Place in the City (12 page)

“Where will we go?” she asked.

“As the wind blows. We have no direction, and we have no one to go to. That way is best, Anna. We start life—right from the beginning. It's our beginning—don't you see? We do as we please, go where we please. How does it matter, so long as we live?”

“No, it doesn't matter,” she agreed. “So long as I'm with you, it doesn't matter.”

“You'll be with me always,” he said.

“Always.”

“I only want my watch now. I don't know where I put it. What's wrong, Anna?” he demanded.

Her face had turned dead white; she pressed one hand against her mouth.

“Anna?”

“He's stopped playing. I don't know when he stopped, but he's not playing now. Oh, I'm afraid, Johnny.”

“No—no, it's all right. Come, we'll go.”

“Yes—yes, let's go. Let's get out of here, Johnny. Never mind your watch. Only let's get out of here, away from this place. I hate it. I'm afraid of it.”

“Anna, it's all right. You don't have to be afraid any more—not while you're with me. And you'll always be with me. You'll never be alone with him again.”

“I know—I know. But please come, Johnny. Please—let's get out of here.”

He was struggling into his coat, laughing at her fears. She didn't know; she couldn't know how strong the current of life was flowing in him, how flushed and strong he was, how confident of life.

“Hat, coat,” he laughed. He took his grip and hers, and watched her, smiling, while she turned the collar of her coat up around her neck. She clutched his arm, while he opened the door.

“Quickly, Johnny.”

“No hurry now—it's waiting for us.”

They stepped out into the snow, breathing deep of the clean, cold night air. The night was a mother; the snow had been put there for them, whiteness to cover all that had been before. The city, all of the dark, sleeping city, was a benediction.

He bent to kiss her, gently, just touching her lips, feeling that he was performing the supreme act of sacrifice in his life.

She glanced at the sky once; then she smiled at him. Her fears were childish, foolish, part of the deep dejection of Apple Place. Now her fear would go. More and more of it would go with each step they took away.

“Come,” he said.

They started away into the night.

S
OMEHOW,
Danny made his way out of the club. On the steps, he fell, sprawled down half a flight of stairs, and landed at the bottom, a crumpled heap. From a cut on his head, a thin stream of blood poured out and down his face. For perhaps a minute or two, he lay there without moving; then he crawled to his feet, opened the door, and staggered over to his car.

It took him a long while to start his motor. Once he fell asleep, and he slept with his head on the wheel until the cold awakened him. At last, he started the car and pulled away from the curb, turning uptown. He drove for more than a mile before the cold air sobered him enough to recall Alice to his mind.

Bit by bit, he remembered. He was still drunk, but he remembered that he had been married, that she was waiting for him. Well, she would still be waiting; she was his wife, so there wasn't anything else she could do but wait.

He drove back to Meyer's store, and he began to blow his horn. The snow had stopped; the night was cold, silent and beautiful, so beautiful that drunk as he was the frantic sound of his horn frightened him. Why didn't she come?

He put his head out of the window. “Alice!” he yelled. “Geesus Christ, where the hell are you?” The sound echoed back to him through the silent streets. Old Meyer would be out at his throat now, but he didn't give a damn for Meyer any more. Wasn't she his wife?

“Alice!”

He heard a door open and close. Then he saw her running across the sidewalk toward him. Opening the door, he waved a hand at her.

“Over here!” he yelled. “You're a hell of a wife for any man to have. Geesus Christ, you'd think I was a tinhorn boy friend, the way I got to sit in the car here and yell for you, Alice! Alice! That ain't no way for a wife to act.”

“Danny, be still, for God's sake,” she whispered, climbing into the car next to him. She stared at him, at his torn clothes and his bleeding face. He had been sick in the car, under his feet, down the front of his clothes.

“You're drunk, Danny,” she said.

“Sure I'm drunk. What the hell of it? Am I a man, or maybe you own my body too, now that you're married to me. Maybe I got nothing to say about it!”

“You're drunk—”

“Awright, awright—I'm sick and tired of having people tell me that. Sure I'm drunk. Don't you think I know I'm drunk? What about it?”

