“Get out.” She said it mechanically, over and again. “Get out. Get out. Get out—”
“Don’t worry. No one saw me come in. Everyone’s gone to lunch.”
Her eyes stiffened in their sockets. If there were no one in the car, he could carry out his plans. It wasn’t just something she thought about; it was actuality. She couldn’t speak, her mouth was filled with dust.
His lips were thin. “I dropped in to ask you to cancel one of your appointments. I didn’t take Mike’s word for it that you were too busy to see me.”
Her muscles twitched under the covers.
“I won’t keep you long. It is, you realize, purely a business matter.”
She opened her parched mouth but no words came from it.
“Shall we say after dinner? Only for a few minutes?”
She said, “Get out.” The words were dusty.
Was he going away? His hand was on the knob of the door. She said “No,” but he didn’t hear it.
“I’ll expect you. About nine.” He dazzled a smile on her. “You look very beautiful this morning.” If he touched her she would die. He didn’t touch her.
The door was blank and empty. She was afraid to move. And then she rushed, clipped the bolt and stood there shivering with cold that wasn’t in the room. She was not safe alone, not even behind this locked door. She began to dress with frantic, fumbling fingers. She mustn’t be alone again.
She wouldn’t see him. He couldn’t force her to come to him. But she knew his strength, his demands that must be answered. Unless she came to him, he would appear again, unwanted, unannounced. Better to have it over with.
She’d go but not alone. She’d take someone. Mike. Because Mike knew, because if anything happened to her, there’d be someone to make him pay.
And not at night. Anything could happen at night, in the dark. She’d go this afternoon. At the cocktail hour when there was activity in the cars, the club car waiters on the move. When everyone was awake and alert.
“Oh God.” She whispered it aloud. It wasn’t prayer but it was as near as she could come to prayer after years of neglect. She didn’t want to die. She was afraid to go out into the vast unknown stretch of eternity.
She began to dress quickly with trembling fingers. Only long practice in dressing always for admiration gave to the result its practiced finish; another woman would have come out slipshod. She was so cold when she was complete that she caught up the mammoth ruby and pinned it on her breast to warm her. Red for warmth. It wasn’t until she fumbled with the catch that she remembered it was his gift. She left it there as a blazing defiance, and as a finger to point. If anything happened to her, it would speak his name.
Her hand touched the knob of the door but it took strength to open it. More strength than in her craven fingers. Blindly she forced it open. He wasn’t outside. She stepped out into the corridor, fearing to look behind her to his door, yet fearing to move forward with him possibly at her back.
She saw then, ahead of her, her reprieve. The pudgy man in the crumpled suit, more crumpled this morning, as if he’d tried to press it under a tossing mattress.
She called out, “Good morning.”
He barely hesitated; he didn’t turn.
She called again, “Good morning, there.”
He peered over his shoulder. He didn’t believe she was speaking to him, his eyes sought the corridor for some other person. She took quick steps to catch up to him.
He said humbly, “Good morning, Miss Agnew.”
He’d shaved this morning but the shadow was already across his jowls; he’d washed his face but it was as pale and gray as if he’d washed in soot.
She swallowed revulsion and she hated Viv Spender for forcing her to accept this miserable oaf for her protection. Sidney Pringle would accept the duty; he was eyeing her now with full realization of her importance, of the dust of it that would cling to him if he appeared publicly in her company.
She was gay. “It’s really afternoon, isn’t it? You’re a late sleeper too, Mr. Pringle.”
“I slept late today,” he said. “This will be my breakfast.”
“Mine too.”
He didn’t know whether to precede her or to follow her; obviously he’d never walked with a woman through a train. He didn’t know about women like her, only of cheap if virtuous girls in hallways. He’d never known a beautiful girl, he’d never known an expensive girl. Her nails and her mouth were stained blood red, her skin was golden and she smelled of perfume. The black satin curved as she walked. She watched the way his chin trembled as he opened the door for her. Watched and despised him. She went ahead of him and she waited at the next door for him to open it. She would rid herself of him as soon as she came upon someone else. They passed through two cars to the club car. She smiled to right and left as she passed through. She carried her head like a lady and her body like a snake. She wasn’t any more a lady than her follower was a gentleman but she’d learned. There was no familiar face in any car. Together they entered the diner.
