Detour
Page 14
“But I'll speak to her before we leave. She's not a bad sort. As long as I pay for it, she'll file suit. ”
“Yes.”
“I knew you'd understand.”
And pulling me down to my knees beside his chair, he stroked my forehead and made pretty speeches, all about how beautiful I was, and how sweet, and how I affected him. The dialogue might have been by Shakespeare, for all I cared. I wasn't even listening.
No one will ever live to see the day that Sue Harvey takes anyone else's left-overs—especially Selma's. I don't like second-fiddle, even in a symphony orchestra. Therefore, before I came out of the hospital, my mind was made up to forget Raoul Kildare. Whatever I had lost in pursuing my career, at least I still had my pride.
But I was hurt, for I loved him. Isn't it always the case? Things you don't care about are offered to you by the dozen; something you really want is denied you. This is a very nasty world we live in.
I walked all the way home, completely ignoring the fact that I still was required to finish up the week at Bloomberg's. I think better while walking, you see, and I was racking my brain to find some way to even up the score with that low, good-for-nothing Selma. But it didn't take much thinking. Fortunately, by the time I reached Western Avenue, I had the inspiration. The beauty of it was it would only cost a penny to do hundreds of dollar's worth of damage.
I went into the drugstore at the corner of Western and Franklin and bought a post-card.
Dear Mr. Bloomberg (I wrote). I believe you have a strict rule about employing married women. You discharged Gwen Fisher the other evening for this reason, if you recall. Yet you still keep Selma Nicholson, who is the wife of an actor by the name of Kildare. Is that what you consider fair play?
Leaving it unsigned, I dropped it into a mailbox. That took care of that.
Feeling much better about everything now, I continued to walk home. Was it wrong to do such a thing? Should I, as in the Bible, have turned the other cheek? Only a fanatic like my mother would practice that. I'm no angel.... Besides, Selma was married, wasn't she? There are too many single, unsupported girls out of work as it is. Bloomberg was absolutely right in not hiring married help. It was my duty to... Oh, hell. Of course, duty had nothing to do with it. I just wanted to get back at her and this was the only way that presented itself.
Ewy must have arrived home from work and gone out again before I came in, because there were three notes for me: one on the bed, one in the middle of the living-room rug, and one in the bathroom. The first one requested that I be very quiet coming in that night; number two was to the effect that Mr. Fleishmeyer of the Fleishmeyer Agency had phoned and left a message that I call him whenever I came in; while number three stated that Ewy had won $57.40 on a horse called Paradisaical which had nosed out one called Easy Cash back in New York. It went on to say that she would pay me what she owed in the morning. There was a five-dollar bill pinned to the note which, Ewy said, I might need in the meanwhile. I put the money in my purse and decided to go down to the Boulevard. The bungalow was getting on my nerves. If I stayed in I would only begin brooding about Raoul. In any event, there were some slacks I wanted to buy at the Sport Shoppe.
But before I left the bungalow, I went to the telephone and dialed a number.
“Hello. Mr. Fleishmeyer, please. Miss Harvey calling.” A wait. “Hello, Manny. How are you? What? Oh, nothing much, really. Just been in a rut. Something came up that's kept me busy for a week. Oh no. Nothing like that. Just some personal business. Unimportant. What's new with you? Yes... yes... yes... yes. No! Really! At Selznick? Do you think you can? Oh, Manny, that's wonderful! When? On Thursday? Sure, I will. Wait, I want to jot that down. Thursday morning—ten o'clock report to wardrobe—test on Stage 4—what? Oh, will you pick me up? Fine. That's sweet of you, Manny. Thanks. What's that? Tonight? Surely, I'd love to. It's been ages, hasn't it? But that's Hollywood for you. You lose track of everyone. Come about eight-thirty, dear. I'll promise to be ready by then. Oh, all right. Make it seven-thirty if you insist on buying my dinner. O.K. Until seven-thirty then, Manny. Good-bye.”
I hung up with a sigh. A test at last. But the thought of it didn't thrill me the way it is supposed to thrill an aspirant. Probably that was because I knew that tonight....
I was just preparing to leave when Ewy came in breathlessly. “Oh, Sue! Did you read my note?”
“Which one?”
“Sue, I won $57.40 on a crazy tip Joe Krauss gave me, Paradisaical in the fourth at Belmont Park! Just think! $57.40!” She stopped suddenly, the excitement draining from her face. “Say, what are you doing home at this hour? You're late for work. It's almost five.”
“I'm fired.”