A window banged open, and she heard old Meyer's voice calling her. “Let me drive, Danny,” she said quickly. “You can't drive the way you are. Let me drive, and I'll take you home. Please, Danny.”

“Awright,” he muttered, tears coming into his eyes. “Awright, go ahead. I don't count no more. I don't have anything to say. Who the hell is Danny?”

She crawled past him and started the car. As she pulled away, she heard her father calling; but she might have been in a dream for all the voice mattered. Nothing mattered; everything was broken into very small pieces.

It was a difficult night to drive, the more so with Danny leaning against her, weeping bitterly and muttering under his breath. Then he fell asleep, sprawled upon her and snoring hoarsely.

She stopped the car to relieve herself of his weight. Now he sat with his head lolling back, his mouth dropped wide open. Smeared blood was all over him. She had no way of telling how badly he was hurt.

It seemed an eternity to her before they came to the small apartment house he lived in. She stopped the car, turned off the motor, and stared at him.

“Danny,” she whispered.

He slept on, blissfully, unmoving.

“Danny, wake up. We're home. You have to wake up, Danny.”

Stirring slightly, he blinked his eyes; then he rolled back into his sleep.

“Danny.”

His snores came forth gently as a baby's breathing, but his breath and the horrid stench in the car sickened her. She opened both windows, shivering with the cold. Outside, the night was cold and silent and silver, tracked snow and tall houses, making with its jumbled shadows a picture of some lost canyon in a mysterious range of mountains. But the silence was as oppressive as the night was beautiful, and the utter loneliness of a city filled with people frightened her; she had never been alone before so late at night.

“Danny,” she begged. She shook him, slapped his cheeks, and then in a fit of remorse, pressed her cheeks to the dry blood. “Danny, Danny, wake up.” She held his hands, fondled them. “Danny, I'm afraid. Don't you hear me? Wake up, Danny.”

Again he stirred, opened his eyes and yawned. “Go 'way,” he muttered.

“Oh, Danny, it's Alice—it's your wife. Don't you know, Danny? Danny, look at me!”

He stared, blinked his eyes, and stretched convulsively. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Sure—I know. But it's all right, honey. Everything's all right, and don't you worry. I'm going to do big things for you—best God damn lawyer in this cheap town. Timy and me, just like that.” He pushed one hand in front of her face, two fingers crossed. “Just like that,” he emphasized. Then he grinned sleepily.

“I know, darling. Come upstairs now.”

He stumbled out of the car, and half leaning on her made his way into the house. At the door of his apartment, he fumbled for his keys, found them, and then tried to find the lock. Sobbing bitterly, he stabbed at the door; at last, he gave up, holding out the keys to Alice.

“I'm drunk, baby,” he muttered. “Geesus Christ, ain't it a damned shame.”

She opened the door, switched on the lights and followed him in. There were two rooms, nicely furnished, the way a man would furnish them. That reassured her; that was her Danny. “I know him—I love him,” she said to herself. “Nothing else matters but that.”

Sprawling on the bed, he stretched his arms and twisted his body. When she bent over him, he shook his head. “I'm sorry, baby,” he muttered.

“I know, Danny.”

“Why don't you go away? I'm drunk. I'm no God damn good for anything. Why don't you leave me alone?”

She began to undress him, while he muttered on, tossing and twisting. When his clothes were all off, she took a wet rag and wiped the blood and dirt from his face. Then she dressed the cut. By this time, he had fallen asleep again. Covering him with the blankets, she turned off the light and sat down on the side of his bed.

Now the only light in the room was a faint gray gleam that crept in through the window. In the night, every sound was thin and clear, the tread of a milkman's horse, the clank of his bottles, the steps of someone passing the house. Soon it would be morning; and then her wedding night would be over.

She was alone with the man she loved, the man she had married. She hadn't cried yet; now she attempted to smile. It wasn't difficult. You moved your lips, and then you smiled, and then you felt better. She felt under the blanket for Danny's hand, found it, drew it out and pressed it to her face. He moved in his sleep.

“You see,” she whispered, “it doesn't matter. I love you, Danny.”

