“What are they making on your lot?” he asked slowly, rolling his eyes toward Tod without budging his head.
“‘Manifest Destiny,’ ‘Sweet and Low Down,’ ‘Waterloo,’ The Great Divide,’ Begging Your…”
“‘The Great Divide’—” Harry said, interrupting eagerly. “I remember that vehicle.”
Tod realized he shouldn’t have got him started, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had to let him run down like a clock.
“When it opened I was playing the Irving in a little number called ‘Enter Two Gents,’ a trifle, but entertainment, real entertainment. I played a Jew comic, a Ben Welch effect, derby and big pants—’Pat, dey hollered me a chob in de Heagle Laundreh’…’Faith now, Ikey, and did you take it?’…’No, who vants to vash heagles?’ Joe Parvos played straight for me in a cop’s suit. Well, the night ‘The Great Divide’ opened, Joe was laying up with a whisker in the old Fifth Avenue when the stove exploded. It was the broad’s husband who blew the whistle. He was…”
He hadn’t run down. He had stopped and was squeezing his left side with both hands.
Tod leaned over anxiously.
“Some water?”
Harry framed the word “no” with his lips, then groaned skillfully. It was a second-act curtain groan, so phony that Tod had to hide a smile. And yet, the old man’s pallor hadn’t come from a box.
Harry groaned again, modulating from pain to exhaustion, then closed his eyes. Tod saw how skillfully he got the maximum effect out of his agonized profile by using the pillow to set it off. He also noticed that Harry, like many actors, had very little back or top to his head. It was almost all face, like a mask, with deep furrows between the eyes, across the forehead and on either side of the nose and mouth, plowed there by years of broad grinning and heavy frowning. Because of them, he could never express anything either subtly or exactly. They wouldn’t permit degrees of feeling, only the furthest degree.
Tod began to wonder if it might not be true that actors suffer less than other people. He thought about this for a while, then decided that he was wrong. Feeling is of the heart and nerves and the crudeness of its expression has nothing to do with its intensity. Harry suffered as keenly as anyone, despite the theatricality of his groans and grimaces.
He seemed to enjoy suffering. But not all kinds, certainly not sickness. Like many people, he only enjoyed the sort that was self-inflicted. His favorite method was to bare his soul to strangers in barrooms. He would make believe he was drunk, and stumble over to where some strangers were sitting. He usually began by reciting a poem.
“Let me sit down for a moment, I have a stone in my shoe. I was once blithe and happy, I was once young like you.”
If his audience shouted, “scram, bum!” he only smiled humbly and went on with his act.
“Have pity, folks, on my gray hair…”
The bartender or someone else had to stop him by force, otherwise he would go on no matter what was said to him. Once he got started everyone in the bar usually listened, for he gave a great performance. He roared and whispered, commanded and cajoled. He imitated the whimper of a little girl crying for her vanished mother, as well as the different dialects of the many cruel managers he had known. He even did the off-stage noises, twittering like birds to herald the dawn of Love and yelping like a pack of bloodhounds when describing how an Evil Fate ever pursued him.
He made his audience see him start out in his youth to play Shakespeare in the auditorium of the Cambridge Latin School, full of glorious dreams, burning with ambition. Follow him, as still-a mere stripling, he starved in a Broadway rooming house, an idealist who desired only to share his art with the world. Stand with him, as, in the prime of manhood, he married a beautiful dancer, a headliner on the Gus Sun time. Be close behind him as, one night, he returned home unexpectedly to find her in the arms of a head usher. Forgive, as he forgave, out of the goodness of his heart and the greatness of his love. Then laugh, tasting the bitter gall, when the very next night he found her in the arms of a booking agent. Again he forgave her and again she sinned. Even then he didn’t cast her out, no, though she jeered, mocked and even struck him repeatedly with an umbrella. But she ran off with a foreigner, a swarthy magician fellow. Behind she left memories and their baby daughter. He made his audience shadow him still as misfortune followed misfortune and, a middle-aged man, he haunted the booking offices, only a ghost of his former self. He who had hoped to play Hamlet, Lear, Othello, must needs become the Co. in an act called Nat Plumstone & Co., light quips and breezy patter. He made them dog his dragging feet as, an aged and trembling old man, he…
Faye came in quietly. Tod started to greet her, but she put her finger to her lips for him to be silent and motioned toward the bed.
