My American

by Stella Gibbons

  Joe broke off to say:

  “Miss Ridgeway, I’m goin’ to teach the baby to pitch as soon as he’s old enough.”

  Why, Joe Murphy, you’ll have to wait ever so long before he’s old enough to pitch, won’t he, Miss Ridgeway?” said Sally scornfully.” Babies is so small, they can’t walk or pitch or do anything, can they, Miss Ridgeway?”

  “I guess he could start in to pitch a soft ball when he was three, couldn’t he, Miss Ridgeway?”

  “Maybe, Joe.”

  “And it would keep him out of Mom’s way a bit if I was to take him out pitching every day after school, wouldn’t it?”

  “It certainly would.”

  “Gee, but I’d hafta take him some place where the gang wouldn’t see us!” he muttered presently. “They sure would rib me if they was to catch me taking a baby out pitching!”

  “C’m on, let’s sing some more,” interrupted Sally, and Joe’s clear voice, not yet broken, and her fairylike but self-conscious treble broke again into

  California, here I come!

  as the car drew near the first of the old bridges.

  Bob put on the brakes abruptly. A girl in a white coat stood on a steep bank, looking down at him and making the hitch-hiker’s signal. She wore no hat on her thick curls and looked pretty, standing up there in the moonlight.

  “Hullo?” he called “Want a ride?”

  “Whaddya think?” She slipped unsteadily down the bank with her white shoes close together. “My date never turned up, and—why, Bob Vorst! Of all things!” She held out her hands, the red fingernails black in the moonlight, and Bob took them, laughing too, and pulled her up on the running board. It was Francey Carr.

  “Well, well, well. Small world, isn’t it!” He opened the door and she got in beside him. “How come you’re out here? Who was your date?”

  “Oh——” She glanced round in an oddly cautious way at the silent moonlit road and the deserted fields. “I was only kiddin’; I hadn’t got a date. I was waiting for Dan.”

  Bob nodded, looking steadily at her under the lock of hair fallen over his forehead.

  “So he’s around, is he?”

  “Sure. He got into a hot patch, so he’s lying low for a while.”

  “He’s got plenty of nerve. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, Bob. Honest, I don’t. Somewhere up in the mountains. He don’t tell me nothin’, and I don’t ask. I don’t waunt to know too much, in case the bulls pick me up and third degree me.”

  “How are you doing, Francey?”

  “Oh, I’m all right. I’m in a beauty-parlour in Morgan. Liselle’s, on Ninth Avenue. I room with another girl on John Foster Street. Sure I’m all right. I get plenty of dates, and good money and everything, and Dan sends me a little present every now an’ then. But I ain’t mixed up with his gang, Bob. They get me scared. Gee, I wish he’d get out of it.”

  “Not married?”

  “Jeeze, no! There’s a guy, he’s sales representative for Sweetbriar Toothpaste in Morgan, wants me to get engaged to be married, but I don’t know, I make good money an’ I’m kinda used to having a good time now, I don’t waunta settle down.”

  She smiled at him, her little white face and large eyes looking like a doll’s in the faint moonlight. She had learned how to move and how to stand still since they had last danced together, and her perfect body, clothed in a fresh dress of thick white silk, gave off a faint perfume. He suddenly kissed the hollow of her throat, keeping his mouth against it for a moment.

  “Fresh, aren’t you,” murmured Francey. “Gee, I wish Dan would show up.”

  “How long have you been waiting?”

  “Most an hour. My room-mate gave me a lift out here; she’s got a car.”

  “Well, let’s go. He’s probably been detained,” said Bob smiling, but he glanced away at the wooded hills, dark and silent. There were deserted farmhouses and cabins up there that would make safe hideouts for an army of gangsters. “How about a little drink at Roselands?” He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.

  “Suits me.”

  “Come closer, will you.”

  She moved against his side, and he started the car.

  “Make her go, Bob. I like to go fast.”

  “Me too.”

