like a ro-ock,” she answered, mistily.
He hailed a cab, and on the way over to his apartment, she leaned her head on his shoulder and passed into a semidrowsy state, while he caressed her with a careful audacity and smiled to himself. Well, well,Blanche Palmer in the little old net at last—what a blessing liquor was, if you kept your own head.
When they reached his apartment—two ornate, untidy rooms with mahogany furniture, and signed theatrical photographs, and an air of cheaply ill-assorted luxury—he wanted her to rest upon one of the couches, but her head had grown a bit clearer by this time, and admonishings were once more faintly stirring within it. Where was she? Where?... In Campbell’s apartment.... So, he’d gotten her there at last. Damn, why was everything trying to revolve around her? This wouldn’t do at all.... She must ... must ... must get herself together. Tra, la, la, what on earth was the dif’? It would be nice to let the whole world go hang for one night, and feel a man’s body against hers, and stop all of this fighting and objecting. Sweet, all right, sweet, but no ... no ... no ... he’d be getting her too easy ... and all he wanted was ’nother party with ’nother girl ... she knew ... and she just didn’t love ... oh, love, nothing ... better to feel good and be yourself ... but she didn’t trust him and she wouldn’t have him ... just wouldn’t have ... yes, she would ... no-o ... she’d simply have to pull herself together.
She went to the bathroom and closed and locked the door behind her before he knew what was happening—he had been standing in a corner of the room and confidently slipping into his dressing-robe. Then she plunged her head into cold water, off and on, for the next half hour, and found a bottle of smelling-salts in his medicine cabinet and thrust it against her nostrils,and loosened her waist. She felt herself growing steadier, and the mists in her head changed to a swaying ache in which her thoughts regathered, and her emotions became sullen and self-contemptuous.
“You’re some boob, you are, letting Joe Campbell dose you up with booze and get you to come to his place,” she said to herself. “He almost put one over on you this time, you conceited dope. How much respect would he have for you if he got you this way? Say, don’t make me laugh.”
In spite of the sick giddiness that still remained within her, she became morosely determined to leave the apartment and return to her home. If he tried any rough stuff, she’d yell for aid, or break something over his head. But he wouldn’t—he’d never risk losing her. He’d know darn well that if he tried any movie stunts she’d never see him again. Well, maybe she had misjudged him—maybe he was really in love with her and too ashamed to admit it. They always put up that I-don’t-care-I’ve-got-a-hundred-others bluff, to impress a girl. Besides, men always wanted the same thing, and they shouldn’t be blamed for that. It was natural.
During the half hour he had rapped repeatedly on the door and begged her to come out, and she had ignored his words. Now she opened the door and walked slowly into the room. He was mixing a highball, and he looked up with a placating smile.
“Well, feel any better now, Blanchie?” he asked, casually. “Sit down and rest it off.”
“I’ll say I do,” she answered. “I’m going home, Joe.”
He looked at her intently and saw that at least half of her drunkenness had disappeared. H’mm, this was a nice state of affairs. Sweet mamma, he’d rather go after a she-fox any day in preference to this girl! Well, he would have to renew his caresses and cajoleries—more carefully this time. He walked up to her and placed his arms around her.
“Listen, don’t leave me flat now,” he said. “I’m wild about you, dear, and I mean it. What’s the use of stalling around all the time? Hell, life’s short enough, and the next morning slaps you in the face just the same. I’d marry you in a second if I didn’t know that marriage never turns out right. Let’s be ourselves, Blanche dear—let’s cut out this comedy stuff.”
As he embraced her his words became more sincere than their original conception had been—somehow transformed by her smooth closeness and his grudging respect for the note of “class” within her.
She tried to thrust him away from her, with wobbly arms, and said: “You’ve got to let me go home, Joe, I’m not myself, I’m not. You wouldn’t want me to give in to you just because I’ve drank too much—not if you love me like you say you do. ’F I ever come to you I don’t want to be coaxed—I want to do it of my own accord, and be glad about it.”
“I can’t, you’ve got me up in the air,” he answered, trying to embrace her again.
This time she repulsed him with more vigor.