The old man was asleep. Tod thought his worn, dry skin looked like eroded ground. The few beads of sweat that glistened on his forehead and temples carried no promise of relief. It might rot, like rain that comes too late to a field, but could never refresh.
They both tiptoed out of the room.
In the hall he asked if she had had a good time with Homer.
“That dope!” she exclaimed, making a wry face. “He’s strictly home-cooking.”
Tod started to ask some more questions, but she dismissed him with a curt, “I’m tired, honey.”
16
The next afternoon, Tod was on his way upstairs when he saw a crowd in front of the door to the Greeners’ apartment. They were excited and talked in whispers. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“Harry’s dead.”
He tried the door of the apartment. It wasn’t locked, so he went in. The corpse lay stretched out on the bed, completely covered with a blanket. From Faye’s room came the sound of crying. He knocked softly on her door. She opened it for him, then turned without saying a word, and stumbled to her bed. She was sobbing into a face towel.
He stood in the doorway, without knowing what to do or say. Finally, he went over to the bed and tried to comfort her. He patted her shoulder.
“You poor kid.”
She was wearing a tattered, black lace negligee that had large rents in it. When he leaned over her, he noticed that her skin gave off a warm, sweet odor, like that of buck-wheat in flower.
He turned away and lit a cigarette. There was a knock on the door. When he opened it, Mary Dove rushed past him to take Faye in her arms.
Mary also told Faye to be brave. She phrased it differently than he had done, however, and made it sound a lot more convincing.
“Show some guts, kid. Come on now, show some guts.”
Faye shoved her away and stood up. She took a few wild steps, then sat down on the bed again.
“I killed him,” she groaned.
Mary and he both denied this emphatically.
“I killed him, I tell you! I did! I did!”
She began to call herself names. Mary wanted to stop her, but Tod told her not to. Faye had begun to act and he felt that if they didn’t interfere she would manage an escape for herself.
“She’ll talk herself quiet,” he said.
In a voice heavy with self-accusation, she began to tell what had happened. She had come home from the studio and found Harry in bed. She asked him how he was, but didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she turned her back on him to examine herself in the wall mirror. While fixing her face, she told him that she had seen Ben Murphy and that Ben had said if Harry were feeling better he might be able to use him in a Bowery sequence. She had been surprised when he didn’t shout as he always did when Ben’s name was mentioned. He was jealous of Ben and always shouted, “To hell with that bastard; I knew him when he cleaned spittoons in a nigger barroom.”
She realized that he must be pretty sick. She didn’t turn around because she noticed what looked like the beginning of a pimple. It was only a speck of dirt and she wiped it off, but then she had to do her face all over again. While she was working at it, she told him that she could get a job as a dress extra
if she had a new evening gown. Just to kid him, she looked tough and said, “If you can’t buy me an evening gown, I’ll find someone who can.”
When he didn’t say anything, she got sore and began to sing, “Jeepers Creepers.” He didn’t tell her to shut up, so she knew something must be wrong. She ran over to the couch. He was dead.
As soon as she had finished telling all this, she began to sob in a lower key, almost a coo, and rocked herself back and forth.
“Poor papa…Poor darling…”
The fun they used to have together when she was little. No matter how hard up he was, he always bought her dolls and candy, and no matter how tired, he always played with her. She used to ride piggy-back and they would roll on the floor and laugh and laugh.
Mary’s sobs made Faye speed up her own and they both began to get out of hand.
There was a knock on the door. Tod answered it and found Mrs. Johnson, the janitress. Faye shook her head for him not to let her in.
