I'd Die For You

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  “But that business of staring at the ceiling all day—and the bedpan and the mush diet—you’d have a nut on your hands!”

  “Mr. Monsen, since you insisted on reading the chart you should have read it all. There is provision for the nurse reading to you—and there’s half an hour in the morning when you can have your mail read, sign checks and all that. Personally I think you’re lucky to be sick out here in this beautiful country—”

  “So do I,” Emmet interrupted, “I’m not refusing to lead a completely vegetable life—I’m saying you’ll have to modify it. I can’t do it—I ran away from home when I was twelve and beat my way to Texas—”

  The doctor arose.

  “You’re not twelve now. You’re a grown man. Now, sir—”

  He slipped off Emmet’s dressing gown and said, as he adjusted a blood-pressure apparatus:

  “You should be in bed this minute!”

  The machine sighed down—Dr. Cardiff looked at the gauge and unwound the flap; then Miss Hapgood was at her patient’s side and Emmet felt a gouge in his arm.

  Dr. Cardiff turned to Miss Hapgood. “We’ll get Mr. Monsen upstairs.”

  “I’m quite able to get upstairs . . .”

  Miss Trainor, who happened to be in the hall, saw him go—assisted on either side. She was a grave, slow-thinking girl, despite the very special delights that showed in her face, and she seldom yielded to intuition. But she could not dismiss a persistent doubt as to whether Dr. Cardiff had his fingers on the pulse of this business.

  She felt it even more strongly the next day at one o’clock as she sat at her typewriter looking out a window and across a rose bed into the kitchen. Mr. Monsen was at the stove in person, accompanied by the increasingly faint Miss Hapgood.

  It seemed that Margerilla had not yet appeared though it was long past one o’clock. She had telephoned from some vague locality about eleven and Miss Trainor had received the vague impression of a grandmother with a broken leg. Margerilla had promised to arrive later but the patient was in an increasingly impatient and nervous mood.

  Miss Trainor listened:

  “Mr. Monsen, you can’t cook with a temperature of 103°.”

  “Why not? Think of the Huns. They used raw steak for their saddles all day—that broke down the fibre of the meat—just like a modern kitchen range.”

  “Mr. Monsen!”

  Miss Trainor heard him chopping savagely at some meat and bent resolutely to her transcription. He had seemed such a pleasant, attractive man.

  “You’re too weak,” said Miss Hapgood forlornly.

  “You think so? Well, there’s a bottle of fine brandy in the pantry there. Do you think it makes me any stronger to take those sedatives, that keep you in a daze for twenty-four hours?”

  The patent percolator cracked and the chopping sound ceased.

  “I don’t want anything to eat anyhow,” Emmet declared. “And please don’t apologize. We’ll send Miss Trainor for sandwiches. All I really want to do is stew that medical chart in castor oil and feed it to Dr. Cardiff.”

  The Trainor girl wished she had better news for him than what he had received over the telephone half an hour before—that Elsa Halliday was not able to come out that day—would probably manage it tomorrow. She heard him wander into the living room—then she was suddenly distracted by the sound of a car driving to the back door.

  Five minutes later, followed by Miss Hapgood, she hurried into the living room.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, looking up drowsily from his chair.

  “It’s Margerilla,” chattered Miss Hapgood. “You know she did come at last, but she smells so funny. Well—”

  He interrupted, demanding of Miss Trainor, “What is it?”

  “The maid’s drinking,” she said. “We suspected it yesterday. She just turned up—she has a big fellow with her down there and he’s drunk too—he’s asleep across her bed—”

  “When I asked her if she could get luncheon for us,” wailed Miss Hapgood, “—all she said was ‘I ain’t even hungry’!”

  Miss Trainor resumed:

  “I can call the police—or else get some gardeners from Mr. Davis, but I didn’t like to do anything without telling you. The man’s too big for Miss Hapgood and me to handle.”

  Emmet got up. The situation was rather stimulating in the oppressive calm, but realizing that he was in no shape for trouble, he whipped himself into imposing indignation. With a menacing tread he entered the kitchen and approached the scene.

