CHAPTER XII
Once, while Deane was living with her aunt in a midwestern city, she had met a young man named Carol Stevens who was visiting there. Deane’s aunt liked him—his little courtesies, the niceties of his behavior. But with Deane, he produced conflicting impressions. He loved a kitchen the way most men love a study or an office; and he moved among the pots and pans the way an artist walks before his canvas. His talent in bringing common food to life and giving it new meaning was no greater than his ability with a needle. He could take odds and ends of material and bring them together in an evening gown as fragile as a cloud. But more interesting than the things he created was his manner of creation; for he sewed with curving, meticulous gestures that were certain of each other. Sometimes Deane, watching him, would smile, and sometimes frown as though puzzled. After his visit, the young man returned to his home in Idaho and Deane forgot all about him.
She was having a quiet cup of tea one afternoon when he announced himself. When he came in he took her hands affectionately, as though they were long lost andnewly reunited friends. He placed his topcoat carefully on a chair, sat down on the divan and pulled his trousers high above his ankles. In less than a minute he seemed quite at home.
“What adreadfultrip!” he said. “A simply dreadful trip, dear!—I’m exhausted. On a bus,” he explained. “Gas fumes—oranges—babies! A man with a parachute on his back, or something,” he ended wearily.
Deane laughed. She offered him tea, but he shook his head vigorously.
“Wine?” she asked.
“Wine,” he repeated, and drew a line across his fingernail, adding, “—so much.”
Deane went to a cabinet and poured a glassful of sherry.
Carol looked at the drink and stuck his tongue into it.
“Glorious!” he said, sipping like a kitten. Deane had the feeling he was going to take off his shoes.
To her relief Martin came in and she introduced the two men. Carol watched the newcomer suspiciously. He was shorter than Martin and chunky. He was broad in the belly; his waistband was spread with fat. His suit, which was more yellow than tan, accentuated his contour in spite of its good tailoring. His pale eyebrows lighted his pale eyes. His nose revolted at the tip and elevated itself, searching. His mouth was supposed to be prim and grim; but Martin wondered if he could catch it in a pot. His chin billowed out. His wrists were thick and hisfingers perky. They touched things lightly. He took a cigarette holder from his pocket. Three of his fingers were around the stem and the fourth stuck out. Martin wondered how it would feel to bite this one off. It gave him a pleasant sensation to think of having the finger in his pocket, severed. He was so rapt in his thoughts that he smiled. This made Deane nervous. It was all right for Martin to act that way with her, but not with other people. When he smiled like that with other people it meant he was taking a trip. She tried to catch up with his thoughts before they became spectacular.
“Carol had a miserable time,” she said. “It was on a bus; and there were detours—it’s not pleasant.”
“It’s not pleasant,” repeated Carol.
Martin frowned and looked at him. He looked at Carol and the more he looked, the more he disliked him. Carol was shocked at the way Martin was watching him. It made him uncomfortable and angry. He drew his mouth into a forced, straight line, tucked in his chin and spoke to Deane.
“Itwaswretched, dear. I bounced this way, and I bounced that way! And my traveling companions!” He rolled his eyes. “There was a salesman!” Carol snorted; a delicate snort, neither high nor loud. “The person had a case that he held on his lap all the way!” Carol’s shoulders shook with mirth and the ashes from his cigarette fell on the rug. He stopped for a moment to nibble at his holder.
Martin felt something unhealthy—something that hung in the room like an infectious mist. But the young man squirmed comfortably and continued.
“There was an old lady. The proverbial old lady of all busses. The kind that has a basket of food and draws out apples and fried chicken and the right kind of sandwiches. She offered one of them to me.” He had made himself laugh until he felt slightly sick. “And I bounced this way, and I bounced that way!”
Deane told Carol that it had been an amusing experience, but one not to be repeated; to which Carol replied as he raised one plump hand, the palm outward, “Heaven forbid!”
Deane tried to be pleasant, but she didn’t feel well. The air was sticky, and she wanted to sit down with Martin and have him hold her tightly and listen to him swear for five minutes. Martin could swear so beautifully that it purified a room like rain.
Martin knew what Deane was thinking and he reached for her hand. Carol saw this and cleaned his cigarette holder with a clear, refined disapproval. Then he meticulously cleaned his ear with the finger Martin wanted. He cleaned his ear thoroughly; but his movements were elegant. The expression on his face was Olympian.... He was alone in the room. Then he looked more cheerful. He was not alone. He was in New York, visiting.... He tried to yawn and couldn’t; but he slapped his lips lightly and smiled at Martin.