The steward said, “Two? This way.”
Her smile over her shoulder was friendly. “You don’t mind?” She didn’t have to carry him further but she couldn’t be sure. Viv Spender might be following. She couldn’t chance his intrusion.
The dapper steward drew out her chair at a table for two. Sidney Pringle seated himself.
“You don’t mind?” she repeated when the steward left them. “I’m always afraid to correct an authority for fear they’ll be cross.”
Pringle smiled, “I’m pleased, Miss Agnew,” But he wasn’t. His eyes were clammy. Looking across at him, at his cheap clothes, she understood why. He didn’t have the money to pay for breakfast with Kitten Agnew. Nausea trembled her. Not in years had she been forced to endure this humiliation. Again he was warning of being dropped back into struggle for basic existence. Because of the sick hatred he engendered, she was cruel. She requested specials not on the menu. He did not look at her, his eyes were on the price list. He ordered the spaghetti lunch, the cheapest and most filling item.
She smiled, “You eat a hearty breakfast.”
He was shamed. He tried to carry it off, “Then I won’t have to waste time on dinner.” He was shamed that she thought him a pig eater. He didn’t know that she knew a man ate starchy food because it was cheap.
“That’s like an artist,” she mocked. “I’ve always wished I were an artist instead of a craftsman.” It pleased him; he didn’t sense the mockery. He was too eager for a pat on the head.
She went on, “Hank Cavanaugh says you wrote a wonderful book. Do you know Hank Cavanaugh?”
His eyes were fanned with hope, “I know him through his work.”
“He’s on board.” Her own eyes were restless. She watched the door over his shoulder, as if by talking of Hank, she could conjure his presence. “Maybe you’ve seen him. A tall, ugly man. But he’s brilliant.” She looked scornfully into Pringle’s eyes. “You should meet him. Fellow admirers.”
The waiter laid food in front of them. Sidney Pringle ate hungrily. She forked hers, barely tasting. Because she must keep this man with her until she was with the safety of friends she added, “If we can find him after lunch, I’ll introduce you. Would you like to meet him?”
His eyes thanked her soulfully. He couldn’t do more than nod, his mouth was filled. He wiped red sauce from his mouth. It stained the napkin. She lidded her eyes to his grossness. The poor were gross because the poor were hungry, the poor were always hungry. He’d doubtless been sitting all morning in a vacuum of hunger, waiting in order that this lunch might serve his stomach for the day. No breakfast; an early heavy lunch, cheaper than dinner. Stay his dinner hunger with peanuts and chocolate bars and apples as polished as wax fruit and as tasteless, sold at the various railroad platforms. Go to bed early, to succulent dreams. She knew because she too had suffered hunger. He didn’t know she knew the tricks. He didn’t know her loathing of him was because he was forcing her to re
member.
To keep from thinking, she asked, “Why are you going east?” It was a stupid question remembering last night. He was going east because he’d failed.
He didn’t snivel now. He tried to erase the memory of his weakness by irony. He didn’t know his clown face could express only the ludicrous. “I didn’t fit in Hollywood,” he said.
“Nonsense.” She laughed. “What are you going to do in the east?”
He said, “Sell neckties.” Behind his smile was bitterness, the arid bitterness of failure.
She had no pity for him. She didn’t care if he sold neckties; she didn’t care what happened to him. All she wanted from him was safe conduct to Hank Cavanaugh. She didn’t want to hear any more of his plans. Because she could silence him by playing the part of Kitten Agnew, the lovable American girl, she asked, “Have you ever tried radio? I’ve some good friends in it. If you’d like I’ll give you their names.”
“That’s very nice of you, Miss Agnew.”
