Part 9

“You’re looking well again, Martin,” said the adviser. “And I’m glad to find it so.” He turned halfway to Deane with a strained smile. “Isn’t it splendid, Deane?”

She returned the smile, nodding her head and Martin broke in swiftly.

“I fell into a job, Roberts—free lance work that turned regular. Perhaps my relief shows in my appearance.”

“Where is the job?” asked Roberts quickly, looking concerned.

“Downtown,” said Martin, a vague expression in his eyes.

Roberts flushed and returned to his chair, while Martin sat down on the divan beside Deane. Carol, who had been watching the two men with fascination, leaned back sighing, a satisfied look softening his features as he drew out his cigarette holder.

“I knew New York would be this way—just this way. And I just _love_ it!” He cocked his head at Martin and nodded wisely. “The swift pace of commerce,” he added.

“Who said that?” asked Martin, amused.

Carol looked embarrassed.

“Why, I—why, I think the salesman did. But it was so apt—the salesman said—” He hesitated, and Martin raised his hand in agreement.

“It _is_ apt, Carol,” he replied. “I should know. It takes experience to make one understand ‘the swift pace of commerce.’ Mr. Roberts realizes this, too, though in a different way; for _he’ll_ never let commerce get at _his_ heels.”

“Indeed, I won’t,” said Roberts vehemently. “I’ll follow it, trip it, mold it and make it carry me.” He was about to continue when Deane spoke quietly, but with a certain implied request. Her beautiful eyes gleamed in the shaded light.

“Did you keep your appointment, Carol?” she asked, turning to him with mild interest.

“No, dear,” he answered in a puzzled voice. “No, we must have been—well, mixed up,” he went on more precisely. “So I went to the park—Washington Square, the policeman said it was. But oh!—I just felt so blue I _had_ to call you up.” He held a silken handkerchief daintily under his nose and let it flutter with his breath. “But there’s a glorious moon,” he continued, looking at Martin. “It really seems to be dancing. And speaking of dancing—I saw the _cutest_ thing at a show the other night!” He became enthusiastic and stood up, still holding on to the handkerchief with one hand while he placed the other on his hip. Then he turned his head a little and looked coyly over one shoulder.

“What was it like?” asked Deane, a strange smile on her lips.

“I really can’t say, dear. But,” Carol’s eyes brightened, “It _did_ have—” he waved the handkerchief, “what do you call it?—‘um-pah!’” Completely forgetful now of his surroundings, he pursed his lips into a curious form and began to sing in a rather wistful mood, “Ooh-ooh, woo-woo, me too,” his hand on his hip, his handkerchief still fluttering. Then he circled his left foot back of the right, followed up, and continued until he was moving gracefully across the room in time with the weird intonation. At last he seemed to fade into the hallway as though it were the wings of a theater; and the three in the room could hear the words float in long after he had disappeared—“Ooh-ooh, woo-woo, me too.”

Martin laughed without restraint and clapped his hands loudly. There was a gurgle of delight from the hall and Carol peeped around the doorway, his face aglow at such acclaim.

“Great!” continued Martin, as the young man came in beaming. “The best! The very best, Carol!” he went on, while the other, breathless, sat down and touched the handkerchief to his forehead. Deane’s eyes still gleamed peculiarly; but Roberts had merely turned his face the other way.

Then suddenly, as though each wanted to convince the others that his own thoughts were spontaneous, they talked in animated sequence. They talked of music, and of tides, and of the government. Each word was a word—Roberts’, like a dark sword in a silver lake; Carol’s, like the hole in a fisherman’s net; and Martin’s and Deane’s, like clouds over a river.

In a short while, Roberts stood up.

“I must go,” he said gravely.

Carol got up also, and after a brief look at Martin, followed the adviser into another room to get his coat.

* * * * *

Outside there was a cool wind blowing. Carol led Roberts to Washington Square—an inexplicable impulse returning and behind the direction. The guards had raked the grass after the early snows. A pile of leaves burned slowly, and the soft flutter of pigeons beyond the firelight made the park seem homely and comfortable. On the icy concrete surrounding the fountain there were children with skates. Their flashing feet splintered the dark which lay under the moon, and around these romping figures the cool wind, blowing softly, held everything together.

