Savage Holiday

by Richard Wright

  “Mabel..he said in a begging voice, almost a boy’s voice.

  “Go ‘way,” she cried. “Go ‘way from me, you rich bastard! If you keep bothering me, I’ll kill you, you hear?”

  “Oh, Mabel, no!” he pleaded. “Let me explain—”

  “Get out of my apartment!” she screamed.

  “Mabel...Listen ..He reached out his hand to pat her shoulder.

  “Don’t you touch me!” she panted with fury.

  He did touch her and she sprang to her feet, her eyes wild and bloodshot. “Leave me alone!” She was suddenly still, her eyes narrowing. “All right,” she spat at him. “So what? Suppose I sleep with every man in this block! Whatsit to you, hunh? What’s it to anybody on this damned earth? It’s my body, isn’t it?”

  “No, Mabel! God, no!” Erskine whispered, shaking his head.

  “Suppose I’m selling myself, hunh? Do you want to buy me? Then why don’t you ask? Is that what’s worrying you?” She sank to the floor, her hands clasped before her, unable, it seemed, to catch her breath. She appeared about to choke. Then she whimpered: “Tony, Tony, come back to mummy...Oh, God, tell me what happened...I’m so alone...Tony, you’ve gone and I don’t want to live any more...” She tossed back her head, shut her eyes, and clutched with both hands at her hair and pulled as though trying to rip out the strands by their roots. She gasped and went into a spasm, her limbs trembling involuntarily; she seemed to have taken leave of her senses.

  Erskine stood spellbound, appalled. Hot gratification suffused his body with so keen a sensation that he felt pain; he could scarcely breathe. She was his now, completely; like this, she belonged to him. He had conquered her, humbled her. He could now afford to be kind, to maintain his trust in her. Because she had been receding beyond his grasp, he had treated her abominably, had hurled at her his complaints and abuses and had checked her in her flight; but now he could be compassionate, loving towards her, for she was prostrate and at his feet...

  “Mabel, dear, I’m sorry...”

  She seemed not to hear him; her hands opened and shut with spasmodic rhythms and her eyes rolled so far back into her head that only the whites showed.

  “Oh, God, she’s fainting!”

  He lifted her and carried her into her bedroom. Gently, he placed her upon her bed.

  “Mabel!” he called in panic.

  Her lips hung open and loose and she began to breathe a little easier. Ought he to call a doctor? Minnie? What had he done to her? Undecided, he watched her. At last her eyes rested unseeingly upon

  his face and the violent heaving of her bosom grew le$s. She turned away from him and stared dully off into a corner of the room, sighing in despair.

  “Go ‘way,” she breathed...

  “Mabel, forgive me...”

  “What are you doing to me?” she asked in a whimper.

  “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry...” he mumbled. What a fool he’d been to hurt her like this! She was, despite all her paint and sophistication, but a child and needed a child’s loving care. He took her in his arms and held her tenderly close, whispering: “Forgive me, Mabel...I didn’t know...”

  “I thought you wanted to help me,” she said; she was on the verge of tears again.

  “I do; I do,” he assured her.

  Her body lay limp in his arms and he watched the tears drying on her long, dark eyelashes. How could there be any desire to deceive in anyone with a face so helpless and innocent as hers? Yes; he’d make it up to her. She was staring at him with a look compounded of accusation, entreaty, and despair.

  “Erskine, why are you treating me like this?” she asked in a quiet, intimate voice. “What have I done to you?”

  He hung his head. His right leg began to tremble. He felt something like a wave of heat flash through him and he tightened his arms about her. He wanted to hold this lovely woman who tortured him so and never let her go, wanted to hold onto her forever...He bent to her and whispered:

  “Mabel, I love you...” He felt pleasantly dizzy, as though he were standing up high somewhere and looking down from a great height.

  She turned swiftly in his arms, half lifting herself on her elbow, and stared at him in utter disbelief. Then she sighed.

  “Erskine...” Her voice had a note of mild protest.

  “I love you; I love you,” he repeated. “I want to marry you.”

  “No!”