  Margerilla, eyes unfocused, mouth ajar, teetered uncannily in front of the stove, doing something undetermined with a sauce pan. In the doorway of her bedroom, adjoining the kitchen, stood a huge, well-built negro. He lowered a flask cheerfully and grinned at Emmet.

  “Morning, sir. Took liberty of coming along, Mr. Monsen. I valeted a lot of picture people and I thought—”

  “Why, Mr. Monsen,” cried Margerilla happily. “You know I told ’at nurse I wouldn’ta come back at all less he brought me. I knew you such a nice man you wouldn’t care, and you got plenty women look after you.”

  Emmet walked past her and up to the negro.

  “That your car in the court?”

  “Sure is. Have a drink, Mr. Monsen?”

  “Turn the car around, pointing out. Then go into Margerilla’s room and help her get her things.”

  “Mr. Monsen, you wouldn’t fire Margerilla for a little thing like that. An’ if you did, then how about me taking care of you—”

  “Get out!”

  The expression on the man’s face changed; he recapped his bottle and looked Emmet over.

  “I don’t know Margerilla ought to be workin’ in a house like this. One of them composers got fresh with me one time and I—”

  As Emmet took a step forward the man’s face changed. He broke into a silly laugh, turned and went out the door. Encouraged, Emmet steered Margerilla by both arms into her bedroom.

  “You be out of here in five minutes,” he said. “Pack quick.”

  She started to collapse but he opened a bureau drawer and propped her on it. Returning through the kitchen he saw that Miss Trainor was leaning against the door to the butler’s pantry—and too late she tried to conceal the brown gleam of a revolver inside the folds of her dress. Then he understood the change of expression in the negro’s face and felt somewhat less formidable.

  “Whose revolver?” he asked.

  “Yours.”

  “Thanks. Will you please make out a check for Margerilla?”

  From Margerilla’s room came sobs and protestations to her boy friend, who was assisting her. Emmet sat down in a kitchen chair before the self starter had commenced to hum and was resting his head on his hand, trying to think things out again when he heard Miss Halliday’s name pronounced in the pantry. He was tense again as the Trainor girl brought him the message.

  “That was Miss Halliday’s secretary. Miss Halliday’s on her way out—be here any minute.”

  “Where’s the nurse?” he exclaimed, jumping up.

  “Making out her chart. Can I help?”

  “Hold Miss Halliday downstairs,” he shouted back from the stairs.

  In his bedroom he induced Miss Hapgood to sponge him briefly with a wet towel, and by attaching himself to her like a pilot fish to a shark, collected some clothes to wear.

  This was possibly the great moment of his life. It had been Elsa Halliday’s face on a screen in Ceylon that told him he was a fool to leave her—Elsa’s face meeting him on the dock three days ago that made him sure. And now he must face her only to stall, conceal, evade because he did not know himself what was in store for him.

  —I’ve done harder things, he thought grimly.

  “We haven’t had a temperature for hours,” said Miss Hapgood—and as though to prolong that situation she cracked the thermometer in her hand. The tiny glass snap acted as a signal: Emmet and all his immaculate clothes were instantaneously drenched with sweat.

  “Try to mat
ch everything I’ve got on,” he ordered frantically. “She’ll be here any minute.”

  Miss Hapgood was still looking hopefully at the two pieces of thermometer when Miss Trainor knocked. At her announcement that the guest was below Emmet pressed her into service to collect another outfit, and redressed gingerly in the bathroom. Then he walked downstairs.

  Elsa Halliday was a brunette with a high warm flush that seemed to photograph, and long sleepy eyes full of hush and promise. With the exception of Priscilla Lane she had made the steadiest rise in pictures of the past two years. Emmet did not kiss her, only stood beside her chair, took her hand and looked at her—then retreated to a chair opposite, momentarily thinking less of her than of his ability to control the damp he felt on brow and chest.

  “How are you?” Elsa asked.

