by Tully, Jim
Chapter 7
Her father was rocking in his chair when she arrived. His wife’s death had made him abject.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, a whine in his voice, “how’d Buddy ever hear about his mother.”
“Oh,” was Leora’s answer, “he may be coming back any day.”
Her mind still in a furor, she looked restlessly about the house.
She went to the porch just as Dr. Farway entered the gate.
“I telephoned,” he explained. “You were not there.”
Her quick mind began to work.
“Mrs. Haley became so jealous, I had to leave—as if I’d have anything to do with him—” she said contemptuously. He looked at her in surprise, as she continued, “I’m afraid it’s not over yet. She threatened to drag you into it.”
The doctor now looked bewildered as Leora went on, “Mrs. Haley screamed as I left, ‘I’ll shake the whole town with this—Dr. Farway using you, then turning you over to my husband.’ “
Dr. Farway pondered, as Leora put in, “Naturally I wouldn’t get you mixed up for worlds.”
“What are we to do?” he asked.
It was the question Leora wanted.
“I’d leave town if I had the money.”
“Where to?”
“Chicago—Alice Tracy is there.” She sighed, “But it costs so much to travel.”
She had been the most delightful habit in the doctor’s life. Faced suddenly with the possibility of her loss, he was confused. And yet, if she remained, and a rumpus were stirred up— Leora cut in upon his thoughts, “She swears she saw us together at the Norfolk in Cincinnati —that she looked at the register, and came right home and found your wife here. I don’t care whether I get mixed up in anything or not. It can’t hurt me. You’re the only one I’m worried about.” She then assured him with, “God knows, Dr. Haley couldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.”
“Suppose I took you to Chicago?”
“When?” she asked.
“Whenever you say . . . . tomorrow night,” said the doctor. “I have to go in three weeks anyhow, I may us well make it now. I’ll get the tickets and make the reservations. You can get the train at Bellview.”
“All right,” returned Leora, “but what’ll I live on there?”
“We’ll fix that up all right,” he assured her.
She smiled as he left. Her mind still racing, she went to her aunt’s and explained everything.
“Now what do you want to do?” asked her aunt.
“Call Dr. Haley—if she’s there, she won’t know your voice.”
Red Moll telephoned.
The doctor answered. Leora took the receiver.
“Hello, Doctor—this is me—are you alone?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Well, Mrs. Haley raised the dickens this afternoon—she said she had people watch—I promised to leave for your sake—if she wouldn’t make trouble—I’m at my aunt’s—can you drive out?”
Dr. Haley came quickly.
Leora explained further, “She said if I left town she’d say nothing and not sue you for divorce and ruin you—I told her I needed money to travel on, and she said she wouldn’t give me a cent—so here I am.”
If the doctor’s heart was not touched, his purse was.
“What would you need?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, Doctor, whatever you think—all I know is I don’t want to stay around here and make trouble—I don’t care about myself—but you’ve been so good to me—and if she made trouble for you it might make you lose a lot of practice.”
The doctor pulled a leather wallet from his pocket. “I have three hundred with me. That should tide you over for a while.” He handed her the money.
“Oh, thank you, Doctor, you’re so grand.”
She promised faithfully to write to him in care of Dr. Farway.
When the doctor drove away, he said to himself, “Caught again—oh, well—it was worth it.”
And Leora’s aunt said, “Dear me, Leora—you’re hair-trigger smart.”
“I have to be—look at all those kids—and poor Sally”; then she laughed, “and poor me.”
On her way home Leora thought of the many things that had happened in the past few years. They bounced like raindrops from her rapidly hardening mind.
Suddenly in her decision to go she regretted leaving Sally. She had never given her a thought before. And now, for a moment, she was overwhelmed at her loss. Sally had waited on her almost since they were babies. She had never scolded and never complained. When Leora had scolded their mother, Sally consoled her.
Reaching home, she explained to Sally that Dr. Farway had loaned her money— ”to get me started.” She made Sally, who never talked, promise to be more secretive still— ”not a word to Aunt, or anybody,” she cautioned.
And Sally, who had the faith of her mother, promised over and over again.
Leora took her to the store and bought her many new things. She gave her two hundred dollars. “Spend this on the other kids, but don’t tell where you got it.” Again Sally promised.
That evening, as the sun glinted the dust across the room in which their mother had died, Sally began to pack Leora’s trunk.
Dr. Farway had bought it for her a year before. Leora had pasted the lid with pictures of film actresses in half-nude costumes.
The two girls looked at the pictures.
“None of them can hold a candle to you, Leora,” Sally said fervently.
The words pleased Leora. She kissed her placid sister’s forehead.
“Will you miss me?” she asked.
Sally, in whose heart was room for nothing but kindness, held her beautiful sister in her arms and replied, “Miss you, dear. It’ll be a double graveyard with you and Mother gone.”
Leora paused.
“Mother’s better off, Sally. I paid her funeral expenses yesterday.” She went to her purse and brought Sally the undertaker’s receipt. “She has a little stone over her, and you can plant flowers on her grave every year.” She looked at the pictures of actresses in her trunk— “She’ll have no more babies, and no more meals to cook. She was even lucky in being buried away over in the corner under that big oak.” She looked sternly at her sister, “And for God’s sake, Sally, don’t be a brood mare for any damn man in this town.”
