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

“Dressed up, looking like a Christmas tree,” she added aloud. She turned out the lights lingeringly, almost caressingly, and left. The last thing she heard through the door was the purr of the mechanical ice-box. “The darling!” she crooned, as though it were a child.

She got there late. The show had started. And when the house lights went up between the acts, there was Marty sitting precisely one row in front of her, with a friend. Not a woman, though. But even so, he had lied to her.

She left her seat hurriedly, furtively, trailing her wrap across people’s knees after her. She wouldn’t go back to it again when the audience settled itself for the second half. She was afraid he might turn around and see her. She felt guilty herself somehow — she couldn’t quite understand why. Probably because she had caught him unaware. She had once said to him, “I’m a good sport.”

Instead of going home at once, she went backstage to talk to Jack. “I don’t think my husband cares about me any more,” she said, half laughing, half in earnest. “I saw him in the audience just now.”

And when she left, Jack was saying, “That’ll give you two weeks to rehearse. And the de Vrie woman leaves in ten days. They can put in an understudy till you’re set. Now don’t forget, tomorrow at eleven!”

“I’ll be seeing you,” she said wearily.

Marty of course was home before her and pretended to be absorbed in his newspaper. Finally though, because she was his wife and it was the least he could do in all decency, he put it down and looked at her. The way she was dressed and all. His expression never changed.

“What’re you all dressed up about?” he asked indifferently.

“I’m going back in the show business,” she said quietly. And wanted him to storm and forbid and shout “What, my wife? Never! You’ll do nothing of the sort! Your place is home!”

“S’funny, I’ve been thinking about it too, lately,” he drawled, “and wondering if you ever would or not.”

Well, she had done all she could.

A big round moon flamed up against the curtain, wavered a bit, and then steadied itself. It glowed radiantly, too perfect to be anything but a stage moon out of an electrician’s box of tricks. Whoever came under its rays bathed in the fountain of youth. The curtain lifted and a girl came through.

To everyone in turn she represented something different. To the man watching her from the wings, she symbolized drudgery, painting itself in bright colors but not fooling him and not fooling herself. To one alone in that entire house, she brought a gift of beauty and glamor.

She gave a little turn of the wrist, and again the moon flashed blindingly on one of the boxes. Marty was sitting in it. In all that glare he never once took his eyes off her. He gave the absurd impression of taking the whole proceeding seriously. “Sweetheart,” she sang, “do you love me? Do you want me? Am I in all your dreams?” as part of the patter chorus. And he nodded his head and sat there mutely adoring. The audience by now was convinced — well, you know the rest.

And every night after the show he was waiting for her to take her home, and there was an air about him of one who sees his dream come alive and walk about before his very eyes.

Russell Barker stood waiting in the crowded lobby of the theater. Half-past eight sharp Stella promised to be there, but she was almost always late. He’d been going out with her for nearly a year now, and she had never yet been on time for an appointment with him. Even though she knew darned well how little he could afford the price of theater tickets these days. Twenty to nine. He put his watch away and started to walk back and forth, looking at the framed photographs of well-known players that decorated the walls.

Stella was a puzzle to him. Did she really care for him or didn’t she? Sometimes he wondered if she wasn’t just using him as a space-filler until someone more worthwhile — financially, of course — came along. And for that matter did he really care about her either? He couldn’t tell. He wasn’t as sure as he had once been about— Oh, well, why bring that up now? It was over and done with long ago.

Outside on the wet, gleaming sidewalk in front of the theater, the uniformed doorman was being kept busy as car after car drew up at the entrance to disgorge its smartly-gowned women and stiff-shirted men and then rolled smoothly away to give place to the next. Russell watched them as they sauntered in, these well-to-do occupants of boxes and of first-row orchestra seats, laughing and chattering gaily. They seemed not to have a care in the world. Stella should have been here in time for all this, he realized; she would have enjoyed looking at the women’s clothes. She loved clothes so, sables and evening gowns and things like that; she was always talking about them, wishing she owned them. He looked at his watch once more. Quarter to nine. If she didn’t hurry, they were going to miss part of the show. Most of the people in the lobby were beginning to filter inside now, and snatches of the overture could be plainly heard each time the inner doors were opened.

Then Stella appeared at last, hurrying toward him, and just as she came in, the biggest limousine of all drew up outside at the curb. Two people got out of it.

Stella greeted Russell in her usual peevish way. “What a night to ask me to come out! If I had known it was going to be like this—!” She cut her complaint short to turn and take in the beauty of an ermine wrap that had just come sailing in, muffling its wearer to the ears. Just behind her came a rather paunchy gentleman.

The wearer of the wrap suddenly stopped short, turned aside, and came over to the wall as though the pictures on it interested her. She stopped just a foot away from Russell. He saw her face and his own paled a little. But Stella only had eyes for the wrap, envious, longing eyes. “Louise!” the paunchy gentleman remonstrated impatiently. “Come on, we’ll miss the show.”

“Just a minute,” she answered indifferently. “I want to see whose picture this is they have up here.” And she raised her finger to her lips as though she were studying the picture critically — but it might have meant simply: “Keep still; don’t speak to me — now.” And did Russell imagine it, or had a whisper floated toward his ear? “Meet me here between the acts.” Suddenly she was gone, had gone in with the paunchy gentleman. Had he really seen her, he wondered, or was it just a ghost — a ghost from out of the past?

Stella brought him to. “Well, come on!” she remarked sulkily. “What are we standing here for?”

As they climbed the two long flights of stairs to the second balcony, she had further fault to find. “I’d like to go to a show just once in my life with you,” she said, “and not have to sit way up on the roof!”

Russell didn’t answer.

Just before the first act was over, Stella prodded him with her elbow and pointed. “There’s that ermine down there, in a box. It’s the best-looking thing I’ve ever seen.”

But he had seen it long ago, from the moment he first sat down. The curtain came down for the end of the act. The girl in the box stood up and went outside; the ermine wrap remained behind upon the chair. Stella kept eyeing it hungrily. “That man with her,” she commented, “has fallen asleep.” Then she added: “I bet he bought it for her. Some women have all the luck!”

“I’m going downstairs and smoke a cigarette,” Russell said, standing up. “Wait here, will you?”

He came out into the lobby a minute later, and they stood face to face, the two of them, the girl who had worn the ermine wrap and he.

“Well, Russell,” she said, “let’s shake hands anyway. It’s been a long time now—”