Part 10

“God I swear I’m goin to git outa here tomorrow. I git sceered here. Too many bulls an detectives in this town.”

“You could make a livin in handouts.... But take it from me kid you go back to the farm an the ole folks while the goin’s good.”

Bud jumped out of bed and yanked roughly at the man’s shoulder. “Come over here to the light, I want to show ye sumpen.” Bud’s own voice crinkled queerly in his ears. He strode along the snoring lane of cots. The bum, a shambling man with curly weatherbleached hair and beard and eyes as if hammered into his head, climbed fully dressed out from the blankets and followed him. Under the light Bud unbuttoned the front of his unionsuit and pulled it off his knottymuscled gaunt arms and shoulders. “Look at my back.”

“Christ Jesus,” whispered the man running a grimy hand with long yellow nails over the mass of white and red deep-gouged scars. “I aint never seen nothin like it.”

“That’s what the ole man done to me. For twelve years he licked me when he had a mind to. Used to strip me and take a piece of light chain to my back. They said he was my dad but I know he aint. I run away when I was thirteen. That was when he ketched me an began to lick me. I’m twentyfive now.”

They went back without speaking to their cots and lay down.

Bud lay staring at the ceiling with the blanket up to his eyes. When he looked down towards the door at the end of the room, he saw standing there a man in a derby hat with a cigar in his mouth. He crushed his lower lip between his teeth to keep from crying out. When he looked again the man was gone. “Say are you awake yet?” he whispered.

The bum grunted. “I was goin to tell yer. I mashed his head in with the grubbinhoe, mashed it in like when you kick a rotten punkin. I told him to lay offn me an he wouldn’t.... He was a hard godfearin man an he wanted you to be sceered of him. We was grubbin the sumach outa the old pasture to plant pertoters there.... I let him lay till night with his head mashed in like a rotten punkin. A bit of scrub along the fence hid him from the road. Then I buried him an went up to the house an made me a pot of coffee. He hadn’t never let me drink no coffee. Before light I got up an walked down the road. I was tellin myself in a big city it’d be like lookin for a needle in a haystack to find yer. I knowed where the ole man kep his money; he had a roll as big as your head but I was sceered to take more’en ten dollars.... You awake yet?”

The bum grunted. “When I was a kid I kep company with ole man Sackett’s girl. Her and me used to keep company in the ole icehouse down in Sackett’s woods an we used to talk about how we’d come to New York City an git rich and now I’m here I cant git work an I cant git over bein sceered. There’s detectives follow me all round, men in derbyhats with badges under their coats. Last night I wanted to go with a hooker an she saw it in my eyes an throwed me out.... She could see it in my eyes.” He was sitting on the edge of the cot, leaning over, talking into the other man’s face in a hissing whisper. The bum suddenly grabbed him by the wrists.

“Look here kid, you’re goin blooy if you keep up like this.... Got any mazuma?” Bud nodded. “You better give it to me to keep. I’m an old timer an I’ll git yez outa this. You put yer clothes on a take a walk round the block to a hash joint an eat up strong. How much you got?”

“Change from a dollar.”

“You give me a quarter an eat all the stuff you kin git offn the rest.” Bud pulled on his trousers and handed the man a quarter. “Then you come back here an you’ll sleep good an tomorrer me’n you’ll go upstate an git that roll of bills. Did ye say it was as big as yer head? Then we’ll beat it where they cant ketch us. We’ll split fifty fifty. Are you on?”

Bud shook his hand with a wooden jerk, then with the laces flickering round his shoes he shuffled to the door and down the spitmarked stairs.

The rain had stopped, a cool wind that smelled of woods and grass was ruffling the puddles in the cleanwashed streets. In the lunchroom in Chatham Square three men sat asleep with their hats over their eyes. The man behind the counter was reading a pink sportingsheet. Bud waited long for his order. He felt cool, unthinking, happy. When it came he ate the browned corned beef hash, deliberately enjoying every mouthful, mashing the crisp bits of potato against his teeth with his tongue, between sips of heavily sugared coffee. After polishing the plate with a crust of bread he took a toothpick and went out.

