I didn’t answer. I was remembering a time long ago. That time she left me standing in the road when I went to pick her up. The day she got out of the Geyer Home.
Something had happened to her up there. I knew it the moment I saw her walking down the path. She was different. It wasn’t until I could see her eyes that I knew what it was. She was older. Far older then than I would ever be. I could see her getting into the cab and leaving me standing there on the sidewalk.
I went back to my car, the one I had borrowed to bring her home in, and slowly drove downtown. I walked into the apartment.
Mom and Pop were sitting at the kitchen table. Pop was wearing his Sunday suit and a tie. My feet were like lead as I dragged them into the kitchen. I could see them looking at the doorway behind me.
“She didn’t come, Ma,” I said slowly.
My mother got to her feet, her eyes soft and calm. “Maybe it’s for the best, son,” she said gently.
I shook my head violently. So hard that I could feel the tears rolling inside my eyes. “No, Ma,” I cried. “It’s not for the best. She needs me. I know she needs me. But there’s something that’s holding her back and I don’t know what it is.”
My father got to his feet. “I’ll put your things back in your room, Mike,” he said. He walked slowly out of the kitchen.
I looked after him, Poor Pap. He just didn’t understand at all. I turned back to my mother. “What should I do now, Ma?” I asked.
She stared at me for a moment, then spoke softly. “Forget her, son. She’s not for you.”
“That’s easy to say, Mom,” I said. “But I’m not a kid any more. I’m almost twenty-one. And I still love her.”
“Love her?” My mother’s voice was filled with scorn. “What do you know about love? You’re still a baby yet. All you can do is hurt and cry.” Suddenly her voice broke and she turned away from me.
I went to her quickly and caught at her arms. Her eyes were filled with unshed tears. “Stop it, Ma,” I said. “Stop it. It’s bad enough the way it is.”
There was a look in my mother’s eyes I had never seen before. “Stop it?” she cried. “I hate her! May the Good Lord forgive me, but I hate her soul to hell for what she’s done to my baby.”
“Maybe she can’t help it, Ma,” I said.
My mother looked up at me. “She can help it, son,” she said slowly. “Never forget that. She can always decide what she wants to do.”
That had been many years ago, and now it was strange to hear the Old Man say almost the same things. I wondered if I would ever understand their point of view. I had long since given up hoping they would understand mine.
“Who are you calling tomorrow?” the Chief asked.
I told him.
He calculated carefully. “At this rate you should be ready for summation in less than two weeks.”
I nodded.
“I’ll be out of here by then. Maybe I can give you a hand,” he said.
“We made a bargain, John,” I said. “It’s my show. You promised.”
“Oh,” he said innocently. “I wouldn’t tell you what to do. I would just make a little suggestion and try to be of help.”
I grinned. I knew his way of helping—he took over. “No, thanks,” I said dryly.
“Okay, okay,” he said testily.
I went right to bed when I got home. Somehow I was glad I was alone in the apartment. It was better that way. I had persuaded Ma to stay up in the country. I think the only reason she agreed was that she knew I didn’t want her around while the trial was on.
I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes. Marja’s face jumped in front of me. The look on her face was the one I had seen in court that day. I still didn’t get it.
Why should she be proud of me? I was trying to send her to gaol. A guilt began to run through me. Could it be that she expected me to look out for her? Was it that she was counting on how I felt about her? But she didn’t know how I felt now. For all she knew, I could have changed. There could be someone else.
But as soon as I thought it, I knew that she knew. We had that between us. A sense of recognition that no one ever shared.
I rolled over, trying to put her from my mind. But it didn’t work. No matter what I did, she kept creeping back. I wondered about her. There were so many things I didn’t know, so many things had happened to her that I hadn’t shared.
I remembered thinking about her up at the hospital. Strange that it should have come to me there because of what the Old Man had said.
