Skyscraper

by Faith Baldwin

  Now he laughed, withdrawing his hand. He said simply, “I wish you belonged to me.”

  She replied the perfect thing then; she said, turning to look at him, her little face pale, red-lipped, glamorous in the dim lighting of the terrace where Chinese lanterns, monstrous flowers swung in the gentle wind, “But you’re far too young to have a daughter like me—”

  She thought of her own father, gray, stooped, the X-ray burns on his hands, the shrewd, wise, kindly eyes. She sent him her love over the miles. He’d be on his way home now, with her mother. Suddenly she was homesick for them both.

  “I’d like you to feel that I am your friend, your very good friend; that there is nothing I would not do for you. If you won’t permit me a vicarious paternity—how about an avuncular interest?”

  She said sweetly, “I’d like a friend, best of all.”

  “You can always count on me,” he told her; meant it, at the moment; not asking himself upon what she could count; not really knowing.

  She put her hand in his. This was what she had wanted all along. He said, the control breaking a little, the veneer cracking, the theatrical backdrop forgotten, knowing himself on dangerous ground but risking the consequence. “A bargain, then—? and—to seal it?” he murmured, bending toward her. “You will not misunderstand, dear Lynn.”

  Still he dared not risk too much. He kissed her lightly, briefly, and, with absurd adherence to fictional standards of a bygone day, upon the smooth white forehead she presented to him, his lips glancing over the dark and subtle arrow of the little widow’s peak. I point the way, said the arrow, to sweeter contacts—

  She was not afraid; not even warned. The night had its own spell, his voice another, she had spoken to him as one speaks to oneself—and was disarmed.

  Now she smiled faintly, and stood apart from him; not that his arms had been about her, simple that she had moved close to him with the instinct of the animal seeking—what? Warmth, comfort, human affection?

  Tom, in the doorway, looking for her, saw them. He had not seen the kiss, so absurdly, so delicately chaste. He saw Lynn move away. She was white in the glow of the lanterns, white in the dusky night shadows, white face, white dress, the banked fire of garnets flickering at her ears and throat and wrists, the fire of her lips burning, he knew, though he could not see them clearly.

  But she had been too close to Dwight.

  Tom went back into the room; and poured himself a drink; two drinks; three. Jennie, conducting her small but entertaining affair with the illustrator, cocked a knowing blue eye at him. Sore about something, probably Lynn. Going to try and drink the cellar dry; don’t blame him. She then thought, deftly maintaining her conversation with the artist, I must trip Lynn off.

  She did so later. She said confidently, “I’m tight. But can still walk. Why not? It isn’t often I have a chance to high expensively. But Tom’s had enough. He’s peeved about something. Watch your step.”

  Dwight had gone over to a group of his guests. Lynn watched him a moment, with grateful, friendly eyes. He was a dear. He did understand. A lot more than he said. She went in search of Tom, troubled, but not very much so. She found him at a punch bowl, having made the rounds of the various other liquids, highball, cocktail, liqueur.

  “It’s late, Tom,” she said.

  “I didn’t think you’d realize it,” he told her, observing Wilkins’s assistant serving the punch with a heavy silver ladle.

  “Oh, but I do, I’m tired! Let’s go home now,” she coaxed him. “Several people have left.”

  “It’s all the same to me,” he agreed, without looking at her, a little drunk, more than a little drunk, but his voice still unthickened, his eyes clear, his step steady, marked by, perhaps, a more pronounced swagger.

  Yet so different a Tom from the one who had held her close and sung—“I can’t give you anything but love, baby.”

  He couldn’t. That was what ate at him now, that was what all of Dwight’s costly intoxicants could blunt, that was one vitally important fact.

  Gloomily he watched Lynn slip back across the room to speak to Jennie; gloomier still he observed her go up to Dwight, draw him momentarily aside. Her lips moved. She was saying, “We must go now, really.” And Dwight was reminding her, “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Little girls can sleep. Must you go?”

  She must, she said; and he smiled at her companionably without, it seemed, a regret.