I hadn't thought to tell her before. As a matter of fact, I rarely told her anything. While Ewy was certainly my closest friend—if I had any friends at all—I don't believe in confiding in people. I hadn't even told her about Raoul.
“You're fired?”
“Yes. But I've got a test on Thursday over at Selznick's. It may mean a contract. That's what Fleishmeyer was calling about.”
“Oh, I see.”
I could tell by the sound of her voice that Ewy was disappointed. “Now don't start raving about it. What am I out here for? To carry hot-dogs? This is a big chance and I'm not going to let it slip by.”
“I didn't say anything, did I?”
“No, but you were getting ready to. What the hell, Ewy? Fleishmeyer likes me. He can get me in places I'd never get in myself.”
“Yes. ”
“I want to get somewhere.”
“Yes. ”
“What are you crying about?” I asked as a tear slipped down one of her cheeks. “Don't be a fool.”
“I'm not crying, Sue. I'm happy you're going to get a break, that's all.”
“That's the spirit.”
“Only... ”
“Only what?”
“Only I can't see...” And here she really broke down and sobbed openly. “... I can't see how you can do this so soon after poor Alex—”
“Oh, shut up about Alex,” I cut in furiously. Why did Ewy have to be like that? “I don't want to hear that name mentioned again, understand?”
“All right, Sue.”
“Can't you understand that I'm trying to forget him? You little imbecile!”
Then, quite by accident, I fell into the lines of Journey's End, Captain Stanhope speaking.
“Good God, don't you think there are limits to what a person can bear? I want to forget, you fool, forget!”
Ewy stopped her sobbing at once and raised her face to mine.
“I'm sorry, Sue. I didn't understand. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't...”
“All right. Only I want to be alone. I'm going out.”
I turned abruptly, brushing my eyes, snatched up a coat and left the bungalow.
Not bad, I thought to myself. Not bad at all. I was an actress. And I am.
VII. ALEXANDER ROTH
THERE is nothing so much like one road as another road, and any road but U.S. 70 and one going either to Los Angeles or New York was right for me. I had to get going—where, it didn't matter—and keep going. I was in Bakersfield before I read that Charles J. Haskell, Sr., was dead; and in Frisco before Vera's body was discovered; and in Seattle before the fifteen bucks I borrowed on Haskell's ring gave out. I felt somewhat easier in Seattle, hard up or not; because it was in Seattle that I read the following article:
HUSBAND SOUGHT BY POLICE OF THREE STATES
Charles Haskell, Wanted By Investigators for Questioning in Regard To The Afton Place Murder Still Missing.
August 22nd. (UP) Charles Haskell, New York bookmaker and husband of the murdered woman, Vera Haskell, is still at large. For the past week police have been checking into the clues found in the apartment of the strangled woman and in the automobile parked in the apartment house garage.
Is that one for the book or is that one for the book? Haskell gets me into a spot and Haskell gets
me out of it. They even went so far as to print his picture, wired from New York! It is easy to figure out how it happened, but if you can explain why it did, you're a better man than I am, Gunga-Din.
Vera was murdered by a dead man. Laugh that off. Nevertheless, when you come right down to it, my problems weren't solved. I had to stay away from Los Angeles for fear someone might recognize me—and I couldn't go back to New York because Alexander Roth was dead. That meant Detroit, Peoria, New Orleans and Butte no more. And that meant the end of my career before it was begun. Now I'd never stand under the lights and roll them in the aisles with Wagner, Schubert and Bach.
Not so bad, considering what I was escaping? I don't know about that. For me to throw away my ambitions to be a great musician is not the same as you putting out the cat or throwing away the Christmas tree. It was killing my soul, if that's what you call it; to keep my body alive.
And another thing. I was giving up Sue, which hurt me still more. I could never come near her with a thing like this hanging over my head. It hurt, as I said; yet there was a certain satisfaction in what I was doing. I was aware that giving up the only girl I ever loved, and the only one who'd ever loved me, was maybe the first decent thing I'd ever done. If I sent word to her, and she came running to me to be my wife, it would be hell on her the rest of her days. Thank God I loved her enough to make this sacrifice.
So here I am—one day in Buffalo and the next in Columbus, earning a couple of dollars now and then by rubbing out the hot stuff in cheesy bands. I keep trying to forget what happened—and I have, almost—except that once in a while I wonder what might have taken place and what my life might have been if that damned grey roadster hadn't stopped. And when I start wondering—well, sometimes I want to curse and sometimes I want to cry.
Dramatics, buddy? No, sir. No dramatics. God or Fate or some mysterious force can put the finger on you or on me for no good reason at all.
THE END