But there was one period that I knew nothing about—the four months between the time she left the Home and the time her name first appeared on the police blotter. She must have gone through hell then. I tried to remember what I was doing during that time. My own memories were too vague, my mind kept turning back to her. What did she do? Where did she go? I didn’t know.
I could only sense that she had needed me then more than at any other time in her life.
And I could only feel that I had failed her.
BOOK TWO: MARY
Chapter One
SHE WAS STANDING in the open doorway, the sunlight sparkling iridescently in her white-gold hair. She hesitated a moment; then, transferring her small valise from her right hand to her left, she held out her hand to the woman who stood slightly behind her. “Good-bye, Mrs. Foster,” she said huskily.
The woman took her hand with an almost masculine grip. “Good-bye, Mary,” she answered. “Take care of yourself.”
A half-smile crossed Mary’s lips. “I will, Mrs. Foster,” she promised. “I learned a lot in the year an’ a half I been here.”
There was no humour in the woman’s voice. “I hope so, Mary. I wouldn’t want to see you in trouble again.”
The faint smile disappeared from Mary’s mouth. “You won’t,” she said quietly. She dropped the woman’s hand and quickly went out the door. The bright sunlight hit her eyes, and she paused at the head of the steps and blinked.
She heard the door swing shut behind her with the heavy clinking sound of metal. A sudden sense of freedom ran through her, as exhilarating as old wine. She turned and looked’ back at the closed door.
“Yuh won’t see me again,” she half-whispered to it. “I learned too much. Yuh taught me too good.”
The door stared at her, its two small windows like empty eyes of a stranger. She shivered suddenly as a chill chased the sense of freedom from her. She began to walk toward the street.
She was tall and slim in the thin dark coat the authorities had given her. The late November wind pressed it close to her body, outlining her deep breasts, narrow waist, and gently-flaring hips. She walked easily on strong, straight legs.
The old man who sat in the little house near the gate came out as he saw her approaching. He smiled at her through rheumy eyes. “Goin’ home, Marja?”
She smiled at him. “Got no home, Pop,” she said. “Changed everything. My name, too. It’s Mary now, remember?”
The old man smiled at her with sudden wisdom. “I remember. But it won’t do yuh no good. Yuh still look like Marja to me. The hot Polack blood is still runnin’ around inside yuh, and yuh can’t change that.”
She looked at him, the smile still on her lips. “I’ll change lots o’ things before I’m through.”
“But not yourself,” he said quickly. He began to turn the crank that opened the gate. “Where yuh goin’?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But first I’m gonna check into a hotel and sit in a bathtub for two hours without anybody draggin’ me out. Then I’m goin’ to buy me some clothes I feel good in, not these rags. Then I’m gonna treat myself to a big dinner an’ go to the movies, maybe Radio City. Then I’m gonna have me two ice-cream sodas an’ go to the hotel an’ sleep till two tomorrow afternoon.”
“After that, what’re you goin’ to do?” he asked.
“I’m goin’ to find me a job an’ go to work,” she answered.
“Do that first,” h
e said wisely. “You may need your money.” The iron gate was open. He gestured toward it. “Your world waits, Marja. I hope it’s kind to you.”
She took a half-step toward it, then turned back to the old man. Quickly she kissed him on the cheek. “Good-bye, Pop.”
“Good-bye, Marja,” he said, an unexpected sadness in his voice.
Caught by the sound, she looked into the old man’s eyes. “You’re the only thing about this place I’ll miss, Pop.”
“Yeah,” he said, gruffly embarrassed. “I bet you tell that to all the boys.”
A mischievous smile came to her lips. “No, Pop. Only to you.”
Impulsively she kissed his cheek again. “Thank you, Pop.” She turned and started through the gate.
“Be good, Marja,” he called after her.
She looked back at him. “I’ll try, Pop,” she laughed. The gate clanged shut behind her and she walked out into the street. She stepped off the sidewalk into the gutter. Looking down at her feet, she kicked her heel into the pavement.