  A few minutes later, when they were out of sight, another car, long and black, came out of the woods on the hills above and took the rough track down to the old road.

  “California, here I come!”

  sang the children, excited by the movement of the little car through the moonlit night.

  “Open wide those Golden Gates!”

  chanted Sally, kicking her heels against the seat.

  The long black car reached the foot of the hill and slowed its pace, and the man who was driving looked about him.

  “She ain’t here, Silk,” he said at last.

  “All right. Get on down the road. Maybe she’s further on,” said a low voice from inside the car.

  “Ain’t you gointa wait? Maybe she’s late.”

  “Get on, will you.”

  The driver, a thick-set man in a light raincoat and hat pulled over his eyes, sent the car along the road taken by Bob and Francey some minutes before.

  Willow trees, road and grey fields rushed past. Francey leant towards Bob and he twisted his lips to meet hers, keeping his eyes on the road flying ahead. He was intoxicated with the cold sweetness of the wind rushing past, the silver sky wheeling overhead, the soft hot pressure of Francey’s mouth.

  “Gee, Bob, what’re we making?”

  “Can’t see. Like it?”

  “Sure!”

  “Sit tight, children. We’re coming to another bumpy bridge,” said Miss Ridgeway. She could see the lights of another car, moving very fast, rushing towards them between the trees some distance away, and she slackened her own car’s pace.

  “Open wide those Golden Gates!”

  sang the children, and the bridge came in sight.

  And then Ann Ridgeway screamed and jammed on her brakes, twisting the wheel violently to the left, but it was too late. A big car leapt roaring round the sharp curve of the road, struck the little car sideways on, and knocked it through the rotten rails of the bridge into the river bed below. Miss Ridgeway heard a dreadful little scream behind her, and then something hit her head and everything went out.

  After the hideous confused crash of collision there was a silence, in which nothing moved but the white figure of Francey as she clutched at Bob, who was lying over the wheel with blood pouring from his nose. Their car had run half-way up a bank.

  “Bob! Bob!” whispered Francey. “Are you dead? Oh God, it was a kid—I saw her. She fell out … Bob … say something.”

  He never moved. Down in the little valley below the broken bridge someone was crying loudly and moaning. And then the long black car swept round the corner, with the pale faces of two men staring out. It stopped, and both men got out and ran across.

  “Oh God, it was a kid … I saw her …” screamed Francey, turning on them. One of the men saw Bob, and drew in a quick breath, and began to curse.

  “He’s dead!” Can’t you do something? shrieked Francey.

  “C’m on.” He seized her arm and dragged her out of the car. “We’ve got to get out of this. We don’t want to be here when the police come. …”

  “He’s dead!” She looked back at Bob as the two men half led, half dragged her across the road.

  “Sure. And he can’t talk,” the other man muttered, flinging open the door of the car. Then Francey opened her mouth to scream again, but a hand was smacked down over it and she was forced inside. The driver scrambled into the seat and the car fled away, dwindling down the moonlit road until it was only a flying black dot.

  When Ann Ridgeway slowly opened her eyes, she stared into the white blood-smeared face of a young man who was sobbing. He was staring down at her, and gently, cautiously, with sobs shaking his body, he was moving her hands with the movements a doct
or uses to restore a human being to consciousness.

  “Where are the children?” she whispered very slowly, staring up at him.

  He gulped, and looked away from her to a place a little distant. She raised herself on her elbow, groaning, and peered where he was looking.

  “Are they dead?” she whispered.

  Two bundles, one with a white thing over its head, lay side by side on the grass.

  “The boy’s alive. He’s unconscious. I think his eye has gone,” he said in a slow hoarse voice. “The little girl——”

  He suddenly put his face into his hands and sobbed behind them, saying something she could not hear.

