Savage Holiday

by Richard Wright

  “Why?”

  “You’re spoiling me,” she smiled at him. “Financially, are you able—?”

  “I’ve a little money...” Her lips pouted sadly. “Since Mark, my husband, died—he was killed in the war—I’ve had to do everything alone. But it’s hard...I was saving Mark’s government insurance money to put Tony through college. Now, he’s gone...And they’re whispering that I neglected him. I’m just the butt of everybody’s gossip. I didn’t want Tony to grow up in New York, but my parents weren’t able to help me with ‘im—”

  “Where do your parents live?”

  “In Pennsylvania; a place called Altoona. I was born in Pittsburgh. My father’s dead, but my mother’s living. She’s remarried. She and my stepfather work—”

  “Do you ever see your mother? Hear from her?”

  “Not often,” she admitted, blushing. “You see, my life’s so upside down, what with my working nights...After twelve hours in that hot, smoky nightclub, all I’m fit for is to tumble into bed.”

  She gazed off somberly, her breasts hanging full under her robe. Watching her, his heart beat faster; then a counter-movement of his consciousness began as there rose before his eyes an image of what Tony called “fighting.” Anger inhibited his swelling sense of desire. This woman bothered him: one moment she seemed so intimately close; the next moment she was in flight, captured by alien realities...Who was this man who’d stayed with her last night?

  “Do you ever think of changing your life, Mabel?” he asked her out of a mood of his brooding.

  “What do you mean?” she asked; she was self-conscious, wary.

  “Do you want to go on like this?”

  “But what in the world can I do?” she wailed. She sulked. “I’m so tired of drifting.” She sighed. “When I was married, things were simple.”

  Her helplessness lifted Erskine out of his fog of doubt. Yes; he could handle her...She was begging for guidance.

  “Do you ever go to church?”

  “I used to, but I’ve no time now,” she said.

  “One learns to live by following moral laws,” he said.

  “Yes; I know,” she said lamely.

  She’d never had a chance and she’d be a willing pupil, and he’d cure her of her moral lapses. They talked in muted tones and she entrusted to him the full details of Tony’s funeral and made out a check to cover the expenses.

  “I’ll take this burden off your poor shoulders, Mabel,” he promised her.

  “Oh, thank God for you, Erskine!”

  “I’d better let you rest now,” he said, rising. I’m close by, you know. If you want or need anything, just holler.”

  “You’re so kind—”

  “It’s nothing.” A thought struck him. “Say, you didn’t phone me today, did you?”

  She seemed startled; her lips moved silently before she answered.

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, no. Why?”

  “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

  He squeezed her hand gently; in the doorway she told him good night as though she’d known him for a long time, and her face held an expression of innocent waiting.

  But, when alone in his apartment, he was troubled. Did she still believe that she’d seen “naked feet dangling”? What did she really think of that stain of blood on the newspapers? And who was that woman who’d called and said that she’d seen what had happened? Yes; wouldn’t being close to Mabel put that woman at a disadvantage? Later, he’d tell Mabel everything, he’d make her understand how it had happened...

  But his doubts persisted. He yearned to believe that she was as innocent, as good as a boy believes his mother to be, but her manner told him that that was impossible. His desire for her was so close to his rejection of her that he couldn’t separate the two. His mind was far too literal in its functioning to permit him to disentangle such conflicting emotions. Whenever he sought a compromise of his love-hate struggle, he grew distressed. He lay on his warm bed with wide eyes, staring until dawn; just before sunrise he fell into a fitful doze.

  He awakened in a mood of calm soberness. How could he have felt such a headlong predilection for Mabel? He was so astonished at what he’d felt that it was like being told of the meandering emotions of someone vaguely known to him. Was it possible that he’d felt like that last night?

  Hadn’t he explained that spot of blood on the newspapers sufficiently for Mabel to forget it? And who’d believe her tale of “naked feet dangling”? Wasn’t his fear of her unnecessary? But that phone call...? Mabel hadn’t mentioned phoning him and he believed in her; she’d been distracting herself with her television set when he’d received that call. Who, then, was that woman? Mrs. Westerman? Why should she do that? She’d been in her basement apartment when Tony had fallen. Well, he’d wait and see if whoever it was that called would repeat their call. If they did, he’d go straight to the police.

  As an insurance expert, he had some experience with the criminal mind. Now, if Mabel had seen “naked feet dangling,” wouldn’t she behave exactly as she was now behaving? She was a hatcheck girl in a nightclub and maybe she’d confided her story to some of her boy or girl friends? Wouldn’t that account for the fact that his mysterious caller had not asked for a confirmation, had not waited for a reaction? He’d simply been warned that someone knew...someone had seen him nude on the balcony...But, if Mabel was in on this, wouldn’t she be more concerned about avenging Tony’s death? Certainly. She’d not call and say that she’d seen what had happened, and then do nothing about it. No; Mabel’s reactions last night were genuine. Some outsider made that phone call, but for what purpose?

  Then, after all was said and done, there was but one solution: his being close to Mabel would enable him to resist any attempt at blackmail, would allay any suspicions. He was fully awake now; an image of her weeping and writhing on the sofa brought him a sense of her body. He’d marry the girl; that would solve everything...

  At eight o’clock Minnie, his maid, arrived, breathless, tearful.

  “Mr. Fowler, is it true? What Mrs. Westerman told me about little Tony?” she asked.

  “It’s true, Minnie.”

  “Lord, have mercy on us all!” Minnie said, throwing up her hands. “But how did it happen?”

  “I don’t quite know,” he replied uneasily. “He was playing and fell—”

  “That poor little innocent thing,” Minnie moaned. She sat, heaved a moment, then wiped her eyes. She rose, shaking her head. “That tyke needed a mother—”

  “His mother was sleeping when it happened.”

  “Yeah. I know. She works at night,” Minnie said. “She didn’t have much time for that child...But she could’ve asked me; maybe I could’ve found someone to help her.”

  “It’s too late now, Minnie. And I don’t know if she could have afforded a maid. Oh, say, get me some coffee, will you?”

  “Indeed I will, Mr. Fowler,” Minnie said, trudging heavily into the kitchen.

  Erskine was somewhat calmed by Minnie’s naturalness. Why worry about some foolish woman’s phoning when Minnie accepted Tony’s death in so normal a manner? Erskine didn’t believe that servants were quite human, but he felt that having them around brought one some standing; one could always depend upon them for simple, human reactions. And when Minnie brought him his coffee, he was grateful for her level-headed sanity as she asked him shyly:

  “Mr. Fowler, don’t you think I could make some breakfast for that Mrs. Blake? Poor soul, she has no one to look after her.”

  “I’ll ask her,” Erskine said, avidly appropriating her suggestion. He found Mabel’s number in the phone book and dialed. “Mabel? This is Erskine...Good morning?”

  “Oh, good morning,” Mabel said in a sleepy, throaty voice.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked her; he was trying to picture how she looked in bed and his skin tingled.

  “I didn’t sleep at all,” she complained in a grumbling tone.

  “Oh,
dear! You’ve got to rest,” he told her. “You mustn’t break down, you know. Look, my maid’s here. Do you want her to bring you some coffee?”

  “I’d just love some,” Mabel drawled in a thankful voice. “You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

  “None at all. And I’d like to talk to you for about half an hour regarding arrangements for Tony, hunh?”

  “Sure. Come on over. God, you’re wonderful to me. I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.

  “Don’t say anything. Listen, I’m going to bring you some sleeping pills. You’ve got to rest.”

  “Thanks, Erskine.”

  “See you.

  “‘Bye.”

  He hung up. “Take her over something, Minnie,” he said.

  “I sure will,” Minnie agreed heartily.

  Erskine smiled and relaxed on his pillow. But a moment later he was frowning. Why hadn’t he caught an echo of grief in her voice? She’d spoken as if she’d not lost her son! He wondered if perhaps she was not glad that Tony was dead...The idea made him flinch; he grew angry with himself for having such notions. The more he thought of Mabel the more he found himself unable to control the images that popped into his mind.

