“Hello, hello,” he spoke frantically into the phone.
“Mr. Fowler...?” It was a distant, strained voice of a woman.
“Yes; this is Mr. Fowler speaking. What is it?”
No answer...
“Yes? Who’s speaking?”
“I saw what happened,” a thin, tinny voice wailed in his ear.
The line clicked. Erskine felt that some giant hand had snatched him from contact with the living world and had lifted him up into a cold region where there was no air to breathe. He jiggled the hook.
“Hello, hello,” he whispered into the phone.
The line was dead.
There was now no doubt about it; he’d been seen by somebody other than Mrs. Blake...But what was the motive? Blackmail? God, he ought to go to the police this moment, right now; he was a fool to blunder around like this in a stupid funk. It’d be said that his staying away from the police was proof of guilt. And the longer he waited, the more difficult it would be for him to justify his not having told the police right off. Indeed, if he went now, they’d certainly want to know why he’d waited so long...And that was why he didn’t go...Cause was becoming effect, and effect cause.
He cradled the phone and a look of defiance came into his face. All right, suppose someone had seen him? So what? What had he done wrong? Nothing...He’d wait and see what that woman who’d called him would do. He’d wait...Why, he was acting as if he’d really killed Tony. If anyone had killed Tony, it was that confounded Mrs. Blake...
He was alert, hearing sounds coming from his balcony, just outside of his bathroom window. Were the police examining that iron railing? No; not at this time of night...Maybe it was the superintendent? He’d go and see. And what was that balcony door doing open at this time of night, anyway? It was usually locked...Well, it was his balcony, wasn’t it? He’d look. He went into the brightly lighted hallway and quickly opened the door to the balcony and a shaft of light from the hall ceiling fell upon the somber face of Mrs. Blake who had turned and was staring at him with parted lips and a look of fright in her large, dark eyes.
“Oh, Lord,” she sighed, “you scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I heard someone here...It’s you, Mrs. Blake...”
She turned from him and hung her head. Did she suspect him of anything?
“I feel simply dreadful about Tony,” he told her.
She wept softly with her head turned away, her body making a sharp silhouette against the blue-black density of the night sky. He saw that she’d been trying to drag the heavy electric hobbyhorse into the hallway. The superintendent had, no doubt, given her the key to the balcony door...She was dressed in a rose-colored nylon robe and a slight, rain-scented wind was making her tumbling black locks tremble about her face and eyes. His nostrils caught a whiff of an intriguing perfume. Erskine was seized by a state of numbed anxiousness.
“Oh, let me help you with that,” he said, going to her.
“Don’t bother,” she muttered.
What did that sullen tone of voice mean?
“I’ll help you.” He spoke with an undertone of resentment
She stared at him for a moment, then began weeping afresh, covering her face with her hands, leaning against the sagging iron railing which wobbled perilously as her weight impinged upon it.
“Be careful,” he told her, taking her arm and pulling her roughly from the edge of the balcony. “Its dangerous there...”
“I don’t care,” she whimpered.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he told her.
“Poor Tony,” she sobbed. “I feel like dying...”
“You must take care of yourself,” he said.
She continued weeping as though she had not heard; she leaned now against the brick wall of the building. The thought shot through Erskine’s mind that if she’d fallen accidentally over that iron railing, there’d be one person less to say that they’d seen him or “naked feet” on the balcony this morning...The idea created such instant horror in his mind—it was as though the idea had been pushed upon his attention by some force—that he was seized with pity for her and he sought at once for something to banish the notion, to cover it up. Touching the tips of the pencils in his inner coat pocket, he stared at her shuddering body and his fear and moral condemnation of her fled and he yearned to soothe her. Timidly, he patted her shoulder.
“There, now...You must brace up...I’ll take I these things inside for you. Where do you want them? In your apartment?”
“Yes,” she gulped. Then she whispered: “Tony was so deeply fond of you.” She coughed. “Next to me, he loved you most in this world...”
“And I loved him too,” he said quickly.
As she leaned against the wall, she sobbed. He picked up the tricycle, a baseball bat, a toy rifle, and a drum and placed them in the hallway in front of her door. Was that image of those “naked feet dangling” in her mind still? He lifted the heavy electric hobbyhorse and put it in front of her apartment door; when he returned to the balcony, she’d gathered up the remaining toys. Gently he took the things from her and, with his left arm full, he guided her with his right down the hallway. She unlocked the door of her apartment and went in and stood, dabbing at her eyes and trying to control her twisting lips.
“Where do you keep this?” he asked.
“Just leave ‘em,” she managed to say.
“I’ll put ‘em away for you—”
“There, in the hall closet,” she whimpered.
He stored away all the toys except the electric hobbyhorse which was too big for the closet
“Where do you keep this?” he asked.
“I’ll have to take it apart,” she mumbled, sinking into a chair and weeping again, her bosom heaving.
Her wet cheeks and her trembling body chastened him; her grief was so genuine, so simple, that his conception of her as an evil, giant, entangling spider-mother seemed remote. She was a poor woman who needed counseling and understanding and her stricken humanity appealed to him powerfully. He did not take his eyes off her until she looked at him.
He saw that the hobbyhorse was attached by bolts to a metal base containing an electric motor.
“Have you a screwdriver?” he asked her.
“No. But there’s a knife in the kitchen. It’s what I use,” she gasped, trying to stem her weeping. But the tears continued to stream down her face.
He flicked on the light in the kitchen and searched in a table drawer and found a big, sharp, butcher knife. Five minutes later he had the hobbyhorse taken apart and stored away in the closet. Holding the knife, he stood over her. She still wept, her face hidden in her arms.
“Is there something else you want me to do?” he asked her, his eyes searching over her slumped form.
She straightened and, seeing the knife, leaped from her chair and backed off with terror in her face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, feeling terror too.
“That knife...Don’t point it at me like that...I can’t stand knives!” she cried.
He looked down in surprise at the knife in his hand; he had forgotten that he was holding it
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
Was she afraid of him? Did she think that he’d killed Tony land was now trying to kill her? He put the knife in the kitchen; when he returned, she forced a smile.
“I’m sorry...I act so silly,” she apologized.
“You are a little unstrung,” he commented.
They were silent He recalled that awful thought that he’d had about her falling off the balcony, as Tony had fallen, and now he was wondering what she’d seen in his face to make her leap up in terror when he’d stood over her with that knife in his hand...He had to struggle to overcome thoughts of death about her and it made him almost hysterically anxious to help her. It was only when he was reacting to her distress that he felt right about her.
“You’ve been so kind,” she murmured. “God, I must look a sight...” Sh
e cocked her head and her right hand fussed nervously with her disordered hair.
“I wish I could be of some help to you,” he mumbled humbly. “After all, Tony was a little friend of mine. I used to talk with him a lot, you know...”
Her eyes rested full on him with that same blank, bleak stare that he’d seen that morning; or was he imagining it...?
“He babbled about you always,” she said, closing her eyes. “He hadn’t had much of a father in his little life, and he was always talking of your being his father...” She flashed a twisted, shy smile that begged forgiveness. “Just a child’s notion,” she explained, turning her head away quickly to hide her trembling lips.
“He was a lonely child, wasn’t he?” he ventured to ask, remembering Tony’s fear that early skylit evening when he’d been frightened by his “fighting” bombing planes.
She stared and lowered her head guiltily, like a scolded child.
“I’m afraid he was,” she said, sighing. “Next year he would have been in the country. Now, he’s gone...I can’t believe it.”