  CHAPTER XVII

  HELEN WENT TO her bedroom window for a moment to look out at the snow. It had come in the night, thick and deep, loading the budding branches and filling the world with the strange silver light that is like no other, and no one all over Vine Falls could talk of anything else that day. For spring was well advanced, the orchards were in blossom, and here was the snow, killing and destroying like a wicked, beautiful army! It was strange to see it lying under the light of a spring evening and to hear the children shouting and running past with their coasters, as they did in January.

  She had come upstairs to change her frock for the Boadman’s cocktail party, and had just gathered up her fur jacket when the still, silver light coming through the window had attracted her, and she moved slowly across and looked out. The trees with their delicate load, the blue light, and one star shaking above the darkening roofs, were so beautiful that they were unbearable. She could still see Bob’s face as it had been when he left the court yesterday, coming slowly down the steps between an angry crowd. That was all she could see, and because of the look that had been on his face, beauty was not to be born.

  The telephone bell rang while she was standing there, and then her mother’s voice called up the stairs:

  “Helen! It’s for you.”

  Mrs. Viner was standing at the door of the parlour, with the large blue eyes that were so like her daughter’s looking troubled and frightened, and as Helen went past her she said:

  “It’s Bob, dear. He sounds pretty bad.”

  “Shut the door, will you, mother,” said Helen over her shoulder as she picked up the receiver; and from the corner of her eye she saw her mother very gently do as she was asked, the door slowly closing on her pretty, disturbed face under the pile of high curls that even older women were wearing that year. Dear mother … thought Helen … so kind and lovely … and then she forgot everything but the sound of Bob’s voice.

  “Helen?”

  It was his voice, of course, it must be, but so low and hoarse and so exhausted that she hardly know it.

  “Bob? This is Helen.”

  “Listen, Helen. Can you drive me out to Black Lake Inn?”

  “Of course. Where’ll I pick you up? Are you at home?”

  “I’ll be on the corner of Culver and Sycamore in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She hung up, and went to the door, calling, “Mother!”

  “Helen, what is it? He sounds so bad! Is he coming up here?” Mrs. Viner came through from the kitchen where she had been giving the Polish daily girl instructions about the evening meal, and followed her daughter upstairs. She was dressed for the Boadman’s party, all but the little Edwardian black hat with pale blue feather wings which she now put on, looking anxiously at her daughter while Helen was pulling on her fur jacket and tying its hood under her chin.

  “He wants me to meet him downtown and drive him out to Black Lake. Mother, tell Mrs. Boadman something for me, will you? Think up some excuse.”

  “Oh, I’ll say you’ve taken Bob for a drive, he was feeling pretty bad after yesterday—”

  “Please don’t tell her I’m with Bob or say anything about Bob, please, Mother.” Helen’s usually low voice, one of her charms, was almost shrill as she turned at the door. “You know how she talks. She was in court yesterday, taking it all in, looking so cruel … she’s a case for psycho-analysis if ever anybody was! I just can’t bear to have her knowing how bad Bob feels … you think up something for me, Mother.”

  “Of course, darling. Helen!” (calling after her), “When’ll you be back? Those people are coming in after supper——”

  “Oh, I don’t know!” The faint exasperated cry was drowned in the slamming of the front door.

  Five minutes later she was driving down the avenue under the fairylike trees laden with buds and snow. The strange weather had given everybody a little shock of surprise, almost of pleasure, because it was unexpected enough to shake everybody out of their everyday feelings and to awaken their sense of wonder, and as a result everybody moved more briskly, and eyes were bright and voices quicker and more crisp. The town might have had a piece of good news in which everybody could share, instead of having seen thousands of pounds worth of fruit blossom killed in a few hours. The snow and the damage to the crops and everything … that’ll give people something to talk about, and maybe they won’t think so much about Bob, thought Helen.

  It’s a good thing it’s the beginning of the vacation. Bob’ll be able to get away, and when he comes back next month, maybe people will have forgotten. …

  Maybe they will.

  It was all perfectly straightforward. The jury weren’t out more than ten minutes.

