Lorry was frightened. She forced herself to her feet. “I don’t like the Gazette. There are as many liberal newspapers in New York as the population can absorb.” Her mouth became compressed, and its color disappeared. “Never mind the Gazette. The hell with it.”
“Lorry’s right,” said Esther. “Oh, dear, they’ve sounded the cymbals again. MacDonald, please. Do let’s go into the dining room.”
“Why won’t you publish my articles about the air pollution from the factories in this damned town?” asked Lorry. “It’s all right for us, up here on the hills. But the town’s in a valley. One of these days there’s going to be a downdraft or whatever they call it, and it’ll be fatal to hundreds of people. You know that.” When her father did not reply, she continued, “You are always attacking capitalism in a nice, gentlemanly way. Yet here’s capitalism poisoning the air, right here in Barryfield. Or don’t you want to offend your friends?” Her eyes taunted her father.
“You can’t change things overnight,” he said, uncomfortably. “It’s a long process.”
“Why don’t you publish my articles? I’ve got ten of them, you know.” Lorry’s voice was charged with derision.
“Well, they’re a little too strong, dear. Suppose you go over them and tone them down? Then—”
She laughed at him, and he winced at the bark of her peculiar laughter. “I haven’t noticed that your articles on juvenile delinquency are toned down. No. You go after the subject with clubs in both hands. Slum conditions. Breeding places for crime. Inadequate police. No recreation areas for the young—how I hate that phrase! The system. Society. Low wages; cramped, obsolete houses; not enough public housing. Greed. Remember? You sent out a survey. And the survey found out—because the men who conducted it were honest—that most of our young criminals don’t come from the working class. They come from families with an income beginning with four thousand dollars a year, and far up. So, the result of the survey wasn’t to your liking, and you suppressed it. Yet you pound away at lies, lies, lies.”
He gazed at her deeply. He thought, Swensen was right. She’s too unstable. She doesn’t grasp what we’re after. She believes a newspaper should tell the truth. How naive she is. Poor child.
“Can’t we continue the discussion at dinner?” asked Esther, annoyed.
“I don’t want dinner,” said Lorry. “I’m going to my rooms. Tell them to leave out a sandwich, or something.”
“Lorry,” said Mr. Summerfield pleadingly. But Lorry suddenly turned the full electric force of her scornful eyes on him, and he stepped back. She went out of the room swiftly, her cloudy gray dress flowing about her. She stepped into the tiled hall, with its ugly crowding of Chinese furniture, and ran up the dark oak stairs. Her own rooms had been furnished by herself, cool, traditional, with aloof and formal colors, and crystal. She went at once to her desk, after shutting her door, and lifted the telephone receiver. She called Dr. McManus at his home.
“Now, what’s the matter?” he asked irritably. “I told you this morning that the kid’s doing as well as can be expected. And that’s not much. We’re worried. There’s no change, though, except he gets delirious sometimes; high fever.”
“Uncle Al, I’m not calling about Jean. Why didn’t you tell me Johnny had been seriously injured yesterday by some young criminal?”
There was a little silence, then the doctor shrilled, “Well, you’ve got a newspaper, and reporters, haven’t you? I thought you’d see it soon enough, damn it! Now wait a minute. He’s not so seriously injured. Concussion. He’s getting over it. He could have been killed, though. Just missed killing him. Why, he’s sitting right up in bed this very minute. Forcing himself out of it; wants to get to the kid in the hospital. We’ve told Jean some lies, and he’s too sick to think them through, and we’re keeping the bad news from Johnny.”
Lorry said, “And the boy who did it?” She began to shiver.
“Johnny won’t prosecute. Funny thing. The leader of the gang practically lives in the damned parsonage. Brought Johnny some tobacco and flowers this afternoon. Maudlin. Sits and cries at Johnny. You ought to see his parents. Lumps. Lard. But the mother’s better than the father. She came, and cried too. Everybody cries! God-damnedest thing you ever saw! Parsonage’s awash. Can’t stand it myself.”