Neither Carol nor Roberts noticed the pigeons or the children. They were watching their own hearts. Carol’s beat slowly, with a regular, bovine thump. Roberts’ beat quickly, irregularly, with acuity and despair. He was in such despair that he tried to find camaraderie within the boy beside him. His monologue pretended to be a conversation, but his bright words of indictment against Martin rolled across Carol’s porcine cheek and were reflected, turning in to himself, weighting his bitterness more heavily.

“Yes, Carol,” he said, “we must forget ourselves in this issue. We must save our friends from this domestic suicide. Clutching an insane illusion of love, they are bemused by carnal appetite. Lost on the horizon of flesh, their perspective becomes astigmatic. Drowned in beast’s blood, they deliberately blind themselves to an obvious incompatibility. It is our duty to our strength, our lives, our God, to break this union.” Roberts’ mouth became loose and wet. “We must show them the truth.... Martin! Martin!” The adviser’s eyes were like those of a sick horse. “Martin is so young—so fruitful. We must forgive him.... And that lovely woman—upset so terribly by him—we must give her our strength.” Roberts dropped his head, unable to speak further.

Carol smiled vacuously.

“Yes,” he replied.

And while Roberts cried into the vacant moon the boy beside him, uncomprehending, drooled on.

“Yes. We must give our strength. We must give ourselves. We must give—” Carol’s voice became fainter and disappeared into the sound of leaves. He could feel Martin’s arm around him, petting—forcing. Carol’s face became curiously beautiful.... He was giving himself....

Roberts, taken from his sadness by this incoherent dribbling—Roberts, sensing the thought beside him, moved away. He looked at Carol, at the fat thighs, the fat cheeks, the desire; and he was suddenly sick. To have Martin touched, even in thought, was unbearable. Unsteadily he pushed himself off the bench and walked away without speaking. The moon was beautiful, but it was not for him. There was magic in the wind, but it made him feel more lonely.... For a long time he walked. The cornstalk he had left sitting on the bench was but a mild irritant now. It became less and less so until Roberts laughed.

Carol was not aware of the change. He knew only that Martin was closer—that his dream was real.

The bonfire had long been extinguished and the guards had left. There was no sound of skates; there was a hush of wings; and the moon looked down on the Italian lovers with their quick, dark hands.

_CHAPTER XIII_

Carol did not sleep well that night. He had dreams of strong and muscular things; but they felt good. Early in the morning his child-mind was tired. His fantasies and adult body had exhausted him. He awoke and turned over to be spanked. His father had always spanked him when he had been bad. But now he did not feel his father’s calloused hand against him, nor could he see his father’s frown and long, unshaven jaw. Carol turned over again, realizing vaguely where he was.... His father was dead. He was not being spanked. Something had been taken from him and his mouth trembled.... The strong nostalgia made him sick. He wanted to be bad, and then feel the hard hand and weep happily as his father struck him.

Carol was now fully awake. He got out of bed, rubbing his sticky eyes. Over the wash-basin there was a mirror in which he saw himself. He turned on the cold water, dipped his head in the bowl and rubbed his cheeks until they glowed. Then he bathed with a washcloth and afterwards, squirted toilet water under his arms. The hotel room was small and hot. He opened the window a little wider, returned to his bed and made it up carefully, patting the corners. At last, he put on a dressing gown with long, flowing sleeves, smiled at the reflection of his pink, clean face in the mirror and picked up the telephone.

“Give me outside,” he said.

“What number do you want?” asked the operator, sucking her teeth.

Carol was startled. Then he gave the number.

Deane answered a little sleepily.

Carol lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in flat, blue layers.

“Did I get you out of bed, sweet?”

Deane smiled easily, the smooth skin at the corners of her eyes forming tiny lines.

“Of course not, Carol,” she replied. “I’m glad you called. Did you enjoy your evening with Mr. Roberts?”

“Oh!” said Carol, “I had _such_ a good time. Mr. Roberts is so interesting. And we talked about so many things. It was such a beautiful evening and so—” Carol’s sibilant words came through the wire to Deane, awakening her thoroughly. “Let’s have lunch together,” he continued. “How about twelve, at the Astor?”