  Tom made his way to the room set apart for the male guests. Jennie and Lynn, arm in arm, went upstairs and interrupted a long, hushed conversation between two girls, heads together, one very blond, one very dark. “Love-birds,” said Jennie to Lynn carelessly, as the other two fell silent, and one went to a mirror and titivated her oval, rather melancholy face.

  “Good time, Jennie?”

  “Swell. Even if no one insulted me and no immoral propositions came my way. However, I’m going to pose for Mark Manners. He’s a stuffed shirt, but I’ll pick up some loose change that way. Not too loose,” she corrected herself. “How about you?”

  “Me? Oh, the party! I loved it!” Lynn told her.

  “Watch out for Tom. Warpath, firewater, feathers and all,” Jennie warned her as they went downstairs.

  “Taxi,” said Tom, on the pavement.

  “Mr. Dwight’s car was to—” began Lynn.

  “Taxi!” said Tom firmly.

  Taxi it was.

  On the way home, Jennie and Lynn talked. Conversation, at first quite spontaneous with constant interruption of “I saw” and “She wore,” and “He said” and “Wasn’t it funny?” and “Oh, golly the stuffed olives—anchovies, pearl onions, Teclas maybe, what the devil were they stuffed with?” became harder going after a while, in the face of Tom’s obvious glumness. When urged to express an opinion on the part he merely said, “I suppose it cost a hell of a lot,” and relapsed into grim silence.

  They reached the doors of the apartment house. Jennie hissed in Lynn’s ear as they waited for Tom to pay the driver, “I’ll do a nose dive into the bedroom and shut the door You make up with him. I don’t know what’s the matter. Maybe he’s coming down with something. But never let the sun rise on anger,” she said, “for it’s pretty gosh-darned near sunrise now.”

  Facing Tom in the living-room after he had plodded heavily up the stairs with them and Jennie had vanished ostentatiously, closing the bedroom door, Lynn asked appealingly, “Oh, Tom, what’s the matter?”

  “What do you mean what’s the matter? Nothing’s the matter, nothing at all, what should be the matter?” he furiously demanded.

  She moved her hands in her own little gesture of despair. “Please, Tom, don’t take that attitude. You’re angry about something.”

  “I’m not, I’m not angry at all. Why should I be? What’s on your mind? Got a guilty conscience?”

  “Tom—”

  “Look here, Lynn,” he shouted, “you make me sick! The whole party made me sick. You, most of all, cavorting around with those damned stagey pansies, smirking. I suppose you think you were the guest of honor. Honor. You make me laugh. And then necking out on the terrace with Dwight—Dwight—he’s a fine guy isn’t he? What’s the big idea anyway? Rich lawyer throws party for bank employee—that sounds swell, doesn’t it? I suppose he did it out of a fatherly interest!”

  That went home. She accused him hotly, “You’re drunk!”

  “What if I am? I had to get something out of it, didn’t I?” he demanded. “I tell you I saw you out there, cuddling up to the big shot—after, after our dance together. Love! Women make me sick!” said Tom.

  “You—you’re being disgusting—and unfair—and vulgar. I—go away!” she commanded him, and dragged the little ring from her finger, and threw it on the floor.

  Yet five, ten minutes ago she would have sworn that if asked to explain her recent proximity to David Dwight, if asked to explain even the so innocent kiss, she could have done so sincerely, with all her heart—although, she would have said, it needed no explanation!
>
  She turned on her heel; staggered a little, with fatigue, emotion, disappointment; yes, disappointment. She swung around to look at him glowering, his brows bent, his gaze riveted on the floor. She said sorrowfully, “It was such a nice party—now you’ve spoiled it, yes, you’ve spoiled it!”

  Tears poured suddenly down her face, a crystal, miniature flood. Her face was childishly distorted with crying, she searched for a handkerchief, found none, stood there, desolate, forlorn, crying bitterly, catching her breath, sobbing in small gulps. In a moment, her little nose would redden, would require attention.

  This was no competent young woman capable of earning $1,900 a year, of maintaining herself, of interesting herself efficiently in other people’s affairs. This was not Dwight’s guest of honor nor yet his friend who had stood with him upon the roof tops, and talked of love and skyscrapers and friendship. This was a child whose building-blocks had toppled about her, who was looking at ruins—and crying about them.

