Simpson looked simple and naïve enough to grasp at any straw. Would he grasp at Hattie? Jim considered the plan desperately during the split second before he acted.
This was his opportunity to sidestep the incubus of Robert’s redoubtable Cousin Hattie. His one chance! For certainly in all the Mardi Gras throng he would not find another Widower Simpson.
But Hattie? How would she react to the impropriety of casually striking up a friendship with a total stranger? Jim was very positive the ladies in the Aid Society would frown upon any such loose conduct. If he only knew the man’s name!
He whirled upon Simpson and grasped his arm. “What’s your name?” he hissed in his ear.
“Simpson,” he replied automatically. Then he drew back in alarm as Jim dragged him forward.
“Just think of meeting you here! Of all men!” he cried heartily. “My old friend, Simpson!” He slapped him enthusiastically upon the back while Hattie looked up in surprise.
“I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Jim said to her while Simpson muttered futile protests under his breath. “Mr. Simpson, the father of these charming children. And this, Simp old pal, is … is … Cousin Hattie,” he caught himself—“Uh … that is, Robert’s Cousin Hattie. Robert Sutler, you know?”
“I’m so glad to meet you,” Hattie exclaimed, bowing perkily. Mr. Simpson looked from Jim to Hattie in open-mouthed astonishment. He was almost persuaded that he did recognize Jim, and he thought the name of Robert Sutler had a familiar sound. He didn’t want to be boorish before such a charming lady … and, after all, this was Mardi Gras.
“Pleased tuh meetcha,” he muttered.
“Hain’t she got uh purty costume, daddy?” Boots tugged at his sleeve. “I ain’t seen no other costume atall like hers.”
“Shhh,” Simpson muttered desperately to his small daughter. “That’s the lady’s dress … and it’s a swell un too.”
Cousin Hattie bridled at first because the child thought her black silk was a costume, but she unbent before Simpson’s evident admiration.
“That’s all right,” she said forgivingly. “The little girl is tired and sleepy. It’s just a shame to have them out on the streets at this time of night. What is their mother thinking of?”
“We ain’ got no mammy,” Buddie said quickly. “She went tuh stay wiv thuh angels.” His upturned face was positively cherubic as he supplied this information.
“Oh, you poor lambs!” Hattie exclaimed feelingly. She knelt quickly and sought to gather them in her arms, but they eluded her.
“Be nice to the lady,” Mr. Simpson told them firmly.
They sidled in closer and Hattie cooed over them. Jim turned to Mr. Simpson with a vague smile. “She loves children,” he muttered.
Mr. Simpson’s Adam’s apple leaped furiously as he sought to speak. Jim saw he was much affected by Hattie’s motherly demonstrativeness, and he struck while the iron was hot.
“Wouldn’t you like to show Miss Hattie some of the sights?” he offered delicately. “I have another engagement, and I’m sure you’d make a much better guide than I am.”
“Gosh, I’d be proud to,” Mr. Simpson mumbled feelingly. “Would she, d’you reckon?” He gazed at Hattie humbly.
“I’ll ask her,” Jim whispered. He stepped forward and touched Hattie on the shoulder. “Mr. Simpson wonders if you would care to walk about with him and see the sights,” he told her. “I … I have an engagement that I had forgotten all about.”
“Why …” Cousin Hattie stood up nervously. “I can’t see there’d be any harm since he’s an old friend of yours,” she said hesitantly. “But he must take these babies home and put them to bed at once! Why, the very idea!” She gazed at Mr. Simpson severely.
“Yes’m, yes’m. I reckon I oughtta,” he faltered. “I guess we … looks like we cain’t go ’bout together then …” his voice trailed off indecisively.
“Wait a minute.” Jim stepped valiantly into the breach. His plan was too good to be ruined in any such manner. “Suppose I take the kiddies home and put them to bed?” he offered desperately. “I’ll have time to do that before my engagement.”
“Why … I … I dunno,” Mr. Simpson said helplessly.
“That’s awfully sweet of you,” Hattie told him languishingly. The madness of Mardi Gras had crept into her veins. The instinct of the hunter who sights his prey after years of careful stalking was aroused in her flabby breast. Her drab eyes saw Mr. Simpson as a colorful and romantic figure.
