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

“Flower,” she said incoherently. “You were supposed to—”

“I did have one,” he said shortly. “Must have dropped it coming up the stairs. I’m not used to wearing them anyway. What’s the difference? I ran into you, didn’t I — for all the good it did?”

She shaded her eyes with one hand for a minute. Faith flashed through her mind. My God! she thought. My God! That kid went off with the wrong— She whipped her hand across the table and seized his wrist convulsively.

“Will you do something for me?” she panted.

“I thought so,” he said wearily. “It’s right in character.” And reached for his inside pocket. “How much— Your little brother’s sick of course and has to have an operation.”

There was no time to explain. She cleared the misunderstanding out of the way by slapping his hand aside impatiently. The gesture would have been funny at any other time but this.

“No; you don’t get me! All I’m asking you to do is — sit tight, will you for a minute, until I come back. Please don’t leave this table — please!” She jumped up and ran toward the back instead of the main entrance. She knew that if he saw her leave, go out into the street, he’d never stay there and wait; he wasn’t interested enough in her for that. He wouldn’t believe she was coming back and he’d get up and go — and she’d never be able to find him again. There was no time to tell him where she was going and what she was trying to do — and even if there had been, he wouldn’t have believed her, so foul was the impression he had of her by now. She fled toward the dressing-room at the back, wailing over her shoulder: “Wait for me, now! Wait for me!”

If only she could tip off Faith in time, let her know that she was with the wrong man! She remembered him vaguely now; she had danced with him first herself. Too good-looking to be trustworthy, and just the type who would be able to put one over on a kid like that. And no good, he had n.g. written all over him for those who could read. That was why she’d put up such a beef about it in the dressing-room when Faith had told her she was going with him. She’d known instinctively but hadn’t known how to get it across to Faith.

The good old fire-escape window was wide open, the way it always was, to give a little circulation of air to the stuffy place. She climbed through it, the way she had so very many times before — but for a different reason this time. The colored woman in attendance looked up from her newspaper. She knew Trixie by sight and wasn’t at all concerned.

“Whut, again?” she drawled. “Thass the third time this week for you, ain’t it? Happy landing!” she waved.

“Leave it open. I’m coming back in again in a little while, I hope,” Trixie explained. She started down the side of the building, dropped lightly to her feet in a narrow cement alley below, skirted a couple of garbage cans, and came out on Broadway looking fresh as a daisy. “Taxi!” she shouted and dived in head first. “West Fifty-first, hurry up!”

“What did you close the door for?” Faith rebuked mildly. The man didn’t answer but the smile he gave her spoke for itself. Something about that smile chilled her a little; the first premonition of something ominous struck at her, but she wouldn’t admit it even to herself. She was just imagining things. She mustn’t begin finding fault this early in the game. When they got to know one another better, little things like this wouldn’t alarm her; she’d understand him.

She turned to prepare the sandwiches. The two arms that dropped over her shoulders and coiled around her like snakes a moment later were anything but imaginary. Their grip hampered her breath, and sudden stark fright dissipated what was left of it. She tried not to lose her head.

“Don’t!” she said, and even tried to force a friendly laugh. “It’s late — I want to get going on these sandwiches.”

“You and your sandwiches!” he muttered thickly close to her ear. Then in a louder voice, “I ain’t in the sandwich mood. Skip it.” His lips were like hot pincers on the cool back of her neck, forcing her head down. Kisses that almost bit, they were so fervent. Panic descended like a blinding curtain; she struggled and writhed in such sheer animal terror for a moment that he released her without meaning to. She whirled and faced him, her face gone white. What was he trying to do, make something furtive, shameful, out of this love she had so freely given him? He mustn’t; she wouldn’t let him; she hadn’t given it for that; it wasn’t that kind of love! The suddenness of the transformation he had undergone shocked her to the marrow.

She had entered this room a few minutes ago with a sweetheart, a sweetheart whose image she had built up in her heart over a period of months; now she suddenly, hideously, found herself behind a closed door with a gorilla. The image began to rock, to sway. There was still time to save it, the misunderstanding could still be cleared up, but if once it toppled, shattered, then she had nothing left.

She struggled frantically to preserve it, prop it up. She tried to beat the barrier that he was building between them like a brick wall, that rose until it all but hid him from her.

“You don’t want me to think you’re like all of them, do you? You — you shouldn’t act like that,” she panted. “I wouldn’t have let you come up here with me. Don’t you remember, on the street I asked you not to misunder—”

He wouldn’t let her finish. “What are you trying to do, hold out? Where are your wings, sister, and where’s your halo? Two nickels rents you where you work, and now you’re trying to act hard-to-get!” She shrank back; her eyes were so big they suddenly seemed to cover her whole face. He took a step after her, caught her by the wrist. “Who d’ya think you’re kidding?” he said brutally. “Come over here!” She saw his other hand go back, groping for the light switch.

“No!” she pleaded agonizedly. “No! Don’t let it turn out like this!” But the plea was no longer to him; it was to the vault high above the two of them. “I’ve waited so long for you; you’ve been with me night and day—”

“And in the morning you’ll wonder who the hell I was and what the hell I looked like!”

He said that!

He didn’t hear the crash within her, as the image crumbled to dust and left her — nothing. She was so limp all at once, so like a rag, that his arms dropped as though she had slapped him. His ardor cooled; there was something here he couldn’t understand; it chilled him. He reached for his hat, dented it, and slapped it on. He was going. There were too many other fish in the sea. He chucked her briefly under the chin.

“You’re a lovely kid and all that — but what a disposition!”

She gave a moan so low it could scarcely be heard. She staggered to retain her balance.

“No high-jinks,” he warned her. “I’ve got the landlady eating out of my hand—” He watched her, waiting for the scream that he felt sure was coming. He was going to clip her one across the mouth and shut her up. It had worked lots of times before. But no scream came. She just stood there shivering.

“All right, all right,” he grunted sourly. “If you didn’t learn the facts of life at that place where you work, better buy yourself a book and study up on ’em.” The real horror of the situation lay in that. She couldn’t make him understand what he was doing to her, turning everything sordid, killing everything in her. There was no heart there for her to touch no matter how hard she tried; nothing there for her to appeal to. They didn’t speak the same language at all.

“Get out!” she said hoarsely. The shivering had become almost epilepsy. “Get out, I say, get out!”