In his sleep, he said: “Best God damn lawyer in this cheap town.”

“Surely, surely, darling.”

She was terribly tired, but she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep that night. Soon it would be morning, very soon, and then she would go to the school, and take her class as if nothing at all had happened. Nothing had happened, only she was a fool. She had been a fool when she kept the boy in, scolded him. She could see his face very easily, the dumb, hurt look, and the dumb understanding in the eyes that went beyond the hurt, beyond her. If he were only here with her now, she would take him in her arms. It would be good to hold him in her arms now.

“Danny,” she said.

“Best God damn lawyer,” he muttered.

Then she cried easily and gently, cried until it was all gone and she felt dry and empty inside; then she simply sat and stared straight ahead of her, without seeing anything at all.

Tomorrow she would know what to do. There was always tomorrow, and that was all that made it worth while. So long as there was tomorrow, she could dream.

“I love you, Danny,” she said. She had to say it to make the fact known to herself.

W
HEN
there is a promise left, then at least there is a reason; and the reason makes tomorrow atone for today. A man stumbles out of that way of thinking soon enough, and his only reaction is, God damn! But women dream, all women; and when there is no promise left, then what is a woman to do? When the salt is gone—

O'Lacy saw the men coming out of the club. It was late, and the stag had broken up already. Most of them nodded to him, unless they were too drunk to, but O'Lacy glanced neither left nor right.

“The curse is on you,” he muttered between his teeth.

“ 'Night, O'Lacy.”

“On you,” he muttered, striding on, kicking the loose snow out of his way.

Shutzey had come back only a little while ago. Now the only ones who were left were those playing cards, and most of the card games would not break up until dawn. At one table, Shutzey, Timy, Snookie Eagen and Kraus were having a game of stud. Timy was winning. He was dealing with a careful, deft movement.

“You got gilt-edged fingers,” Shutzey said.

“Sure.”

“King's high.”

Snookie threw a dollar in the pot. “Take it, take it all,” he moaned; then he grinned, pointing over Timy's shoulder. “I'll be a sonovabitch—look what's comin'.”

Shutzey looked at Mary White who was standing in the door of the card room, shapeless, crumpled clothes surrounding her stooped figure. Staring at the floor, she stood there, seeming ready to fall any moment. Then she began to cross to the outside door, moving very slowly.

“C'mere, Mary,” Shutzey called.

She glanced up, stared for a moment, and then directed her steps toward the table. When she reached it, she waited dumbly.

“How are yu?” Shutzey demanded.

“All right,” she murmured.

Shutzey scraped the pot together in his big hand, held it out to her. “Here's a little bonus,” he told her. “I'll pay yu off at the end of the week. This is just a bonus, unnerstand?”

She glanced at the money and then she looked at him; her eyes were so blank, so entirely dead, that behind them there appeared to be limitless space. For just a moment, it seemed to Shutzey that he was gazing into the depths of hell.

“Unnerstand? Here, take it.”

“Geesus Christ,” Timy whispered.

“Well?”

“Yes,” she said; but she made no attempt to take the money.

“C'mon—come outta yu hop! Take the money an' scram. Maybe it ain' enough potatoes up an' over yu work? What the hell are yu lookin' at me like that fur?”

“Yes—”

“G'wan, take it. Then get some sleep. Yu need it.”

“Yes.”

Haltingly, her hand came up, opened. Shutzey put the money in, and it closed, as a machine might; and machinelike she turned around and moved towards the door. At the door, some of the bills slipped from her hand and fluttered to the floor; but she appeared not to notice. She began to open the door, and she moved so slowly that Shutzey thought it would take hours for her to get it open. Then she went out.

“Geesus Christ,” Shutzey muttered.

“Aw, she's all hopped up,” Snookie said. “Yu shouldn'ta give 'er that pot anyway. She won't have none of the green when she gets home. Suppose she meets someone on the street.”

“Yeah,” Kraus agreed.

“Quit kicking,” Timy told them. “What the hell do yu want? Anyway, I got kings up an' down. So what the hell are yu kickin' about?”