  “Much better. Let’s not even talk about it—or think about it. I’ll be up and around in no time.”

  “That’s not what Dr. Cardiff said.”

  At this his undershirt was suddenly wet.

  “Did that ass talk about me?”

  “He didn’t say much. He told me you ought to take care of yourself.”

  Emmet was equally angry with them both, but he managed to tack away from the subject.

  “You’ve done some grand work lately, Elsa. I know that—though I’m a couple of pictures behind. I’ve seen you in movie houses where only a few people could read the dubbed titles—less than a silent picture to them; but I’ve watched their eyes and their lips move with yours—and seen you hold them.”

  She stared into an imperceptible distance.

  “That’s the romantic part,” she said. “How much real good you can do to people you will never meet.”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  —Of course Elsa must learn not to make remarks like that, Emmet thought, as he recalled the plots of Port Said Woman and Party Girl.

  “The gift of vividness,” he said after a minute. “Vividness in beauty—like those painters who discovered motion where there was no motion—though perspective came at the same time and overshadowed—”

  He realized he was over her head and came down quickly:

  “At the time when you and I were very close to each other your beauty used to scare me.”

  “When I talked about marriage,” Elsa supplied, coming awake.

  He nodded frankly.

  “I used to feel like an art dealer, or like those bankers who try to be seen with opera singers—as if they’d bought the voice like a phonograph record.”

  “You did a lot for my voice,” Elsa said. “I still have the phonograph and all the records and I may sing in my next picture. And the Juan Gris and Picasso prints—I still tell people they’re real—though I’ve developed a lot of taste now and I get inside information about which paintings are going to be worth anything. I remember when you told me a painting could be a better investment than a bracelet—”

  She broke off suddenly.

  “Look, Emmet—that isn’t why I came out here—to talk about all those old things. My director’s sick but we may be shooting again tomorrow and I wanted to see you while I could. You know—catch up? Really talk about everything—let down my back hair—you know?”

  This time it was Emmet who was scarcely listening. His shirt was now drenched and, wondering when there would be dark evidence on his shirt collar, he buttoned up his light coat. Then he was listening sharply.

  “Two years is two years, Emmet, and we might as well get to the point. I know you did help me and I certainly did lean on you for advice—but two years—”

  “Are you married?” he asked suddenly.

  “No. I am not.”

  Emmet relaxed.

  “That’s all I wanted to know. I’m not a child. You’ve probably been in love with half the leading men in Hollywood since I’ve been gone.”

  “That’s what I haven’t done,” she answered, almost tartly. “It shows how little you know about me, really. It shows how far people can drift apart.”

  Emmet’s world was rocking as he answered.

  “That could mean either there’s been nobody. Or else that there’s somebody in particular.”

  “Very much in particular,” her voice became less brisk. “Heaven knows it’s awful telling you this, when you’re sick and maybe going—I mean, it’s an awful hard position for a girl. But I’ve been so busy these last three days. In the industry you’re just an ottoman, you know—you’ve got no more control of your time than if you were a shop girl type or something—”

  “Going to marry this man?” Emmet interrupted.

  “Yes,” she said defiantly. “But I don’t know how soon—and don’t ask me his name, because your doctor said—because you might be delirious sometime—and these columnists would drive a girl crazy.”

  “This isn’t something you decided within the last week?”

  “Oh, I decided a year ago,” she assured him, almost impatiently. “Several times we planned to go to Nevada. You have to wait four days here—and every time—”

  “Is he a solid man—will you tell me that?”

  “Solid is his middle name,” said Elsa. “Catch me tying myself to some shyster or drunk. Next January I move into the big money myself.”

  Emmet stood up—he could time the moment when it would arrive at the lining of his coat.

  “Excuse me,” he said, getting up.

  In the pantry he steadied himself at the sink. Then he tapped on the secretary’s door.

  “Get rid of Miss Halliday!” he said, catching a glimpse of his face—white, hard and haggard in a mirror. “Tell her I’m sick—anything—get her out of the house.”