“Deane has a lovely apartment—doesn’t she?”
Martin nodded, but remained silent.
Carol’s mouth became firm again and he tapped the floor petulantly with the toe of his shoe.
Martin arose, went to a table where there was whisky and poured himself a drink.
Carol watched him for a moment, then stood up and took Deane’s hands.
“I have an appointment, my dear,” he said gently. “It has been good to find you.” He hesitated, lifting one eyebrow. “And I am happy to have met your friend.”
Martin nodded again and took a drink.
Carol bit his lip and put on his coat, tenderly pressing a scarf of coral pink under his collar.
“Goodnight. I’ll call you to-morrow, dear,” he said to Deane as he left.
When the door closed behind him Martin put down his glass and went over to Deane.
“It’s funny,” he said, “how friendships like this spring up.”
Deane looked away while she spoke.
“He hates you.”
Martin squinted through the window at the colors in the dusk.
“Have your fun, Martin,” she continued, “but not at his expense. Why were you so rude?”
“Because it’s the easiest way.”
“I know Carol’s extravagances,” she went on, “but I hate to see him hurt.”
Martin wheeled around. “And I don’t want you hurt,” he answered. “Carol’s bad luck. He’s a fool and a parrot.” Then, raising his voice a little, he repeated, “They’re all damned bad luck.”
All this time Carol was walking down the street. His walk was unusual but convincing. His hips had no vertical motion. They jerked horizontally, hesitated, and jerked to the other side. He knew that his hips did this. He liked it and did it on purpose, for he had always liked the abstract movement of a woman. So Carol went down the street, aware and proud of his unusual attraction. But he kept thinking of Deane and Martin. He shuddered. “They are like animals—they!” He looked swiftly at a man crossing the street. Then he shrugged his shoulders and thought again of Deane and Martin. “How carnal! How obvious! Why, even now they might be looking at each other—holding each other.” The thought was too repugnant and he held a handkerchief to his lips. Yes; such things were—he waved his handkerchief almost imperceptively—well, beyond endurance. Gently he picked up his cross and strapped it over his shoulders, basking in tribal strength. His friends had said: “Man and woman?—ah, yes,”—(with a yawn). Carol held the handkerchief closer.
He walked along the Avenue to Washington Square and sat down on a bench. A thin, blonde-haired woman with a pretty face passed him slowly. She thought rapidly, came back and sat down beside him.
Carol’s mind was drifting pleasurably. He remembered a boy in Chicago who could quote poetry beautifully and whose blue eyes were oriental. The boy’s hands were so strong that they could crack a walnut; and yet, they could be so gentle. Carol smiled, a sweet, remembering smile. The girl on the bench smiled, too. She thought he was affecting indifference and her interest increased. But he did not even know that she was there until she held a cigarette toward him.
“Pardon me. Do you have a match?” she asked.
Carol was taken from his dream. Not entirely. A moment, a memory, a little beauty remained. But this slender, light-haired creature had destroyed everything he felt most closely. He looked at her calmly. He knew women.
“I do not have a match. I do not smoke.” He looked at her and she understood. Both had an expression of loathing. Each typified the thing in the world they disliked most. The girl stood up. She didn’t know how to tell him what she felt, but an obscene, contemptuous movement of her hips sickened him. He looked in the other direction, praying that she would leave swiftly. It was humiliating.... The evening shadows hid her as she walked away and Carol tried to reminisce again. But it was no good. His dreams had gone.
Two boys strolled past him. They were students and they were talking about books. Their clothes were not well pressed and they were obviously thinking abouttechnicalities. Another boy went by; thin, his hair uncut, looking straight before him. Several Italian sweethearts, laughing, holding hands, walked up and down. Carol watched them with indifference. Two more boys passed, close together. One of them was handsome. They laughed musically, and while Carol could hear only a fragment of their conversation, it made him lonely. Several young fellows with polo shirts under their coats approached him; but he was scornful. “Trade! Commercializing those wretches!”—He flicked it out of his mind with arrogance.
The moon undressed over the University. It was slender, strong and white. Carol had seen a boy like that one time—slim and white and very strong. Carol made his own standards when he had been hurt enough. The moon was a boy, dancing for him. Tears were in Carol’s eyes and he wiped them away austerely. Still the moon danced before him. There was an animal cry in his throat, but he would not let it out. He arose and left the park, went to a telephone booth and called Deane. While he talked, he held the back of his neck tightly.
“Hello, Deane. Would it be imposing on you if I came over again for a few minutes?—just for a few minutes before I go to my hotel?”
Deane was a woman, too, and she felt the quality of hysteria in his voice.
“Of course you can. I’ll be so glad to see you, Carol.” “Right away,” he said, and hung up. For a long timehe stood there, staring blankly at the mouthpiece while his child-mind spun blankly round its core.
Deane returned to the living room, sat down beside Martin and lit a cigarette.
“Jesus Christ!” said Martin, looking at her.
The phone rang again.
“Jesus Christ!” he repeated.
This time it was Roberts. He asked Deane (rather pleadingly, she thought) if she would see him.
“Martin is here, Roberts,” she replied.
“Please let me speak with him.”
Deane beckoned to Martin, who flung himself out of the chair a bit impatiently and took the receiver from her hand.
“You think this is easy,” said Roberts, when he heard his voice. “It isn’t, Martin. You think I’m wrong, and I think you are. But that shouldn’t be an issue. Right or wrong, there is something more important to which we owe our fidelity.”
“What’s that?”
“Ourselves, Martin. Listen! I’ve gone back and forth over our quarrel and God knows where the origin was, or worse yet, where the ends are now. Help me find them, dear boy. Everything is twisted. I can’t sleep.”
Martin rubbed his forehead. There was sincerity in Roberts’ voice.
“Everything’s all right, Roberts,” he said at last. “Come along.”
“Good boy! Good boy!”
Martin could hear a strange, sobbing chuckle.
“It’s all right,” he repeated. “And Deane wants you to come, too.” Martin could see Deane incline her head gently. It was a gesture he loved and of which he was jealous. After he left the phone they sat for some minutes without speaking. Then Martin shook his head. “Jesus Christ!” he said once more.
He got up and went into the kitchen to mix the highballs. Before he had finished he heard Deane open the door and knew that it was Carol. The boy stepped across his brain—walked cozeningly, with his side-weave and his red, disarranged face. Then Martin heard Roberts. He felt the unreliable smile—saw the white, fanatical face. He felt the pressure of entering the room and held his fingers against the sides of his head. The two figures with Deane were waiting for him.... Carol, looking for a lost doll.... Roberts, handsome, leprous, searching for the impossible.... Martin waited until the introductions were over, then walked into the living room with the drinks. He placed the tray of highballs on a table.
Roberts got out of his chair at once and went to him, holding out his hand with an intense movement which Martin accepted quietly.
“You’re looking well again, Martin,” said the adviser. “And I’m glad to find it so.” He turned halfway to Deane with a strained smile. “Isn’t it splendid, Deane?”
She returned the smile, nodding her head and Martin broke in swiftly.
“I fell into a job, Roberts—free lance work that turned regular. Perhaps my relief shows in my appearance.”
“Where is the job?” asked Roberts quickly, looking concerned.
“Downtown,” said Martin, a vague expression in his eyes.
Roberts flushed and returned to his chair, while Martin sat down on the divan beside Deane. Carol, who had been watching the two men with fascination, leaned back sighing, a satisfied look softening his features as he drew out his cigarette holder.
“I knew New York would be this way—just this way. And I justloveit!” He cocked his head at Martin and nodded wisely. “The swift pace of commerce,” he added.
“Who said that?” asked Martin, amused.
Carol looked embarrassed.
“Why, I—why, I think the salesman did. But it was so apt—the salesman said—” He hesitated, and Martin raised his hand in agreement.
“Itisapt, Carol,” he replied. “I should know. It takes experience to make one understand ‘the swift pace of commerce.’ Mr. Roberts realizes this, too, though in adifferent way; forhe’llnever let commerce get athisheels.”
“Indeed, I won’t,” said Roberts vehemently. “I’ll follow it, trip it, mold it and make it carry me.” He was about to continue when Deane spoke quietly, but with a certain implied request. Her beautiful eyes gleamed in the shaded light.
“Did you keep your appointment, Carol?” she asked, turning to him with mild interest.
“No, dear,” he answered in a puzzled voice. “No, we must have been—well, mixed up,” he went on more precisely. “So I went to the park—Washington Square, the policeman said it was. But oh!—I just felt so blue Ihadto call you up.” He held a silken handkerchief daintily under his nose and let it flutter with his breath. “But there’s a glorious moon,” he continued, looking at Martin. “It really seems to be dancing. And speaking of dancing—I saw thecutestthing at a show the other night!” He became enthusiastic and stood up, still holding on to the handkerchief with one hand while he placed the other on his hip. Then he turned his head a little and looked coyly over one shoulder.
