Authors: Isabel Paterson
But he had also an aloof general sympathy which enabled him to detect that Geraldine was in distress. He got out of the taxi with her, accompanied her to her own apartment door, and there left her unobtrusively. He knew she didn't want him to come in; she was in flight.
In the living-room, Judy was reading, with her silky dark hair falling over her serene brow. Dina was dressing a doll. Geraldine stood a moment looking at them. Their perfect, unconscious trust finished her.
Geraldine took off her hat and sat down on the sofa. Then she couldn't get up again. She could not stand on her feet.
The fact was blankly appalling. For a moment she could not speak either. With an immense effort, she controlled her mind, answered the children's greetings. "Darlings, one of you please hand me the telephone."
What was the matter with her? She waited five minutes. The weakness did not pass. She must not frighten the children. "I've turned my ankle," she said. That might have been true, though it wasn't. "No, Judy lamb, don't touch it; I'll call the doctor. It's not serious." She called the doctor and told him the same lie, because the children could hear. It didn't hurt, she assured them truthfully. She was in no pain. That might be all the worse, she reflected.
Dr. Jamieson arrived promptly. He was sixty, a deep-chested sanguine man with thick white hair. Third of an honorable line, he had the kind and assuring presence of the born physician. Geraldine had confidence in him; he had seen her through with both the babies. "Let's have a look at the ankle."
Geraldine made a slight sign, indicating the children. "Could you help me to my room first, doctor? It would be more convenient."
"Nothing easier." He lifted her deftly and carried her in his arms, laid her on her bed and shut the door. Again she felt a personal gratitude for a man's strength. "Now, what's this?" he enquired.
"I don't know," she gave him a brief explanation. "Am I paralyzed?"
He laughed heartily. "No chance." A rapid examination sufficed. "You've been worrying, haven't you? Yes, of course. Rest is what you need; I'd suggest a sanatorium, away from the family. Nice family, but you need absolute quiet, peace of mind."
"If I could afford a sanatorium, what would I be worrying about?" Geraldine exclaimed furiously.
Not thinking of it meant thinking of nothing else but how not to think of it. Every moment, waking and sleeping. . . . She had not sold a story for five months. Leonard's salary had been cut, and then he was put on part time. Twenty dollars a week was all he got now. One might live on twenty dollars a week, but not in an apartment that cost two hundred dollars a month rent, a month overdue, and with two months miscellaneous unpaid bills stacked up. The apartment lease had a year to run and the landlord refused to cancel it. Magazines were not buying stories. Besides, she couldn't write. And Leonard might be let out of employment altogether for the summer, with only a hope of being taken on again later . . . The debts crushed her. They had accumulated from day to day, from month to month, because she could not imagine nothing would sell. Not after years of prompt acceptances.
"I've dreamed this sometimes," she said. "Some awful danger and I couldn't run away; my feet wouldn't move. Exactly like this. What is it?"
"Nerves. Nothing organically wrong."
"How long will it last?"
"That depends. You should rest for three months."
"Three months." It was her turn to laugh. She sat up against the pillows; it was only her legs that refused to obey her. She could move them, but they refused to carry weight. "Don't be silly, doctor. You've got to give me something this minute to cure it. I can't lie here. I won't."
"I see." He was too intelligent to destroy her courage. She might break the deadlock by main strength of will against the subconscious surrender. "You can have a sedative to-night, and if you sleep, you can have a tonic tomorrow. It won't cure you; it will only whip you up temporarily. Can't you possibly manage at least a change of scene?"
"I will," she said fiercely. "Put me on my feet, and I'll take a boat for somewhere. Anywhere. I'll borrow the money. This is—ridiculous." She could get the money from Mysie.
Having reprieved herself for a short term, the tension relaxed. She realized with astonishment the conditions of her existence. She had gone on like a primitive savage woman with her children at her heels, picking up a precarious livelihood from day to day, sleeping at night under whatever shelter was at hand, owning nothing and with no provision for the morrow. For children one ought, after all, to own a roof tree, keep a store of food. She had refused the responsibility. She had been wrong.
"But where did the time go?" she demanded of Mysie. "Only a minute ago I was young. And now I'm thirty-eight. There didn't seem to be anything in between."