“I’d like to see you stop me,” she said. “’F you try it you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
She walked to the couch and started to put on her hat and coat. His mind began to work swiftly, repressing his impulse to follow her and change it to a battle. The determination in her voice might not be real—he had subdued other girls by resorting to a mingled physical struggle and pleading at the last moment—but he had a hunch that it was genuine in her case. She was that rare kind of girl who had to be handled with extreme, inhuman care, and who had a fighting spirit within her and became sullenly stubborn when she thought that a man was trying to force himself upon her. If he controlled himself now, it might give him the halo of a “real gentleman” to her, and then afterwards she would come to him of her own accord, just as she had said. He walked up to her and held one of her hands, gently.
“What do you think I am—a gorilla ’r something?” he asked. “I’d never try to keep you here against your will, don’t be silly. I thought you didn’t mean it ’r else I’d never have acted this way. You’ve got the wrong slant on me, Blanche. I’ll get a cab for you now and see you home.”
She looked at him more softly and said: “Maybe I have, Joe, maybe. You can’t be blamed ’f you want me, but you’ll just have to wait till I come to you myself, ’f I ever do.”
They descended to the street and he rode home with her. He kissed her lightly, as they stood in thehallway of her building, and said: “When can I see you again, dear?”
“I’m too dizzy to think ’bout anything now,” she replied. “Call me up real soon and we’ll make a date.”
She managed to reach her room with no greater heralding than a collision with a chair in the kitchen, and after she had undressed and turned out the light, she pitched herself upon the bed, as though she were violently greeting a tried and deliciously safe friend. For a while, fragments of thought eddied through the growing fog in her head. Hadn’t she acted like an idiot—like one of those movie queens in the pictures, always struggling around with some man, like they were ashamed they had bodies? She was alone now—she’d had her way, and she was winding up with nothing, nothing except another day of hard word at the “parlor,” with a heavy head to carry around. Oh, gee, where was the man with a big chest, and a handsome face—it wouldn’t have to be pretty, like that of a cake-eater—and a complete understanding of all her longings, and a wonderful mind, and ... her head grew blank and she fell asleep.
On the next morning she had a virulent headache, and felt thwarted and taciturn, and was quite certain that life was a fraud and that the future held nothing for her. The mood remained with varying intensities, during the next three days, but the resiliency of youth slowly drove it away, and on the third night, as she sat in her room, preparing for a “date” with Rosenberg, she felt quite skittish and intactly hopeful. After all, they hadn’t been able to downheryet. She’d getahead in the world before she was through, and she’d find the man that she was looking for, and in the meantime, Mister Campbell, and Mister Munson, the stock-broker who had called for her in a limousine on the night before last—her birthday—and Mister Rosenberg, and all the rest of them, would have to jig to her tunes. She gave an idle thought to Munson. He was wealthy, and middle-aged, with a large wart on his broad nose, and his conversation ...hismoney, andhisfriends, and whathewould do for her. Yet, thousands of girls would simply have jumped at the chance to marry him.... All of these men were just makeshifts along the way, until she came across the man whom she could really love, and where was the selfishness involved?—her presence and her talk were worth just as much as theirs, and if they were not satisfied, there were no ropes tied to them. She never ran afterthem, did she?
Again, she berated herself for having as much as seriously considered Campbell’s proposal to live with her and support her—in a couple of months at most he would have turned away from her and sought another girl, and then what would she have had? A sold-out feeling, and a wondering where to turn next, and the whole problem of her life still staring at her. And to think that she had been on the verge of giving in to him that night at his apartment! She would have to stay away from liquor for a while—it might turn her into a rank prostitute before she knew what was happening. A girl only needed one good push to throw everything to the winds, and she knew her weaknessand would have to be more on guard against it. When she met a man whom she loved, she’d be daring and ardent then and tell the world to go to the devil, without even worrying about how long it might last, and not merely because booze had made her feel jolly and helpless and overheated. At her next meeting with Campbell she intended to tell him that they could never be more than pleasant friends to each other.
As for her family, they were a more concrete bug-bear. She knew that Harry and her father would become pugnacious if she ever deserted her home without marrying a man of their choice, but in a pinch, what could they do except strike her, and if they dared....
She emerged from her room, and Mabel, who was sharing a newspaper with Harry, said: “I heard you come in las’ night, Blan. ’F it wasn’t five bells I’ll eat your gray bonnet. I hope you didn’t let Joe get too frisky, though I wouldn’t blame you much if you did. Only he won’t be liable to marry you ’less you hold him off—you know how men are!”