“You can trust Mr. Marston,” she beamed at her newly found escort. “I’m sure he’ll put them right to bed.”
“Of course,” Jim interposed hastily. “I’ll call a cab and have them tucked in their beds in a jiffy. Just give me the address, and you two run along and have a glorious time. The kids will come with me all safe … won’t you?” He winked broadly at Boots and Buddie.
It was Boots who assumed command at this crucial moment. Perhaps she understood the situation better than any of the rest.
“Sure. O’ course,” she responded readily. “Buddie an’ me’ll be good as good can be, daddy. You go on with th’ purty lady. Mebbe … mebbe she’s the one.” The last words were uttered in a hoarse whisper.
“But I haven’t any costume,” Hattie simpered. “I wouldn’t feel right with you dyked out so grand.”
“I’ll fix that too,” Jim said wearily. He set his jaw. Damn it! He’d see this thing through if he had to buy a costume and cram her into it.
“Here’s a place open right next door,” he said eagerly. “They’ve got beautiful costumes that you can buy or rent. Come on.” He seized Hattie’s arm and dragged her to the door of the little shop in spite of her protestations.
“You wait out here,” he flung over his shoulder to Mr. Simpson. Then, to Hattie: “That’s all right. I’ll take care of everything. Think how tickled Robert will be to come back and find you enjoying yourself. He gave me some money to entertain you with … and I’ll pay for the costume out of it.”
They were inside the shop and a young girl came forward languidly. “This lady wants a costume and she wants to change in here,” he told the girl quickly. His pocket disgorged a twenty dollar bill which he forced into Hattie’s hand.
“Pick out anything you want,” he said urgently. “I’ll take the children and put them to bed.”
“But … but what about Robert?” Hattie faltered dazedly. “What’ll he think when he comes back and I’m not there?”
“I’ll fix that too,” Jim said doggedly. “You and Mr. Simpson go to the Dancing Dervish restaurant just up the street. I’ll show him where it is. I’ll leave a note for Robert at the hotel, telling him to meet you there.”
“Well, now … this seems terrible sudden,” Hattie protested.
But Jim was backing out the door and the salesgirl was plucking at her sleeve impatiently. Hattie looked frightened as she turned to gaze at the racks of costumes. She was frightened to feel the spirit of reckless gladness which pervaded her withered frame. A spot of color glowed high up in each cheek as she studied the raiment displayed.
Jim paused just long enough to point out the Dancing Dervish restaurant to Mr. Simpson, and to get from him the address of the house to which he was to take the children. Then he beckoned to a cruising cab, and heaved a deep sigh of relief as he bundled them inside and leaped in after them.
He settled back against the cushion contentedly, feeling as weary as though he had just finished a stint of stevedoring. A chuckle escaped his lips as he wondered what sort of costume Hattie would select, and he saw a mental picture of her sallying forth proudly on Mr. Simpson’s arm to the riotous tumult of the Dancing Dervish to learn the secret of Mardi Gras.
That had called for fast thinking, he congratulated himself, and for direct action. He wondered what Robert would say … but he refused to worry about Robert.
After all, why shouldn’t Hattie and Mr. Simpson see Mardi Gras together? If he could find a bow and arrow, he reflected, he mi
ght pose for a picture of Cupid.
Chapter Twelve
Individuals such as Sonia Jenson have made their appearance at irregular intervals throughout the written history of our world. From every land and from the most divergent environments.
They are born, flame gloriously for a more or less brief period, and vanish … leaving behind them no trace other than an increased sense of futility in the hearts of those whose privilege it has been to contact them intimately during their spectacular careers.
If they leave progeny behind them (and this seems rather the exception than the rule) they are invariably a dull and uninspired brood, failing utterly to follow the laws of heredity; seemingly more in accord with the compensatory mandate which decrees each positive shall breed a negative.
Perhaps it is best so. It shatters the imagination to visualize a world inhabited by Sonias. Yet, they serve a certain purpose. Providence is wise in thus holding before us at intervals a mirror in which we may see reflected the image of our dream-selves.