Picking his teeth he walked through the grimydark entrance to Brooklyn Bridge. A man in a derby hat was smoking a cigar in the middle of the broad tunnel. Bud brushed past him walking with a tough swagger. I dont care about him; let him follow me. The arching footwalk was empty except for a single policeman who stood yawning, looking up at the sky. It was like walking among the stars. Below in either direction streets tapered into dotted lines of lights between square blackwindowed buildings. The river glimmered underneath like the Milky Way above. Silently smoothly the bunch of lights of a tug slipped through the moist darkness. A car whirred across the bridge making the girders rattle and the spiderwork of cables thrum like a shaken banjo.

When he got to the tangle of girders of the elevated railroads of the Brooklyn side, he turned back along the southern driveway. Dont matter where I go, cant go nowhere now. An edge of the blue night had started to glow behind him the way iron starts to glow in a forge. Beyond black chimneys and lines of roofs faint rosy contours of the downtown buildings were brightening. All the darkness was growing pearly, warming. They’re all of em detectives chasin me, all of em, men in derbies, bums on the Bowery, old women in kitchens, barkeeps, streetcar conductors, bulls, hookers, sailors, longshoremen, stiffs in employment agencies.... He thought I’d tell him where the ole man’s roll was, the lousy bum.... One on him. One on all them goddam detectives. The river was smooth, sleek as a bluesteel gun-barrel. Dont matter where I go; cant go nowhere now. The shadows between the wharves and the buildings were powdery like washingblue. Masts fringed the river; smoke, purple chocolatecolor fleshpink climbed into light. Cant go nowhere now.

In a swallowtail suit with a gold watchchain and a red seal ring riding to his wedding beside Maria Sackett, riding in a carriage to City Hall with four white horses to be made an alderman by the mayor; and the light grows behind them brighter brighter, riding in satins and silks to his wedding, riding in pinkplush in a white carriage with Maria Sackett by his side through rows of men waving cigars, bowing, doffing brown derbies, Alderman Bud riding in a carriage full of diamonds with his milliondollar bride.... Bud is sitting on the rail of the bridge. The sun has risen behind Brooklyn. The windows of Manhattan have caught fire. He jerks himself forward, slips, dangles by a hand with the sun in his eyes. The yell strangles in his throat as he drops.

Captain McAvoy of the tugboat _Prudence_ stood in the pilothouse with one hand on the wheel. In the other he held a piece of biscuit he had just dipped into a cup of coffee that stood on the shelf beside the binnacle. He was a wellset man with bushy eyebrows and a bushy black mustache waxed at the tips. He was about to put the piece of coffeesoaked biscuit into his mouth when something black dropped and hit the water with a thudding splash a few yards off the bow. At the same moment a man leaning out of the engineroom door shouted, “A guy juss jumped offn de bridge.”

“God damn it to hell,” said Captain McAvoy dropping his piece of biscuit and spinning the wheel. The strong ebbtide whisked the boat round like a straw. Three bells jangled in the engineroom. A negro ran forward to the bow with a boathook.

“Give a hand there Red,” shouted Captain McAvoy.

After a tussle they landed a long black limp thing on the deck. One bell. Two bells, Captain McAvoy frowning and haggard spun the tug’s nose into the current again.

“Any life in him Red?” he asked hoarsely. The negro’s face was green, his teeth were chattering.

“Naw sir,” said the redhaired man slowly. “His neck’s broke clear off.”

Captain McAvoy sucked a good half of his mustache into his mouth. “God damn it to hell,” he groaned. “A pretty thing to happen on a man’s wedding day.”

_Second Section_

I. Great Lady on a White Horse

_Morning clatters with the first L train down Allen Street. Daylight rattles through the windows, shaking the old brick houses, splatters the girders of the L structure with bright confetti._

_The cats are leaving the garbage cans, the chinches are going back into the walls, leaving sweaty limbs, leaving the grimetender necks of little children asleep. Men and women stir under blankets and bedquilts on mattresses in the corners of rooms, clots of kids begin to untangle to scream and kick._

_At the corner of Riverton the old man with the hempen beard who sleeps where nobody knows is putting out his picklestand. Tubs of gherkins, pimentos, melonrind, piccalilli give out twining vines and cold tendrils of dank pepperyfragrance that grow like a marshgarden out of the musky bedsmells and the rancid clangor of the cobbled awakening street._

_The old man with the hempen beard who sleeps where nobody knows sits in the midst of it like Jonah under his gourd._

Jimmy Herf walked up four creaky flights and knocked at a white door fingermarked above the knob where the name _Sunderland_ appeared in old English characters on a card neatly held in place by brass thumbtacks. He waited a long while beside a milkbottle, two creambottles, and a copy of the Sunday _Times_. There was a rustle behind the door and the creak of a step, then no more sound. He pushed a white button in the doorjamb.