“What was it like?” asked Deane, a strange smile on her lips.
“I really can’t say, dear. But,” Carol’s eyes brightened, “Itdidhave—” he waved the handkerchief, “what do you call it?—‘um-pah!’” Completely forgetful now of his surroundings, he pursed his lips into a curious formand began to sing in a rather wistful mood, “Ooh-ooh, woo-woo, me too,” his hand on his hip, his handkerchief still fluttering. Then he circled his left foot back of the right, followed up, and continued until he was moving gracefully across the room in time with the weird intonation. At last he seemed to fade into the hallway as though it were the wings of a theater; and the three in the room could hear the words float in long after he had disappeared—“Ooh-ooh, woo-woo, me too.”
Martin laughed without restraint and clapped his hands loudly. There was a gurgle of delight from the hall and Carol peeped around the doorway, his face aglow at such acclaim.
“Great!” continued Martin, as the young man came in beaming. “The best! The very best, Carol!” he went on, while the other, breathless, sat down and touched the handkerchief to his forehead. Deane’s eyes still gleamed peculiarly; but Roberts had merely turned his face the other way.
Then suddenly, as though each wanted to convince the others that his own thoughts were spontaneous, they talked in animated sequence. They talked of music, and of tides, and of the government. Each word was a word—Roberts’, like a dark sword in a silver lake; Carol’s, like the hole in a fisherman’s net; and Martin’s and Deane’s, like clouds over a river.
In a short while, Roberts stood up.
“I must go,” he said gravely.
Carol got up also, and after a brief look at Martin, followed the adviser into another room to get his coat.
Outside there was a cool wind blowing. Carol led Roberts to Washington Square—an inexplicable impulse returning and behind the direction. The guards had raked the grass after the early snows. A pile of leaves burned slowly, and the soft flutter of pigeons beyond the firelight made the park seem homely and comfortable. On the icy concrete surrounding the fountain there were children with skates. Their flashing feet splintered the dark which lay under the moon, and around these romping figures the cool wind, blowing softly, held everything together.
Neither Carol nor Roberts noticed the pigeons or the children. They were watching their own hearts. Carol’s beat slowly, with a regular, bovine thump. Roberts’ beat quickly, irregularly, with acuity and despair. He was in such despair that he tried to find camaraderie within the boy beside him. His monologue pretended to be a conversation, but his bright words of indictment against Martin rolled across Carol’s porcine cheek and were reflected, turning in to himself, weighting his bitterness more heavily.
“Yes, Carol,” he said, “we must forget ourselves in this issue. We must save our friends from this domestic suicide. Clutching an insane illusion of love, they are bemused by carnal appetite. Lost on the horizon of flesh, their perspective becomes astigmatic. Drowned in beast’sblood, they deliberately blind themselves to an obvious incompatibility. It is our duty to our strength, our lives, our God, to break this union.” Roberts’ mouth became loose and wet. “We must show them the truth.... Martin! Martin!” The adviser’s eyes were like those of a sick horse. “Martin is so young—so fruitful. We must forgive him.... And that lovely woman—upset so terribly by him—we must give her our strength.” Roberts dropped his head, unable to speak further.
Carol smiled vacuously.
“Yes,” he replied.
And while Roberts cried into the vacant moon the boy beside him, uncomprehending, drooled on.
“Yes. We must give our strength. We must give ourselves. We must give—” Carol’s voice became fainter and disappeared into the sound of leaves. He could feel Martin’s arm around him, petting—forcing. Carol’s face became curiously beautiful.... He was giving himself....
Roberts, taken from his sadness by this incoherent dribbling—Roberts, sensing the thought beside him, moved away. He looked at Carol, at the fat thighs, the fat cheeks, the desire; and he was suddenly sick. To have Martin touched, even in thought, was unbearable. Unsteadily he pushed himself off the bench and walked away without speaking. The moon was beautiful, but it was not for him. There was magic in the wind, but it made him feel more lonely.... For a long time hewalked. The cornstalk he had left sitting on the bench was but a mild irritant now. It became less and less so until Roberts laughed.
Carol was not aware of the change. He knew only that Martin was closer—that his dream was real.
The bonfire had long been extinguished and the guards had left. There was no sound of skates; there was a hush of wings; and the moon looked down on the Italian lovers with their quick, dark hands.