“Yes, it certainly was.”
“Wait a minute.”
He got out, unfastened the towline from my rear axle, coiled it up and pitched it in the bottom of my car. “Well, you’ll have to give me a ride in to Hawthorne—that’s the nearest place I can get a tow car.”
So I gave him a ride in to Hawthorne, which was about ten miles, but I let him drive, which relieved my nervousness. As soon as he made sure the garage there would pull him out he thanked me and then asked: “Where do you live?”
“I’m staying in Reno.”
“At the Riverside?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I live. I’ll see you there.”
Next morning while I was eating breakfast he sat down at my table and began to talk without saying good morning or anything. I found out it was his custom to begin in the middle or perhaps where he left off yesterday, without any preliminaries at all, and while it was an unusual way to do, it was completely a part of him. He was in the same rough clothes, and lit a cigarette, then glanced at me sidewise. “I kept trying to place you yesterday—haven’t I met you somewhere before? My name is Bolton. Charles Bolton.”
“No, I think not.”
“Then I’ve seen you somewhere. What’s your name?”
“Carrie Harris.”
“Oh—oh yes, of course. The pictures in the papers. What happened, anyway? Did Agnes bust it up?”
“You know her?”
“For years.”
“...Do you know Grant?”
“She had three or four brats and I think one of them was a boy. I suppose I know him.”
“Yes. As you put it, she busted it up.”
“I thought she would when I read the first dispatches about it. She’s no angel, Agnes isn’t. Is she still good-looking?”
“Yes.”
“Something unhealthy about her, though. She’s not quite—you know what I mean?—normal.”
“I found that out.”
“Distinctly alarming, I would say.”
“You live here?”
“Lung.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. So long as I stay out here where it’s dry it doesn’t bother me. White, unmarried, Episcopalian. What are you doing today?”
“Why—nothing.”
“Let’s go to Tahoe.”
“I don’t know why not.”
“It’s all closed up there now so it’ll be pleasant to tramp around. We’ll drop down to Truckee for lunch and then we’ll come back. Do you have galoshes?”
“Do I need them?”
“Snow.”
“Oh—fine.”
“You’d better wear something rough and warm.”
So I hurriedly went down and bought myself a rough skirt and sweater, a beret, woolen stockings, a short reefer coat and stout shoes with galoshes, and about half-past ten we started out in his car. We drove to Truckee, which was only a few miles along the main road to the Coast, then drove up a side road for about a half-hour until we came to Lake Tahoe, and there we parked and walked around. It was marvelous, with the water so clear you could see stones on the bottom, even where it was quite deep, and the fir trees and oaks had snow on them so they looked exactly like Christmas cards. But the mountain air made it quite fatiguing, so after an hour or so we got in the car again and drove back to Truckee, where we had lunch at a little roadside stand. I was so hungry I ate two tongue sandwiches and one made with chopped olive and egg, and had two glasses of milk.
Then he said: “I’ve lived in that hotel for ten years now and I’m a little over-familiar with the menu. Let’s go over to Sacramento for dinner.”
“All right.”
So we took the afternoon driving to Sacramento, and it was one of the most beautiful trips I ever took in my life. We crossed the Sierra Nevada, where at Donner Summit the road is 8,000 feet up and away down below you is Donner Lake, which looks like a blue mirror reflecting the sky. All around us was snow, and I was almost sorry when we left it behind us and dropped down into the rolling country of California. We went marching in, rough clothes and all, to a little restaurant he was familiar with, and I had a lobster which was different from the kind I had eaten in the East, as it had no claws, only big legs with little nippers on the end. He said it was really a langouste, but I didn’t care what it was, the tail was full of white tender meat and went wonderfully with mayonnaise. After that I had a steak.
We started back for Reno around nine o’clock, and on the mountain curves not much was being said. But then suddenly with that trick he had of beginning right in the middle, he said: “So you get the divorce—and then what?”
“Well—a man wants to marry me.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know. And I won’t know until—”
I stopped, for it swept over me again what had been such an obsession with me in New York. He looked at me sharply and I went on, but my voice sounded hard and not at all humorous, as I intended. “...Until I get back at dear Agnes.”
“Now tell me what happened.”
I didn’t want to tell him, but he kept asking little shrewd questions, and then it began coming out of me in short jerks—not all of what happened, at least on Grant’s side, but enough to make sense. After I got a lot of it off my chest I sort of ran down, then added: “I wish there were some way I could snub that Agnes. Her face would be as red as—”
“Ah! Now I get it ...So you hate her, is that it?”
“Wouldn’t you, if she took your husband—”
“That’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Oh? Just nothing at all?”
“If that was all you’d hate him, not her. But you don’t. You’re still in love with him.”
“Grant means nothing to me. It’s all over—”
“I say you’re in love with him. Besides, even if she hadn’t taken him away from you, you’d hate her just the same, wouldn’t you?”
“She’s an unadmirable character.”
“And she showed you up for—what did you say you were?”
“...A waitress.”
“That’s what hurt.”
“I’m not ashamed of what I was.”