“I didn’t see Joe last night, but don’t worry, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Blanche answered.
“I guess you’re gonna meet that Jew sissy uh yours,” said Harry. “I’ll give him a boxin’ lesson ’f I run into him.”
“That’s all you ever have on your mind,” Blanche retorted. “I don’t see that all this fighting of yours has ever brought you much.”
“That’s all right, I’m not through yet,” he responded, with an angry look. “You hate a guy that doesn’t let off a lotta cheap gas and wriggle his hips.”
As she left the building to meet Rosenberg at the corner drug store, two blocks away, she did not notice that Harry was following her. When she and Rosenberg had exchanged greetings and were about to cross the street, she heard her brother’s voice cry: “Hey, wait a minnit!” and they turned around, and she asked: “What do you want, Harry?”
He ignored her and spoke to Rosenberg.
“Your name’s Rosinburg, huh?” he asked. “I just wanna be sure.”
“That’s right,” Rosenberg answered, scenting trouble and wondering what turn it would take.
“Well, you keep away from my sister, get me? You’ve been fillin’ her head with garbage and turnin’ her against her own people, you have, and I’m gonna put a stop to it. You’re a Jew-kike besides, an’ you better stick to your own kind and leave our girls alone, see? ’F you know what’s good for you, you’ll trot along, now.”
Caution and wrath contended within Rosenberg. This man was a professional fighter and gangster, and could probably beat him easily in spite of the difference in their heights, but, by God, he wouldn’t stand for that kind of insulting interference.
“You bet I’m a Jew, and I’m proud of it,” he replied. “What gives you the idea that you can order me around? If Blanche wants to be with me, that’s her business and not yours.”
“Well, I’m gonna make it my business,” Harry retorted, doubling his fists and stepping closer to Rosenberg.
Blanche, who had been stunned and then inarticulately angry at first, glared at Harry—of all the nerve, insulting her escort and handing out commands toher.
“Are you out of your mind, Harry?” she asked. “What do you mean by butting in like this? I’m not a baby and I’ll do exactly as I please, and you might as well get that into your dumb head!”
Harry still ignored her and said to Rosenberg: “Are you gonna beat it ’r not?”
“You notice I’m still standing here, don’t you?” Rosenberg asked, trembling a bit, but holding a lurid roar in his head, in spite of the sick pain in his breast.
He was in for it—it couldn’t be helped.
Harry immediately punched Rosenberg in the jaw and stomach, in quick succession, and Rosenberg reeled back but recovered his balance and advanced with a snarl and wildly swinging arms. They fought around the sidewalk for the next half minute, while an increasing circle of men and women gathered silently about them. The spectators made no effort to interfere, but watched with that intent, hungrily curious impersonality that usually possesses city crowds in such a situation.
Blanche stood with a numb fear and a helpless anger heavy within her, as she nervously twisted her little white handkerchief and tried to look over the heads of the spectators. Was there anything in life except trouble, and browbeating, and every one trying to pull you a different way ... and that vile brother of hers ... she’d fix him for this audacity ... poor Rosenberg, how she had unwittingly lured him into this mess ...he was more nervy that she had ever given him credit for ... perhaps Harry was half killing him ... poor, poor boy.
Rosenberg fought desperately, his courage reviving to an unnatural fervor beneath the repeated stinging blows, but Harry was far too swift and strong for him, and an uppercut to the jaw finally knocked Rosenberg to his knees. At this juncture some one yelled: “Jiggers, here comes a cop!” The ring of onlookers broke instantly, and some of them sped around the corner and walked swiftly down the side street, while others stood about indecisively. Harry promptly jumped into a nearby taxicab and was driven away—he had done his job and didn’t mean to get arrested for it. Blanche hurried to Rosenberg and helped him to his feet, just as the policeman, with the proverbial lateness of his kind, strode up to them. Rosenberg’s left eye was discolored and a rivulet of blood dropped from his swollen lips.
“What’s all this rumpus about—where’s the fellow that beat you up?” the policeman asked, loudly.
For a moment, Blanche was about to betray her brother, but she checked herself—what good would it do? Her hand tugged pleadingly at Rosenberg’s arm.
