“Yes.”
“Yes, sir. It’s Tony Blake, sir. Oh, forgive me, sir...”
Before Erskine could object, Jenkins had pressed a button and a bluish glare of neon filled the room and Erskine saw that little Tony’s face seemed much younger now and strangely at peace, as though in sleep. His lips were flexed in grim immobility; his hair, so much like Mabel’s, curly and unruly, was slicked down over the left side of his forehead.
“You knew him, didn’t you, sir?” Jenkins asked anxiously.
“Yes.”
“Does it mar his features too much, sir?” Jenkins cocked his head, studying Tony. “We had to brush the hair over the wound, sir.”
“I guess it’s all right,” Erskine mumbled, swallowing.
“His mother would know him, wouldn’t she, sir?”
“I think so,” Erskine said wearily.
Tears blurred his eyes and he was hearing Tony yell: Bang! Bang! Bang! The Indians are coming! And he remembered Tony asking in his high, lilting voice: Do babies come from men and women fighting? And he saw again the blank terror in those dark eyes floating atop the electric hobbyhorse and the mouth gaping open as the child went from sight, downward into space...His throat tightened and he turned and walked into the reception room.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jenkins mumbled, following Erskine. “Just leave it to us, sir. We’ll attend to everything. Tell me, when does she want the funeral, sir?”
“Will tomorrow be all right?” he asked timidly.
“Just as you say, sir. At 3 P.M., sir?”
“Yes.”
“What denomination was the child, sir?”
“Just make it a simple, nondenominational, Protestant service.”
“Very good, sir. With music, sir?”
“Yes. Organ music...”
“And a choir, sir?”
“No. No choir.”
“Have you any special selections of sacred music in mind, sir?”
“No.”
“Would half an hour of music be enough, sir?”
I guess so.
“Are there any special effects you wish to have registered, sir?”
“Special effects?” Erskine asked, baffled.
“The mother wouldn’t mind if we put the toy pistol in the child’s hand, would she, sir?” Jenkins asked with a shadow of a smile. “He had his pistol in his right hand when they found him, they tell me. It makes him look so lifelike; don’t you think, sir?”
“No; no...No special effects.”
“Just as you say, sir.”
Erskine stifled his anger. Mabel should have been with him; she should have told him what she wanted. Why had she dumped all of this upon him? He had half a mind to cancel the funeral, set it for another date, make new arrangements, etc.; but he cast the thought aside.
“How many guests are you inviting, sir?”
“Not many,” Erskine hedged.
“Will fifty seats be enough, sir?”
“You’d better make it fifteen seats—”
“Will fifteen seats be enough, sir?”
“Oh, most certainly,” he answered, unable to speak further. The truth was that even fifteen seats were too many...
He was edging toward the door in disgust. He was afraid that Jenkins felt that he really did not care and he damned Mabel. He thinks I’m trying to get the child under the ground as soon as possible...Coolly, he issued orders and arranged for Tony’s body to be kept in a vault until Mabel could decide when and where she wanted the child buried.
“Now, sir...I’d like your assistance in selecting a final bed,” Jenkins told him. “Right this way, sir. It won’t take but a second, sir.”
Reluctantly he followed the man. Why was he doing this? He didn’t know...In a rear room were several children’s caskets. Jenkins led him to a gray coffin lined with satin.
“Would this be appropriate, sir?”
“Yes,” Erskine sighed, not really examining it.
“Very well, sir. That’s all, sir.”
Jenkins smiled whitely and shook Erskine’s hand. Enroute home, he told himself that he was a fool to help her. If she had come with him, he’d have stood at her side. No; no; no; no...He wouldn’t, couldn’t marry her! He’d allowed himself to be swamped by pity; that was it. Her helpless state had blinded his judgment. He’d see this funeral through for Tony’s sake and then he’d go to the police and tell his story and be quit of Mabel...I’m running her errands and she’s chatting over the phone with her boy friends...