  Everybody could see how broken up Bob was, even after he was acquitted. Everybody was so sorry. Amalie Cordell was crying. …

  But I do wish Uncle Webster hadn’t hired Schroeder for the defence. He’s got such a bad reputation for cases of this kind.

  That’s what made the crowd so angry.

  “Lucky not to go to the chair!”

  “Dirty mobsman’s lawyer!”

  I’ll never forget those women screaming when he came down the steps, so slowly. And the look on his face. Darling. I can’t do anything to help you.

  Oh, what’s the use of lying? There was something queer about the jury. They looked … frightened.

  Oh, well, what does it matter? He was acquitted, wasn’t he? What does it matter how it was done, so long as he was acquitted, and won’t have to go to prison? I won’t think about it.

  But why did he look like that? Why did he look … ashamed? I’ve never seen Bob look like that before. It was horrible.

  Uncle Webster kept on saying It’ll be all right. He was worried sick until he’d talked to Schroeder, and then he kept saying Everything’s going to be fine. And Lou wouldn’t say a word. She looked so queer when she came out of court, relieved yet kind of ashamed, too.

  There was something queer about it.

  It was darned clever of Schroeder to dig up those two on a petting party in their car. It gave us the case.

  If they really did see the crash. …

  If Miss Ridgeway really was on the wrong side of the road …

  If … if …? What does it matter? He’s safe. He was acquitted. Five hundred dollars, and he mustn’t drive a car in the State for a year … but he was acquitted, wasn’t he?

  I won’t think about it.

  Everybody was so glad we won. Everybody loves Bob. I suppose it ought to be a comfort to me that I’m not the only one.

  I suppose I’ll go on feeling like this all my life.

  But I wouldn’t have had it any other way … unless he could have loved me back again. It’s made life more beautiful, not poisoned everything.

  And one day maybe I’ll find someone I can love in a different way, a new way, not all mixed up with childhood and remembering the fall woods, and growing up together, and then I’ll marry him.

  I’ll try to keep my love for Bob beautiful all my life, and not let it spoil me, or spoil my marriage … or even spoil my husband! She smiled very faintly. The corner of Culver and Sycamore Avenues was in sight, and she could see Bob’s tall figure waiting. In another moment she stopped the car by him, and he opened the door and got in beside her. He had a small case with him.r />
  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” she said. She was so shocked by the change in him that she spoke out of sheer nervousness as she might have to a stranger. His face was drawn and unshaven and there were black shadows under his eyes, but dreadful as his appearance was, it was less dreadful to her than a differentness that hung over him, making him unlike Bob. She felt as if a light had gone out.

  “That’s all right,” he said, not looking at her.

  “Shall we go?”

  “Yes, please. I’ve got to be there by half-after seven.”

  She started the car and they moved off.

  The spring evening was fading into dusk. The sky was already dark clear blue, but the streets were light with a ghostly reflection from the snow heaped in mounds on the sidewalks, and the branches of the trees, dipping lower than usual with their burden of lightly-frozen snow, sparkled wonderfully in the glow from the electric standards. Helen’s old favourites, the white hyacinths, stood up through snow in garden after garden as they passed.

  “The poor flowers,” she murmured, after a very long silence.

  “What?”

  “Only the snow, I meant. It’s killed so many flowers.”

  But the word “killed” hung on the air for minutes after she had spoken it; and she became so frightened at his silence and the way he kept his face turned away from her and stared at the houses going past that she could hardly drive.

  “I’d better light up,” she murmured, and the next instant the road just in front of the car was lit by a long beam. They were out in the country now, and the road was brown and white with crushed snow. It looked to Helen like the only real object in the world, coming steadily forward to meet the car out of the hushed twilight.

  She was wondering in great misery of mind whether it would be better for her to try and make him talk, or to let him sit beside her in that alarming silence. And why was he going to Black Lake? What would he do there at a summer hotel in the mountains that would only just be open, miles from anywhere?

  At last she could bear the silence no longer and said:

  “Are you going to stay at Black Lake?”

  “I don’t know. I’m meeting Dan there.”