Dear, kind Miss Agnew. If he hounded her, she’d give him names. Let the names worry about getting rid of him.
His eyes moistened. “I’ve always been interested in radio.” She watched the wheels of his mind revolve. Radio paid high money. So many success stories in Hollywood stemmed from radio. He might return in a drawing room with his pick of contracts. Sidney Pringle, writer and producer of that great program…“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Maybe I’ll need a job someday,” she laughed and her eyes leaped to the doorway.
Seeing her eyes, he swallowed whole the piece of bread in his mouth. Hope bubbled from him. Hope it was someone important. It was Mike Dana. She came alongside the table. Kitten spoke gayly, “Hello, Mike.”
Mike didn’t want to stop. Her smile was thin as onion skin, beneath it was the bulwark of her knowledge that Kitten was through. Kitten held her, saying, “Mike, have you met Sidney Pringle? The writer.”
He fumbled to his feet. Mike Dana said, “How d’ you do, Mr. Pringle.” He searched hopelessly for recognition of his name in her face. He found none.
Kitten said, “By the way, he is in a state. He dropped by to insist I see him. I agreed. But I want everything in black and white. Will you go along, Mike?”
Pringle balanced there in the sparse space between table and chair. He tried to look as if he understood the pretense between the women, cloaked in matter-of-factness. There was a drop of red sauce on his chin.
“What time, Kitten?”
She was arrogant. “He said after dinner but I can’t make it then. I’ll drop in for you. About five.”
“Okay, Kitten.”
He squeezed down again as Mike passed.
Kitten said, “If you want anything at New Essany, get on to Mike. She’s practically the boss.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said humbly. The information was given too late. But he had no time for recriminations, the steward was handing him the check.
Pringle received it and he laid it down on the table while he wiped his damp palms on his napkin. Deliberately she let him suffer while he mawled the napkin, while he counted in his mind the cost of breakfast with Kitten Agnew, the deprivations he must suffer for this. She had no intention of being humiliated by his reluctant money, his meager tip. She waited just long enough before her hand reached across and lifted the check.
He protested, not wanting to protest, “You can’t do that. It’s been a pleasure eating with you.”
She said, “This is on Viv Spender. All expenses paid.” She wasn’t being kind. She was hard as nails as she signed the check. Viv had forced this companion on her, let Viv pay.
She walked ahead of him but she knew he followed, out of the diner, through the club car, through the Pullman, into their own car. She passed her door. When he stopped at his, she demanded, “Don’t you want to meet Hank?” Belatedly she remembered her pleasant smile.
He stammered, “Why, yes.” He didn’t understand her holding to his company; she didn’t care. Again he followed, waiting while she rapped at the door of D, waiting until she opened and closed it, reporting, “Nobody home.”
He followed close, past Viv’s door, through other cars until she saw them ahead. Cavanaugh, Leslie Augustin, Gratia Shawn. Gratia with her eyes glued on Hank Cavanaugh in the same revolting fashion of last night.
It was Les who first saw Kitten. He said, “Company, children.” Gratia’s eyes lifted, Hank turned.
They didn’t want her to intrude. She didn’t care what they wanted. She cried out gayly, “I found you at last!”
—6—
He had waked at ten o’clock. He struggled against waking but it did no good; it was inevitable he must open his eyes to rebirth, to another day of pain. His mouth had an ugly taste. His eyes in the small mirror were netted with blood vessels, the grooves about his mouth had worn deeper. He pulled on his trousers, halfway buttoned his shirt, took his kit and descended the ladder. Most of the Pullman was up, neat in dress, disdainful of eye. He felt like a leper as he went down the aisle to the men’s room. He should have stayed with Les last night. Why hadn’t he?
It was that girl, Kitten. He was afraid she’d follow him to Les’s room. He’d come back here so she couldn’t find him. He scrubbed his teeth. She’d asked him to come to her room for breakfast, fat chance. He’d said he’d come, anything to get her off his hands last night. He didn’t eat breakfast.