When Erskine’s elevator arrived at the tenth floor of the Elmira Apartment Building, he got out and walked determinedly to Mabel’s door and rang her bell. He rang three times and did not get a response. He was disconcerted. Maybe she’d taken all those sleeping pills and had passed out? Anything could happen to a woman like that, he thought in agitation. He rang once more; she surely was not in...Grumpily, he let himself into his apartment.
Minnie came bustling in from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on her apron.
“Mr. Fowler!” she called “Yes, Minnie?”
“Mrs. Blake told me to tell you that she’s gone down to get her hair done,” Minnie told him, her eyebrows arched.
“Oh, yes,” he said, trying to hide his disgust.
“She said she’d be back soon.”
“Thanks, Minnie.”
“Your lunch’ll be ready in a jiffy, Mr. Fowler,” Minnie informed him.
Erskine grimaced. “I’m not hungry, Minnie. I don’t want anything—”
“But you’ll starve, Mr. Fowler!”
“I can’t eat now, Minnie,” he said irritably.
“I know,” Minnie said softly, shaking her head. “You’re grieving over Tony. But you oughta eat, Mr. Fowler...”
“I’ll eat out later, maybe.”
Yes, sir.
He sat in his living room, near the open window, sunk in thought. What’s wrong with me? he asked himself. Why was he letting himself get into such a state? Yet, he had to admit that he was frantic to know if Mabel had really gone to the beauty parlor...How could she think of her hair and nails when her son lay dead on a metal table under a blue neon light? Or had she gone to meet some man and had lied to Minnie? He didn’t know which of these two possibilities he could have hated more...
A moment later he stiffened, hearing the low but distinct sound of Mabel laughing! She had come in and was talking on the phone! He went to his open window and tried to steal a glimpse, by leaning discreetly out and peering into her living room. Yes: he could catch a slither of an image of her nyloned leg and a tan pump shoe swinging to and fro beyond the jamb of the living room door as she talked on the phone. He couldn’t overhear the conversation but, occasionally, a low, contented chuckle wafted to him. Hell! He doubled his right fist, whirled back into the room, and smote the arm of his sofa.
“She’s a whore!” he swore out loud.
“Sir?” Minnie’s voice came from the kitchen. “Nothing, Minnie,” he muttered, looking about. Minnie came to the door, her eyes round with subservience.
“You want something, sir?”
“No; no...I was talking to myself, I guess.” Minnie vanished, looking puzzled. He’d ditch Mabel first thing tomorrow afternoon. Damn her! How could she laugh like that the day after her child was dead? And she’d never laughed like that with him...He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. She was not thinking of him or Tony...She was claimed elsewhere...That cheap, cold monster!
He could not hear her laughter now. Ought he not to report his arrangements for Tony’s funeral and tell her off? Then his mouth dropped open as he caught the metallic whir of a phone being dialed. Ah, she’s calling me now...He leaped up and stood before his phone and waited. But his phone did not ring. He glanced toward her window, trying to visualize what she was doing. Then there came to him again the sound of her throaty, laughing voice floating on the hot, humid air of the sweltering afternoon, —laughter that was like gurgling water tumbling over rocks in a meadow.
She’s phoning somebody else...That bitch!
He threw himself full length upon his bed and closed his eyes, jamming his fist against his mouth, biting the knuckle. He had fallen into an attitude of waiting on her, of silent pleading with her, of begging for attention from her. But she kept on talking...Yes; he’d have it out with her now! She must not think that he was a stupid, middle-aged man. He’d show her. He rose and went to her door and pushed the bell.
“Who is it?”
“Erskine!”
“Just a sec!”
She sounded too damned confident. He fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot. When she opened the door, he had expected to see her smiling; but her face, though rouged, was solemn, almost hard. She’s acting, he thought with despair.
“Oh, hello, Erskine. Come in, won’t you?”
“Hello,” he said flatly, entering slowly.
She was newly coiffed, her eyelashes sharply defined, her fingernails freshly, brilliantly done. He walked heavily down the hallway, then paused, his eyes rounding. He could see a masculine shoe and a part of a trouser leg of a man sitting in the living room, near the door. Erskine was at once the proud gentleman.