  “I mean it; I do—”

  “My God,” she said.

  “I mean it honorably,” he hastened to assure her.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Mabel said, looking about vaguely, holding her head between the palms of her hands.

  “I love you; that’s why I spoke to you as I did. I couldn’t help it...”

  “But you don’t know me—”

  “I know I love you. You’re haunting me. I can’t get you out of my mind, Mabel...”

  Slowly she pulled free of him and sank into a chair at the side of the bed, her lips hanging open in shock. For a moment Erskine was afraid that she’d spring up and run from him, accuse him of taking wanton advantage of her helplessness and grief, and he was ready to let loose a net of pleas to stay her departure, to beg her to forgive him. He felt his face burning and he waited. She stared at the floor, then lifted her large, dark eyes to his face. He saw a thousand questions in them.

  “I don’t want to upset you, Mabel,” he told her, taking hold of her left hand with his right. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken to you about my feelings at a time like this. You’re numb with sorrow. But you were wondering why I dared criticize you, question you...You must realize that I’m in love with you and you seem to belong to me...Try to understand that. I’m not much good at expressing myself, Mabel. I’m a business man. I guess I’m just jealous. I can’t help it. Please, you mustn’t think badly of me. Tell me, you don’t, do you?”

  Her eyes looked off and she did not answer.

  “Please, I beg of you, Mabel,” he pleaded, “don’t be angry with me. Tell me that you are not angry...”

  She still did not look at him or give any sign that she had heard. What was she thinking about?

  “Mabel,” he begged.

  “Don’t talk to me like that—”

  “I must! Mabel—”

  “I’m going crazy,” she wailed.

  “Mabel,” he implored her.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Look at me..

  “No.”

  “Yes. Look at me, darling...You must look at me...I can’t stand thinking that I’ve hurt you...”

  He felt the slow, heavy thump of her heart under the silk dress, and again her eyes were wet, her lips trembling.

  “Mabel, look at me...”

  Slowly she turned her head and her eyes rested nakedly on his face; they were defenseless, those eyes, as they stared directly into his own.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered and sighed.

  “You’re not angry...?”

  “No.”

  They were silent. He still held her hand; it was limp, warm, pliant...She sat in an attitude that made her seem bent forward, as under the weight of too much emotion. Her eyes, wet like a bird’s wing caught in a rainstorm, went from his face and then to the floor several times. Then her body shook slowly with a slight motion that was scarcely perceptible, shook each time her heart beat; she seemed to be, one second, leaning toward him, and then, the next second, leaning away...He was afraid that she was about to collapse; he rose and enclosed her fully in his arms.

  “I don’t want to make things any harder for you,” he whispered into her ear. “But do think of what I’ve said, won’t you?”

  She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. He had an impulse to kiss her, but he was afraid. A tremor went through him as the scent of her hair filled his nostrils. It seemed that she was surrendering to him, but he dared not risk interpreting her action in that light He feared he would make her rej
ect him forever.

  “Think of what I’ve said,” he entreated her. “Don’t answer now. Think of it and we’ll talk about it later, hunh?”

  She nodded her head, then looked at him with an expression which he could not decipher.

  “Ill go now,” he said uneasily.

  She said nothing; he took his arms from about her.

  “Won’t you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked her.

  “If you want me to,” she murmured.

  He squeezed her hand.

  “Until eight, then. Tonight?”

  “Yes”

  “I’ll go now.”

  “Good bye, Erskine. You’re so good.”

  “It’s nothing. I want to do so much for you, Mabel.”

  He moved awkwardly toward the door. She rose and followed him, looking at the floor. In the doorway a Mona Lisa smile flittered across her lips and it made Erskine wonder for a moment...

  “Good bye,” he said.

  He unlocked his door and went inside. He was trembling. It seemed that he was walking on air. He stood in the middle of the room and felt wrapped in the fulfillment of a long-sought dream. He smiled and, at the same time, a sense of dread made him bite his lips. Slowly he sank upon the side of his bed and gazed unseeingly about him; he was enthralled, elated, yet full of wonder and fear...He was glad that Minnie had finished her cleaning and had gone; if she saw him now, she’d think that he had gone out of his mind...