“Come back later,” Tod said.
He shut the door in her face. A minute later it opened again and Mrs. Johnson entered boldly. She had used a pass-key.
“Get out,” he said.
She tried to push past him, but he held her until Faye told him to let her go.
He disliked Mrs. Johnson intensely. She was an officious, bustling woman with a face like a baked apple, soft and blotched. Later he found out that her hobby was funerals. Her preoccupation with them wasn’t morbid; it was formal. She was interested in the arrangement of the flowers, the order of the procession, the clothing and deportment of the mourners.
She went straight to Faye and stopped her sobs with a firm, “Now, Miss Greener.”
There was so much authority in her voice and manner that she succeeded where Mary and Tod had failed. Faye looked up at her respectfully.
“First, my dear,” Mrs. Johnson said, counting one with the thumb of her right hand on the index finger of her left, “first, I want you to understand that my sole desire in this matter is to help you.”
She looked hard at Mary, then at Tod.
“I don’t get anything out of it, and it’s just a lot of trouble.”
“Yes,” Faye said.
“All right. There are several things I have to know, if I’m to help you. Did the deceased leave any money or insurance?”
“No.”
“Have you any money?”
“No.”
“Can you borrow any?”
“I don’t think so.”
Mrs. Johnson sighed.
“Then the city will have to bury him.”
Faye didn’t comment.
“Don’t you understand, child, the city will have to bury him in a pauper’s grave?”
She put so much contempt into “city” and horror into “pauper” that Faye flushed and began to sob again.
Mrs. Johnson made as though to walk out, even took several steps in the direction of the door, then changed her mind and came back.
“How much does a funeral cost?” Faye asked.
“Two hundred dollars. But you can pay on the installment plan—fifty dollars down and twenty-five a month.”
Mary and Tod both spoke together.
“I’ll get the money.”
“I’ve got some.”
“That’s fine,” Mrs. Johnson said. “You’ll need at least fifty more for incidental expenses. I’ll go ahead and take care of everything. Mr. Holsepp will bury your father. He’ll do it right.”
She shook hands with Faye, as though she were congratulating her, and hurried out of the room.
Mrs. Johnson’s little business talk had apparently done Faye some good. Her lips were set and her eyes dry. “Don’t worry,” Tod said. “I can raise the money.”
“No, thanks,” she said.
Mary opened her purse and took out a roll of bills. “Here’s some.”
“No,” she said, pushing it away.
She sat thinking for a while, then went to the dressing table and began to fix her tear-stained face. She wore a hard smile as she worked. Suddenly she turned, lipstick in air, and spoke to Mary.
“Can you get me into Mrs. Jenning’s?”
“What for?” Tod demanded. “I’ll get the money.” Both girls ignored him.
“Sure,” said Mary, “you ought to done that long ago. It’s a soft touch.” Faye laughed.
“I was saving it.”
The change that had come over both of them startled Tod. They had suddenly become very tough.
“For a punkola like that Earle. Get smart, girlie, and lay off the cheapies. Let him ride a horse, he’s a cowboy, ain’t he?”
They laughed shrilly and went into the bathroom with their arms around each other.
Tod thought he understood their sudden change to slang. It made them feel worldly and realistic, and so more able to cope with serious things.
He knocked on the bathroom door.
“What do you want?” Faye called out.
“Listen, kid,” he said, trying to imitate them. “Why go on the turf? I can get the dough.”
“Oh, yeah! No, thanks,” Faye said.
“But listen…” he began again.
“Go peddle your tripe!” Mary shouted.
17
On the day of Harry’s funeral Tod was drunk: He hadn’t seen Faye since she went off with Mary Dove, but he knew that he was certain to find her at the undertaking parlor and he wanted to have the courage to quarrel with her. He started drinking at lunch. When he got to Holsepp’s in the late afternoon, he had passed the brave state and was well into the ugly one.
