by John O'Hara
She got out of bed, holding the pajamas to her, and she was unsteady and her body was pretty drunk, but she walked all over the apartment and could not find him. It was a large apartment. It had one large room with a grand piano and a lot of heavy, family furniture and in one corner of that room, where there was a bookshelf, there were a lot of enlarged snapshots of men and women and boys and girls on horseback or standing beside saddle horses. There was one snapshot of a girl in a tandem cart, a hackney hitched to it, but if you looked carefully you could see that there was a tiestrap, probably held by a groom who was not in the picture. There were a few prize ribbons in picture frames, blues from a Connecticut county fair. Some pictures of yachts, which, had she examined them carefully, the girl would have discovered were not many yachts but duplicate snapshots of the same Sound Inter-Club yacht. One picture of an eight-oared shell, manned; and one picture of an oarsman holding a sweep. This picture she inspected closely. His hair was cut short, he was wearing short, heavy woolen socks, a cotton shirt with three buttons at the neck, and a small letter over the heart, and his trunks were bunched in the very center by his jock strap and what was in it. She was surprised that he would have a picture like that hanging in this room, where it must be seen by growing girls. “But they’d never recognize him from that picture unless someone told them who it was.”
There was a dining-room almost as large as the first room. The room made her think of meats with thick gravy on them. There were four bedrooms besides the one where she had slept. Two of them were girls’ bedrooms, the third a servant’s room and the fourth was a woman’s bedroom. In this she lingered.
She went through the closets and looked at the clothes. She looked at the bed, neat and cool. She took whiffs of the bottles on the dressing table, and then she opened another closet door. The first thing she saw was a mink coat, and it was the only thing she really saw.
She left the room and went back to his room and picked up her things; her shoes and stockings, her panties, her evening gown. “Well, I can’t wear that. I can’t go out looking like that. I can’t go out in broad daylight wearing an evening gown and coat.” The evening coat, more accurately a cape, was lying where it had been carefully laid in a chair. But when she took a second look at the evening gown she remembered more vividly the night before. The evening gown was torn, ripped in half down the front as far as the waist. “The son of a bitch.” She threw the gown on the floor of one of his closets and she took off her pajamas—his pajamas. She took a shower and dried herself slowly and with many towels, which she threw on the bathroom floor, and then she took his tooth brush and put it under the hot water faucet. The water was too hot to touch, and she guessed it was hot enough to sterilize the brush. This made her laugh: “I go to bed with him and take a chance on getting anything, but I sterilize his tooth brush.” She brushed her teeth and used a mouth wash, and she mixed herself a dose of fruit salts and drank it pleasurably. She felt a lot better and would feel still better soon. The despair was going away. Now that she knew what the bad thing was that she was going to do, she faced it and felt all right about it. She could hardly wait to do it.
She put on her panties and shoes and stockings and she brushed her hair and made up her face. She used little make-up. She opened a closet door and put her hand in the pockets of his evening clothes, but did not find what she wanted. She found what she wanted, cigarettes, in a case in the top drawer of a chest of drawers. She lit one and went to the kitchen. On the kitchen table was an envelope she had missed in her earlier round of the apartment. “Gloria,” was written in a round, backhand style, in pencil.
She pulled open the flap which was sticky and not tightly held to the envelope, and she took out three twenty-dollar bills and a note. “Gloria—This is for the evening gown. I have to go to the country. Will phone you Tuesday or Wednesday. W.” “You’re telling me,” she said, aloud.
Now she moved a little faster. She found two hats, almost identical black felt, in one of the girls’ closets. She put one on. “She’ll think she took the other to the country and lost it.” She was aware of herself as a comic spectacle in shoes and stockings, panties, black hat. “But we’ll soon fix that.” She returned to the woman’s closet and took out the mink coat and got into it. She then went to his bedroom and put the sixty dollars in her small crystal-covered evening bag. She was all set.