“We were walking along when some enemy of his came up and hit him,” she answered. “I don’t know who the fellow was.”
“Well, y’r escort knows, all right,” the policeman said, turning to Rosenberg. “Who was he, come on, loosen up.”
“I can’t tell you ’cause I don’t want to make any charges against him,” Rosenberg answered, slowly. “He started it and I had to defend myself, that’s all.”
The officer turned disgustedly to the sprinkling of bystanders.
“Did any of you see what happened?” he demanded. There was a chorus of “noes” and “not me’s.”
“Yeh, you always take it in but you get blind afterwards,” he said, angrily—he was a new policeman and brassily anxious to make arrests and acquire a record. “Go on, beat it now, don’t stand around blocking up the corner. And you, girlie, you’d better take him in this drug store and have his face fixed up.”
He waved his club as he dispersed the bystanders.
Blanche helped Rosenberg into the drug store, and the clerk applied a poultice to Rosenberg’s eye and gave him some iodine for his mouth. Blanche felt an enormous pity for him—he was physically weak but he was not a coward, and she wished that she could love him, for he certainly deserved it. She had a sense of guilt at having caused him all this pain and trouble, and she became confused at the impossibility of making any amends to him. More kisses and huggings?—they would only lead him to an eventual disappointment. Only her love could make him happy, and that couldn’t be manufactured, no matter how much you respected a man. Oh, darn, was there ever an answer to anything?... One thing was certain, though—for his own good she would have to stop seeing him. Otherwise, she would only continue to lure him into danger without offering him any reward.
On his own part, Rosenberg felt a determined resentment—if he was going to get his head knocked off for her sake, she would have to give him much more than friendship. There was no sense in fighting for a girl who didn’t love you, or refused to surrender herself.
They sat for a moment on one of the drug-store benches.
“You’d better go home now, Lou,” she said. “We’ll get a cab and I’ll ride up with you. Your face must be hurting you terribly. Gee, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that all this happened, Lou. Harry’s nothing but a low-down cur, and if he ever dares to do anything like this again, I won’t stay home another twenty-four hours. I’ve simply got to show them they can’t walk all over me.”
“Never mind about me, I’ll be all right in a couple of days,” he answered. “I’ve got something to say to you, Blanche, but we’ll wait’ll we’re in the cab.”
As they rode uptown, they were silent for a while, and then he said slowly: “We’ve got to have a show-down, Blanche. ’F I’m going to buck your whole family and that rotten gangster brother of yours, I want to be sure you’ll marry me, first. I’d be a fool otherwise, you know that.”
“I know,” she answered, despondently, “and I don’t blame you a bit. I like you lots, Lou, I’ve told you that enough times, and you’ve helped me so much, showing me how stupid I was, and ... I feel blue about it. I don’t love you—you give me a sort of peaceful feeling, and I like to hear you talk, and I don’t mindyour ways ... but that isn’t love.... Oh, I’ve tried to love you, but it just wouldn’t come. It just wouldn’t.... I guess you’d better stop seeing me, Lou. I’d only bring you more trouble, and it wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“I’ll see about it,” he answered, dully. “I wish I’d never met you. You’ve never brought me anything but sadness, after all I did for you, and there’s no use keeping it up forever.”
“Lou, don’t say that,” she replied. “You know I’ve been honest with you. I never made any promises, never, and I’ve always told you just how I felt. I’m miserable about the whole thing as it is, and you can just bet I’ll never forget you, Lou. I hung on to you all this time because I needed you, that’s true, but I’d never have chased you if you hadn’t wanted to be with me.”
“Well, it’s over, I guess,” he said, “and talking won’t help it any, now.”
He felt a self-disparaging apathy. He had poured out his thoughts and ideas to this girl, and set her to thinking as she never had before, and this was his reward, eh? The whole world was just a selfish swamp. She had taken his gifts because they were needed revelations to her, and now she would save her love for some other man, who’d reverse the process and plunder her of all she had, and feast on the elastic dream of her body. No one ever loved you unless you walked all over them and made them worship your highhandedness. He had had a last lesson now, and henceforth he would have a cheeky, appraisingattitude toward every woman he ran across.