She looked at him, then her eyes fell; a wistful smile flitted across her lips as she murmured: “He was always asking for a father...” She stood abruptly, turned, her eyes blinded with tears. Her hand groped for the jamb of the door and she stumbled. He seized her arm and guided her to a sofa in her living room and helped her down on it. A floor lamp with a deep tan shade shed a bright cone of yellow light upon her cascading black hair, the creamy, satiny skin of her naked arms, the throbbing aliveness of her throat, the ripe fullness of her breasts, and the helpless wetness of her face; her right leg, tapering and slanting, almost lost in shadow, extended at an angle across the rug and terminated in a tiny foot jammed tightly into a black pump shoe and it made a lump rise in his throat...Suddenly she slid down upon the sofa until her nylon, rose-colored robe fell away and her right leg, nude to her thigh, sprawled with a dimpled knee. With shut eyes she keened a low, tense moan:
“Tony...Tony...Tony...”
She twisted her body round and buried her face in the back of the sofa, as though yearning to escape the presence of an implacably monstrous world. Erskine felt pinioned in space. A fleeting glimmer of intuition made him suspect her of playing the role of an emotional agent provocateur to lure him into disclosing what he knew, but the notion was too far-fetched and he dismissed it from his mind. Blending in one wild wave, shame, anger, and guilt rose in him. His feelings were trying fumblingly to resolve themselves into something definite about the woman; but she hovered before him elusive, now threatening, now appealing...As she continued to weep, a part of her left breast showed and he could see a dark reddish tint circling the nipple, glowing like a shy shadow through her nylon brassiere. He was transfixed, swamped by a hot desire to protest her nudity, yet he could not take his eyes off her. And her nudity was so clearly, unintentionally the product of a pounding grief shattering her that all her blatant sensuality seemed redeemed, annihilated. So ransomed was her sexuality by her suffering that he wanted to get to his knees and beg her to forgive him, to absolve him for having accidentally scared poor Tony to death...
As he watched her lithe body writhe on the sofa, he recalled Mrs. Westerman’s having said that she had seen “naked feet dangling” on his balcony...Fear slowed the beat of his heart. Was she acting? How did one take a woman like this? He strove to simplify his emotions about her, and he couldn’t He wanted to reach out and cover her nakedness, hide it from his eyes, but he stood and studied her irresistible plush curves, tracing the gentle slope of her thighs, gaping as though hypnotized.
Her words rang again in his mind: He was always talking of your being his father...His feelings played with the notion; he struggled against it, but found himself wondering how it would have been if he’d tried being Tony’s father...It would’ve meant being married to a fallen woman like this! Inwardly he flinched, feeling his feelings realizing the idea of being with her. Damn this woman! Her mere presence exuded evil; that was why notions like this were in his mind...And a man had had her until five o’clock this morning! That ancient jealousy that he’d thought he’d thrust back of him forever rose now from the forgotten, dusty graveyard of his emotions and lived in him again; he was being claimed by that which he thought he’d surmounted long ago with God’s help and his incessant toil...That uneasiness in the presence of a woman, that deep conviction that no woman could ever be truly his; that, even if he were even so lucky as to marry her, something untoward would happen to snatch her away from him—that was the torment that was churning in him now.
But how in God’s name could such thoughts enter his head? He was the superintendent of the Mount Ararat Baptist Sunday School; he could not entertain the idea of marrying a degraded woman like this. To whom could he ever introduce her? Why, then, had the notion of being married to her popped into his head? Yes; he’d been seeking a way to silence her if she made trouble for him by repeating her story of seeing “naked feet dangling” on the balcony...He’d have to find some other solution...
Yet, she was so broken, abandoned...But was this not his chance to save this woman, to own her, to hold her in his arms so that no one could, would want to claim her? The idea moved him as much toward revulsion as toward compassion, as much toward wanting to slap her as toward wanting to caress her—to fling her from his sight or take her and tell her what life could mean, ought to mean...He mopped clumsily at the sweat on his face. In him something was teetering, reeling as Tony had when he had lost his footing and tumbled from the balcony...
“You know, you must take hold of yourself.” He made himself speak, amazed at how compassionate his tone was.
She grew still and glared stonily before her. “Nobody knows anything of my life.” She spoke in a bitter tone.
“That’s right,” he urged her softly, “go ahead and talk. It’ll help you...”
“They’re saying all kinds of things about me—”
“Who?”