On the way out of the apartment she stopped and looked at herself in a full length mirror in the foyer. She was amused. “If it wasn’t Spring this would be just dandy. But—not bad anyway.”
She was amused going down in the elevator. The elevator operator wasn’t handsome, but he was tall and young, a German, obviously. It amused her to think of what would happen to his face if she opened the mink coat. “Shall I get you a taxi, Miss?” he said, without turning all the way around.
“Yes, please,” she said. He would not remember her if anyone asked him to describe her. He would remember her as pretty, as giving the impression of being pretty, but he would be a bad one to ask for a good description. All he would remember would be that she was wearing a mink coat, and anyone who wanted to get a description of her would know already that she had been wearing a mink coat. That would be the only reason anyone would ask him for a description of her. He was not the same man who had been running the elevator when she came in the apartment house the night before; that had been an oldish man who did not take his uniform cap off in the elevator. She remembered the cap. And so this young man naturally did not question her wearing a mink coat now instead of the velvet coat she had worn coming in. Why, of course! He probably didn’t even know what apartment she had come from.
She waited for him to precede her to the big iron-and-glass doors of the house, and watched him holding up his finger for a taxi. She decided against tipping him for this little service—that would make him remember her—and she got in the taxi and sat back in the corner where he could not see her.
“Where to, Ma’am?” said the driver.
“Washington Square. I’ll tell you where to stop.” She would direct him to one of the Washington Square apartment houses and pay him off, and then go in and ask for a fictitious person, and stall long enough for the driver of this taxi to have gone away. Then she would come out and take another taxi to Horatio Street. She would pay a surprise call on Eddie. Eddie would be burned up, because he probably would have a girl there; Sunday morning. She was in good spirits and as soon as she got rid of this cab she would go to Jack’s and buy a quart of Scotch to take to Eddie and Eddie’s girl. At the corner of Madison the driver almost struck a man and girl, and the man yelled and the driver yelled back. “Go on, spit in their eye,” called Gloria.
• • •
In the same neighborhood another girl was sitting at one end of a rather long refectory table. She was smoking, reading the paper, and every once in a while she would lay the cigarette in an ash tray and, with her free hand, rub the damp short hair at the back of her neck. The rest of her hair was dry, but there was a line deep in the skin of her head and neck that showed where a bathing cap had been. She would rub her hair, trying to dry it, then she would wipe her fingers on the shoulder part of her dressing gown, and her fingers would slide along the front of her body and halt at her breast. She would hold her hand so that it partly covered her breast and the fingers rested under her arm, in the armpit. Then she would have to turn a page of the paper and she would pick up the cigarette again and for a while she would hold it until the heat of the lighted end warned her that it was time to get a shorter hold on the cigarette or get burned fingers. She would put it in the ash tray and start all over again with the rubbing of the hair at the back of her neck.
Presently she got up and was gone from the room. When she came back she was naked except for a brassière and panties. She did not go back to the table, but stood on one foot and knelt with the other knee on a chair and looked out the windows that ran the length of the room. She w
as in this position when a bell rang, and she went to the kitchen.
“Hello. . . . Ask him to come up, please.”
She walked hurriedly to the bedroom and came out pulling a cashmere sweater over her shoulders and wearing a tweed skirt, light wool stockings and brogue shoes with Scotch tongues that flapped a little. Another bell rang, and she went to the door.
“Greetings. Greetings, greetings, and greetings. How is Miss Stannard? How is Miss Stannard.”
“Hello, Jimmy,” said the girl. She closed the door, and immediately he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Mm. No response,” he said. He tossed his hat in a chair and sat down before she did. He offered her a cigarette by gesture and she declined it with a shake of her head.
“Coffee?” she said.
“Yes, I’ll have some coffee if it’s any good.”
“Well, I made it and I drank two cups of it. It’s fit to drink, at least.”
“Ah, but you made it. I doubt if you’d throw away coffee you made yourself.”
“Do you want some or don’t you?”