After they had traded their farewells—reluctant, empty monosyllables, in which each person was trying to say something more and finding himself unable—Blanche boarded a Ninth Avenue elevated train and rode home, with all of her thoughts and emotions uncertain and sluggish. What was the use of living?—you wound up by hurting the other person, or else he injured you, with neither of you meaning to do it, and then you separated, and accused yourself of selfishness without being able to remedy the matter. But this brother of hers—wait till she got hold of him! She’d give him the worst tongue-lashing of his life, and warn him never to interfere in her affairs again. What did he think she was—a doormat? Brother or no brother, he was a cruel, stupid man, and things would have to come to an issue between them. She was self-supporting and of age, and if her family persisted in treating her as though she were a slave, she would have to leave their roof.
As she walked into the living-room of her home, she found her mother seated beside the table, darning socks and munching at an apple. She threw her hat and coat upon the seamed, leatherine couch, while her mother asked: “How come you’re back so soon, Blanie, dear? Ten o’clock, andyouwalkin’ in! I think the world’s comin’ right to an end, I do that. D’you have a fight with the man you was with? Tell your ma what happened now.”
“Has Harry been back?” Blanche asked.
“No, he never gets back till early mornin’, and sodoes Mabel, an’ Phil, an’ your pa. None of you ever stays to home to keepmecomp’ny.”
“I know you get lonely, ma,” Blanche answered, stroking her mother’s hair for a moment and trying to feel much more concerned than she was. “Didn’t Mrs. O’Rourke, or Katie, come down to-night?”
“They did, sure enough, but it’s not like havin’ your own fam’ly with you,” her mother replied.
Blanche looked at her mother, reflectively. Poor ma, shewaskind of stupid, but maybe she had been more intelligent in her younger days and had had it slowly knocked out of her. She didn’t get much out of life, that was a fact, and she worked hard all the time, and she never harmed anybody. Poor ma.... Then Blanche returned to anger at the thought of Harry.
“Just wait’ll I see Harry,” she cried. “I’ll tell him a thing or two, I will!”
“What’s Harry been doin’, now?” her mother asked.
“He followed me to-night till I met Lou Rosenberg, and then he walked up and told Lou to keep away from me, and picked a fight with him. Of course he beat Lou up—he knows all the tricks, and Rosenberg doesn’t. Then a cop came along, and Mister Harry Palmer ran into a cab, like the coward he is! Believe me, I’m going to show all of you, once and for all, that you can’t boss me around, and if you keep it up I’ll leave home in a jiffy.”
“I jes’ know Harry’ll get into jail yet, with all this scrappin’ uh his,” her mother said, alarmedly. “Maybe this Mister Rosinburg will have to go to the hospital,an’ then they’ll come after Harry. Did he hurt him awful bad?”
“No, he just gave him a black eye and cut his mouth, but that was bad enough,” Blanche answered. “The whole thing happened so quick I couldn’t do anything about it, and besides, I never dreamt Harry would dare to pull a stunt like that. I’m so angry I could punch him if he was here!”
“That’s no way to be talkin’ about your own brother,” Mrs. Palmer said. “It’s I that don’t think he did right, I don’t, but still, he only meant it f’r your own good. You shouldn’t be goin’ around with Jews, you shouldn’t, and this fella Rosinburg, he’s been makin’ you act so silly-like, with all them books that nobody c’n make head ’r tail of. You’re gettin’ to be ’n old girl now, Blanie, you are, and it’s time you were thinkin’ of marryin’ a good man to keep you in comfort.”
“Why isn’t a Jew as good as anybody else?” Blanche asked. “I don’t love Rosenberg, but believe me, ’f I did, none of you could keepmeaway from him. I’m going to stop seeing him ’cause I don’t want him to get into trouble all for nothing, but I won’t stand for any more orders—I’m a free person, and I make my own living, and ’f I think I’m doing right, that’s all I care about.”
“Blanie, you’re talkin’ somethin’ terribul,” her mother answered, sadly aghast. “You oughta have more respect for your pa ’n’ ma, you ought. We raised you up from a kid, an’ we give you everythin’ we could, an’ we only want to see you do the right thing. You’vegot to settle down and have a fine, good-looking, Christian fellow, who’s earnin’ good wages. Course, you must be lovin’ him first—I’d never want you to marry no one you didn’t care for, I wouldn’t, but that’s not everythin’ either. I’d like to see you livin’ like a lady, I would, an’ havin’ a fine home, ’n’ servants, ’n’ the best uh everythin’.”