“I have some shopping to do,” she answered, “but I’ll be through by one. Suppose we make it then.”

“All right, dear. I’ll see you then,” he said, stressing every other word. “I’ll see you then. Good-by, dear.”

Deane left the apartment in confusion, half amused and yet severe. Her tiny hat, which was like an autumn leaf, revoked the tailoring of her rust-colored velvet suit. On the street, old women smiled at her without knowing why; and newsboys became quiet for one starry-eyed, adolescent moment as she passed. But she kept thinking of Martin. She remembered him as he had been on the previous night. She loved him, but he was a problem. If his were artistry, it would be good to get back to solidity and minds that ran in clear, straight lines. She had thought this as she left the apartment. But in the shops she changed her mind. She saw strong, competent men and women and she liked them. But thoughts of Martin persisted—Martin with his hair sticking up—Martin, fumbling with design and people and dreams. He might find it! He _must_ find it! Deane put her small, gloved hand to her throat. She wanted him suddenly, strongly. She wanted his incoherent sentences, his slippery body and his crazy, adoring heart. She laughed self-consciously in front of the pencilheads, typewriter-heads and blotting-paper faces, and made a few reckless purchases.

Carol met her at precisely one o’clock. His face was pink, natty and smiling. His belted coat showed his figure and he wore no hat. His astonishing scarf had been replaced by an ascot tie whose vivid background was accentuated by purple stripes. He took both of Deane’s hands with sisterly affection, completely unconscious of the mild attention he had attracted in the lounge.

“A _dreadful_ morning,” he said wearily. “One can’t eat in New York, can one?”

Deane was a little piqued.

“Well,” she said, biting her scarlet underlip, “one’s going to.” More kindly she took his arm. “We’re going to eat heartily, Carol. I’m hungry.”

They went into the bar. The buttons on Carol’s topcoat stuck out like feathers. He was conscious now of the atmosphere and of the woman with him. His exuberance spilled, porridge-like, over the barren years of his life and reached out toward the other patrons in the bar. Ostentatiously, he led Deane past a table where two elderly ladies were having whisky and soda. One of them wore three wedding rings. The other’s plume on her tiny hat colored the dark fur over her shoulders. Carol’s good nature manifested itself again and he nodded intimately to them. The old ladies looked at each other and went on drinking their whisky.

At last, Carol selected a table and held a chair for Deane. She wanted a glass of sherry, but tried to enjoy the drink he ordered. It was a fragile looking concoction of pale pink, with a lace of foam.

“At home, we call it a ‘raspberry kiss,’” said Carol proudly.

Deane knew that he thought he was living. He sipped on, and sang on, hesitating briefly to glance at every man who walked into the bar. One or two of them looked at him in amused recognition, but most of them were absorbed in other matters and passed him, unnoticing. As the alcohol sifted through his mind, his sentences became more vapid, more pretentious, and louder. He began to simper—call attention to unimportant things. There was an angry moment with the waiter, who accepted his ridiculous complaints with thinly veiled contempt. It was difficult to embarrass Deane—the outside of Deane. But she refused a second drink, suggesting food instead, and together they went upstairs to the dining room.

The head waiter courteously guided them to a corner table. No one was close to them and Deane relaxed. Carol sighed, lit a cigarette and ordered the luncheon. Suddenly he leaned toward Deane.

“We have been friends too long, dear,” he said, “for me to mince words. You don’t mind my speaking?”

“Of course not,” said Deane. “I don’t mind at all.”

“I have heard rumors,” said Carol, shaking his head over his plate. “They have bothered me and I feel that you ought to know.”

Deane looked amused.

“Rumors?” she repeated. “Honestly?”

“This,” said Carol sternly, “is not a frivolous joke. It has no frivolity.” He looked less stern now. Frivolity. He liked that word. He leaned back in his chair and tried, ineffectually, to blow a smoke ring. “This,” he continued, “concerns your happiness. It will probably hurt you. But I know you will face it. I must forget myself in this issue.”

“Issue?” asked Deane, frowning a little.