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t know you had company,” he said stiffly. “I’ll come back later—”
“Oh, no!” she said bluntly. “He’s going.”
A young man, bronze-skinned, twenty-four or thereabouts, with a crew haircut, a light tan tweed sports jacket, and a pipe in his mouth came into the hallway. He looked like he’d spent a great deal of time out of doors.
“Good afternoon,” Erskine greeted him.
“How are you?” the young man nodded, speaking with offhand affability. He turned to Mabel. “Be seeing you, honey.”
“Okay, Charles. You’ll phone me?”
“Sure thing, kid.”
“‘Bye.”
“So long.”
The young man was gone. Mabel dosed the door and gave Erskine an artificial smile. He looked levelly at her, boiling with anger. He’d complete his errand and tell her off, so help him God!
“It’ll be at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” he told her abruptly. “It’ll be a simple, nondenominational, Protestant service. I hope that’s all right with you.”
“Yes. How did Tony look, Erskine?” she asked; her lips were tremulous and her eyes misty.
“He looked all right,” he said evasively, wanting to spare her. But why the hell should he? That was the trouble with this woman; she acted like an irresponsible child and the world was always sparing her some needful experience. “The undertaker was a little worried about the upper left-hand side of Tony’s face. You know, where the skull was bashed in...Well, he combed and slicked his hair down over it; you can’t see it...It changes his face a little...”
Mabel sank into a chair and held a handkerchief to her mouth and sobbed.
“I’ll never understand how he fell,” she gasped, her weeping stopping suddenly.
Erskine’s left hand slipped inside his coat and touched the tips of his pencils...Was she thinking of those “naked feet dangling”? Or that bloody blotch on the newspapers?
“What did the police say about the railing?” he asked her.
“Nothing, so far...” She doubled her fists and rested one of them on each of her knees and frowned, glaring about. “I just can’t get over the feeling that Tony wasn’t on that balcony alone...” She wept again.
“Wasn’t alone?” His fear returned hot and hard, but the sight of her weeping calmed him down a bit. She was closer to him when she wept; this was a Mabel that that Charles didn’t own...
“I don’t know; I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“Who do you think could have been with him? Another child?” he asked her.
“I don’t know...”
“Maybe you just thought you saw somebody—”
“That’s what Mrs. Westerman says.”
“Did you speak to her today?”
“Yes. She hates me. She’s gossiping about me...”
He recalled again that some man had spent the night with her and his hate of her came again to the fore. This woman...Yes; her shameless life had killed her child! And she was too dumb, too sunk in sin to be aware of it. Not only was she not worth saving or helping, but she might eventually get somebody to believe that she had seen “naked feet dangling” on that balcony. And if that woman who’d phoned should support her, the police would have a case against him! They’d connect his wounded hand with the bloody newspaper, and they’d want to know why he’d not spoken out about what had happened. A sense of guilt had kept him from speaking, and the longer he waited, the guiltier he became; and the guiltier he was, the more difficult it was for him to speak about it; his guilt had now become so compounded, so involved that he doubted if he could ever really speak...
He looked at her and, despite his hate, his senses drank in the sensual appeal of her buxom, grief-wracked body. The more distraught she seemed, the more he wanted her; the more abandoned she was, the more he yearned for her; and the more dangerous she loomed for him, the more he felt that he had to remain near her for his own self-protection. His desire for her merged with his hate and fear of her and he was jealous...He looked about for the pile of bloody newspapers and, when he did not see them, his uneasiness increased What had she done with them?
“Who was the man who just left?” he heard himself asking.
“Hunh? What man...? Oh, him...Charles; he’s just a student. He comes to the Red Moon, where I work—”
“A friend of yours?”
“Nothing serious,” she said simply, looking at him composedly.
“You like him?”
Her eyes grew troubled.
“Sort of.”
“Did he know Tony?”
“No. He doesn’t even know that I had a son.”
“Oh!”
He was more baffled than ever.