“Marry, marry, that’s all you ever think about,” Blanche replied. “You mean well, ma, but you can just see so far and no farther. What did you ever get out of marrying, I’d like to know? Nothing but work, and trouble, and worrying around.”
“That’s why I want to see you do better, that’s why,” her mother responded. “It’s I that knows how foolish I was, I know it, and I don’t want you to go through all the strugglin’ I’ve had. ’F you marry a man like Mister Campbell, now, you’ll live in a swell apartment an’ you’ll have the things you want.”
“You don’t know what I want, ma,” Blanche said, sadly. “I want to be somebody, and find out what’s the reason for things, and use my head for something besides a hat-rack. Any girl can marry and let a man use her—there’s no trick in that. I’m tired of being just like other people—I want to act, ’r write, ’r paint, and make a name for myself. You think a woman shouldn’t do anything except have children and be as comfortable as she can. You can’t understand what I’m looking for, ma.”
“It’s I that can’t, it’s all foolishness to me,” her mother replied, perplexedly. “I don’t see why a woman should be anythin’ ’cept a good wife ’n’ a good mother,’f she finds a man that’ll treat her right ’n’ provide f’r her. This bein’ somebody you’re always talkin’ about, I don’t see how it’ll ever make you happy, I don’t. It’s your heart that counts most, an’ nothin’ else. You never talked like this ’fore you met that Rosinburg. I’m glad you’re not goin’ to meet him again.”
“We’re both just wasting our words—let’s cut it out,” Blanche said, depressedly, as she walked into her room.
Her mother looked after her with a sorrowful, uncomprehending expression. What was her poor daughter coming to, with all this unlady-like nonsense, and all this refusing to listen to the counsel of her family, who only wanted her to have a happy and respected future. Well, maybe she’d change, now that she wasn’t seeing that Jew-fellow any more. Jews were human beings, but they were tricky and queer and always out after the money, and they had no right to be picking on Gentile girls.... Of course, if Blanche didn’t change, then her pa and Harry would have to take hold of her. She mustn’t be allowed to go to the dogs and ruin herself and her chances. While she, the mother, would never let the menfolks abuse her daughter or lay their hands on her, she still felt that they would have to act sternly to bring Blanche to her senses. It couldn’t be helped as long as Blanche refused to behave.
When Blanche rose on the following morning, Harry was still asleep, and they did not collide until she returned from work that night. The family were seated around the supper-table, and Mabel looked at Blanche,with curiosity and reproach interwoven, while her father squinted questioningly at her, and Philip squirmed in his chair, like some one waiting for a dynamite detonation. He hated family quarrels—you couldn’t agree with both sides and yet you were always expected to. He felt that the others were “too hard” on Blanche, and he hoped that she would give them a piece of her mind.
Harry had a nonchalant mien which placated the fear within him which he did not quite admit to himself—there was something about Blanche that he couldn’t fathom, and no matter how much he sought to squelch this alien foe, with word and action, it never died—a derided but still-threatening specter.
Blanche was silent until she had seated herself at the table, and then she burst forth.
“Harry, I’m going to tell you something—’f you ever beat up any one I’m with again, and try to order me around, I’ll break something over your head! Just try it once more and see what happens!”
“I’ll do that little thing,” Harry answered. “The last person I was afraid of, he died ten years ago.”
“That’s just how I feel,” Blanche replied. “’F I’m not left alone from now on, I’m going on the war-path.”
“Bla-anie, you mustn’t talk that way, an’ you, too, Harry,” Mrs. Palmer said. “I never, never heard of a brother an’ sister carryin’ on like this! I do think Blanche oughta listen more to what we tell her, I do, but breakin’ things over y’r heads, why I never heard the like of it. You won’t help things that way.”
“See here, Blanche, we’ve got to lay down the lawto you,” her father said. “No more goin’ around with Jews, and no more talkin’ back all the time. I’m your father an’ I’m gonna put my foot down. You’re not a bad kid, I don’t say that, but you’re too fresh, an’ you think you know it all. You better stop readin’ them phony books and pay attention to yourself, an’ act like a reg’lar girl.”