“Yes, Deane,” went on Carol. “It’s Martin and you. It is domestic suicide. I watch you clutch this insane illusion of love—bemused by carnal appetite. Lost on the horizon of flesh, your perspective becomes astigmatic. Drowned in beast’s blood, you deliberately blind yourself to an obvious incompatibility. It is my duty to my strength, my life, my God, to break this union.” He let his head rest against the wall for a moment, hypnotized by the magnificence of his words.

Deane was now frankly amazed. Where did these words come from? They were brilliant, hateful words. Carol was incapable of such expression. She hunted through her memory for the explanation. Then she recalled Martin’s analogy of the parrot. Carol had heard the words and had remembered them. Where had he heard them? No one knew Martin—ah! The good friend Roberts. That sounded like Roberts. That _was_ Roberts.

She watched Carol—his eyes closed, three fingers on his holder. Retentiveness—that was it. Carol, the parrot. Retentiveness. Carol did not know what had broken from his memory. Deane knew that he believed it was himself speaking. She began to fear Roberts. Fear him so much that she forgot Carol was with her.

Carol squinted and nodded his head approvingly. That had done it. His great understanding had brought Deane to her senses. Her face showed it—pale, constricted. Carol cocked his flat, moist hands at her in sympathy.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, reaching womanishly toward her.

Deane did not move away from him, but she had an odd feeling. Once, she had had a dream that had given her the same sensation. She dreamed that in an adventurous moment she had descended to the bottom of the ocean, there to play with the mermaids, look at the starfish, and perhaps start a flirtation, harmless or otherwise, with friendly old Poseidon. She had dropped softly to the sands of the sea and it was more beautiful than she had expected. The water was the kind of blue pretty girls like in nightgowns. It was cool and restful and it felt good around her legs and her waist. She walked slowly and gracefully over the white sand and through the blue water. At last she saw a rock, half-embedded in moss; and there, holding it tightly, was her starfish. She knelt down to look at it. It was a large one of delicate yellow—not at all like those dried, smelly things she had studied at school. It was yellow, and it clung to the green moss. It seemed to be in love; but it was quiet. Deane knew it was asleep when she looked closer. Its crisp points were symmetrical and straight. Deane blushed, and through the twilight blue of the water the color of her cheeks was attractive to King Poseidon who had been peeking at her through a wall of seaweed. He was infatuated. She was different from Amphitrite. He loved Amphitrite—her long green hair, her white face and jeweled hips. Nevertheless, he wanted to kiss this strange woman. He wanted to kiss the color in her cheeks and touch her. But King Poseidon shook his head. Amphitrite could be very difficult if she became angry. Confound these appetites for rare and inedible dishes! Poseidon smiled though, a boyish, sheepish, proud smile. He had appetites. He was getting to be a little gray; and still, he had appetites. He looked at Deane once more, wistfully, and took his appetites to Amphitrite.

Amphitrite combed his beard. Poseidon looked at her and poked his finger at her and winked. She regarded him suspiciously, but when she saw the expression in his eyes something happened to her. Through the darkening blue her white cheeks softened, became pink and sent out threads of coral. Poseidon shook his head in wonderment and happiness. It was just what a man wanted. That was all. The memory of Deane faded from him as Amphitrite, her face still coral, gently removed his crown.

As the water became darker, Deane’s dream became less happy. She couldn’t compete with green hair, a white face and those commanding, jeweled hips. She was despondent. She didn’t want King Poseidon. She wanted the earth again and stars and a warm, comfortable hand. It was the didactic part of her spoiling a beautiful dream.

Some dreams can’t be shut off. As she drifted toward the surface of the water a white shadow crossed above her and twisted under her face. Its white was not a pure white, and there were dark objects fastened to its shoulders. Deane wasn’t afraid. The creature didn’t want her. It didn’t have any sense; but it was close and revolting. In her dream she floated slowly upward. She was strong and disdainful, but that didn’t push the creature from her. She rose slowly, grimly, with hate—motionless. Her hair caught the surface of the water. Stars poured into her eyes, the white shadow faded, and she awakened. She had gone into the bathroom and washed her teeth.

In the dining room Deane remembered this dream and her feeling for the snub-faced shadow. Carol leaned toward her. She did not fear him. She did not move from him, but she wanted clean air and a chance to brush her teeth.

“Carol,” she said, “Martin and I are very good friends. I believe in him.”