It made no sound beneath her, and there was a curious softness to its feel. Asphalt, not cement. Cement gave off a funny sound beneath your feet and had no give to it. Cement was beneath your feet everywhere back there. In the halls and on the walks outside. You could hear yourself everywhere you went. But this was quiet. Happily she walked along in the gutter. Free. Really free.
A strong hand clasped over hers, the one that gripped the valise. A familiar voice spoke in her ear.” Yuh can get killed walkin’ in the street like that. Forget about automobiles?”
She knew who it was without looking up. She had been expecting him from the moment she stepped through the gate. She looked up slowly, still holding onto her valise. Her voice was as expressionless as her eyes. “Yuh forget about a lot of things in a year an’ a half, Mike.”
There was a nervous smile on Mike’s face. “I came to take yuh home, Marja.”
She didn’t speak.
“I been waiting here all morning,” he said.
She drew a deep breath and shook her head. “No,” she said. “No.”
She could see the hurt creep into his eyes. “But, Marja, I—”
She pulled the valise from his grip. “Yuh got the wrong girl, Mike. Everything’s changed. Even the name.”
“I don’t care what’s changed, Marja. I don’t care what’s happened. I know yuh never answered my letters, but I came to take yuh home.”
She stepped up onto the sidewalk and looked into his eyes. “Who sent you?” she asked coldly.
His eyes stared back into hers. “I love you, Marja. You said you loved me.”
“We were kids then,” she said quickly. “We didn’t know any better.”
“Kids!” he said angrily. “How much older are you now? Two years make that much difference?”
“Yes, Mike,” she said slowly. “Two years can make a thousand years’ difference. I grew up in a hurry.”
“I grew up, too.” he said almost boyishly, “but I still feel the same about you. I’ll always feel the same.”
“I don’t,” she said.
“What have they done to you Marja?” There was anguish deep in his voice.
She shook her head wearily. “Nothing,” she answered. “I did it all myself. It’s over, Mike. We can’t go back. We’ll never be kids again.”
She began to turn away from him, but his strong hands on her shoulders spun her back. “Why, Marja? What happened?”
She didn’t answer.
His eyes burned into her face. “Yuh owe me that much for what we were. Tell me!”
He would never forget the mask that dropped over her eyes at that moment. It was as if they were suddenly so deep that nothing was reflected in them, not even the sunlight of the morning. “Tell me, Marja!”
“I had a baby, Mike. While I was there I had a baby, and I don’t even know whether it was a boy or a girl. I signed it away before it was born.” Her voice was flat and expressionless. “Yuh still want to know what happened, Mike?”
There was a look of disbelief on his face. His grip on her shoulders had slackened. “Whose was it? Ross’s?” he asked hoarsely.
She shook her head. “It couldn’t be. He was away. Remember?”
His hands slipped from her shoulders. Lines of pain had formed around his mouth. “You mean there were others?”
She didn’t answer.
His eyes were a deep, hurt blue, and there were tears in them. “How could you, Marja? You loved me.”
Her voice was still cold, still calm. “There were other things too, Mike. There was a girl back in there. She liked me. She taught me games to help pass the time. Yuh want to hear about them, Mike? It was fun.”
“I don’t want to hear,” he said in a shaking voice. “You’re telling me that Ross was right all the time. He said you were a cheap—” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word.
She said it for him. “Whore.”
His hands gripped her shoulders tightly. He stared down into her face. “Were you, Marja? Were you what he said?”
She didn’t answer.
“Why did you lie to me, Marja? Why?” he asked fiercely. “I would have done anything for you. Why did you lie to me?”
Her eyes met his gaze without flinching. “Nothing matters now, Mike,” she said slowly. “The truth is something you believe, not what someone tells you.”
A taxi came down the block. She signalled, and it pulled in to the kerb. “Let me go, Mike. The cab’s waiting.”