The idea of food this early brought revulsion. Her other ideas were worse. In the same breath she talked death and creation. He wasn’t interested in her problem. He must have been drunk to get het about it last night. It was that damn Augustin. What did he care now about putting Augustin in his place? Now that Augustin was surnamed the great, his offensiveness was gone.
There was another girl somewhere, a girl with a face that was innocence. A girl who had the promise of peace in her quiet voice. He had found her. He had meant to hang on to her but he’d been out-maneuvered between Kitten and Augustin. He’d take that girl to breakfast. He remembered as he scraped at his chin; he couldn’t get to Gratia Shawn without also getting to Kitten. They were in the same room.
When he was dressed, he went along to the club car. He needed a drink. And again he found Gratia. She was sitting there in a chair, reading the small green book. Last night was last night and she might not want to know him today. But he spoke. He spoke awkwardly as a colt, “Hello, there.”
She raised her eyes and when she saw him she smiled. Her smile was even lovelier by sober day than by night. She said, “Hello.”
There was an unoccupied chair beside her and he sat down in it. “Had breakfast?”
“Long ago,” she answered. “Have you?”
“I’m going to. If I can ever catch that rascal’s eye.”
She looked a little sorry. “Not so early.”
He said, “If I had some dark glasses you’d never notice.” He ordered a straight one, swallowed its burning brand, left the water untouched. If she hadn’t been here beside him, he would have had another. But he was somehow ashamed to in the face of her goodness.
He said, “If you really want to save me from a place on the barroom floor, let’s get out of this saloon. I don’t know why you’re sitting here anyway.”
She folded her book together. “I don’t want to disturb Kitten. She sleeps late.”
“We’ll go back to my place. Not so private but we won’t be bothered by anyone but strangers.” He hurried her because he was afraid Les might come along and spoil things. Or Kitten.
He hadn’t yet seen who shared his section. There was a man’s briefcase and topcoat laid on the seat but no man. Must have a friend with better accommodations. Hank put Gratia by the window; he sat beside her. He said. “I wanted to talk to you last night but something happened.”
“Yes, something happened.”
He’d meant to make a speech, to tell her she was something he’d forgotten existed, to doubt that she hadn’t been created for his protracted despair.
He didn’t need the words. She understood there was something between them. She was neither coy nor bold, simply, she understood.
He was chastened. “How long will you be in New York?”
“About two weeks.”
“And then?”
“I go back to Hollywood. To start work.”
“Do you want to be a movie star?”
She laughed. “You asked me that yesterday. Of course I do. Aren’t we always all of us looking for a chance to be in a fairy story? That’s what daydreaming is.” She said, “I’ve always daydreamed.”
“Of being a movie star?”
“Never of that.” Her eyes were wondrous large, the lashes like delicate fans.
“Of what?”
She protested, “You’re persistent, Mr. Cavanaugh. That’s because you’re a newspaperman. Isn’t it?”
He was agreeable. “That’s because I’m a newspaperman, Miss Shawn. For God’s sake, I was Hank last night. Of what?”
She was slightly embarrassed. “The usual thing, I guess. A handsome prince and a magnificent palace.”
“Marriage and money. The usual girlish dream,” he grimaced. “Then why the movie angle?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Don’t you see, that’s the fairy tale part of it? Receiving what you wouldn’t have dreamed of dreaming. And it wasn’t as crass as you make it sound.” She was hurt rather than angry. “He didn’t have to be a millionaire.” Her cheeks flushed. “Just—love. Although it sounds silly. Only you can dream that he’ll be able to give you everything along with love.” Her mouth twisted. “You’ve mixed me all up. And made me sound like an idiot. What were your dreams?”
“The usual, too,” he shrugged. “Fame and fortune. Writing that really great novel. Like the one you’re reading.”
“You already have part of it, haven’t you? Fame—”
“No, lady. No fortune. No fame. I’m going to write a book but it won’t be great. It’ll make me some money, maybe, maybe not.”
Dread Journey Page 10