“That awful Mrs. Westerman, and the others too,” she said. She stared at him sulkily and mumbled. “And maybe you too, for all I know—”
“Oh, no!” he protested, blushing. She was like a mistreated child now and he felt more confident as his mind encompassed the narrow range of her reactions. The simpler she was, the safer he felt. “Now, now...You mustn’t let things like that bother you,” he told her soothingly, remembering that, just a few hours ago, he’d agreed heartily with Mrs. Westerman.
“That Mrs. Westerman’s saying it’s all my fault,” she whimpered. “And God knows what else she’s saying about me...But how could I help what happened? I work nights...”
He wanted to ask her if she’d been drunk, as Mrs. Westerman had said, but he decided not to.
“You work?” he asked gently, leading her to talk.
“Of course I do,” she said, showing astonishment that he should ask. “How do you think I live? I’m not rich—”
“What kind of work do you do?” he asked.
“I have the hat-check concession in the Red Moon.” She spoke with a certain defiance.
“The Red Moon? What’s that?”
“A nightclub,” she said flatly. “And it’s hard to make ends meet, really. I’ve got five other girls employed with me on a percentage basis. After rent, expenses, and the kickback I have to give to the nightclub owner, what have I left? Just enough to get by on...I wanted so much to hire a colored woman to look after Tony, but I’d have to pay fifty dollars a week. I can’t afford it. And I work such long, long hours...That’s why I always come home so late. And God knows what people think I’m doing...How could I look after Tony and earn my living at the same time?” Her voice died in her throat.
More sinned against than sinning, he told himself with satisfaction, relishing the advantage that his money and social status gave him over her.
“I’ve never been in a nightclub,” he told her musingly.
“Really?” She stared at him. “Well, working in a nightclub’s just like w
orking any other place...The people who have fun in such places are not those who work in them.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said.
“There’s no guessing about it.” She spoke bitterly. “Try it once.”
“Do you have to drink and dance with the customers?” he asked.
She hesitated, then said: “I wear a little costume; it’s to go with the atmosphere of the place.”
“Oh, I see...” He tried to picture how she would look. “But, listen here, you mustn’t let gossip bother you—”
“But it does!” she protested, doubling her fists. “What can one person be responsible for in this world? I depend on nobody. The least I ask for is that I be let alone!”
She pulled up and saw her leg was exposed; she closed her robe and reddened. It was as he would have had it; she had unwittingly bared herself and now he liked that tardy gesture of modesty.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, “I’m almost out of my mind.”
Just how tenaciously was she contending that she’d seen “naked feet dangling”? Now was the time to test her...
“Tell me,” he began innocently, “how did Tony happen to fall like that?”
“God, I don’t know...” Her eyes went blank and she shook her head.
“Were you asleep?”
“I guess so,” she drawled vaguely.
“Look here,” Erskine said, getting to the point, “this Mrs. Westerman’s telling people that you saw somebody push Tony off the balcony—”
“Oh, God, no!” She leaped to her feet and her eyes blazed. “I didn’t say that! That woman!”
Erskine felt that her response was too defensive for her to be certain of herself.
“Did you see someone?” he asked her.
She took a deep breath, stared at Erskine guiltily, bit her lips, and sighed. Erskine could see that she was still smarting under Mrs. Westerman’s intimidations.
“I thought I saw...” She broke off, abashed. “You see, there’ve been complaints about Tony’s making so much noise. I was sleeping...” She paused, swallowed. “I got up when I heard Tony banging his drum. I waved at him—You know, I can see a tip of your balcony by leaning out of my kitchen window— Well, he saw me and he quieted down. That was the first time I looked...I went back to bed. Later a noise, like a pistol shot, woke me up. I thought that something happened to Tony. I ran to the kitchen window and looked out...I didn’t see Tony. I thought maybe he’d gone downstairs, though I’d told him not to...After a while I still didn’t hear ‘im and I got worried...I ran into the hallway and peeped at ‘im; he was playing like a little lamb, riding his hobbyhorse. I went back to sleep...”
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