“Suppose, just to pass the time and make a little money, you took a job as waitress in one of our Reno restaurants and then suppose Agnes came in and sat down. What would you do?”
“Pour hot soup down her back.”
“You would not. You’d go hide.”
“...I guess I would.”
“I know you would.”
He drove for awhile and then he said: “Well—I don’t know how you’re going to get back at her. So long as you feel this inferiority she has a bulge on you that no bawling out can ever change. That is, unless you really do enter High Society.”
“I hate High Society. And how, by the way, could I ever enter it?”
“Oh, that wouldn’t be hard. You have money. Not much, but enough. The rest of it’s simple. You merely prostrate yourself on the ground and knock your head three times in front of the Great God Horse.”
“The Great God—what did you say?”
“I said you have to worship horses. Silly horses, of course. Not circus horses, brewery horses, milk wagon horses, horses that do arithmetic, or any other horses that perform a useful function. Hunters, for example. Horses dedicated to chasing the fox, probably the most futile occupation even seen. Jumpers. Ponies. Ladies’ driving horses—in an age that travels by automobile. All sorts of horses, provided they’re conspicuously and offensively silly. It’s all covered in the literature of the subject. Aldous Huxley and Thorstein Veblen go into it thoroughly, but I do believe some of the shrewdest comment on it was written by Robert W. Chambers. The horse is a symbol. He’s this century’s pinch of incense on the altars of Caesar—and remember, it was not required that you love Caesar, or believe in his gods or like his friends. Incense was enough. So with High Society. Manners, culture, breeding—they don
’t mean anything. The horse does. Funny, isn’t it, to see people spend millions to get in—on yachts, charities, music and champagne—when one $500 hunter would turn the trick? With $50,000 and a mare for the horse shows, Carrie, you’re automatically in. Nobody can keep you out.”
“I don’t want to be in. I want to—”
“Spit in her eye?”
“Yes...I know one thing I can do. I can give her back her $50,000 and—”
“What?”
“Yes. That’s it! Now I know what’s been pent up in me, making me feel miserable and ashamed. I took that woman’s money and—”
“Carrie! That won’t make her face turn red. It’ll only make her laugh!”
“Oh, don’t worry! I won’t do anything foolish!”
We went on a lot of trips after that, to Carson City and Fallon and Death Valley and all around, and we kept having the discussion. He seemed set on the idea that I had to become a social leader and kept calling himself Pygmalion, whatever he meant by that. But I was wholly indifferent to everything but some scheme for using the money I already had in order to get more money quick and pay back Mrs. Harris the money I had taken off her and perhaps in that way forget her. We took our trips mostly in the afternoon, as he wasn’t fond of getting up early, so in the mornings I began dropping in at a brokerage house that was located in an office building down the street from the hotel. In my days of sitting around the apartment in New York I had already become somewhat acquainted with financial matters through studying Grant’s books. I wanted to learn more, though at the time I had no exact idea of what I was going to do with my knowledge after I got it. But I asked a lot of questions and followed the ticker and the blackboard and kept reading the Wall Street Journal, which was on file there, until I began to have a pretty fair idea of how the whole thing worked. All during this time I could feel stirring in me ambitions much more daring than I had ever had before, and knew that my interest in money, even apart from Mrs. Harris, was becoming a most important factor in my life.
Fourteen
IT WAS MORE THAN a month before I saw Mr. Holden, which didn’t surprise me, as the papers were full of the water-front trouble on the Coast and I assumed he had been pretty busy. But one day I went to see the lawyers again and we went over the divorce case and then when I came back to the hotel Mr. Holden was waiting for me. We went up to my suite and again he was very preoccupied, and seemed to have large affairs on his mind. He began at once asking me questions about my divorce, and wanted to know how soon it would be disposed of. I said in two or three weeks.
“Good. That’ll just work in with my plans. I’ll wash this thing up out there, then stop by for you. As soon as your decree is granted we’ll be married, and then—” and here he looked very confident and mysterious—”and then, Carrie, you’ll see something.”
I didn’t want to discuss marriage, so I quickly seized the chance to switch over to whatever it was he was talking about. “Yes? And what will I see?”
“Never mind. But it’s ready. We’ve got what we’ve been waiting for.”
“Which is?”
“A break on conditions. It’s our market, not theirs. The wheels are going round once more and they’ve got to settle with labor. And if they don’t, labor is going to force them. The war is over, and now we strike.”
“When?”
“You’ll see. Soon.”
From then on things began to move fast and it seemed almost no time before my case was set for trial, so of course when he phoned me from Los Angeles one night I had to tell him when it would come up. So sure enough, the night before I was to appear in court he came again, marched into the hotel with his bags and took a room he had wired for. We had dinner in my suite, however, and he was exuberant and greatly excited. “It’ll be the biggest thing in the history of the American labor movement, Carrie. No comic opera affair like what you had at Karb’s. This is real.”
“You talk a lot but don’t tell me what it is.”
“We’re driving at whole industries.”
“...What industries?”
He hesitated, then said: “For the moment, we’re keeping it secret, but you’ll see. Big industries.”
