Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

“What are you doing — trying to start a scene with me here?” he demanded angrily. “You couldn’t pick a better spot, could you?”

“I’m not trying to start any scene,” she repeated in a trance-like calm. “I’ve got my ticket to go back to New York.”

He woke up to what she was saying then.

“That night we met,” she went on very earnestly, “must have been a mistake. I’ve thought it over.” And going over to the perfume case she switched off all the lights.

At this point Mrs. Werner, her hair freshly done up, stepped out of one of the elevators, a black velvet cape gathered jealously about her. Her eyes were particularly Venetian this evening.

Poor Gerry Jones, trying to unravel his destiny in a few broken whispers. “You make me feel like two cents, sweetheart—”

“Say it with your music,” said Sharlee. “You’re so weak you’re not worth saving.” And she walked off.

Zoe Werner’s candle-like fingers closed on Gerry’s arm.

“What’s all the shooting for?”

“Sharlee just told me she’s going back to New York.”

“Oh, you silly children. You sil-lee, sil-lee children.”

“Dear lady,” he told her, “we are children. Why did you ever meddle with us?”

She regarded him gloomily. “The good die young,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.

Gerry went back to his music. People wanted to dance; they wanted gay music to shut out the sound the sea was making. Gerry stood up in his place and trembled spasmodically, shifting his weight first to one leg then to the other, and swung the baton dreamily before his chest. Before him swam the image of a beautiful woman in beautiful clothes. A vain selfish woman, the sort of woman Zoe Werner was.

And at first he thought she was more beautiful than an artery of mauve lightning in an angry sky. Every day for days and days of her life she had rubbed creams of almond blossom and of orange blossom, essences of honey and heliotrope dew gently, ever so gently, into her skin. Every day for days and days of her life she had bathed her shoulders in steam and jasmine, pressed a sponge choked with ice cold water to her heart, touched a glass rod with a drop of liquid violets and French chemistry to her lashes and the lobes of her ears. She had protected herself against drafts with spun silk and with lace of Ireland and of Flanders. She had protected herself against cold with the skins of leopards and of seals, with shawls of Persia and Seville. She had protected herself from darkness with electricity in rose and pearl and amber globes, and when the globes burst, it was seen that there was no light to be had from them at all, only an illusion.

And all at once he looked closer and saw that there was no face there at all, only grinning decaying teeth and eyeless sockets and the worm-eaten bridge of a nose. It was a death’s head. The mouth was painted and the cheeks, and the ears were colored shell pink. She even had a gardenia in her hair. And with it all she was a ghastly looking thing. The gay music wavered, then broke, and the bottom fell out of it. The dancing outlasted it only a matter of a second or two. People came to a halt and looked at one another uncertainly, not knowing what to make of it.

“Water!” said a voice at the far end of the room. “He’s fainted. Take him outside.”

Sharlee was upstairs, getting ready to go away. She took time off from her packing to bury her head in the pillows and sob. Then there were voices outside and someone knocked on the door.

“Yes?” said Sharlee, jumping up and dabbing at her eyes.

The door opened without waiting for her, and she saw a corridor full of people, all staring at her. They brought Gerry in, very pale, with his eyes closed, and put him down on the bed.

“My honeyboy!” Sharlee gave an agonized little whimper, and all thought of New York vanished completely as she bent over him and kissed him. She got everyone out of the room and closed the door on them, but her back was no sooner turned than the door opened again and a voice said: “Mayn’t I help? I’ve brought my spirits of ammonia in case—”

The Venetian-eyed Zoe Werner had insinuated herself into the room.

“If I thought I could trust you to take the right care of him,” said Sharlee bitterly, “I wouldn’t spend another night in this hotel.”

“He’s overworked,” Zoe murmured, not noticing. “The hours here are too long.”

Sharlee snatched up her valise and took long hysterical strides to the door. “Stay here if you want,” she said, half strangled with sobs. “I’m going to New York.”

“You needn’t go,” said Zoe gently. “I’m leaving in the early morning for Jacksonville.” She passed her, and on the way out said softly, “Tell him goodbye for me.”

The sea was blue as only the Florida seas can be: acetylene blue. It reminded Gerry of the eyes of Angel Face, his mother. A dripping mermaid came splashing out of the surf to greet him.

“I saw you leave the hotel,” said Sharlee, “and I was afraid you might want to try the water. I don’t think it would be good for you just yet.”

They sat down on a little hillock of sand, and their arms went around each other.

“We will go away from Florida,” said Gerry.

“We can’t,” said Sharlee, grinning up at the sky. “I wired Angel Face and she’s on the way down. She says she wants to dance to your music. Go in and dress, and I’ll sit out here listening, and when you play, I’ll know it’s all for me.”

Sometimes it all seemed like a dream, one of those things that happens in books and talking pictures, but not to her, Patty Moran, of Sixty-Eighth Street and Ninth Avenue. Ninth Avenue, where the “El” trains rumbled by in front of the parlor and people ate corned beef and cabbage and had worries. Maybe it happened because she was eighteen. When you’re eighteen, dreams have a way of coming true.

First there were just the two of them, Laurence and Patty. No one ever knew where he ever got that name. Spelt with a U in the middle, too. He hated it. If you wanted to be his friend, you had to call him Larry, if you knew him well enough like Patty did. Or else just plain Mr. Cogan.

Patty was the one who could call him Laurence (with a U in the middle) and not risk getting a punch in the nose. Sometimes she did it when she wanted to tease him. He’d look at her and smile. After a while she found out he liked it. He’d call her up on the telephone and say, “This is Laurence with a U in the middle.” They’d been going together steadily for quite some time, nearly a year. And they knew they’d have to keep on going for another year, or maybe two, before there would be enough money to — if you know what I mean. But they didn’t mind that.

For all they knew, they were the only two in the whole wide world. Of course there were mothers and sisters and brothers and people like that — but they didn’t make Pat’s heart beat any quicker, the way it was doing right then, for instance, at the telephone.

“And what’s on your mind, Laurence with a U in the middle?” Pat said, pretending to be very matter-of-fact. “Admitting that you have one.”

“It’s about that dance, sweet Patty Moran,” he said. “They couldn’t get Killarney Hall for tonight, so they’re giving it downtown instead, at an armory on Park Avenue. I’ll wait for you at the door. Are you ready to leave soon?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll have to change my dress first. I forgot I was seeing you tonight.”

“Shame on you!” her mother laughed. “Standing there in your silver shoes and all, telling him that.” And she tried to take the phone away from Pat and say, “Don’t believe a word of it, Larry!”