Carol lit another cigarette. He was bewildered. It was unfair. He had gone to Deane as a pal. He had tried to help her. His eloquent monologue still boomed within him. Then a friendly sorrow for himself killed some of the pain. He had done his duty although it had been unappreciated. He saw women—all womankind rotating under the phallic thumb of bestial domination. He shivered, reached for the check and stood up. Deane noticed that he left no tip for the waiter.

She hurried home and Carol returned to his hotel. He sat carefully on the edge of his bed and looked out at the moving cars and people. His face was serious. Deane needed him. His affection would win over this—this—he put his head down on the pillow and refused to think any more.

* * * * *

Deane glanced at the clock. Only an hour to wait. She was glad that Martin was coming at five. She was glad to get out of her tailored clothes and into the bath. It would be comfortable to feel her skin against the warm porcelain; to smell the soap and to watch the steam cover the glass. There was no aroma from the step-ins dropped upon the tile. Only the faint resonance of a discriminate healthiness from the underclothes was in the corner. Deane slipped into the tub, still wearing her brassiere and her wristwatch. Impatiently she took them off and now, she lay flat across the shoulders of the tub. Reaching around, with her eyes closed, she felt the cake of soap next her hips. She weighed it in her hands for an absent moment, thinking of Martin, and with a slow smile laid the bar upon one breast, which she had candidly lifted out of the water. The pride she held in her own body seemed an important thing to her and she constantly soaped the skin around her nipple in amusement—but laved it also, in possibilities too far to speak of, even to herself. At last the warmth of the bath claimed her more expressively than she had believed it could; and she remembered, with a shiver, the snows of childhood and buried herself again in the heat of the tub. One of her hands went gently, but shockingly to her knee; and again with a smile, not understandable, she lifted her body out of the water, which rang in constant drops of different colors from her naked throat.

While she dressed, she thought of her earrings. She chose a slender East Indian pair of beaten silver. They were long, nearly touching her bare shoulders, and of a deceptive quietness. She looked at her slippers—gold, vermilion, rust—at last selecting ones of purple from which she decided her gown. Its bodice, which she laced and tied, peasant fashion, closed tightly about her waist. The skirt swung slowly from her hips. She looked once more into the mirror and fastened her hair on one side behind her ear.

When Martin came, he put his arms around her, kissing her earrings and her throat, the scented smooth hollow under her arm, pressing her so close to him that she trembled.

“Tell me—what did you do to-day?” he whispered, holding her hand to his cheek.

“I went shopping,” she said. “And later, I had lunch with Carol.”

Martin spoke irritably.

“That one again? Why doesn’t he go back to the Dust Bowl?”

“He isn’t that bad, Martin.” Deane tried to sound convincing.

“I should think,” Martin said bitterly, “that you would be the last one to question my judgment where such people are concerned.”

Deane lifted her delicate eyebrows.

“I’m glad I’m your sweetheart,” she said. “That remark would sound curious to others.”

“I suppose it would,” replied Martin, a bit unhappily. “I’ll admit, I’m prejudiced as the devil, but I can’t help but see it. Carol’s learning new tricks. The crust is breaking. He lives among his fantasies—dreams fired by sagebrush and loneliness. His desire is volatile and his friends right now may affect the nature of his entire life. I’m sorry Roberts is mixed up in it.”

Deane was thoughtful for a moment. She cupped her chin in her hands and drew her small, slippered feet up under her.

“I believe you’re right, Martin,” she observed at last. “For the first time I see that it’s a dangerous combination. I still believe, though, that Roberts is the one who, ultimately, will try to harm you. He’s done it once and although you came out, he will try it again. He seems to know your vulnerable points.”

Martin sounded a little angry.

“Why can’t we just eliminate them?”

“It isn’t quite so simple as that, Martin,” answered Deane. “Roberts and I have mutual friends. I’d always be running into him. As for Carol—he has no one; and I couldn’t bear to hurt him.” Deane stared before her. “Besides,” she added, “I’m wondering if elimination could bring about anything but superficial results. Roberts is ingenious.” She turned to Martin impulsively and put her hand upon his arm. “Martin!—somehow, I don’t know how—but somehow, Roberts will strike at us!”