Place in the City (13 page)

Shutzey went over to the door, to pick up the money she'd dropped. Before he closed the door, he stood there a moment, staring. Her eyes bothered him. It annoyed him that her eyes should bother him, but there was no getting away from it. Her eyes had dead space behind them broader than anything he had ever dreamed of.

“God damn it,” he muttered.

Then he went back to the table and stared at Timy. The little blond kid had compared him to Timy. Timy wasn't a pimp, and Timy was a soft, fat man he could crush with one blow of his fist. He stared at his fist, clenching it and turning it over and back; he studied the large knuckles, the wiry black hairs that curled out of the skin.

“Your move, Shutzey.”

“Yeah?”

S
TANDING,
the priest looked up, and through the high, small window he saw the sky and the stars, tiny, bright stars in a great mantle of night. For a long while he stood there like that, silent and staring, attempting to breath into himself some of the immensity that stretched out over his head. It was open, mighty, and in being that, it relieved him. He could loose himself, allow himself to roam up and into it. Pent up, almost to the point of bursting, the night silenced him and calmed him. There, somewhere out there and far away from himself, was the ultimate answer.

A hand on his shoulder caused him to turn around, and he looked at Marion. Perhaps, like himself, she had been looking through the window at the sky, and now she was smiling. A woman, he considered, has the advantage in that she knows. No woman in all time has ever really doubted—not the way a man doubts. A man struggles on and on, and all his world is forever a question-mark. There is no answer for him. The priest had seen too many men die. None of them had had the answer; all of them had looked at him with that same eternal question in their eyes, why and how. But a woman knows. Inside, something destroys the doubt; and Marion was smiling with the sure knowledge of one who is beyond mere wonder.

“You're not sorry,” she told him.

“No,” he agreed, “I'm not sorry.”

He wasn't sorry, but in his heart there was something, a shadow of fear, perhaps, or, more likely, a lingering sorrow. He had lost something, and he had lost it so completely that the loss meant little; what meant more was the slow awakening, the slow hatred that was dawning inside of himself for what he had been, for what he had represented. This, he feared—the fact that he despised himself for all the years that were behind him. Where were values?—and how were you to judge when you lost values that had been with you for a lifetime? He found himself thinking of Shutzey, of the time so many years ago when he had fought Shutzey, body to body and toe to toe. Shutzey was a man, a beast-man, if you would, but a man nevertheless.

“What are you thinking?” Marion asked him. “When your face is like that, it makes me afraid. Tell me what you are thinking of.”

“Thinking? I don't know—”

“I love you, Jack. That's enough, isn't it? There's no heaven or hell that could deny us our love. There's no God who could deny us it. It's the only real thing in my life—and it's big, big as those stars out there.”

“There's no God who could deny it,” he agreed.

He took her in his arms, held her close to him, and found his own body exulting in her presence. This was sacrifice to himself, to all the strength and beauty inside of himself.

He had never believed; that was the final discovery he made. He had never believed, so he had lost nothing. Instead, he had been afraid. It amazed him to be able to look inside of himself in this fashion, to know what he had never dared to think of. He had been afraid for so long that even his own soul had been stifled.

Even if he had believed, fear would still be the only explanation for the denial of the best thing that had ever come into his life, fear of himself and fear of a child's hell, the product of the minds of petty theologians, who in themselves were sick and worse than sick. But he had never believed, not in the God or the system whose priest he had been.

She withdrew herself from his arms and looked at him, still smiling, still sure of herself and knowing without understanding why she knew. She walked back, dropped into a chair, put her chin in her hands and stared at him. Then she laughed.

“I'm happy,” she laughed. “God, but I'm happy.”

“After I marry you,” he said, “I'll have to find something to do.”

“You will. That won't be hard. I believe you could move the world if you wanted to.”

He was walking up and down the room, fingering his smooth collar nervously. Suddenly, he wrenched it off. “I don't want it,” he muttered. Then he turned to her, smiling sheepishly, as if he desired to be forgiven for acting like a child.

“Oh—I love you,” she said.

“I know—I know. I'm trying hard enough not to think of what I've done to you, all these years. I'm trying not to think of it. I know that if I think of it, I'll go mad entirely. I'll begin to hate. I don't want to hate. God knows, there is enough hate in the world already. I want to forget. You'll let me forget, won't you, Marion?”

“We'll both forget.”

“I'm still trying to understand. You're magnificent, you're splendid. What is it to love a man and to go through hell year after year, just for that love? I' don't know. I'm too cheap and too small to understand.”

“No, you're not.”

He turned, pointed to the window. “Look at the sky. It seems to be for us—clean and far.”

“I was looking at it before.”

“They'll drive me out of the Church. I think the test will come then. If I still don't care—”

“It's bigger than the Church, out there,” she said simply.

“Perhaps—but that doesn't matter. It's this life that counts. You see, we're children, Marion. We have to start all over—”

When they went out into the mission house, it was cold and deserted. Everyone had gone, and the long wooden benches stretched out like reclining specters. Through the poorly-constructed stable walls, the chill of the night crept into the place, making their breath steam and cloud.

Jack looked around him. Even if he came back, this would be saying good-by. He stared at the dull walls, at the benches, at the old piano and the shabby pulpit. Stripped of everything, the place was a stable—no more. And yet—

“I don't like to drop it,” he murmured.

“What did you ever give them,” she demanded, “that was good and lasting? Oh, you were right, Jack, and they needed you; but they need more than that, more than pretty lies. Not excuses, but real things, things that will make a little spark of life burn all over again. You don't want a showplace, but that's what this would have become, that and a sham. You know how many swells came down from uptown to watch you feed the broken with faith. That's what they liked—faith and not bread. That's what they came down to see, to do their smug, fat hearts some good. Oh, it did them good all right to see faith and to feel that their fat pocketbooks were safe; but they never went to the breadlines.”

“But I helped them,” he pleaded, unwilling to let go of the last straw. “Marion, you know that I helped them. It wasn't all a lie. What else had they, if they couldn't believe in something better than what they were?”

“Yes—you helped them, but because you are you. You helped them because you're strong and good. They believed that you had faith; they believed in you, but not in anything else.”

“Now—they won't believe in me.”

“Why not?”

He stared at her. Her eyes were lit; she stood very tall, bent a bit, almost as if she was swaying, a tall, splendid woman-figure.

“Why not? They can still believe in you; they can believe in a man.”

Then they went out into the night, together.

M
ARY WHITE
was hardly conscious. The only clear fact that pierced through the haze that pain and horror had thrown about her mind was the fact that she had to return to her children. Somewhere, she had children, and somehow she had to return to them. She even knew their names. Their names were Peter and Sasha. One was her own, and one she had gotten from somewhere; the facts were vague, but she had two children, and now they were alone.

The pain in her body was a dart of fire that ran from her groin to her bosom. Sometimes, the pain was so intense, burning and aching, that it seemed only a matter of moments until it wrenched her apart. Then again it would die away, almost, only to return with a stabbing flash. And she was weary—so miserably weary.

She walked down the stairs of the club holding on to the bills without knowing what they were. Some slipped from between her fingers. The others she lost in the snow when she stepped outside.

Every step hurt her. As often happens with people who suffer great pain, time had slowed itself up until each minute seemed an eternity. Sometimes, she imagined that her limbs paused in mid-air, paused for a long, long time.

The stairs were difficult, and when she came to the bottom, she rested. She almost fell asleep; in fact, she would have fallen asleep except for the pain. Somehow, she couldn't faint. She was too strong to faint, and each stab of pain only made her more conscious of it.

When she opened the door and stepped out into the street, the rush of icy-cold air almost thrust her over. Then, little by little, a greater part of consciousness returned, and she began to remember. She didn't want to remember.

She tried to think only of the fire that was eating out her insides, so that she wouldn't have to remember.

The night was already clear, cold and starry. It was the sort of a night that the city hides, so that when people sleep, shadows and vague forms have it all to themselves.

It was beautiful enough, the night, for her to see the beauty and be hurt by it. She was beginning to remember; she couldn't stop herself from remembering; nobody can.

She remembered about the money too, and looked for it in her hand. When she moved any part of her body, she seemed to be giving directions to something outside of herself. Thus, she brought her hand up close to her face and stared at it. It took a little while to realize that there was no money there, and then she knew that she must have dropped it somewhere, probably on the stairs. But the thought of going back to the building was too much for her, and she stumbled on.

Distances had increased tremendously. There were only two blocks to walk before she reached her house, but for all she knew the two blocks might have been miles. They were miles, for every step she took lingered on and on. She walked very slowly, hatless, but hardly realizing that it was cold. A little more pain did not matter, and no more pain could come to her body now; no more pain could matter.

Walking as in a dream, it seemed to her that she was going out of the world of men. There would be no more men now; she was going to the protection of something. Men hated, and then you hated men. Men inflicted pain on women. That's what women were for, to bear the pain—to smile at the pain of man subduing them, making them wretched. You had to accept; you had to smile, because that's what men were for, and women. But she couldn't smile any more. Still, she was going away and back to her children. She was glad that she was going away.

A uniformed figure bulked in front of her, and O'Lacy peered at her. “Where you going, sister?” he demanded.

“Home,” she whispered. She would have shrunk away, but she saw it was an officer. An officer doesn't do you any harm, unless you're walking the streets, and then he only pokes you with his club and tells you to move along.

Then O'Lacy recognized her as one of Shutzey's whores, and he turned away in disgust. “Get on,” he muttered, “get on.”

She continued toward her home. It was nothing to have a cop tell you to get on; and if you were pulled into court, Shutzey took care of it. Shutzey had given her some money tonight, only she had lost it.

It was difficult to decide which house was the right one. There were so many houses, and each one of them looked like the other, brown houses frilled all over with snow; to make sure, she counted from the end of the block, and then she went in.

It was a nice house, small and very warm inside. Not many whores at all were fortunate enough to live in a house of this sort; her landlady allowed it because she had children. You can be quite certain that even a whore won't take men into a house with children.

The key to her door wouldn't go into the lock. Time and more time went past while she fumbled about the lock. Then, at last, the door opened, and she went in. As soon as she entered the house, she was aware of the burnt smell. It led her to the kitchen. Peter was sleeping on the chair, his head dangling forward, and Sasha was curled up at his feet. But something was burning.

She went over to the stove, went back to the door, hesitated, looked at her hands. Something moved her to take the ring off her finger. That was a difficult task, her hands were so swollen and trembling. Then she put the ring back. Then she went to the stove, looked at the pot again. Then she stumbled into a chair.

“Geesus Christ,” she whispered.

Even the mere act of sitting down pained her. Her body seemed all out of shape, all twisted and broken.

“I'm tired,” she murmured. “I'm so damn tired.”

But she knew that Sasha couldn't sleep on the floor and Peter in the chair. It was turning cold in the kitchen. She forced herself to rise and go over to them.

“Sasha—Peter.”

They yawned, stretched with their eyes tightly shut. Then they stumbled to their feet. She led them into the bedroom, and somehow managed to pull their clothes off. Wherever she touched them, their bodies yearned toward her. They were never quite awake, and when she drew the covers over them, they fell asleep almost instantly.

For a moment or two, she stood there, watching them; then she turned off the light and went out of the room. In her own room, she dropped onto the bed, sobbing quietly. But her eyes were dry, and the sobs that racked her chest came from deep down in her throat, hoarse, dry sobs.