“Good-by,” said Lorry abruptly. She hung up. She tore off her dress, and changed to a dark suit and a fur cape. She ran down the stairs silently, went to the garage, and got into her own car. She drove away furiously, down the winding mountain road. Barryfield had one smart street, which kept some of its shops open at night. Lorry stopped her car before a very exclusive store which sold “unusual gifts.” She ran inside, and immediately threw the owner and his two clerks into a delightful whirl of excitement. She ran up and down the tables, examining everything, with the manager burbling at her heels. “That,” she said, pointing to an Italian statue of the Madonna in blue and gold transparent glass. “Two hundred dollars, Miss Summerfield,” said the manager reverently, taking up the statue, which was a foot tall. “Lovely thing, isn’t it? Magnificently executed. The only one of its kind.”
He held it to the light, which shone through it gently. The serene and beautiful young face came alive in a glow of tenderness, like pulsating flesh. The rosary, a long pale rope, fell from the exquisite hands. The manager glanced curiously at the girl. Now why would she be buying this? “Wrap it up,” she said.
She began to prowl again. She came upon an oval gold box, three inches in diameter. The lid was intricately chased in a design of noble faces and doves. She opened it, and a faint rich fragrance rose from the interior, as of attar of roses. “An authentic Renaissance piece,” said the manager in a hushed voice. “It was probably used for concentrated scents, recently. You can still smell them. I suggest this as a gift for a gentleman, for cuff links or personal jewelry.”
Lorry smiled with dark humor. But she was fascinated by the box. “Two hundred fifty, Miss Summerfield. Originally five hundred. But who would buy such a thing in this city? I was just preparing to send it back to my shop in New York or Philadelphia.”
“Wrap it up,” said Lorry.
The manager beamed. “Mr. Summerfield will love this! His birthday, perhaps?”
“I’m sure he’d love it,” said Lorry ironically.
She carried the treasures to her car and drove to the hospital. She was admitted to Jean’s room without delay. Fresh flowers, which she had sent today, filled the room, and a young nurse was in attendance. Though it was hardly nine o’clock the hospital was silent, but no room was as silent as this. The nurse whispered, “The poor child. He has a dreadful fever, over 104. But he keeps swimming up to consciousness and asking for his mother.”
“No improvement?” asked Lorry.
“No,” the nurse hesitated. “He’s a little worse, in fact. Dr. Klein was just here. He’ll be back at midnight, with Dr. McManus. He’s had five hundred thousand units of penicillin today, and Dr. McManus called a New York hospital a couple of hours ago for a new wonder drug.”
Lorry went to the bed. She looked down at Jean, so gaunt, so dwindled, so ashen. His eyes were closed. His breathing was heavy and intermittent. He muttered constantly. Lorry looked at the apparatus which kept his leg, in a heavy cast, absolutely immobile. She looked at the cast on his arm. Lorry thought of her father, with a burst of hatred like an explosion in her heart. The enemy is never satisfied, she said to herself. They have done this to him. They are preparing to do it again, tomorrow.
The nurse retreated to her chair near the window, in the faint shadow of the night lamp. She stared at Lorry with immense curiosity. Lorry, forgetting her, bent over the child. “Jean?” she whispered strongly. “Jean?”
She had never seen any of the children before, but Dr. McManus had given her their full history. She looked at the small remote face, so unchildlike, so full of a mournful wisdom, so stern. She drew in her lower lip, and her throat contracted. She bent closer over Jean and pressed her mou
th to his cheek, and whispered again, “Jean? Jean? Can you hear me? Jean?” The pain in her breast became tighter, more urgent. She kissed him again, murmuring lovingly against his ear.
The boy muttered, stirred restlessly, cried out feebly, then opened his eyes. They lay far back in his face, like pale and clouded glass, behind which agonizing dreams drifted. She floated into his waning consciousness, a white and beautiful face, the night light making a halo of her golden hair. He saw nothing else but Lorry, and his dulled expression quickened into joyful recognition. “Maman?” he muttered. “Maman?”
“Yes, darling,” she answered. Her hand smoothed his thick hair. “Papa sent me.”
His free hand fluttered, and she took it strongly. He could not look away from her; the dreams became peaceful and sweet. “Maman,” he said again. He tried to smile; the slightest color appeared in his face.
“Jean must get well, very soon,” said Lorry, with tender severity. “Papa needs him. You hear me, dear?”
His eyes remained fixed in joy upon her. “I hear,” he murmured. “For Papa.”