The Sonias are that. An unrestrained ego which knows no restrictions, jeers at all rules imposed by civilized society, scorns inhibitions and all such advanced psychological theories; in short, an atavistic reversion to the untrammeled savagery of the primitive who recognized no law save the urge of fierce instinct.
Masculine or feminine, it matters not. Soldier of fortune, or voluptuous hussy. Picaresque villain, or bejeweled demivirgin. In various guises they have marched across the pages of our history, causing, each, a ripple of varying intensity … a ripple which is immediately absorbed, blotted up, by the larger progression of humanity.
Sonia’s parentage has no real significance, but is of interest to show from what curious beginnings this type may emerge. Her father was Oscar Jenson, an eager Swedish youth, with cold blue eyes and a thatch of blond hair. Broad-shouldered and mentally laggard. Her mother was Sonia Vlastovich. Dark, haggard, undernourished; with sharp teeth, glittering eyes, and a bitter smile.
They met at Ellis Island, and Sonia Jenson was conceived there amid the bustle and odor of disembarkation. Her parents were married a few days later, and Oscar was gored to death by a Jersey bull on his uncle’s farm in Minnesota two weeks before Sonia was born.
His wife did not fit into the jig saw of the Jenson menage, and she took to the streets with her daughter when Sonia was two months old.
Twenty years have elapsed since the younger Sonia lay upon a dirty bundle of clothes in the corner of an ill-smelling room in St. Paul and gurgled happily while her mother was otherwise occupied in the same room.
That sort of thing continued for fourteen haphazard years. Sonia secured a fragmentary education at various public schools during those fourteen years, and absorbed a great deal of valuable information that is not yet a part of the curriculum of our enlightened public school system.
Then Sonia’s mother died—died so to speak—with her boots on. The man in the case was wealthy—a purely fortuitous circumstance—and the daughter proceeded to put to good account a portion of the knowledge she had imbibed while knocking about the country in the wake of her free-lancing mother.
In other words … she shook the gentleman down for a handsome sum. Sufficient to provide her mother with an ornate casket and decent burial … with enough left to launch Sonia upon her predatory career which she followed with great success during the six years intervening between her mother’s death and our meeting with her in New Orleans.
At twenty, Sonia was extravagantly beautiful. A wistfully soulful expression was her most important business asset. Her technique had been perfected to the point where she had merely to select her prey. The slumbrous cry of passion in the depths of her eyes, and the blustering lust of men did the rest.
She had come to New Orleans two years previously. Hunting was good in New Orleans, and the picturesque background pleased her artistic sense. So she remained. She had found that a certain reputation was an asset. Men regarded her as dangerous, and were thereby attracted … and invariably scorched by the flame of her passion.
Perhaps it was fate which sent Sonia to the Dancing Dervish at midnight of Mardi Gras eve. Possibly it was pure coincidence. No matter how the threads of destinies become entangled. There is no escaping the Master Weaver who draws the variegated fibers into grotesque patterns.
Sonia was bored. Emphatically and wholly. She was alone and it was the eve of Mardi Gras. She did not care to be alone. Remnants of distorted memories were apt to slink upon her when she was alone. She despised herself for morbid brooding.
So she had come to the Dancing Dervish to find gayety and escape from thought. She sat alone at the only table not occupied with revelers and surveyed the assemblage with scorn. She was twenty years old. She felt four times twenty. It was nearing midnight and she sat upon the fringe of a Mardi Gras festival.
She had refused many invitations for this night, and now she regretted her refusals. She moved restlessly in her chair and drew a long cigarette holder of pure jade from her handbag. What the devil had got into her? she asked herself. Was the game palling? She shivered as she peered down the drab vista of a future from which zest had departed.
She lit her cigarette and smiled wryly. She was wholly isolated from the din which beat upon her in waves. The interior of the Dancing Dervish was long and narrow. Two rows of tables along each side and four rows at front and back enclosed a rectangular space for dancing. Sonia sat at a table near the right front corner of this rectangle. It was closely packed with sweating couples who jiggled their bodies lustfully in time with the rhythm produced by a Negro string ensemble.