“I won’t,” said Sally. “I won’t have time till these kids grow up.”
“My God—I never thought of that, Sally.”
“I’m happier doing it—the poor little snotty-nosed things. It’s not their fault, or father’s either.”
Leora looked in amazement at Sally. She had never heard her speak so frankly before. Sally surprised Leora again with, “Aunt was right when she said that both dad and mother were like doorbells—if somebody pushed them, they rang—and now the house is full of kids, and Mother’s dead, and Dad might as well be.”
“But I’ll help with the kids, Sally,” Leora promised.
“If you do, or don’t, it’s all right, dear—and if you ever need me, let me know.” Sally looked with admiration at the lithe body of her sister, the perfectly chiseled face, the well-rounded breasts, and her hair in brown waves falling.
“We’ll make out some way, Leora, just hoe your own row, and, if you get tired, come home. I’ll wait on you.” Sally, more moved than usual, still looked at Leora. “Even when I was a little bit of a kid, Lee, I tried to protect you. The Lord knows you didn’t need it—but you just seemed like a flower and I was always afraid some one’d step on you. I even felt that way about Buddy.” Sally stopped— “But he was a good kid too—I wonder where he is?”
“I’d give anything to know,” said the lovely Leora— ”He was a good kid—remember, Sally, when some one stole our sled, how he hunted all Saturday and Sunday for it—and then Dad licked him because he didn’t get home in time to take Mother to the picture show.” Leora went to the mirror, while Sally busied herself with the trunk. Suddenly Sal
ly said, and her voice was slightly thicker,
“I just want you to promise one thing, Leora—that you’ll write to me once a month—it won’t need to be much; you can just say ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye’ for all I care—I like you a whole lot, and I always have—and don’t want the other kids to ever forget they’ve got such a nice sister.”
Leora turned from the mirror, “I’ll promise to write once a month—maybe more—and I won’t forget the kids.”
Sally put her arms around Leora. “No don’t, Leora, please,” she said, “it’s not their fault they’re here. We’ve got to give them an even chance with every other kid; then maybe they’ll get somewhere.”
“I don’t know,” returned Leora. “Aunt says there never was a right Blair and she’s one—look at our father.”
“Aunt’s wrong,” said Sally vehemently. “I’m only a kid, but I can prove it out of my school books—we don’t know what these kids will be—how can anyone explain how beautiful you are?”
“Mother was a nice-looking girl,” said Leora, turning to the mirror, “and Aunt’s still good-looking.”
“But neither of them ever had your looks.” Sally’s voice rose, “And, Leora, it will be a lot of fun just watching these kids grow up.” She looked about the house as if they were present. “Look at little Denny—don’t you think he’s cute, Leora, the funny little nose and the square little teeth; look how he runs after you when you start to work—I’ll just bet he’ll turn out to be a smart man—then we can be so proud.” Sally’s eyes danced. “Remember when he cried yesterday, and I said, ‘Don’t cry, Denny, you’re a little man now,’ and he said, ‘Why baby men cry.’ “ Sally clapped her hands with love.
Leora kissed her sister and said, “Sally, I’d give anything in the world to be the girl you are.”
“Why, Leora,” exclaimed Sally, “what in the dickens am I? I’m the head cleaner and the dish-washer. I spread the Vaseline on the kids when they hurt themselves.”
“But you’re more than that, Sally, and I’ve just now thought about it.” Leora rubbed her hands over her breasts, then smoothed her hair back. “But let’s not talk about it. I’ll write to you—and help—because you’re square, Sally— Now let’s go over to Aunt’s; then we can come back and finish packing.”
On the way to their aunt’s, Leora said, “You can borrow Eddie Wilson’s car tonight, can’t you, Sally?”
“Yes, dear.”
“The train leaves here at nine. I want you to take me to Bellview. I’ll get on there,” said Leora.
“We can start at eight. It’s only twelve miles,” returned Sally, “But how about the trunk?”
“I’ll wire or write you when to send it. I want to look around first.”
The girls found their aunt quite casual. “You’d better wire Alice you’ll be there,” she advised. “God only knows where that kid’ll be—I’ll telephone it from here.”
The message sent, the aunt returned to the girls, “I suppose you’ll miss your father,” she bantered.
“Yes,—like the measles,” returned Leora. The aunt half smiled.
As the girls left the aunt said, “I’m with you like I’m with Alice, Leora—if you need me, I’m here.”
“All right, Aunt,” said Leora, “I’ll remember.”
While returning home, Leora said to Sally, “Don’t tell the kids I’m going for good—one funeral’s enough in a year.”
“All right, but you must write,” insisted Sally.
“I will,” said Leora.
She bade all a casual good-bye, and chided her father when he tried to caress her.
Both girls were silent on the way to Bellview. Leora passed the spot where she had seen the fireflies with the doctor. Remembrance of it touched her lightly, as a fleck of snow would a pane of glass. A jubilant feeling came over her. “Well, Sally,” she said, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way. Will you wish me luck?”