“Just a touch. Just one cup of piping hot javver for the gentleman in the blue suit.”
“How about the blue suit? Didn’t you get What’s His Name’s car? I thought we were going to the country.” She looked down at her own clothes and then at his. He had on a blue serge suit and white starched collar and black shoes. “Did you get a job in Wall Street since I last saw you?”
“I did not. That goes for both questions. I did not get the car from Norman Goodman, not What’s His Name. You met him the night we went to Michel’s and you called him Norman. And as for my getting a job in Wall Street—well, I won’t even answer that. Norman phoned me last night and said he had to drive his father to a circumcision or something.”
“Is his father a rabbi?”
“Oh—don’t be so—no, dear. His father is not a rabbi, and I made that up about the circumcision.”
“What are we going to do? You didn’t get someone else’s car, I take it. Such a grand day to go to the country.”
“I am in the chips. I thought we could go to the Plaza for breakfast, but seeing as you’ve had breakfast. I’m supposed to be covering a sermon, but I should cover a Protestant sermon on a nice day like this. I don’t know why they ever send me anyway. They get the sermons at the office, and all I ever do is go to the damn church and then I go back to the office and copy the sermon or paste it up. All I do is write a lead, like ‘The depression has awakened the faith of the American people, according to the Reverend Makepeace John Meriwether, don’t spell it with an a or you’re fired, rector of Grace Methodist Episcopal Free Patrick’s Cathedral.’ And so on. May I have some cream?”
“I’m afraid I’ve used up all the cream. Will milk do?”
“Damn, you have a nice figure, Isabel. Move around some more. Walk over to the window.”
“I will not.” She sat down. “What do you really contemplate doing?”
“No Plaza? Not even when I’m in the chips?”
“Why are you rich?”
“I sold something to The New Yorker.”
“Oh, really? What?”
“Well, about a month ago I was on a story up near Grant’s Tomb and I discovered this houseboat colony across the river. People live there in these houseboats all winter long. They have gas and electricity and lights and radios, and all winter the houseboats are mounted on piles, wooden piles. Then in the Spring they get a tug to tow them out to Rockaway or some such place, and they live out there all summer. I thought it would make a good story for the Talk of the Town department, so I found out all about it and sent it in, and yesterday I got a check for thirty-six dollars, which comes in mighty handy. They want me to do some more for them.”
“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”
“I guess so. Of course I can’t do a great deal, because believe it or not I have a job, and the novel.”
“How’s the novel coming?”
“Like Santa Claus. And you know about Santa Claus.”
“I think I’ll leave you.”
“Permanently?”
“A few more like that last one and yes, permanently. Such a lovely day to go to the country.” She got up and stood at the window. “Look at those men. I never get tired of watching them.”
“What men? I’m too comfortable to get up and look at men. You tell me about them.”
“The men with the pigeons. They stay up on the roof all day, every Sunday, and chase the pigeons off. Our maid said the idea is that a man has a flock of pigeons, say eighteen, and the reason he chases them off is that he hopes that when they come back there’ll be nineteen or twenty. A pigeon or two from another flock gets confused and joins them, and increases the man’s flock. It isn’t exactly stealing.”
“But you won’t have breakfast at the Plaza?”
“I’ve had breakfast, and I’ll bet you have too.”
“As much as I ever have. Orange juice, toast and marmalade, coffee. I just thought we’d have kidneys and stuff, omelette, fried potatoes. Like the English. But if you don’t want to, we won’t. I just thought it’d be fun, or at least different.”
“Some other time. But I’ll dress and we can spend your money some other way, if you insist.”
“I am not unmindful of the fact that I owe you ten dollars.”
“We’ll spend that first. Now I’ll go dress.”
He picked up a few sections of the paper. “The Times!” he shouted. “You’ll never see my stories in the Times. What’s the idea?” But she had closed the door of the bedroom. In ten minutes she reappeared.
“Mm. Nice. Nice. Mm.”