He found Harry in his box, waiting to be wheeled out for exhibition in the adjoining chapel. The casket was open and the old man looked quite snug. Drawn up to a little below his shoulders and folded back to show its fancy lining was an ivory satin coverlet. Under his head was a tiny lace cushion. He was wearing a Tuxedo, or at least had on a black bow-tie with his stiff shirt and wing collar. His face had been newly shaved, his eyebrows shaped and plucked and his lips and cheeks rouged. He looked like the interlocutor in a minstrel show.
Tod bowed his head as though in silent prayer when he heard someone come in. He recognized Mrs. Johnson’s voice and turned carefully to face her. He caught her eye and nodded, but she ignored him. She was busy with a man in a badly fitting frock coat.
“It’s the principle of the thing,” she scolded. “Your estimate said bronze. Those handles ain’t bronze and you know it.”
“But I asked Miss Greener,” whined the man. “She okayed them.”
“I don’t care. I’m surprised at you, trying to save a few dollars by fobbing off a set of cheap gun-metal handles on the poor child.”
Tod didn’t wait for the undertaker to answer. He had seen Faye pass the door on the arm of one of the Lee sisters. When he caught up with her, he didn’t know what to say. She misunderstood his agitation and was touched. She sobbed a little for him.
She had never looked more beautiful. She was wearing a new, very tight black dress and her platinum hair was tucked up in a shining bun under a black straw sailor. Ever so often, she carried a tiny lace handkerchief to her eyes and made it flutter there for a moment. But all he could think of was that she had earned the money for her outfit on her back.
She grew uneasy under his stare and started to edge away. He caught her arm.
“May I speak with you for a minute, alone?”
Miss Lee took the hint and left.
“What is it?” Faye asked.
“Not here,” he whispered, making mystery out of his uncertainty,
He led her along the hall until he found an empty showroom. On the walls were framed photographs of important funerals and on little stands and tables were samples of coffin materials, and models of tombstones and mausoleums.
Not knowing what to say, he accented his awkwardness, playing the inoffensive fool.
She smiled and became almost friendly.
“Give out, you big dope.”
“A kiss…”
“Sure, baby,” she laughed, “only don’t muss me.” They pecked at each other.
She tried to get away, but he held her. She became annoyed and demanded an explanation. He searched his head for one. It wasn’t his head he should have searched, however.
She was leaning toward him, drooping slightly, but not from fatigue. He had seen young birches droop like that at midday when-they are over-heavy with sun.
“You’re drunk,” she said, pushing him away.
“Please,” he begged.
“Le’go, you bastard.”
Raging at him, she was still beautiful. That was because her beauty was structural like a tree’s, not a quality of her mind or heart. Perhaps even whoring couldn’t damage it for that reason, only age or accident or disease.
In a minute she would scream for help. He had to say something. She wouldn’t understand the aesthetic argument and with what values could he back up the moral one? The economic didn’t make sense either. Whoring certainly paid. Half of the customer’s thirty dollars. Say ten men a week.
She kicked at his shins, but he held on to her. Suddenly he began to talk. He had found an argument. Disease would destroy her beauty. He shouted at her like a Y.M.C.A. lecturer on sex hygiene.
She stopped struggling and held her head down, sobbing fitfully. When he was through, he let go of her arms and she bolted from the room. He groped his way to a carved, marble coffin.
He was still sitting there when a young man in a black jacket and gray striped trousers came in.
“Are you here for the Greener funeral?”
Tod stood up and nodded vaguely.
“The services are beginning,” the man said, then opened a little casket covered with grosgrain satin and took out a dust cloth. Tod watched him go around the showroom wiping off the samples.
“Services have probably started,” the man repeated with a wave at the door.
Tod understood this time and left. The only exit he could find led through the chapel. The moment he entered it, Mrs. Johnson caught him and directed him to a seat. He wanted badly to get away, but it was impossible to do so without making a scene.
The Day of the Locust Page 8