“An he said, Margie I’ve got a crush on you so bad, an she said, Come in outa the rain, you’re all wet....” Voices coming down the stairs, a man’s feet in button shoes, a girl’s feet in sandals, pink silk legs; the girl in a fluffy dress and a Spring Maid hat; the young man had white edging on his vest and a green, blue, and purple striped necktie.

“But you’re not that kind of a girl.”

“How do you know what kind of a girl I am?”

The voices trailed out down the stairs.

Jimmy Herf gave the bell another jab.

“Who is it?” came a lisping female voice through a crack in the door.

“I want to see Miss Prynne please.”

Glimpse of a blue kimono held up to the chin of a fluffy face. “Oh I don’t know if she’s up yet.”

“She said she would be.”

“Look will you please wait a second to let me make my getaway,” she tittered behind the door. “And then come in. Excuse us but Mrs. Sunderland thought you were the rent collector. They sometimes come on Sunday just to fool you.” A smile coyly bridged the crack in the door.

“Shall I bring in the milk?”

“Oh do and sit down in the hall and I’ll call Ruth.” The hall was very dark; smelled of sleep and toothpaste and massagecream; across one corner a cot still bore the imprint of a body on its rumpled sheets. Straw hats, silk eveningwraps, and a couple of men’s dress overcoats hung in a jostling tangle from the staghorns of the hatrack. Jimmy picked a corsetcover off a rockingchair and sat down. Women’s voices, a subdued rustling of people dressing, Sunday newspaper noises seeped out through the partitions of the different rooms.

The bathroom door opened; a stream of sunlight reflected out of a pierglass cut the murky hall in half, out of it came a head of hair like copper wire, bluedark eyes in a brittle-white eggshaped face. Then the hair was brown down the hall above a slim back in a tangerine-colored slip, nonchalant pink heels standing up out of the bathslippers at every step.

“Ou-ou, Jimmee...” Ruth was yodling at him from behind her door. “But you mustn’t look at me or at my room.” A head in curlpapers stuck out like a turtle’s.

“Hullo Ruth.”

“You can come in if you promise not to look.... I’m a sight and my room’s a pigeon.... I’ve just got to do my hair. Then I’ll be ready.” The little gray room was stuffed with clothes and photographs of stage people. Jimmy stood with his back to the door, some sort of silky stuff that dangled from the hook tickling his ears.

“Well how’s the cub reporter?”

“I’m on Hell’s Kitchen.... It’s swell. Got a job yet Ruth?”

“Um-um.... A couple of things may materialize during the week. But they wont. Oh Jimmy I’m getting desperate.” She shook her hair loose of the crimpers and combed out the new mousybrown waves. She had a pale startled face with a big mouth and blue underlids. “This morning I knew I ought to be up and ready, but I just couldn’t. It’s so discouraging to get up when you haven’t got a job.... Sometimes I think I’ll go to bed and just stay there till the end of the world.”

“Poor old Ruth.”

She threw a powderpuff at him that covered his necktie and the lapels of his blue serge suit with powder. “Dont you poor old me you little rat.”

“That’s a nice thing to do after all the trouble I took to make myself look respectable.... Darn your hide Ruth. And the smell of the carbona not off me yet.”

Ruth threw back her head with a shrieking laugh. “Oh you’re so comical Jimmy. Try the whisk-broom.”

Blushing he blew down his chin at his tie. “Who’s the funnylooking girl opened the halldoor?”

“Shush you can hear everything through the partition.... That’s Cassie,” she whispered giggling. “Cassah-ndrah Wilkins ... used to be with the Morgan Dancers. But we oughtnt to laugh at her, she’s very nice. I’m very fond of her.” She let out a whoop of laughter. “You nut Jimmy.” She got to her feet and punched him in the muscle of the arm. “You always make me act like I was crazy.”

“God did that.... No but look, I’m awfully hungry. I walked up.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s after one.”

“Oh Jimmy I dont know what to do about time.... Like this hat?... Oh I forgot to tell you. I went to see Al Harrison yesterday. It was simply dreadful.... If I hadnt got to the phone in time and threatened to call the police....”

“Look at that funny woman opposite. She’s got a face exactly like a llama.”

“It’s on account of her I have to keep my shades drawn all the time ...”

“Why?”