  Hating compassion from anyone, he hated the face of the Trainor girl as she rose from her desk.

  “Do it quickly! It’s part of your job!”

  “I understand, Mr. Monsen.”

  “I don’t ask so much,” he continued unnecessarily. “But I want it well done.”

  He went on out, feeling for the pantry sink, then for the swinging door, the back of a kitchen chair. A contemptuous line ran through his head in savage rhythm: “I never think much of a man who reaches for a glass of whiskey every time anything goes wrong.”

  He turned to the closet where there stood the brandy bottle.

  IV

  A rash youth taking down his first few gulps of spirits is moved not to homicide or wife beating, but to a blatant commotion, expressed in every fibre of heart and soul. An Englishman climbs, an Irishman fights, a Frenchman dances, an American “commotes” (the word is not in the dictionary).

  So it happened to the abstemious Emmet—he commoted. It was in the bag from the instant that the cognac tumbled into contact with his burning fever—and it had gathered momentum while he sat on the side of his bed and let Miss Hapgood try to extricate him from his soaking clothes. He suddenly vanished—and almost as suddenly reappeared from the clothes-closet, clad in a sort of sarong surmounted by an opera hat.

  “I am a Cannibal King,” he said. “I am going down into the kitchen and eat Margerilla.”

  “Margerilla’s gone, Mr. Monsen.”

  “Then I am going to eat Carlos Davis.”

  In a moment he was on the telephone in the hall, talking to Mr. Davis’ butler. If Mr. Davis was home would he please come right over?

  Hanging up the receiver Emmet leaped nimbly aside to avoid a jab of Miss Hapgood’s syringe.

  “No, you don’t!” he advised her. “I’m going to act now, in full control of all faculties. Need all my strength.”

  To test this last quality he suddenly bent down and plucked out a spoke of the bannister railing.

  The ease of the operation fascinated him. He leaned over and plucked out another—and then another. It was like one of those unpleasant nightmares where one detaches one’s own teeth with uneasy awe.

  The course of the operation led him downstairs. He kept in his hand one single spoke with which he intended to render Mr. Davis unconscious as he
entered the door—in preparation to preparing and eating him.

  However he made a single miscalculation. When in the vicinity of the kitchen he remembered the brandy bottle and had some short swift traffic with it—almost immediately he found, or lost, himself upon a sack of potatoes under the kitchen sink, his bludgeon beside him, his black silk crown awry.

  Fortunately he was not conscious of the quick events of the next few minutes—of how Miss Trainor looked into the twilit garden and saw Carlos Davis making a short cut across it with the intention of entering his tenant’s house through the rear door—nor of how Miss Trainor stepped outside the kitchen screen to intercept him, closing the door behind her.

  “Hello there! Cheerio! Good morning, and all that. Monsen wanted to see me, and I always say visit the sick and all that.”

  “Mr. Davis, just after Mr.—Mom—” in her anxiety she parroted Miss Hapgood, “—called you, his brother phoned from New York. Mr. Mom wants to know if he can get in touch with you later—or tomorrow.”

  As the Trainor girl prayed that there would not be a sound from beneath the kitchen sink she heard the slow bounce of a potato across the kitchen floor.

  “Cripes yes!” said Davis heartily. “Script’s held up two more days. My writer’s on a bat! That rat!”

  He whistled—and then looked admiringly at Miss Trainor—a reversal of the usual process.

  “Like to see the swimming pool sometime? I mean you don’t work always. I mean—”

  “I’d love it,” Miss Trainor said—then covered up a species of groan from inside with the remarkable statement: “There’s his buzzer now.”

  A puzzled look crossed Davis’ face—faded. She sighed with relief.

  “Well, cheerio and keep your chin up and all that sort of thing,” he advised her.

  When he was ten feet off she stepped back into the kitchen. Emmet Monsen was no longer there but there was not any doubt as to where he was, for she heard the sound of spokes leaving the bannister, of window glass splintering—and then his voice: