The Outsider (8 page)

And now he had to hurt her. And what would she do? Once he had toyed with trying to find possible friends of his with whom she could fall in love; he had once even spoken to her in glowing terms of a man who worked with him on the job. And he had been amazed when she had turned to look at him and demanded:

“Are you trying to pawn me off on somebody?”

To hear her speak like that had so shamed him that he had never tried it again. Then, one Sunday evening over dinner in a crowded restaurant, she told him that she was carrying his child. His stupefication had been such that the food stuck in his throat. Later, in his room, she had wildly resisted his suggestion that she abort the child and it had maddened him. The scenes of emotional conflict that took place the following month had frayed him almost to madness.

He had just left one woman, his mother, who, in an outpouring, had hurled at him her life draped in the dark hues of complaint and accusation, had tried futilely to rouse compassion in him by dramatizing the forlorn
nature of her abandoned plight; now he was on his way to struggle with yet another woman. And after Dot there loomed the formidable figure of his wife.

“Okay, Buddy; here you are,” the taxi driver told him as the cab swerved to a curb hidden by snowflakes.

He paid, ran up the steps, pushed the bell of Dot's apartment three times, the signal they agreed upon when he was calling to see her. The buzzer was so long in answering that he thought that surely she was not in. Where could she be? He rang again and was about to leave when the buzzer suddenly responded in a long blast of sound that would not stop. He opened the vestibule door, feeling that something was wrong. He heard the buzzer still emitting its tinny throb long after he had passed the second floor. She must be upset or something…When he reached the door of Dot's apartment, he saw Myrtle, Dot's girl friend, looking at him with a face as devoid of expression as she could make it. Myrtle was a tall, dark girl with a handsome face and sardonic eyes. Cross slowed his movements, sensing knowledge of a crisis behind Myrtle's reserved manner.

“Hi,” he greeted her.

Without answering, she caught hold of his arm and drew him forcibly into the hallway of the apartment.

“Where's Dot?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“In bed,” she said flatly.

“What's happened?”

“
You
ought to be asking…All hell's broke loose, that's all.”

“What do you mean? I want to see Dot.”

“You can't now,” she said with an air of petty satisfaction.

He started for Dot's bedroom and Myrtle held him back.

“The
doctor's
in there,” she whispered fiercely.

“The doctor? Why? Tell me what's happening!”

“You
men
!” She curled her lips in scorn. “How much do you think a poor girl can stand?”

“Okay. You can can that,” he told her roughly, unable to suppress hot resentment. “Dot can talk to me like that, but
you
can't!”

He had never liked her and she did not like him and the way she was now acting was something he had known she would do if she ever had gotten the chance; now she had it and was doing it. One instinct told him to ignore her, but she had cut too deeply into his bleeding feelings for him to leave off. He stood glaring at her, his fingers trembling.

“Look, I'm Dot's best friend, see?” she shot at him. “I'm taking care of her, trying to repair the damage you've done. I can say what I damn well like…”

“Not to
me
,” Cross said.

“And why not?” she flipped at him.

“Because I don't sleep with you,” he told her brutally, looking her straight in the eyes.

An anger so intense burned in Myrtle's face that her large eyes shrank in size.

“You dirty sonofabitch,” she said in an even, low tone.

“Thanks,” he said.

He opened the door of Dot's room and peered in.

“Who is it?” a loud masculine voice called out to him as he stood uncertainly.

It was the doctor who had yelled; Cross could see his back bent over Dot's bed. Dot was lying with her face to the wall.

“It's me, honey. Cross.”

“Please, please, don't come in now, Cross.”

“Will you be kind enough to wait outside until I'm through here?” the doctor asked brusquely. “What happens after I'm gone is your business…”

Cross shut the door and turned to see the smirk on Myrtle's face.

“What happened?”

“I ought to spit right in your face for what you said to me,” she said forming her lips as though about to spew something through them. “What she ever saw in your sullen heart, God only knows!”

“I'm sorry,” he relented to get information. “But why don't you tell me what's happened?”

“Yeah,
sorry…
Men are always
sorry
,” she derided him openly, keeping her voice low and charging it with hate.

“For Christ's sake!” he exploded. “Now's no time to carry on like that! Tell me what happened.”

“Wait and she'll tell you,” Myrtle said and went into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

Cross sat and fumed. How crazy women could be sometimes…What did she think she was gaining by throwing dramatic fits? He looked up as she came briskly out of the kitchen, opened the door of the hall closet, took out her coat and put it on. She paused, not looking directly at him. The muscles of Cross's body tightened; he could have kicked her right through the brick wall into the snowdrifts piled outside.

“I've got to go down to the drugstore and get a prescription filled,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm leaving a hypodermic needle and a syringe boiling in a pan on the gas stove. Turn out the fire under it in two or three minutes, will you?” She shot him a sidelong glance. “You ought to be able to do
that
now.”

“You can go to hell,” he growled at her.

“I'd gladly go, if only I could take you along with me,” she snapped at him and pulled the door shut behind her so violently that it sounded like a rifle shot.

His nerves twitched in protest, then he was conscious that the droning murmur of the doctor's voice in the bedroom had ceased and he heard Dot's distressed voice ringing out:

“Oh, Cross! What was that?”

Before he could reply the doctor had opened the door and was glaring at him.

“The girl slammed the door,” Cross told the doctor sheepishly.

“This child's a nervous wreck,” the doctor said, throwing up his hands in despair. “She's got to be kept quiet.”

Cross huddled forward in his chair. The doctor went back into Dot's room, drawing the door shut.