“Suppose I leave home, what’ll you do about it?” Blanche asked.
“I can’t stop you from doin’ that, but ’f you do, don’t think you can come back here again—not ’less you’re married, anyway,” her father replied. “We’ll all be through with you then, an’ you’ll be no daughter uh mine.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Blanche,” Mabel said. “You don’t seem to have any sense nowadays.”
“Of course you don’t,” answered Blanche. “All you care about is having a good time, and working men for all they’re worth, and hunting around for a fellow with money who’ll marry you. I want to do something that counts, and I want to look into things. That’s all a mystery to you.”
“Is that so-o?” Mabel asked, bridling up. “I’ve got just as good a head as you have, even ’f I don’t go around with a chip on my shoulder, like you do, and tell people I’m better than they are. I’m gonna be a rich lady and be up in the world ’fore I’m through with the game, but you’ll wind up with nothing but that hot air you’re always spouting.”
“Well, I think you’re all too rough on Blanche,”Philip said. “Maybe she ought to marry and settle down, but it’s her look-out. ’F she wants to make a name for herself, and study something, I don’t see anything so awful about it.”
“You’re the best one in this fam’ly, Phil,” said Blanche, with a grateful look. “You’re not so wise, but you do believe in letting people alone.”
“Yes, you an’ him are twins, all right,” Harry interposed, “but he knows enough to keep quiet most of the time, and you don’t.”
“Now, Harry, what did I ever do against you?” Philip asked.
“Not a thing, but you wouldn’t side with Blanche all the time ’f you wasn’t like she is,” Harry answered.
The argument went on, with Blanche subsiding to a hopeless silence, but as the meal ended, it became more indifferent. Their appeased appetites brought the others a brief, sluggish contentment, and they felt sure that it was all just a “lot of jawing,” and that Blanche would never really revolt—she was a Palmer, after all.
The next week passed quietly enough, with Blanche and Harry casting disdainful looks at each other but rarely speaking, and the rest of the family persuaded that it might be better to leave Blanche alone as long as she failed to do anything definitely objectionable. Then, one evening, just after Blanche had returned from work, a loud rapping sounded on the front door, and after her mother had responded, Blanche heard a gruff voice asking: “Is this where Mabel Palmer lives, huh?” When her mother had answered yes, the gruff voice continued: “Well, we’re detectives fromthe Sixth Precinct, and we want to have a talk with you people.”
“Oh, Lord, what’s the matter—what’s happened to Mabel?” Mrs. Palmer asked, agitatedly, as she entered the living-room, with the two detectives walking behind her.
They were tall, burly men, in dark, ill-fitting suits, slouch hats of brown, and heavy, black shoes, and one of them had a florid, impassive face, while the other was tanned and more openly inquiring. They sat down in chairs and looked the Palmers over. Harry and his father sought to appear calm and careless but could not repress an involuntary nervousness—there were several shady spots in their lives that shrank from the impending searchlight, but these bulls wouldn’t be acting this way if they reallyknewanything—while Philip looked warmly innocent—they didn’t have anything onhim—and Mrs. Palmer wrung her hands and told herself that all of her dire prophecies had been fulfilled. Blanche was curious but undisturbed—little Mabel Know-Everything had gotten into trouble at last, but what was it?
“Your girl’s locked up at Arlington Market,” the florid detective said. “You know why, don’tcha?”
“My poor little Mabel, what’s happened to her?” Mrs. Palmer asked. “I don’t know a thing that she’s done, I swear I don’t!”
“That’s straight, we don’t know what it’s all about,” Harry said, and his father eagerly corroborated him.
“Well, we nabbed her this afternoon on Broadway,” the other detective replied. “She’s been mixing upwith a lotta bond-thieves, and we think she’s one of their go-betweens. She’s been seen all the time with the brains uh the gang, hanging around cabarets with him. We got him yesterday, and we’ll scoop in the rest of them before to-morrow. If you people don’t know anything about this, it’s mighty funny you let your daughter associate with a gang like that.”
“Yeh, why do you let her run loose all the time?” the florid detective asked.
“I’ve always told her not to be so wild, I’ve always,” answered Mrs. Palmer, “but she never listened to me. She’s really a good girl off’cer, she didn’t mean any harm, but she likes to have men payin’ attentions to her. I know she hasn’t done anything wrong, I know it. She prob’bly thought those men was honest, that’s it, an’ she b’lieved all the lies they told her.”