His hands dropped from her shoulders. She entered the cab swiftly and shut the door. As it pulled away from the kerb, she looked out the window. Mike was standing there, looking after her. She felt a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. Desperately she fought them back until her eyes were burning. Freedom was so many things she had almost forgotten. It was people you loved and people you hurt. “I love you, Mike,” she whispered to herself.
“Where to, lady?”
The cab-driver’s voice turned her from the window.
“Hotel Astor on Broadway,” she said in a shaking voice.
When she turned back to the window, Mike was gone. Suddenly she could hold the tears back no longer. She could never be right with him. Too many things had happened to her. She was tainted with an ugly scar, and she would have it in her all her life.
He deserved something better. Someone clean and new and fresh. Someone who shone like he did. Not someone like her, who would cheat him of what he deserved.
Chapter Two
SHE LOOKED DOWN at the registration pad the desk clerk pushed toward her. She hesitated a moment. Three and a half dollars a day was a lot of money. Even for a de-luxe room with private bath and shower. Her money wouldn’t go too far at this rate. She had only a little more than a hundred dollars.
But she had waited too long for that fact to stop her. She had promised herself this treat ever since she had gone up there. Quickly she began to scrawl:
Mary Flood … Yorkville, N.Y…. Nov. 20, 1937.
She pushed the pad back to the clerk. He looked at it, then punched a bell on the desk. He smiled at her. “Just down from school, Miss Flood?”
She nodded. He didn’t know how right he was.
A bellboy came up and picked up her valise. The desk clerk pushed the key to him. “Show Miss Flood to room twelve-oh-four.”
She waited until the door closed behind the bellboy and then threw herself on the bed. She felt herself sinking deliciously into it. It was like resting on a cloud. This was a bed, a real bed. Not one of those imitations they had up there. She rolled completely over and off the other side, and opened the door to the bathroom.
Its shining white porcelain and tiles gleamed at her. She gazed admiringly at the tub. It was the new kind, sunk into the floor. Tentatively she touched its sides. Smooth, not scratchy like the old iron tubs. She let her hand rest on it lightly while she looked around the room.
Turkish towels were on the rack. She moved quickly and picked one up
. It was light and soft and fluffy. She buried her face in it. It wasn’t coarse like the cotton towels. She took a deep breath. This was living.
She looked at her watch. It was almost noon. She had some shopping to do before she would take that lazy bath she had promised herself. Almost reluctantly she put the towel back on the rack and left the bathroom.
She picked up her handbag and opened it. Once again she counted her money. One hundred and eighteen dollars. That was what was left of the pay they had given her for working in the laundry. She shook her head for a moment as if to clear it of the steam and the acrid smell of harsh soap and sodium-hypochlorite solution that had hung around her for so long. Resolutely she snapped the bag shut and went to the door.
She stood on the steps of the hotel and looked down at Broadway. It was lunch hour and the streets were even more crowded than usual. Everybody was going somewhere. People had intent, serious faces and never once stopped to look around. She marvelled at them. They took so much for granted, so much that she would never take for granted again.
She looked down the street. The Paramount was playing the new Bing Crosby picture, the one with Kitty Carlisle. The Rialto had two horror pictures, and the New Yorker was showing two westerns. The Nedick’s on the corner across the street was busy, the customers standing three-deep around the counter. The Chinese restaurant between 42nd and 43rd still advertised a thirty-five-cent lunch. Hector’s cafeteria opposite the hotel still boasted the biggest selection of pastry in town, and the faint sound of music from the dance hall on 45th mingled with the discordant blare of traffic.
With a feeling of contentment she started down the steps to begin her shopping. There were some stores here where she knew she could buy clothes fairly cheap. Plymouth for underwear and blouses, Marker’s for skirts and dresses, Kitty Kelly’s for shoes. She found herself humming as she crossed the street. She had been wrong in what she had told Pop that morning.
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