"You don't look thirty-eight," said Mysie. The outline of Geraldine's face was fined down and her collarbones showed faintly; she did look younger.
"But I
am
thirty-eight," said Geraldine.
A week later she lay in a steamer chair, rolled in a rug, watching the fluid semicircle of sea and sky, chill blue against blue, swelling and sinking slowly, rhythmically, past the rail.
Going aboard had been the last of the nightmare. Still not quite sure that she could stand, she walked aboard, with Leonard holding her by one elbow and Jake Van Buren the other. Mysie had brought Jake. One wouldn't expect it of him, until it became obvious that he could be counted upon in any such capacity.
Her sister Effie was staying with the children. They had promised to be happy in Geraldine's absence. She could count on them too; they had character and intelligence. She mustn't think about them while she was away, so they could be happy; it was a tacit bargain. She mustn't think about Leonard either; it would not be fair. Humiliation breaks a man. It isn't the same for a woman, because women know anyhow that life can strip them, bring them to their knees, as the price of life. . . .
A long white-crested wave rushed down the slope of the curving sea. Hold your breath, keep your head down; you have to go under the breakers. ...
21
T
HE
reflected sunlight flickered between Geraldine's lashes; and passengers pacing the deck went by as shadows. She wasn't quite dozing; she was aware of a substantial shadow passing, hesitating and returning. A man sat down in the adjoining steamer chair. Geraldine paid no attention; she felt extinct and invisible. This was the second day out. The first day, she had remained in her stateroom, sodden with sadness.
After he had gone by once, he looked back, caught by the gleam of her hair. He had seen it before. He made the round of the deck and at the second opportunity scrutinized her more closely. Yes, it was—the dame he had literally picked up in the hall at Gus Silver's. He had asked Nick Spinelli: Who's the red-headed cutie? Nick said: I dunno; the other one, she's an actress. He retorted impatiently: I know that; lives upstairs; name of Brennan. The Brennan didn't interest him; he had a hunch she must be one of those highbrows; he never saw her around at the swell night clubs or anywhere, and the older woman who shared her apartment was a teacher. Of course Gus and Tony knew who lived in the same apartment house with them. All they knew about the red-head was that she called once in a while. He always fell for red-heads ... He sat down in the next chair.
The tag on her chair said Wiekes. That didn't tell him anything. Looked like musical comedy. Dimple in her chin. She held onto him when he picked her up. If it hadn't been for the mob around, and checking off the truck, he might have got her telephone number right then. And here she was on the boat for Havana, only a week later.
He had taken the boat, instead of flying down to Miami and then across, because he thought it might give him the edge to drop in unexpectedly. In Florida, he would have run into some of the boys, and the tip would have gone ahead. That last lot of Bacardi had been cut twice; they were double-crossing somewhere along the line. Since the election, in fact ever since the conventions, when repeal became a certainty, they thought they could get away with anything and clean up, figuring the racket wouldn't last more than a year or two. Probably not that long. Well, he'd be there in person for the pay-off. Might tie up direct for legitimate business; he had influence enough to get licenses; there would be decent saloons again. Always too much overhead on the speaks. The old saloon was honest, he thought sentimentally. . . . Like most men who live on the edge of the law, he was very sentimental about honesty. He believed in "straight" gamblers and big-hearted bad men. He also spoke well of good women, and would go miles out of his way to avoid one. You had to marry them.
He lit a cigar. It was too early to go down to the bar. He was a temperate man, retaining the habits of his early years, when he had been a pork-and-beaner. Welter weight. He never got any further than the preliminary bouts at twenty-five dollars; he could take punishment but hadn't the speed.
Scratch lot of skirts on board, mostly round-trip tourists. Red-head was the only one that looked like a live one. And she was asleep.
A gust of wind scattered the ash from his cigar; stray flakes blew across Geraldine's face. She started and rubbed her eyes. "I'm sorry," said a deep voice. Words and tone struck her ear as familiar. The man sitting next to her tossed his cigar overboard.
"Oh, you needn't," she protested, too late. "It didn't do any harm."
"Well, it can't do any harm now, unless a flying fish samples it," he said.
Geraldine smiled vaguely. His voice was singularly agreeable, and he was handsome in a bold masculine way. Black-haired and blue-eyed, with a ruddy complexion and a bluish shadow on his jaw in spite of a close shave. He must be somewhere about forty-five. Perhaps he was a little too well-dressed, and he wore a cabochon ruby ring on one large manicured hand. "'Steward," he called. The deck steward paused attentively. "What will you have, Miss Wiekes?"
"Nothing," said Geraldine, taken aback by his immediacy. "No, really, thank you, but it's too cold to keep my arms out of the rug." Too cold for comfort on deck, even in the sun; but she stayed as a duty, to get the sea air. "Did you say there were flying fish?"
"Not yet. Sometimes you see them the last day. You haven't been to Cuba before?"
"No, never. How did you know my name?"
"Well, you're labeled. Excuse me," he took a card from his pocket and offered it to her. F. I. Matthews. "Here you are, Miss G. Wiekes. What does the G stand for?"
"Guess. And F. I.—for instance?" I sound like a halfwitted flapper, she thought. It doesn't matter; I'm so cold, and he has a nice voice. Deep and warm. Comfortable.
"Suppose we trade," he said. "The boys call me Matt. I don't usually tell my first name. But it's Florence. Florence Ignatius. Now laugh."
She did laugh. Florence! With those shoulders. "That's right," he said. "My mother used to call me Flurrie. I had to lick every boy on the block."
"I'm sure you could," she said. "My name is Geraldine." She thought, he'll be calling me Gerry in ten minutes.
"It's pretty," he remarked. Then he was silent for awhile, and she was gratefully aware that he had a capacity for repose, the ease of perfect physical coordination. That was what his voice expressed, the rhythm of a balanced organism. He looked at her quietly and openly, without offense, a simple tribute to her femininity. She felt less forlorn. She thought, to be alone and unnoticed is to be a ghost. The boat, to her, was rather ghostly; being old-fashioned in its appointments, white paint and gilding and red carpets. Ships were like that when she used to go down to the docks at Hoboken and imagine herself stepping aboard and sailing around the world. The world she would have seen then had vanished, unless in forgotten faraway corners. If one could find such a lost port and go ashore without farewells and stay long enough to recover the lost years. There might be glimpses of them in Havana. Behind green jalousies or through the grilled gates of high-walled courtyards. If there were a fountain . . . And no skyscrapers . . .
The ship's bells struck; she failed to count correctly, but it must be tea-time. Dutifully aired and frozen, she thought she might go down and revive with a hot bath before dinner. Struggling out of her cocoon, she stood up unsteadily, saving herself with an outstretched hand as the deck slanted slowly.
"Better take my arm," Matthews was beside her. She was glad to accept.
"I turned my ankle last week," she said, defensively mendacious. It was so stupid to be ill, grotesque not to be able to stand up.
"I'm sorry," he said for the third time. "You did hurt yourself on that damn' keg?"
"How did you know?" The question was superfluous as she stared at him. "Was it you caught me?"
"Sure. I spotted you right away, this afternoon."
"How extraordinary," she said feebly.
"So I owe you a drink," he said.
She let him guide her down to the smoking room, where she ordered coffee, and he insisted on adding a pony of brandy. The brandy, the smoke, the after effects of sea air and nervous exhaustion, induced a not unpleasant stupor; she could not rouse herself to go below until the first gong sounded for dinner. Matthews talked very little, but his silence was soothing; she sat with her chin propped on her hand and smiled drowsily at intervals, to indicate politeness. When she was obliged to go, he asked: "How about having dinner with me?" He walked down the stairs and along the corridor with her, toward her stateroom.
"I don't know—don't wait for me," she temporized. An elderly female tourist shared her stateroom; as Geraldine opened the door Matthews stepped back with noiseless celerity, to avoid being seen. He was not seen. Geraldine went in and sat down on the sofa, waiting for the other woman, Mrs. Carroway, to finish dressing. Afterward, by herself, she got her clothes off, with a dim intention of putting on a dinner dress. She would nap for fifteen minutes first. . . . When she awoke, she knew by the texture of the darkness that it was past midnight. Mrs. Carroway had come in, gone to bed and to sleep. Geraldine burrowed into the blanket and slept till morning. She had not slept a night through for months.