“Why did he come here, then?” he asked her, knowing that he had no right to ask.
Mabel’s face tensed. Involuntarily, her right hand flew to her bosom. There was a momentary struggle in her eyes, then she smiled; she seemed determined to be friendly.
“He missed me on the job and came by...Thought I was sick or something,” she said.
“Why did you receive him?” he asked; his eyes looked off.
Her lips parted in astonishment. She had caught the drift of his questions.
“But he’s just a boy,” she protested, frowning at him, containing herself.
Could he ever believe anything she told him? He got to his feet and his lips formed a line of resolve. By God, he’d let her know right now what he thought of such loose, vile conduct!
“You mean that you didn’t tell him about Tony?”
“No. Why should I?” she countered stoutly.
Erskine blinked. Maybe she knew a lot of things that she wasn’t telling him...At times this damned woman seemed so simple, so transparent; yet at other times she was so complicated, so full of shadows where no shadows had a right to be.
“That seems odd—”
“What’s so odd about it?” she asked. “He’s nothing to me. I don’t want him in my life. He’s a nice boy; he’s a customer at the club, and—”
“Look, Mabel,” Erskine confronted her. “Of course, I’ve absolutely no right to say anything to you about what you do. But don’t you think you’re acting kind of hard...? You just lost your son...Don’t you think it’s more fitting, more seemly, to remain at home, and not see so many men?”
“But he’s the only man who’s come here, besides you,” she said, her cheeks blazing. “And I had to get my hair done. I couldn’t go to that funeral tomorrow looking like I was—”
“You could have told this boy who was here that you didn’t feel well, that your son was dead, that you couldn’t receive him today!” he shot at her.
“But he’s nice!” she argued. “He comes to the Red Moon to drink—”
“But that doesn’t
give him the run of your house, does it?”
She stood and her face flamed scarlet.
“This is my house!” she screeched. “I receive whom I please!” She sucked in her breath. “You too? Haven’t I got enough trouble? My God, what do I do? What on earth do you think I’m doing with that boy? Making love?”
Erskine shuddered under the impact of her outspoken attack. It was precisely because he’d thought that maybe she’d been making love with Charles that he had accused her, but he had winced when she had put his thoughts into such hard, direct words.
“Why don’t you leave me alone, if you think that I’m not good enough for you?” she cried. “Why do you and that Mrs. Westerman keep riding me? I didn’t ask you to come here! You said that you wanted to help me! Now, I’m too low to be helped by you...I told you I’m a hat-check girl. Didn’t I? Did I he to you? God-dammit, I’ve got to live! What in God’s name do you think I’m doing...?”
Should he believe her or not? Her shame and anger told him to believe her, but to whom could she be talking on the phone all the time?
“Who are these men who are calling you on the phone all the time?” he asked her; he was trembling with fear for trespassing into her life, but he had to know. “How many men are you in touch with right now?”
He had all but branded her a prostitute. She was still as stone, her eyes unblinkingly upon his face. Then she ran to the sofa and fell upon it, buried her face in her elbows and sobbed.
“No; no!” she screamed, turning and glaring at him, “Don’t you talk to me like that! You can’t! I can’t stand it! What are you trying to do to me? I didn’t ask you to come here! I didn’t ask for your help! I didn’t think you’d act like this...What do you take me for? A whore?” As though the word “whore” had slipped out of her mouth unintentionally, against her will, she clapped her hands over her lips and moaned. “Leave me alone, leave me alone, I say,” she sobbed, her shoulders hunched and heaving. “God, I want to die...Oh, Mark, why did you die...Oh, Mark, why did you die and leave me like this? I’ve no husband and every man wants to slap me...Am I a criminal because I’ve no husband?” She bared her teeth in rage and knocked her fists against her head in a hysterical frenzy that shook her whole body.
Erskine was dumbfounded. Contrition gripped him. He went to her and stood over her. Had he reduced her to this? She was his again, nobody else’s...Pity welled in him so strong that he felt a weakness in his knees.
Savage Holiday Page 13