Sonia ordered a champagne cocktail and sucked in her tongue as she withdrew her eyes from the erotic spectacle. Life was a rotten farce to-night. The waiter brought her cocktail … and upon his heels was the headwaiter with Hattie and Mr. Simpson following bewilderedly in his wake. The headwaiter’s name was Henri, and he knew Sonia very well indeed.
He bowed and spoke softly:
“You will pardon? Two guests to sit with you? There are no other vacancies.” He shrugged his shoulders and spread out the soft palms of his hands.
Sonia looked through him.
“Okay,” she murmured. She surveyed the couple languidly as Henri seated them. Then she sat up straighter and stared at them.
Hattie had chosen a Spanish costume. It was the only one in the shop with a decently long skirt to modestly garb her thin shanks. It was too large for her, and the vivid colors clashed violently with her sallow complexion. A rhinestone comb set coquettishly in her graying hair was an added, incongruous touch.
Sonia blinked her eyes twice and set her glass down. Then she transferred her gaze to Mr. Simpson. He removed his sombrero awkwardly as he sat down. He looked very unhappy in the midst of the glitter and glamour of the gathering.
They weren’t, of course, possible, Sonia told herself. They were too perfect to be possible. She would close her eyes again, and the couple would be gone when she looked. She tried it, but the illusion persisted. The man’s wide mouth opened yawningly, and squeaky words came forth.
“Here we are, huh?” He smiled uncomfortably. “I guess we’re right in the swim. Mighty swell here.”
“They look terribly wicked,” Hattie said hopefully. “I declare, I don’t know what possessed me to fix up like this and come here. I don’t know what Robert will think. Everyone smoking and drinking and carrying-on.” Her eyes avoided meeting Sonia’s, though her quick glance flickered over the cigarette and tall glass.
“I ’spect we had ought to order something,” Mr. Simpson said unhappily. “This waiter feller keeps hanging ’round like he’s waiting for us to.”
“Why I … I suppose maybe we should … but I don’t know …” Hattie’s voice broke off in tremulous indecision.
“Pardon me,” Sonia spoke impulsively. She was surprised to hear the words issue from her mouth. “Won’t you be my guests?” she asked. “Please. Let me order something.”
Mr. Simpso
n stared at her mournfully while Hattie started, and looked at Sonia in dismay.
“That’s right nice,” Mr. Simpson said heavily. “But I don’t think we had ought to.…”
“Nonsense!” Sonia interrupted him imperiously. She gestured to the waiter and pointed to her own glass … holding up two fingers. He smiled and departed.
Sonia planted her elbows on the table and studied Hattie and Mr. Simpson through a cloud of smoke. She was lovely, and she had a way with her.
“Let me do this,” she begged prettily. “I was so lonesome, sitting here all alone. It’s no fun being by oneself on Mardi Gras evening.”
“But you’re a perfect stranger,” Hattie said accusingly. She tried not to look at Sonia’s carmined lips and heavily rouged cheeks.
“I’ll fix that,” Sonia told her calmly. “I’m Miss Jenson. Sonia Jenson.”
“Sonia? That sounds furrin,” Hattie snapped.
“It’s uh right purty name,” Mr. Simpson protested weakly. “My name’s Simpson, Miss … and let me introduce you to Miss Hattie … uh … Miss Hattie.…”
“Sutler!” Hattie supplied the name severely. “It seems a loose way of doing, but I ’spose it’s all a part and parcel of this carnival nonsense.” Her nose wriggled in a devil-may-care manner.
“Of course,” Sonia said soothingly. “Informality is one of the nicest things about Mardi Gras.” As she spoke she wondered what on earth had prompted her to speak to this strange couple. But they were pathetic, she reminded herself, and it might be amusing to watch them enter into the spirit of Mardi Gras.
The waiter brought their drinks just then and set two champagne cocktails before them. Sonia lifted her own glass high.
“Here’s to us,” she said gayly.
Mr. Simpson tasted his drink, hesitated, took another sip, blinked his eyes and gulped, then tipped the glass and drank heartily.
Hattie sniffed at her glass suspiciously. Wrinkled her nose, sniffed again, and tasted it.
She set the glass down in alarm and lifted her shoulders portentously. “Liquor!” she said sharply. “Ugh! Mr. Simpson! There’s alcohol in that drink!”
Mardi Gras Madness Page 10
