William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

The lovers were naked. A wave of prickling crawled up over his scalp out of nowhere and, as he watched, the rounded hips and belly of the woman seemed to rotate. Jesus, if this is what I wanted I could have stayed with the Ten-in-One and been talker for the kooch show! There’s a guy that always gets plenty.

He swept the cards to the floor and drew the telephone toward him, dialing. This time the voice said, “Yes, sir. I’ll see if Mrs. Tallentyre’s in.”

She was in to the Rev. Carlisle.

“Mrs. Tallentyre, I spent most of last night in meditation. And from my meditation I drew a thought. I shall have to seek three days of silence. Unfortunately I cannot go to the Himalayas, but I think the Catskills will serve. You understand, I’m sure. I would appreciate it if you will take charge of the service tonight and notify class members that I have been called away. Just say that I have gone in search of the Silence. I shall return, without fail, on the third day.”

That was that. Now lock up. Lock the office door-time to clean up all the havoc later. Leave the appointment book downstairs on the hall table. Mrs. Tallentyre had a key to the outside door. Leave the inner door unlocked.

He put on his coat and a few minutes later was hurrying through the soft snow.

“Gee, honey, I’m glad you come back! Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. How many times do I have to tell you I can take care of myself?”

“Want a couple of eggs? I’m starved. Let me fix you a couple. The coffee’s all ready.”

Stan stood in the kitchen door watching her. She was wearing the black chiffon negligee; against the early winter light from the window she might as well not have had on a stitch. Whoever figured out dames’ clothes knew his onions. What made her seem so far away and long ago? The one dame who wouldn’t cross him up. And the shape was still something you usually see behind footlights or in magazines.

Stan ran his hands once over his hair and said, “Come here.” They stood watching each other for a moment, and he saw her take a deep breath. Then she turned off the gas under the skillet and ran over and threw her arms around his neck.

It was like kissing the back of your own hand but he picked her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. She clung to him and slid her hand under his shirt and he drew the chiffon open and started to kiss her shoulder but it was no use.

And now she was crying, looking up at him reproachfully as he threw on his jacket.

“Sorry, kid. I’ve got to get away. I’ll be back Tuesday. I’ve- I’ve got to breathe.”

When he had thrown some stuff in a keyster and locked it and hurried out Molly pulled the covers over her, still crying, and drew up her knees. After a while she got up and put on a robe and fried herself an egg. She didn’t seem to be able to get enough salt on it, and in the middle of breakfast she suddenly took the plate and slammed it on the floor of the kitchen.

“Oh, God damn it, what’s eating him? How can I know how to give him a party if I don’t know what’s the matter?”

After a while she got dressed and went out to have her hair washed and set. First she went around to the barber shop and saw Mickey, and he handed her sixteen dollars. The horse had paid off at seven to one.

With the wheels clicking past under him, Stan felt a little better. The Palisades had fingers of snow pointing up their slopes, and the river was rough with broken ice, where gulls sailed and settled. He read, sketchily, in Ouspensky’s A New Model of the Universe , looking for tag lines he could pull out and use, jotting notes in the margin for a possible class in fourth dimensional immortality. Immortality was what they wanted. If they thought they could find it in the fourth dimension he would show them how. Who the hell knew what the fourth dimension was, anyway? Chumps. Johns.

A girl was having trouble getting her valise down from the rack and Stan leaped up to help her. Getting off at Pough-keepsie. His hand touched hers on the valise handle and he felt blood rising over his face. The kid was luscious; his eyes followed her as she walked primly down the car, carrying the bag before her. He crossed the train and watched her, out on the platform.

When he got to Albany he took a cab to the hotel, stopping off to buy a fifth of Scotch undercover from a saloon.

The room was good-sized and cleaner than most.

“You ain’t been through lately, Mr. Charles. Territory been changed?”

Stan nodded, throwing his hat on the bed and getting out of his overcoat. “Bring some club soda. And plenty of ice.”

The boy took a five and winked. “Like some company? We got swell gals in town-new since you was here last. I know a little blonde that’s got everything. And I mean everything.”

Stan lay down on the other bed and lit a cigarette, folding his hands behind his head. “Brunette.”

“You’re the boss.”

He smoked when the boy had gone. In the ceiling cracks he could make out the profile of an old man. Then there was a tap on the door-the soda and ice. The boy scraped the collodion seal from the Scotch bottle.

Quiet again. In the empty, impersonal wilderness of the hotel Stan listened to noises coming up from the street. The whir of the elevator, stopping at his floor; footsteps soft in the corridor. He swung off the bed.

The girl was short and dark. She had on a tan polo coat and no hat, but there was an artificial gardenia pinned in her hair over one ear.

She came in, her nose and cheeks rosy from the cold, and said, “Howdy, sport! Annie sent me. Say-how’d ya know I drink Scotch?”

“I read minds.”

“Gee, you musta.” She poured two fingers’ into a glass and offered it to Stan, who shook his head.

“On the wagon. But don’t let that stop you.”

“Okay, sport. Here’s lead in your pencil.” When she finished it she poured herself another and then said, “You better give me the fin now before I forget it.”

Stan handed her a ten-dollar bill and she said, “Gee, thanks. Say, would you happen to have two fives?”

Silence. She broke it. “Lookit-radio in every room! That’s something new for this dump. Say, let’s listen to Charlie McCarthy. D’you mind?”

Stan was looking at her spindly legs. As she hung the polo coat carefully in the closet he saw that her breasts were tiny. She was wearing a Sloppy Joe sweater and a skirt. They used to look like whores. Now they look like college girls. They all want to look like college girls. Why don’t they go to college, then? They wouldn’t be any different from the others. You’d never notice them. Christ, what a crazy way to run a world.

She was having a good time listening to the radio gags, and the whisky had warmed her. Taking off her shoes, she curled her feet under her. Then motioning Stan to throw her a cigarette, she stripped off her stockings and warmed her feet with her hands, giving him a flash at the same time.

When the program was over she turned the radio down a little and stood up, stretching. She drew off her sweater carefully, so as not to disturb the gardenia, and spread it over the chair back. She was thin, with sharp shoulder blades; her collar bones stood out starkly. When she dropped her skirt it was a little better but not too good. On one thigh, evenly spaced, were four bruises, the size of a big man’s fingers.

She stood smoking, wearing nothing but the imitation gardenia and Stan let his eyes go back to the old man’s face in the ceiling.

Tear-ass out of town, ride for hours, hotel, buy liquor, and for this. He sighed, stood up and slipped off his jacket and vest.

The girl was humming a tune to herself and now she did a soft-shoe dance step, her hands held up by her face, and spun around, then sang the chorus of the song that was coming over the loudspeaker. Her voice was husky and pleasant with power under control.