“Oh you’re much too young to know. You’d be shocked Jimmy.” Ruth was leaning close to the mirror running a stick of rouge between her lips.

“So many things shock me, I dont see that it matters much.... But come along let’s get out of here. The sun’s shining outside and people are coming out of church and going home to overeat and read at their Sunday papers among the rubberplants ...”

“Oh Jimmy you’re a shriek ... Just one minute. Look out you’re hooked onto my best shimmy.”

A girl with short black hair in a yellow jumper was folding the sheets off the cot in the hall. For a second under the ambercolored powder and the rouge Jimmy did not recognize the face he had seen through the crack in the door.

“Hello Cassie, this is ... Beg pardon, Miss Wilkins this is Mr. Herf. You tell him about the lady across the airshaft, you know Sappo the Monk.”

Cassandra Wilkins lisped and pouted. “Isn’t she dweadful Mr. Herf.... She says the dweadfullest things.”

“She merely does it to annoy.”

“Oh Mr. Herf I’m so pleased to meet you at last, Ruth does nothing but talk about you.... Oh I’m afwaid I was indiscweet to say that.... I’m dweadfully indiscweet.”

The door across the hall opened and Jimmy found himself looking in the white face of a crookednosed man whose red hair rode in two unequal mounds on either side of a straight part. He wore a green satin bathrobe and red morocco slippers.

“What heow Cassahndrah?” he said in a careful Oxford drawl. “What prophecies today?”

“Nothing except a wire from Mrs. Fitzsimmons Green. She wants me to go to see her at Scarsdale tomorrow to talk about the Gweenery Theater.... Excuse me this is Mr. Herf, Mr. Oglethorpe.” The redhaired man raised one eyebrow and lowered the other and put a limp hand in Jimmy’s.

“Herf, Herf.... Let me see, it’s not a Georgiah Herf? In Atlahnta there’s an old family of Herfs....”

“No I dont think so.”

“Too bad. Once upon a time Josiah Herf and I were boon companions. Today he is the president of the First National Bank and leading citizen of Scranton Pennsylvahnia and I ... a mere mountebank, a thing of rags and patches.” When he shrugged his shoulders the bathrobe fell away exposing a flat smooth hairless chest.

“You see Mr. Oglethorpe and I are going to do the Song of Songs. He weads it and I interpwet it in dancing. You must come up and see us wehearse sometime.”

“Thy navel is like a round goblet which wanteth not liquor, thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies ...”

“Oh dont begin now.” She tittered and pressed her legs together.

“Jojo close that door,” came a quiet deep girl’s voice from inside the room.

“Oh poo-er deah Elaine, she wants to sleep.... So glahd to have met you, Mr. Herf.”

“Jojo!”

“Yes my deah....”

Through the leaden drowse that cramped him the girl’s voice set Jimmy tingling. He stood beside Cassie constrainedly without speaking in the dingydark hall. A smell of coffee and singeing toast seeped in from somewhere. Ruth came up behind them.

“All right Jimmy I’m ready.... I wonder if I’ve forgotten anything.”

“I dont care whether you have or not, I’m starving.” Jimmy took hold of her shoulders and pushed her gently towards the door. “It’s two o’clock.”

“Well goodby Cassie dear, I’ll call you up at about six.”

“All wight Wuthy ... So pleased to have met you Mr. Herf.” The door closed on Cassie’s tittering lisp.

“Wow, Ruth that place gives me the infernal jimjams.”

“Now Jimmy dont get peevish because you need food.”

“But tell me Ruth, what the hell is Mr. Oglethorpe? He beats anything I ever saw.”

“Oh did the Ogle come out of his lair?” Ruth let out a whoop of laughter. They came out into grimy sunlight. “Did he tell you he was of the main brawnch, dontcher know, of the Oglethorpes of Georgiah?”

“Is that lovely girl with copper hair his wife?”

“Elaine Oglethorpe has reddish hair. She’s not so darn lovely either.... She’s just a kid and she’s upstage as the deuce already. All because she made a kind of a hit in Peach Blossoms. You know one of these tiny exquisite bits everybody makes such a fuss over. She can act all right.”

“It’s a shame she’s got that for a husband.”

“Ogle’s done everything in the world for her. If it hadnt been for him she’d still be in the chorus ...”

“Beauty and the beast.”

“You’d better look out if he sets his lamps on you Jimmy.”

“Why?”

“Strange fish, Jimmy, strange fish.”