Once more the masculine murmur of the doctor's voice resumed. What was he saying to her? And what had she told him? He was convinced that he was under discussion and it made him feel deprived of his humanity, converted into a condemned object, exposed to the baleful gaze of a million eyes. He crept softly to the door, cocked his head and listened, but he could not distinguish any words. Now and then he could hear Dot's silvery voice rising in a melody of complaint, of protest. Goddamn…Why had she called in that doctor without telling him? If she'd only trust me…But he knew that her trusting him would not get her what she wanted; he was in no position to marry her. All right; suppose Dot was in trouble? Did that justify her subjecting him to shame? The South Side was a small community and if Dot had revealed their relations to this doctor, their predicament would be on the lips
of a thousand gossiping men and women in a day's time…

He had a hot impulse to rise and flee the apartment and disappear forever…What had he to lose by throwing up this fool's game? His job? It was not worth a damn, so mortgaged was he with debt. He really had nothing to lose. What a stupid situation for an intelligent man to find himself in! What greater shame was there for a man than to walk the streets cringing with fear of grasping women whose destructive strokes were draped in the guise of whimpers and accusations? Somehow he would shake loose from this and never in all his life let himself be caught again…

He was already supporting Dot, but she could, if she wanted to be brutal about it, compel him, at the behest of a court of law, to support the child after it was born. He knew that she would do such only if she were certain that he would never marry her. Had Gladys told her that a divorce was impossible? More than likely she had…

He ought to leave
now…
But he sat, hating himself. He yearned to roll himself into a tight little black ball and fling himself away as far as his strength would allow. But, no; there were his small sons, Cross, Junior, Peter, and Robert, whom he loved and did not want to leave. He would regain his influence over Dot; all was not lost. Dot had gone berserk because he had broken his promise to see her this morning and now he would have to be with her constantly to bring her around. Above all, he had to persuade her to abort the child for her sake, his sake…

A gurgle of water sounded in the kitchen. That pot that Myrtle had told him to look after! He ran and turned out the gas just in time, for there were but a few bubbles left in the pan.

The telephone rang. He entered the hallway and stood uncertainly.

“Shall I answer it, Dot?” he called through the door.

“Yes, please,” Dot answered weakly.

He picked up the receiver.

“Dot? Is that you?” It was the voice of a woman speaking with breathless eagerness.

“No, this is not she,” he said.

“Who's speaking?” the voice was cautious now, but still urgent.

“Just a friend,” Cross said, disguising his tone. He was always afraid of Gladys' trapping him in Dot's apartment.

“Is this Mr. Damon?”

“No,” he lied, hoping that his voice would not carry to Dot's room. “I'm a friend of Myrtle.”

“Won't you please call Dot to the phone?”

“I'm afraid she can't come. She's in bed. The doctor's with her. Who's this?”

“Mary, a friend of Dot. Listen, tell Dot I've found her a lawyer. He's a whizz. She's to call me as soon as possible.”

“I see.” His eyes widened.

“Tell her that she'll have to act fast to tie up Damon—”

“I'll tell her.” He struggled to keep his voice normal.

There was a hesitating silence.

““
Who's
this speaking?” Fear was in the voice.

“Brown's the name,” he lied.

“Oh…For a moment I had the feeling you were Dot's friend, that Damon man,” the voice sighed with relief.

“Oh, no. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes—”

“Nothing's seriously wrong with Dot, I hope?”

“No. She just needs some rest.”

“Tell Dot that she's got to hang on to her birth certificate; it's her quickest way of proving that she's under sixteen. My lawyer says that as long as she's not sixteen, Damon's guilty of rape. Now, Dot's birthday comes in June, and that gives her four months of grace.”

Cross felt a red horizon of danger closing in about him.

“What did you say?”

“Explain this to Dot,” the voice spoke distinctly. “Wait a minute.”

He held his breath as a faint rustle of paper came over the wire.

“I got it,” the voice was edged with satisfaction. “I copied it down as my lawyer read it to me this morning. Here it is: ‘…Every male person of the age of seventeen years and upwards who shall have carnal knowledge of any female person under the age of sixteen years and not his wife, either with or without her consent shall be adjudged guilty of the crime of rape…' You know what
carnal
means, don't you?”

“Yes,” Cross breathed; he felt wrapped in a nightmare.

“‘…Every person convicted of the crime of rape shall be imprisoned in a penitentiary for a term of not less than one year and may extend to life…' You got that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, this Damon's married, so he
can't
marry Dot and wriggle out that way,” the voice went on in a tone of hard triumph. “So if Dot doesn't get mushy, she's got Damon where she wants him.”

“I see,” Cross said. “But are you sure Dot's
under
sixteen?”

“I've seen her birth certificate,” the voice assured him.

“I'll tell her,” Cross promised heavily.

“Good-by.”

“'Bye.”

He hung up, swayed a bit, then sat. Dot was a minor? How was that possible? He was certain that she had told him that she was seventeen. Jesus…Could this be true? He had been honest with her and she had tricked him! Yet, in casting back his mind, he remembered that he had often felt that she was younger than she had claimed. How in God's name had he stumbled into a situation of such deadly seriousness? He sat hunched over in the chair, too stunned to move. If ever, now was the time to act upon the impulse of flight. He had about fifty dollars in his pocket. He ought to buy a railroad ticket for as long a journey as the money would cover, and vanish. There was no doubt now but that Dot had made up her mind, and from now on he had to regard her as his enemy. Longing for a drink, he rummaged in the kitchen and found an inch of gin in a bottle and drained it.

The hall door lock clicked and Myrtle entered without glancing at him. Yes; she was in on this too. Her knowledge of his being a potential convict was what had made her so bold in sassing him. He glared at her as she pulled off her coat and went into the kitchen and returned with a tray; she went into Dot's room, closing the door behind her. That bitch…His talk with Dot would be decisive; either she called off the lawyer or he would drop her and let her do her worst. He had a last weapon, his gun, and it would change things and leave her dismayed…