“That’ll take quite a while, won’t it?”
“Not too long, and this time we land on their button. They’re wide open. And we’ve got the punch.”
I was so excited I began talking about the trips I had taken around Reno, for I didn’t trust myself to discuss his plans anymore. Around ten o’clock I remarked that I had a trying day ahead of me and that I ought to get some sleep. So he went, and I took good care that time to lock the door. Then I went into the bedroom, picked up the telephone and gave the operator Mr. Hunt’s home number in New York. I didn’t make it person-to-person, as that would be quite expensive, and as it was one o’clock in New York I was pretty sure he would be home. So when the call was put through it was Mrs. Hunt who answered, and I told her who I was and she was very polite but I could tell she was worried. He came to the phone, and as soon as I had answered his inquiries about the divorce, I got down to business. “Is anybody listening, Bernie? Can you talk?”
“I’m alone on the library extension.”
“Very well. If anybody asks you, I called to give you particulars on the divorce suit.”
“Right.”
“But this is what I really want. Tonight by air mail I’m sending you a check for ten thousand dollars.”
“Thanks offering?”
“No. You buy and sell stocks, don’t you?”
“I hope so.”
“I want you to put that ten thousand to my credit in your brokerage house. Tomorrow, as soon as the divorce goes through, I’m leaving Reno for some place, I don’t yet know where. But wherever it is, I’ll call you and give you instructions as to what you’re to do with the money. Tonight all I want to know is: Can I count on you to carry out my instructions exactly as I give them to you?”
“Now wait a minute, Carrie. Stocks are my business, but after all, I like you. I don’t want you to lose your shirt—”
“That’s my lookout.”
“What is this, anyway?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m not sure it’s anything except a brainstorm. But—it may mean a lot to me. I’ve got to have somebody in New York I can trust. Bernie, you’ll do this much for me, won’t you?”
He thought so long over this that I began to worry about my charges, but at last he said: “I don’t like it. I don’t like any of it. I can tell from the way you talk you’re gambling your money on some kind of tip you expect to get, and there’s a special room on the Street where they shear lambs like you. Still, it’s your own affair and your own money. All right, send on the money. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
The next day in court I stammered through my recital of Grant’s ungovernable temper, his threats to strike me, and all the other things I was required to tell, and they were all true, so I could swear to them with a perfectly clear conscience. And yet they had so little relation to the real story that it seemed as though I was taking part in a trial that concerned somebody else. Hardly anybody was there, for the Reno courts do not permit the newspapers to treat people as they do in New York, and it only took a short time anyhow. The decree was granted a few minutes after I left court, and then I went over with Mr. Hyde to his office to sign papers. He then turned over to me his own check for the remaining $25,000, shook hands with me, and that seemed to be all.
I walked around to the second-hand dealer’s where I had left the car on my way to court. He offered me $750, which I didn’t think was enough, considering how little I had driven it, but I was in no mood to argue, so I said all right and he gave me his check. I went over to the bank where I had started a local account and deposited both checks, the one for $25,000 and the one for $750. Then I started back for the hotel. When I came to the bridge over the river I stopped and stood looking down into the water. You are supposed to throw your wedding
ring into it as soon as you have your divorce, but I had no wedding ring. What I was thinking about was: What am I going to do about Mr. Holden? I can’t marry him, at any rate not now, and yet I have to go with him if I am going to succeed with the stock market operations I have in mind.
Fifteen
HE WAS WAITING FOR me in the lobby and came up with me to my suite. For the first time in two months he became personal, put his arms around me, took my hat off and ran his fingers through my hair. I sat down on a chair, not the sofa, but he sat down on the arm beside me and continued to lift my hair and let it fall back against my neck. “So. Now you’re free.”
“Yes.”
“How do you prefer to be married?”
“I—don’t quite know what you mean.”
“I prefer the clerk of the license bureau, myself, but if you want a minister I’ve made a list of six—all different denominations.”
“...Do you mind sitting over there? I have something to say to you.”
He looked a little hurt but in a moment crossed over to another chair and sat down. I wanted to be friendly, but I am afraid I sounded very curt and businesslike when I spoke. “I can’t marry you today.”
“...I had planned on it, Carrie.”
“I know. So had I. Anyway, I had taken it for granted. But I’m not ready yet. I’m not readjusted. I want time to think and to know you a little better—under circumstances when I’m not all mixed up inside.”
It was all false and phony, and the halting way I said it gave it a sound of sincerity that made me ashamed of it all the more. He looked at me a long time, and then he burst out: “Damn it, Carrie, why do you have to feel this way? I’ve been counting on you! I have a devil’s own time ahead of me, and I’ve been looking forward to having you with me! I—”
“You may. If you want me.”
“Ah!”
“No—don’t jump to conclusions. I don’t quite mean that—or at any rate what I think you have in mind. Off and on, ever since I’ve known you, you’ve tried to persuade me to become active in union work, and even offered me positions—if you want me with you couldn’t I be your secretary? Won’t you need one?”
Root of His Evil Page 14