The nurse approached quickly. Under Lorry’s perfume she could smell the rank odor of alcohol. The nurse was offended; then she recovered herself. One did not get offended at a Summerfield. She deftly felt for Jean’s pulse, looking solemnly at her watch. “Why,” she said, in wonderment, it’s—why, it’s much stronger!”
But Lorry was smiling at Jean, and he was drowsily smilling at her. Then, all at once, he sighed deeply and fell asleep, turning his head toward the girl. His cold little hand warmed in hers, and relaxed. She kissed him again, rested her cheek against his forehead. It was not so hot now. A light sweat had broken out upon it.
Lorry unwrapped the Madonna and put it on the bedside table. It glowed like a jewel in the pale light. “Tell him, when he wakes up, that his mother brought it to him,” she said to the nurse, who blinked.
“But he hasn’t any mother,” the nurse said.
Lorry stared at her inimicably. She said, in a low, hard voice, “Don’t be so damned factual! Tell him what I’ve told you. He’ll understand. Anyway, how do you know his mother didn’t send me tonight?”
The young girl was confused. She regarded Lorry with mingled respect and bewilderment. “Yes, Miss Summerfield,” she said obediently. Someone was entering the room, and the nurse turned in relief. “Dr. Kennedy,” she said.
The young doctor was all white clothing, and dark eyes and slight smiles. “Hello, Tim,” said Lorry, and now she colored. “I came to see this poor little boy. I heard he wasn’t doing so well. I thought I should come.”
“Good,” said Dr. Kennedy. If he was surprised, he did not show it. He saw the glowing statue on the table, and he studied it meditatively. “You can have it blessed, or something,” said Lorry, with discomfort. Dr. Kennedy touched the small jewellike feet reverently. His thick black brows quirked. “I thought he might like it,” went on Lorry. “I told the nurse to tell him his mother—brought it.”
Dr. Kennedy was silent. He took the boy’s pulse, lightly touched his forehead. He saw the new faint color. “He’s much better,” he said. He added, without looking at Lorry, “How do you know it hasn’t already been blessed? Of course his mother brought it.”
“Thanks, Tim,” said Lorry, and took up her purse and cape. He went with her into the corridor. He said, seriously, “An hour ago I was very worried. I gave him less than half a chance to survive. There’s some critical infection. It’s subsided, I think.” He contemplated the girl for a long moment. “I think you’ve done something for the boy, Lorry.” He disliked the Summerfields intensely; he hated their newspapers. Now he was all wonder. He knew that Lorry was paying for the room and the nurses and the flowers. He had hardly believed it, when Dr. McManus had told him. But all this had not impressed him so much as this late visit, this bringing of the statue, this strange tenderness from a woman he knew to be careless and hard of heart. They had known each other from childhood. He had often conjectured what had changed Lorry from a gay and eager young girl to a bitter, dangerous, and disillusioned woman, a female replica of her father.
He watched her swing down the corridor, her golden head high and stiff. He said to himself, softly, “Now, I’ll be—”
Though the days were still hot, the nights were very cool, almost sharp. The air in the mountains was as clarified as brandy, but the streets of Barryfield were fetid and corrupt with industrial gases and wastes and the very breath of the circumscribed, cramped city. On many nights, particularly in the autumn and spring, when fog rose from the damp ground and mingled with the gases, the air was very hard to breathe. It stung the lungs and burned the nostrils and sickened stomachs. It thickened the fog in which it was trapped, and filthied it, and turned it to poison. Tonight was such a night.
Lorry Summerfield coughed and cursed to herself, as she drove through the dank streets. The sidewalks glimmered dimly; the street lamps were swathed in swirling and spectral ghosts, as if a plague were abroad. And so it is, thought Lorry. She remembered the articles she had written about all this. Tomorrow, she told herself grimly, she would have the first article slipped in on the second page of the Press, and her father be damned. Let him explain frantically, or smoothly, to his friends about the error. Let him upbraid his daughter. She would only stare at him, and say, “Well, tell them that you’ve fired the feature writer. I didn’t put it under my by-line.” As for the other articles, she would slip them in adroitly from time to time. She chuckled. She still felt light and potent and direct, the result of the drinks she had gulped tonight; her brain still felt very bright and teeming. Her despondency had lifted; it was always this way—in about an hour the despondency would return, more violent and desperate than ever. But by that time, she thought, I’ll be home and have a few more drinks.