An Elevated train shattered the barred sunlight overhead. He could see Ruth’s mouth forming words.

“Look,” he shouted above the diminishing clatter. “Let’s go have brunch at the Campus and then go for a walk on the Palisades.”

“You nut Jimmy what’s brunch?”

“You’ll eat breakfast and I’ll eat lunch.”

“It’ll be a scream.” Whooping with laughter she put her arm in his. Her silvernet bag knocked against his elbow as they walked.

“And what about Cassie, the mysterious Cassandra?”

“You mustn’t laugh at her, she’s a peach.... If only she wouldn’t keep that horrid little white poodle. She keeps it in her room and it never gets any exercise and it smells something terrible. She has that little room next to mine.... Then she’s got a steady ...” Ruth giggled. “He’s worse than the poodle. They’re engaged and he borrows all her money away from her. For Heaven’s sake dont tell anybody.”

“I dont know anybody to tell.”

“Then there’s Mrs. Sunderland ...”

“Oh yes I got a glimpse of her going into the bathroom--an old lady in a wadded dressing gown with a pink boudoir cap on.”

“Jimmy you shock me.... She keeps losing her false teeth,” began Ruth; an L train drowned out the rest. The restaurant door closing behind them choked off the roar of wheels on rails.

An orchestra was playing _When It’s Appleblossom Time in Normandee_. The place was full of smokewrithing slants of sunlight, paper festoons, signs announcing LOBSTERS ARRIVE DAILY, EAT CLAMS NOW, TRY OUR DELICIOUS FRENCH STYLE STEAMED MUSSLES (Recommended by the Department of Agriculture). They sat down under a redlettered placard BEEFSTEAK PARTIES UPSTAIRS and Ruth made a pass at him with a breadstick. “Jimmy do you think it’d be immoral to eat scallops for breakfast? But first I’ve got to have coffee coffee coffee ...”

“I’m going to eat a small steak and onions.”

“Not if you’re intending to spend the afternoon with me Mr. Herf.”

“Oh all right. Ruth I lay my onions at your feet.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you kiss me.”

“What ... on the Palisades?” Ruth’s giggle broke into a whoop of laughter. Jimmy blushed crimson. “I never axed you maam, he say-ed.”

* * * * *

Sunlight dripped in her face through the little holes in the brim of her straw hat. She was walking with brisk steps too short on account of her narrow skirt; through the thin china silk the sunlight tingled like a hand stroking her back. In the heavy heat streets, stores, people in Sunday clothes, strawhats, sunshades, surfacecars, taxis, broke and crinkled brightly about her grazing her with sharp cutting glints as if she were walking through piles of metalshavings. She was groping continually through a tangle of gritty saw-edged brittle noise.

At Lincoln Square a girl rode slowly through the traffic on a white horse; chestnut hair hung down in even faky waves over the horse’s chalky rump and over the giltedged saddlecloth where in green letters pointed with crimson, read DANDERINE. She had on a green Dolly Varden hat with a crimson plume; one hand in a white gauntlet nonchalantly jiggled at the reins, in the other wabbled a goldknobbed riding crop.

Ellen watched her pass; then she followed a smudge of green through a cross-street to the Park. A smell of trampled sunsinged grass came from boys playing baseball. All the shady benches were full of people. When she crossed the curving automobile road her sharp French heels sank into the asphalt. Two sailors were sprawling on a bench in the sun; one of them popped his lips as she passed, she could feel their seagreedy eyes cling stickily to her neck, her thighs, her ankles. She tried to keep her hips from swaying so much as she walked. The leaves were shriveled on the saplings along the path. South and east sunnyfaced buildings hemmed in the Park, to the west they were violet with shadow. Everything was itching sweaty dusty constrained by policemen and Sunday clothes. Why hadn’t she taken the L? She was looking in the black eyes of a young man in a straw hat who was drawing up a red Stutz roadster to the curb. His eyes twinkled in hers, he jerked back his head smiling an upsidedown smile, pursing his lips so that they seemed to brush her cheek. He pulled the lever of the brake and opened the door with the other hand. She snapped her eyes away and walked on with her chin up. Two pigeons with metalgreen necks and feet of coral waddled out of her way. An old man was coaxing a squirrel to fish for peanuts in a paper bag.

All in green on a white stallion rode the Lady of the Lost Battalion.... Green, green, danderine ... Godiva in the haughty mantle of her hair....