“That’s what they all say,” the other detective replied, gruffly.
“You’re wrong, Mabe’s a straight kid,” Mr. Palmer said. “She got into bum comp’ny an’ didn’t know it, that must be it.”
“That’s whatyousay, but we got a diff’rent idea,” the florid detective retorted. “Sure, you’d take up for her, that’s an old trick.”
“I cert’nly will,” the father answered, spiritedly. “’F you’ve got any evidence against her, all right, but I’ll have to hear it first ’fore I b’lieve it. I’ll take up for my own daughter any time, any time.”
“Sure, I understand,” the other detective said, more amiably. “All we know’s that she went around with that gang, hitting up the night clubs, but we haven’tconnected her with anything yet. It looks bad for her, that’s all.”
“We’ll put her through a grilling to-night and find out more about it”—the florid detective suddenly turned to Blanche. “What d’you do for a living?”
“I work at Madame Jaurette’s Beauty Parlor, on Fifth Avenue near Twenty-sixth,” Blanche responded, coolly. “Come down there some day and I’ll curl your blond locks for you. They need it.”
The detective grinned and replied: “We’ll look you up, don’t worry.”
“And you, what’s your trade?” he asked her father.
“I don’t do much now ’cause my leg’s on the bum,” Mr. Palmer replied. “I used to be a bartender in the old days when we had a little freedom in this town.”
“Well, you’d better stop loafing around and get a job,” the detective advised.
“I always work when I’m able to,” said Mr. Palmer. “I used to manage my boy here, Harry, Battling Murphy—maybe you’ve seen him scrap somewheres. He got a raw deal an’ they barred him from the ring, but he’ll be back there ’fore long, don’t worry.”
The florid detective looked closely at Harry and then said: “Damned if it isn’t Bat’ Murphy himself! I won some dough on you once when you was fighting Kid Morley down at the Terrace. Why didn’t you tell us who you was?”
“You was askin’ my folks questions an’ I didn’t wanna butt in,” Harry replied as he shook hands, warmly, with the detective.
“I hear you been cutting up with a bad gang lately,Bat’,” the other detective interposed, in a tone of friendly reproof. “Better cut it out and get back into condition again. We wouldn’t like to pull you in, y’know.”
“You c’n lay a bet I will,” Harry replied. “I’m no has-been yet, I’m tellin’ you I knocked a coupla fellas out at the gym the other day.... An’ now about this poor kid sister uh mine. She isn’t a bad one, but you know how fellas c’n fill a girl up with a lotta phony gab. I don’t think she knew a damn thing about what was goin’ on.”
“You can bail her out, all right, when we’re through putting the question to her,” the other detective said. “Know any one to go to?”
“Know any one, I’ll say we do,” Harry answered. “Why, Bill O’Brien, the Wigwam chief in this district’s a good friend uh the old man, an’ me too. He’ll put up the coin in a second.”
“All right, come down to Arlington Market court to-morrow morning, ten sharp, when she’s arraigned, and we’ll see what we can do,” the detective said, with respect in his voice, as both of them rose. “And by the way, who’s this man in the corner?”
“He’s my brother Phil, works in a drug store a coupla blocks away,” Harry answered.
“A-all right, I guess you’re all straight enough,” the detective replied, genially. “Only, if your kid sister gets out of this, you better keep a strict tab on her. She’s a flighty one and no mistake.”
“It’s sure I am that this’ll teach poor Mabel a lesson,” Mrs. Palmer said, with a sad eagerness. “An’ tothink she’s sittin’ in a cell right now. It’s terribul, it is!”
“We-ell, don’t take it to heart, she may be out soon,” the other detective answered.
The detectives departed, and after Harry had cautiously opened the door and assured himself that they had gone, he came back and said: “We’ve gotta get poor Mabe outa this. I’m gonna run over to Tenth Avenue now an see ’f I c’n get ahold of O’Brien.”
“I wonder whether they’ve got the goods on her,” his father said. “I can’t think a wise girl like Mabel would lay herself open to five years in the pen. It don’t seem reas’nable. She musta had the wool pulled over her eyes.”