She pulled her car up hard before Johnny Fletcher’s parsonage, which she considered somberly. A few of the abominable lamps in the parlor were still lighted, and there was a glow upstairs through a round window. Lorry got out of her car, careful of the slimy sidewalk and even more careful of the steep stairs of the stoop. She opened the door of the parsonage, to be greeted by the wide gaze of a number of neat, drab, and shabby men and women. They were sitting about the parlor in attitudes of limp distress and solemnity. When Lorry entered, like a figure of vital light, they started, recognizing her from photographs and from swift glimpses of her in the streets.
Lorry was alarmed. She said in a loud, quick voice, “Is something wrong? How is Mr. Fletcher?” Why were they congregated here, except for disaster, these weary and faceless creatures?
A little wiry woman spoke up. “Nothing’s wrong, Miss Summerfield. I’m Mrs. McGee. Mrs. Burnsdale is making us some coffee. We’ve just been talking about Mr. Fletcher—and the children. Poor things. Give Miss Summerfield your seat,” she added severely to a small, red-faced man with many white curls on his head.
“No,” said Lorry. She paused. “Thanks.” She studied the awkward group with curiosity. One by one the stooped men rose shyly, prompted by pokes from their wives and commanding glances. So these were Johnny’s parishioners. They did not seem particularly malevolent or cruel or stupid as she scrutinized their faces more acutely. They were just—people. Yet some of them were responsible for Johnny’s sufferings. Some of them had corrupted their children’s minds, to inspire such attacks on that little boy, Max, and on the minister himself. But they lied to their children only in all sincerity, as their parents had lied to them.
She pulled off her cape and threw it negligently at an empty chair. She threw her gloves after it. Then she turned the immense power of her eyes slowly to the parishioners. “I’d like to do a story about all this,” she said. “I’d like to show the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania that it has a city that belongs in the Dark Ages, or a jungle, or as the annex to a zoo. Perhaps the other cities could run buses here, just to look at Barryfield, just to look at the houses, and the people who live here. A good feature article that would
be picked up by the national press, and made the subject of editorials all over the country. And, perhaps, we could have the National Guard called out, to patrol these streets so no more ministers or children would be attacked, and their lives threatened.”
Mr. McGee’s scarlet face deepened to crimson. He said, “Now, Miss Summerfield. That wouldn’t be fair. I—I’m president of the mine union. We—”
“Do you hold propaganda meetings for your men, and point out the ones who should be driven out of this damned city, or the children whose throats should be cut, or the men who should be stoned? Do you conduct your meetings in the best Communist style, and count those who should be liquidated? I’ve heard things about unions.”
Mr. McGee straightened, and faced her openly, while the others, with shamed faces, remained silent. “Miss Summerfield,” he said, “you know you’re exaggerating. You know this town; you were born here. Sure we’ve got some Communists, I think. You can never tell about those fellers. I’ve been warning my men about them, and they hate the Communists as bad as I do.” He stopped, and his eyes were hard and bright as he looked at the girl. “I can tell you one thing, Miss Summerfield—your papers have a bad reputation among decent people. I’ve studied Communism myself. There’s a mighty lot of it in the Press, and I can tell you we don’t like it, and you’re losing circulation, and the mine-workers just use it to wrap their lunches in. Well, never mind. Maybe we aren’t better than any other people, here in Barryfield, and all this about the minister and the children is terrible. But there’s always a few everywhere, in any town or big city, who are born murderers.” He regarded her shrewdly. “A few who want to believe stuff like in the Press.”
Lorry pressed her lips together to keep from an almost irresistible smile. Mr. McGee was becoming excited. He pointed a short finger at her. “I don’t like saying things like this to a—a lady. But I’ve wanted to say them, and no time like the present. I was a miner, Miss Summerfield; I worked in mines around here for over thirty years. I know the men; I was one of ’em, and so was my father. Ever been in a mine, Miss Summerfield? No, you haven’t. Whatever pay a miner gets isn’t enough for what he does; if he got a hundred dollars a day, it wouldn’t be enough for working in the mines. Sure, we got unions, and good ones. Why don’t you read about the mining industry yourself?”
A Tender Victory Page 24