  Mabel’s phone rang, tinkling faintly through the afternoon’s hot air. He rose and hurried to his open window, inclined his head, straining to listen, a deep frown dividing his eyes. He heard her voice, but could not make out her words. There came to his ears a low, rich, satisfied peal of laughter that ended abruptly, as though she were afraid that he’d hear her.

  Who was she talking to now? She’s playing with me...! That bitch...She didn’t really care a fig about what he had said to her. Damn her! He grabbed hold of the pillow of the bed and, in a hot fury, balled it tightly in his long, strong hands, his fingers squeezing at the soft batch of feathers until the fingers of his left hand touched the fingers of his right, penetrating the fluffy bunch. Then his face flushed almost a black red and he ripped the pillow in two, tearing the cloth, and the white feathers scattered wildly in a dense, thick cloud about the room, floating and hovering slowly in the still, hot air. His rage was so deep that he could scarcely see.

  Gradually he became aware that his left palm was throbbing with pain and when he looked at it he saw that he had torn off the patch of adhesive tape and drops of blood were pulsing and falling from the raw gash and forming a small pool on the highly polished hardwood floor. A large white feather floated slowly down to the puddle of blood, hovered above it for a second, then settled lightly upon its surface, its edges fluttering futilely, as though trying in vain to escape the clinging viscousness of the bright red liquid...

  PART THREE: ATTACK

  We must obey the gods, whatever those gods are.

  —Euripides’ Orestes

  ...This cup is the new testament in my blood; this do ye, as oft ye drink it, in remembrance of me.

  —St. Paul, I Cor. 11:25

  See, see where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament!

  One drop would save my soul—

  —Christopher Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus

  * * * * *

  STILL seething because of Mabel’s flightiness, and suffering from the stabbing pain in his left palm, he mopped the blood from the floor, cleaned up the feathers, and rebandaged his hand with a thin strip of adhesive tape. He didn’t want Mabel to see his wound when he ate dinner with her tonight...

  His anger finally ebbed and he sat hunched, ashamed at how far he had let his emotions sweep him. What was wrong? It was plain that the woman was a simple slut; that’s all...All right. Okay. Why, then, didn’t he forget her? But, even in asking the question, he knew that he couldn’t leave her alone. Mabel was still his agent provocateur mysteriously inciting him, provoking him onwards towards—what deed? There were fleeting, frightening moments when he seemed on the verge of knowing just what she was silently urging him to do, and then the sense of it would suddenly elude him, would evaporate, leaving him anxious and perturbed. And at once, as though to protect himself against something which he had to know but didn’t want to know, he’d remember that she knew something about those “naked feet dangling” on the balcony, that she was still puzzled over that blot of blood on the newspapers, and he’d suspect that she knew something about that phone call...It always seemed that he was expecting one kind of reaction from her and she kept bewildering him with actions that were completely contrary.

  He was willing to forget whatever she had done in the past, but her past could not, must not follow her into his life. Hadn’t she sense enough to know that? Didn’t she know a good man when she saw one? At dinner tonight he’d be strict with her. She’s just a little spoilt fool...And her prettiness has turned her silly...

  Fatigued, he stretched upon his bed and fell into a sleep that was troubled by dreams. He thought that he was a child again and was in a huge and empty church which had row upon row of pews extending towards a tall pulpit and he was walking down the center aisle with slow and measured steps and to the sound of low, sad organ music and he was wondering why he was alone and walking like this and then suddenly he saw ahead of him a coffin beautifully wrought in shining silver and surrounded by heaping banks of flowers and as he neared the gleaming coffin something urgent compelled him to look down and he saw a dead woman who was lovely and young and lying in a flowing white muslin dress and it seemed that she was not really dead but just sleeping and then a strange man whom he felt that he had seen somewhere before but could not remember where came up to him from his left and the man’s face was beginning to blur and he felt that the man was asking his permission to open the coffin so that he could see the entire body of the woman and the man reached forward with a hand clad in a white glove and slid down the lower half of the lid of the coffin and there lay revealed the lower half of the woman’s body which was nude and he could see that her legs were moving slightly and then, by some strange power, the woman’s body began to rot right before his eyes, rapidly, and the woman was turning an ashen color and then dark, the flesh falling away, crumbling, festering, melting, and finally resembling a blackened mass that shimmered and assumed the look of something slimy and wet and sticky and running, like tar, and it seemed that he was about to inhale the awful smell of putrefaction and he partially awakened, sweating, mumbling, sighing...