  He drained his coffee cup, rolled out of bed, shaved, showered, dressed, and went out and rang Mabel’s doorbell. He was surprised at the Mabel who opened the door. She was pert, brisk; she held a detached smile on her heavily rouged lips. Her body was sheathed in a tight-fitting, dark silk frock and a cigarette dangled from her lips. He entered her apartment feeling that her new mood was subtly shutting him out of her life. He fought down an attitude of resentment.

  “Erskine, dear, how on earth will I ever be able to repay you for all your trouble?” Her voice indicated that she regretted having accepted his aid, that she’d reflected and thought better of the whole thing.

  “But I’ve done nothing for you yet,” he told her ardently. Maybe someone else had offered to help her? He felt that she was in flight, evading him. He handed her a tiny bottle. “Here are some sleeping pills. If you take two of them, you’ll relax and sleep some.”

  “I don’t know why you think of me,” she said, taking the bottle reluctantly. “I’m so much trouble...”

  As she led him down the hallway to the living room, he felt that it was her sense of inferiority that was making her so different. Her helplessness and gratitude rekindled his faith in her. Yes; he could handle her...

  “Mabel, you must have faith and not fret so much,” he tried to reassure her.

  Her phone rang and she picked it up.

  “Hello.”

  “...”

  “Oh, Bill, dear! How are you? How sweet of you to think of calling me!”

  Erskine was stunned at the change in her voice, which now purred with sensuality.

  “...”

  “Oh, I’m so-so...A little tired.”

  “...”

  “No; I’m sorry, Bill. I’m busy today.”

  “...”

  “You mustn’t say things like that to me!”

  “...”

  Mabel giggled.

  “...”

  “I just got out of bed.”

  “...”

  “Okay. You’ll call me later in the week, hunh?”

  “...”

  “‘Bye, now.”

  She hung up and turned to Erskine and smiled.

  “An old friend,” she murmured, her eyes shining. “Just a sec,” she said and left the room.

  Erskine fumed. What kind of a woman was this? She could turn her feelings on and off like a water faucet...Now, who was Bill? And why hadn’t she told him that Tony was dead? There’d been no overtone of sorrow in her voice at all. She’s acting like the coldest fish I’ve ever seen! He was humiliated to feel that he was running her errands, but he’d offered to, hadn’t he? But what really galled him was that another man was enjoying a relationship with her that he knew nothing about...Couldn’t she sense the impression she was making? Couldn’t she feel the shocking impact of her actions? Yes; she was young; she hadn’t enough experience to feel the weight of her behavior on the personalities of others.

  She returned with a small suitcase.

  “I must thank you for that wonderful breakfast you had your maid bring me,” she told him, placing the suitcase on the floor at his feet and sitting next to him on the end of the sofa.

  “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, trying to hide his resentment.

  “Erskine, really, you mustn’t run around like this for me, you know,” she said, pouting charmingly. “Surely, you must have many more interesting things to do than—”

  “It’s absolutely no trouble, I assure you,” he swore to her.

  “These are Tony’s clothes,” she said, indicating the suitcase. “The undertaker asked for dark things, and I did my best.”

  “What about the burial date, flowers, music, and so forth?” Erskine launched forth as though he were back at Longevity Life sitting at his desk. “Just what do you want me to tell the undertaker?”

  “What do you think I ought to say?” Mabel countered softly, throwing herself entirely upon his wisdom.

  “But, dear, you must have some notion as to when you want him buried, the kind of coffin, and so on,” he said.

  “You tell him for me, won’t you?” she asked him wailingly, on the verge of tears.

  “But what kind of a service do you want?”

  “Well, anything the undertaker says—”

  “The ceremony...When do you want it?” His anger seethed. “This afternoon? Tomorrow? Is that too soon?” he asked her bluntly. “You’ll have to notify your relatives, your husband’s relatives, won’t you?”