“You’ll get along all right,” Sally smiled, as the small car chugged up the hill to the station.
Dr. Farway was reading a newspaper as the car passed.
Sally cried for a moment.
“Please don’t, Sally, I’ll write—but don’t cry.”
Caressing her sister, Leora boarded the car, and was taken to Dr. Farway’s compartment.
Sally watched the train until it could be seen no more.
In a few moments she dried her eyes, and turned the little car.
When a few miles from the depot, a sudden impulse made her turn the car toward the cemetery.
For a long time she stood at her mother’s grave; then returned to the little car, and home.
Chapter 8
When Dr. Farway became amorous, Leora complained of not feeling well. Unable to master his companion, he went to the lounge car and ordered a drink. He mused over the inconsistency of life. He enjoyed Leora more than his wife in every way. She brought him youth and joy. The thought of divorce as a solution did not once enter his mind.
And now, with a growing practice, and a wealthy, ailing wife, he was digging the rut deeper. He smiled with satisfaction at Dr. Haley. He wondered if he might have caressed Leora. Then he recalled what she had said about him. Lulled by vanity, he dismissed the thought.
At first Leora’s mind kept pace with the rolling wheels. It became more steady in a few hours. Her life passed before her like a cinema. Being of a nature that could not long cherish hate, the changing scene made her see her father’s plight more clearly. Exhausted at last, she closed her eyes.
When the doctor returned to the compartment, she was asleep.
The doctor looked at her for several moments. Losing restraint, he kissed her on the mouth; then put his arms around her.
“Please don’t,” she pleaded, “I’m not well—and I’m so tired.”
“You don’t love me any more.”
“Yes, I do,” said Leora sleepily, “but don’t you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” replied the doctor, and then added, “I thought you’d be too homesick to sleep.”
“Homesick for what?” yawned Leora.
As the train rushed across the Indiana fields in the morning, Dr. Farway said to his companion, “You’ll forget who paid your fare to Chicago, won’t you?”
“Why?” Leora asked innocently.
The doctor replied, “It may cause trouble if you talk. You see there’s a law called the Mann Act. It makes it a penitentiary offense for a man to travel across a state line with a woman not his wife.”
Leora opened her eyes wide, as she said, “You pick the strangest things to worry about.”
“I know,” he said, patting her hand, “I can trust you.”
The train stopped at Englewood.
When it started again, a trainman called, “Chicago the next stop.”
“I wired Alice Tracy to meet me, dear.”
“Why did you do that?” asked the doctor.
Leora smiled, “I knew she’d know the city. Besides, she never talks.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
When Alice greeted them at the station, Dr. Farway was in a thoughtful mood.
They rode to the Vaner Hotel.
The doctor could not realize the change that had come over Alice. She was fashionably dressed.
“Do you like the city?” he asked her.
“Well,” she paused, “I don’t like the city as well as I do my work.”
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m a cloak model,” she answered.
“I’ll register alone,” said the doctor, looking at Alice, when they reached the hotel lobby. “Do you wish Leora to stay with you?”
“If she likes,” returned Alice. “But I wouldn’t spoil your fun for anything.”
“Oh that’s all right,” returned the doctor, “you’ll want to visit with Leora.”
“All right, we’ll telephone you this evening,” Alice suggested.
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“Okeh, if you miss me, try later,” he suggested.
“We will,” said Leora.
Again in the taxi, Leora smiled at Alice, saying,
“He thinks I might have him arrested for bringing me here.” The girls laughed.
“But don’t you love him?” asked Alice.
“I did, maybe, for a little while, I don’t know,” Leora sighed.
“But how you’ve changed, and you’re prettier than ever—now tell me all the news—does my mother look well?”
Leora and Alice talked for several hours.
When Leora saw the doctor that night he asked her what she intended to do.
“Alice intends to get me work as a model,” was the reply.
“But you’ll need money to get started.”
“Yes,” agreed Leora, and waited.
He gave her a hundred dollars, saying, “When you write to me I’ll send you more.”
“I’ll write,” said Leora.
“Now don’t talk about who brought you here,” he warned.
“If you mention that once more, I’ll never see you again.”
There was something in her manner which made him believe.
More confident, he coaxed her to go to his room.
Leora shook her head. “Never again. That’s all over. You’re the only man, and you’ll always be the only man.”
“Suppose you get married?”
“That will be different.” She hesitated, “But that’s not likely. I’ll have to get you out of my mind first.”
Dr. Jonas Farway was proud of himself.
Chapter 9
Leora was now of medium height, and slender. Her red-brown hair fell in natural waves to her shoulders. Her mouth was slightly full. There was a glow to her skin. At no time did she look more than a school-girl. Her manner was innocent and trusting. She wore, whenever possible, a white linen suit. Simple and graceful, it added to her appearance of innocence. Plain dark green was another favorite color. A plain gold crucifix attached to a thin chain about her throat was her only jewelry.
From her childhood she had the gift of keeping conversation alive. A constant reader of newspapers, she knew all that was current about leading personalities. She had the manner of one who had always lived in the city.