  He opened his eyes at last, breathing heavily, feeling more fatigued than when he had lain down. Blinking, he saw that it had grown dark outside. He sat up quickly and turned on the light. It was seven-thirty. Oh, Lord! He’d promised to take Mabel to dinner. He pulled to his feet and took a shower, dressed, wool-gathering, all his fingers feeling like thumbs.

  Promptly at eight o’clock he rang Mabel’s bell, resolved that he’d be firm with her. After all, she’d not rejected his declaration of love, had in no wise indicated that it had displeased her. In fact, he suspected that she’d been not a little flattered. And, back of it all, he wondered uneasily just how far she would have let him go if he had insisted...He rang a second time, for she had not answered. She’s out...Damn her! He was about to leave when his eyes caught sight of a slip of paper protruding from the jamb of the door, low down near the carpet. He took it and saw:

  FOR MR. FOWLER

  So! She’d written him a note. With grim face he opened it and read:

  Dear Erskine: I’m sorry that I’m not in. Please forgive me. I’m with some very dear friends of mine. Won’t you phone me at: ATWATER 9-0632? Just ask for Mabel...We can fix a time for dinner and maybe you could pick me up, perhaps? My best—

  MABEL

  Why was she acting like this? Was she grieving over Tony at all? How could she so lightly accept another invitation? And only four hours ago he’d told her that he loved her? He ough
tn’t phone her; he’d teach her a lesson. He had some pride, hadn’t he? Of course, she was with some Tom, Dick, or Harry, as always...And, in the end, it was the necessity to know who that man was that made him decide to phone her. He’d swallow his pride for once. But she’d better not go too far; by Heaven, she’d better not...He dialed the number and a man answered: “Mike’s Tavern! Mike speaking!”

  He heard a din of babbling voices in the background. He tightened with jealousy. She’s in a bar! My God! His hand shook. He wanted to hang up...

  “Hello! Who’s on the phone?” the man’s voice was rough.

  “Is Mrs. Mabel Blake there?” he asked finally. “Mabel Blake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on a second...” There was a pause. Then: “Mabel! Mabel! Somebody tell Mabel she’s wanted on the phone...!”

  Evidently she was well-known there.

  “Hold on; she’s coming.”

  He heard the receiver being laid down gently. He still wanted to hang up and, when he did hear Mabel’s voice, he could not speak for a moment.

  “Erskine, is that you, dear?”

  He bit his lip and did not answer.

  “Hello...Is that you, Erskine?”

  “Yes, Mabel,” he dragged the words out of him. “Oh, darling! I’m sorry...Listen, do you want to come by here and pick me up? And I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Mike’s Tavern. 50th and Sixth Avenue. Won’t you come, honey?”

  “But I thought we were having dinner together tonight?”

  “We are, darling! I didn’t forget. Oh, do come...And forgive me for not being home when you came. But some friends asked me over for a drink; I was feeling so low, so lonely, so blue...Aren’t you coming?”

  “All right, Mabel. Ill be there in quarter of an hour.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Goodbye.”

  He heard a smacking sound of lips over the wires and he knew that she was giving him a kiss...Was she drunk? He hung up and felt like vomiting. Tonight he’d decide one way or the other. He hailed a taxi and slumped down in his seat to brood. Was it because he was old that her behavior seemed so odd? No; for thirty years he’d met and dealt with people of her age, but they’d been far more reasonable, honorable. Well, if she was really the kind of woman he was beginning to think she was, he’d tell her off. He felt bleak.