  “No. I have no relatives here in the city, Erskine,” she said. “And Tony’s father’s people are in California. I want the ceremony simple—”

  “Yes,” Erskine agreed, fighting down his revulsion. Doesn’t she understand anything? This is no way to bury anybody...“But haven’t you notified Tony’s father’s people yet?”

  “Not yet. I will...later. When I have time—”

  “But, look here, Mabel,” he said, wanting to slap her. “You’re inviting some friends, aren’t you? What about invitations?”

  “I’m inviting no one,” Mabel said, her face white and her eyes staring. “Just you, if you’ll be so kind as to come, Erskine.” Tears glistened on her long, dark eye-lashes. “You see, Erskine, I’m all alone in the world. I’ve no friends, really. I’ve no one I can really count on, that I can trust I’ve nobody...Her voice choked.

  Erskine was stricken. His distrust and irritation fled. Oh, God, what had he done to her? He’d judged her harshly a moment ago and now he hated himself. Once more Mabel was redeemed in his feelings; once more she was the abandoned, tragic queen of his heart, a queen whom he’d serve loyally, without reserve. She didn’t even think enough of the other men she knew to invite them to the funeral...Only he was being invited. He rose, took her hand and patted it.

  “You can depend on me, Mabel,” he said in a husky voice.

  “You shouldn’t bother about me,” she whispered as she wept.

  “Now, there—”

  “I’m not worth it.”

  “Yes; you are worth it,” he scolded her gently, tenderly. “And I don’t want you to let me hear you talking like that again. Brace up. I’ll attend to everything. Why don’t you take a sleeping pill and get some rest?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And I’ll see you right after lunch, hunh?”

  “Yes,” she sniffed.

  He picked up the suitcase and, after he’d let himself quietly into the hallway, he heard her phone ringing again. He paused, waiting, frowning, listening to Mabel’s muffled voice through the door panels.

  “Hello.”

  “...”

  “Oh, Jack!”

  “...”

  “It’s so good to hear your voice too.”

  “...”

  “Oh, I’m all right. Just a little
tired.”

  “...”

  “No! I’m not working tonight”

  “...”

  “You did? How nice—”

  “...”

  “No; I won’t be at the club this week. I’m really a little ill...”

  “...”

  “Darling...No; some other time, hunh?”

  “...”

  “‘Bye. Thanks for calling, dear.”

  Erskine was so angry that he wanted to fling the suitcase out of his hand. How had he gotten himself into this? He rode down in the elevator, asking himself: Now, who’s Jack...? And again he’d noticed that she’d said not one word about Tony’s being dead. Didn’t she care? “She’s unnatural,” he muttered to himself. Why were all those men calling her? Evidently, they’d been hoping to come and see her. What’s she doing? He felt nauseated. He should be attending to his own affairs and not meddling with this cheap woman. She wasn’t worth it...

  The tension that Mabel had induced in Erskine reached a point of pain when he visited the funeral parlor where a Mr. Jenkins, gray, unctuous, showing a smile over a set of dead-white false teeth, told him:

  “Ah, good day, sir. You are Mr. Fowler, I believe? The mother of the deceased phoned and said that you were coming. Are you a relative, sir?”

  “No. Just a friend.”

  Jenkins spread his white, withered hands softly upon the air, lifted his eyebrows in a mechanical expression of helplessness, and droned: ‘1 want to assure you, sir, that we’ve done our very best. The poor child’s head was terribly bashed in, I’m afraid. We tried to make him as presentable as possible.” He caught Erskine’s arm and squeezed it sympathetically. “You must tell me if you think Mrs. Blake will be satisfied.” He piloted Erskine into a rear room whose dim light made visibility difficult. Before Erskine’s eyes could adjust themselves to the shadows, Jenkins had approached a metal table and pulled a heavy, white covering off a frail, waxen-looking child whose flesh seemed almost translucent. “You see, sir?” Jenkins said, pointing to the child’s head.

  Erskine leaned forward, stared, and blinked.

  “Is he Tony?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Was that the child’s first name, sir?”