  The spirit had gone from her, the anger and the flame. Incalculable girl, garnets swinging at her ears, white frock billowing about her, tight as the little waist, smooth over the round small breasts, standing quite still, crying. Devastating effect—

  Tom took two steps. White frock disappeared, girl disappeared. “Here’s my handkerchief,” he said, thrusting it, large, mussed, into her acquiescent hand. “I love you—too much—I’m a fool—forgive me—”

  At their feet the little ring, a simple circle, a complicated circle, starred with a tiny diamond, and symbolizing eternity.

  “Tom, I do love you, you didn’t mean what you said—”

  “Of course not. Look here, this can’t go on.” He stopped, appalled at the sacrifice of pride, of principles that he was about to make. Nonsense, here she was, close in his arms, warmer than pride, more desirable than principles, terribly beloved. “We’ll get married, Lynn,” he told her, “as soon as possible. You—you can go on working, darling—and we’ll be so happy,” he promised.

  “Tom—” She drew away from him a little, searched his face for truth. Truth was there, written on grave features. The liquor still sang in his blood but his mind was clear enough. He swept her back into his embrace, kissed her—

  Jennie appeared in a negligee.

  “Lord, I’m sorry; thought you’d gone,” she murmured. She had reason. For several moments the room had been very still.

  Lynn was radiant. After all, weeping had left no scar; nothing had left scars.

  “Jennie, we’ve decided to get married—”

  “Is that news?”

  “No, but soon. I mean, I’ll keep on working.”

  Jennie was glum.

  “Nice for you, maybe. What about me? Back to the furnished room or driven to the streets,” prophesied Jennie wearily. “Tom, for Pete’s sake, go home and let us go to bed. Can’t you set the date tomorrow—I mean, later today?”

  But they had no eyes for her, clasping hands, laughing with a gentle madness, perfectly happy, perfectly secure, the future irradiated and clear before them.

  9

  ON A NOTE OF HEARTBREAK

  TOM HAD GONE. HE HAD CLOSED THE DOOR, NOT gently, as a door is closed upon faint hopes, but with an exultant slam which reverberated through the entire flat and probably shook the old walls of the shabby building as well.

  “Quiet little son of a gun, your future husband,” Jennie commented, yawning, from the bedroom.

  “He’s happy.” Lynn was wandering about in the living room, getting ready for bed. “So am I. I knew he’d be sensible and give in,” she announced.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, here’s something else you’d better know, too, and the sooner the better. He’ll never stop reminding you that he did give in. When anything goes wrong he’ll say, ‘Remember I was against this, and you made me do it!’” was Jennie’s sardonic warning.

  “Oh, not Tom!” Lynn in robe and nightgown cantered into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Besides, what else could we do? We couldn’t go on like this forever!”

  “No, I suppose not. Well,” said Jennie glumly, “I suppose you’ll be pulling out of here any day next week—”

  “Jennie, not quite as soon as that! We have to go house-hunting, and I’ve things to get. It will take ages, and then there’s mother and father; they don’t know a thing about it, I haven’t told them. Oh, of course, I’ve written about Tom, but nothing to upset them. Sarah hasn’t said anything, I’m sure. They’ll want me to be married from home, I suppose—I don’t see how I can be,” Lynn added worriedly, “It would mean getting a leave from the bank. No, I don’t see how I can or Tom either, for that matter. Perhaps they’d come on here. That’s what I’ll ask them to do. Oh, I wish they would!”

  “Hey, hold on, whether you leave this dump next week or in a month’s time it means I have to look around for someone to go in with me. Hell,” said Jennie simply, “and we get along great.”

  “I know we do,” Lynn told her, in compunction. “I’m awfully sorry, Jennie—”

  “No, you’re not. I don’t expect you to be—Oh, well, maybe something will turn up. For Pete’s sake go back and get to sleep, I’m more dead than alive!” Jennie told her with a petulance which only partially concealed her own definite dismay.