“Like it?”
“It’s the best dress I’ve ever seen. And the hat, too. It’s a cute little hat. I think girls’ hats are better this year than they’ve ever been. They’re so damn cute. I guess it has something to do with the way they do their hair.”
“I guess it has a whole lot to do with the way they do their hair. Mine’s still damp and looks like the wrath of God, and that’s your fault. I wouldn’t have taken a shower if I’d known we weren’t going to the country. I’d have had a real bath and wouldn’t have got my hair wet. Remind me to stop at a drug store—”
“Darling, I’m so glad!”
“—for a decent bathing cap. Jimmy, before we go, I want to tell you again, for the last time you’ve got to stop saying things like that to me. I’m not your mistress, and I’m not a girl off the streets, and I’m not accustomed to being talked to that way. It isn’t funny, and no one else talks that way to me. Do you talk that way to the women on newspapers? Even if you do I’m sure they don’t really like it all the time. You can’t admire my dress without going into details about my figure, and—”
“Why in the name of Christ should I? Isn’t the whole idea of the dress to show off your figure? Why does it look well on you? Because you have nice breasts and everything else. Now God damn it, why shouldn’t I say so?”
“I think you’d better go.” She took off her hat and sat down.
“All right, I’ll go.” He picked up his hat and walked heavily down the short hall to the door of the apartment. But he did not open the door. He put his hand on the knob, and then turned around and came back.
“I didn’t say anything,” she said.
“I know. And you didn’t move. I know. You know I could no more walk out that door than I could walk out those windows. Will you please forgive me?”
“It will happen all over again, the same thing, the same way, same reason. And then you’ll come back and ask me to forgive you, and I will. And every time I do, Jimmy, I hate myself. Not because I forgive you, but because I hate those words, I hate to be talked to that way, and I know, I know the only reason you do talk to me like that is because I am the kind of girl you talk to that way,
and that’s what I hate. Knowing that.”
“Darling, that’s not true. You’re not any kind of girl. You’re you, Isabel. And won’t you ever believe me when I tell you what I’ve told you so often? That no matter what we do, whenever I see you like this, in the morning, in the daytime, when there are other people—I can’t believe that you’re my girl. Or that you ever were. And you’re so lovely in that dress, and hat. I’m sorry I’m the way I am.”
“You wouldn’t talk to Lib that way. Or Caroline.”
“I wouldn’t talk to them any way. I couldn’t be annoyed. Let’s go before I say something else wrong.”
“All right. Kiss me. Not hard.” She put out her hand and he pulled her out of the chair until she stood close to him.
“I have to kiss you hard. Me not kiss you hard? Impossible.” He laughed.
“Not quite impossible,” she said. “There are times.” She laughed.
“Now I don’t want to go,” he said.
“We’re going. See if I have my key.” She rummaged in her bag. “Yep. Lipstick, Jimmy. Here, I’ll do it. Me your handkerchief. There.”
He held the door open for her and with his free hand he made as if to take a whack at her behind, but he did not touch her. She rang for the elevator and after it groaned and whirred a while the door opened.
“Good morning, Miss Stannard,” said the elevator man.
“Good morning,” she said. They got in and the car began its descent, but stopped one floor below, and a man and woman got in. The man was precisely the same height as the woman, which made him seem smaller.
“Good morning, Mr. Farley, Mrs. Farley,” said the elevator man.
“Good morning,” said the Farleys.
None of the passengers looked at one another. They looked at the elevator man’s shoulders. No one spoke until the ground floor was reached, then Isabel smiled and allowed Mrs. Farley to leave the car first, then she followed, then Farley nodded to the open door and indicated with his eyes that Jimmy should go first—and was obviously surprised when Jimmy did go first. But the Farleys beat them to the door and the doorman was standing there with the large door of their car open for them. The car, a Packard four-passenger convertible, sounded like some kind of challenge of power, and not unlike the exhaust of a speedboat gurgling into the water.