  Lynn, being in love, was normally selfish. She told herself that Jennie would find someone to share the apartment with her, and went to bed convinced that she would not sleep, and slept almost immediately, dreaming of Tom and preachers; of David Dwight and skyscrapers; of moon swing, like lanterns over penthouse roofs; and through her dreams ran the thread of a forlorn and magic melody.

  She and Tom spent the next day, which was Sunday, together. Tom, waking perfectly fit and entirely without the head he had more than half expected would be his misfortune in the morning, came to the apartment about noon, found Lynn up, dressed, and breakfasted, and Jennie yawning, rather half-clad about the flat, and cursing the impulse of family duty which had prompted her to promise this particular Sunday to her sister in Flatbush.

  She would be gone all the rest of the day, provided she ever got started, and Tom, sitting beside Lynn in a motion-picture house, had a brilliant idea. Why couldn’t Lynn come down to this place and cook dinner for him? The desolate Slim would be out somewhere, drowning his unrequited love in quantities of Scotch, and the third man who had recently been added to the small ménage, an engineer in the broadcasting company, whom Tom had met through his friend there, would likewise be absent until late evening.

  Lynn pondered this proposition for a few minutes. The conventions played no particular or repressive part in her momentary doubt. She had been at Tom’s before this, generally with Jennie, always with other people; but going alone to his bachelor quarters did not impress her as being a defiant gesture, not in this day and age. Nevertheless, something traditional caused her slight hesitation.

  “Come on,” he urged her, while upon the stage the “flesh” show played itself out in a tap-dancing quartet and a “Mexican” soprano who had been no nearer Mexico than Hester Street. “Why not?”

  It had once been agreed between them that he should not come alone to her apartment when Jennie was away or no one else was there. Nor did that restriction spring from convention, merely from the somber wisdom that here were two young people very much in love and without much hope that their love would be consummated with the customary legal and religious rites. Having come to a turn in the road marked “Danger,” they had discovered that each could read. But now, of course, it was different, they were to be married very soon; that knowledge would lessen the tension; it is hope deferred that maketh the heart sick, and it is not easy to wait when there seems no end to waiting.

  He wanted, he said, to show her the improvements in the newest of his home-built radio receivers. He urged, “Come on, do, it will be swell.”

  So when the spring night was slipping toward dusk, wearing upon its infinitely tender and fragrant breast the radiant message of a star, t
hey went down to the Village, walking arm in arm from the bus stop, and halting at an open and thriving delicatessen to laden themselves with round and square and long packages, cold cuts, salads, tea rolls, spice cakes. “Not,” promised Lynn, “that I intend to feed you this way after we’re married.”

  “Woman, you’d better not!”

  Down on Perry Street was the more or less antique apartment house where Tom and Slim and latterly Hank Mathews lived and had their beings. It was an imposing affair of dusty and shabby brick, flanked by magnificent columns of a synthetic and unashamed marble, in patterns of black and white. On the third floor, which was next to the top floor, was the lair of the three young men, and ample five-room suite which cost them $60 a month. There were three alleged bedrooms, a living-room, a kitchen, and a bath. Lynn, stepping across the threshold, as Tom unlocked the door, picked her way over collars, socks, and shirts. Articles of intimate apparel were draped over light bulbs, and there were unwashed dishes strewn about in a masterly pattern of confusion. She said, standing quite still in the welter of dust and worse than dust, “I don’t think I’ll marry you, after all!”

  Tom came up behind her and swung her about, his big arm closing around her firmly.

  “Think again. This doesn’t express my soul. I’m a tidy man really,” he told her solemnly. “It’s Slim—and it’s Hank; and last week half a dozen others slept here, off and on, three to a bed, and the guy that didn’t get a bed rated the floor.”

  “It looks,” Lynn remarked, “like a Municipal Lodging-House. Only not as clean.”

  Tom dumped the delicatessen packages down anywhere.

  “Darling, must you be so fussy?”

  Lynn vanished into the nearest bedroom, screamed on a small note of horror, and flew out again. She added her hat and coat to the general chaos and went into the bathroom for a towel. Mutters arose. “Why do men use towels to mop up the floor?” was her plaintive question.