Thomas Wolfe - Thomas Wolfe - Of Time and the River, You Can't Go Home Again & Look Homeward, Angel

Gant spent delightful hours now in the gossip of dirty old men — their huddled bawdry exploded in cracked high wheezes on the Square. He came home at evening stored with gutter tidings, wetting his thumb and smiling slyly as he questioned Helen hopefully:

“She’s no better than a regular little chippie — eh?”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha,” she laughed mockingly. “Don’t you wish you knew?”

His age bore certain fruits, emoluments of service. When she came home in the evening with one of her friends, she presented the girl with jocose eagerness to his embrace. And, crying out paternally, “Why, bless her heart! Come kiss the old man,” he planted bristling mustache kisses on their white throats, their soft lips, grasping the firm meat of one arm tenderly with his good hand and cradling them gently. They shrieked with throaty giggle-twiddles of pleasure because it tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-TICKLED so.

“Ooh! Mr. Gant! Whah-whah-whah!”

“Your father’s such a nice man,” they said. “Such lovely manners.”

Helen’s eyes fed fiercely on them. She laughed with husky-harsh excitement.

“Hah-ha-ha! He likes that, doesn’t he? It’s too bad, old boy, isn’t it? No more monkey business.”

He talked with Jannadeau, while his fugitive eyes roved over the east end of the Square. Before the shop the comely matrons of the town came up from the market. From time to time they smiled, seeing him, and he bowed sweepingly. Such lovely manners.

“The King of England,” he observed, “is only a figurehead. He doesn’t begin to have the power of the President of the United States.”

“His power is severely li-MITed,” said Jannadeau gutturally, “by custom but not by statute. In actua-LITY he is still one of the most powerful monarchs in the world.” His thick black fingers probed carefully into the viscera of a watch.

“The late King Edward for all his faults,” said Gant, wetting his thumb, “was a smart man. This fellow they’ve got now is a nonentity and a nincompoop.” He grinned faintly, craftily, with pleasure at the big words, glancing slily at the Swiss to see if they had told.

His uneasy eyes followed carefully the stylish carriage of “Queen” Elizabeth’s well clad figure as she went down by the shop. She smiled pleasantly, and for a moment turned her candid stare upon smooth marble slabs of death, carved lambs and cherubim. Gant bowed elaborately.

“Good-evening, madam,” he said.

She disappeared. In a moment she came back decisively and mounted the broad steps. He watched her approach with quickened pulses. Twelve years.

“How’s the madam?” he said gallantly. “Elizabeth, I was just telling Jannadeau you were the most stylish woman in town.”

“Well, that’s mighty sweet of you, Mr. Gant,” she said in her cool poised voice. “You’ve always got a word for every one.”

She gave a bright pleasant nod to Jannadeau, who swung his huge scowling head ponderously around and muttered at her.

“Why, Elizabeth,” said Gant, “you haven’t changed an inch in fifteen years. I don’t believe you’re a day older.”

She was thirty-eight and pleasantly aware of it.

“Oh, yes,” she said laughing. “You’re only saying that to make me feel good. I’m no chicken any more.”

She had a pale clear skin, pleasantly freckled, carrot-colored hair, and a thin mouth live with humor. Her figure was trim and strong — no longer young. She had a great deal of energy, distinction, and elegance in her manner.

“How are all the girls, Elizabeth?” he asked kindly.

Her face grew sad. She began to pull her gloves off.

“That’s what I came to see you about,” she said. “I lost one of them last week.”

“Yes,” said Gant gravely, “I was sorry to hear of that.”

“She was the best girl I had,” said Elizabeth. “I’d have done anything in the world for her. We did everything we could,” she added. “I’ve no regrets on that score. I had a doctor and two trained nurses by her all the time.”

She opened her black leather handbag, thrust her gloves into it, and pulling out a small bluebordered handkerchief, began to weep quietly.

“Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh,” said Gant, shaking his head. “Too bad, too bad, too bad. Come back to my office,” he said. They went back and sat down. Elizabeth dried her eyes.

“What was her name?” he asked.

“We called her Lily — her full name was Lillian Reed.”

“Why, I knew that girl,” he exclaimed. “I spoke to her not over two weeks ago.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “she went like that — one hemorrhage right after another, down here.” She tapped her abdomen. “Nobody ever knew she was sick until last Wednesday. Friday she was gone.” She wept again.

“T-t-t-t-t-t,” he clucked regretfully. “Too bad, too bad. She was pretty as a picture.”

“I couldn’t have loved her more, Mr. Gant,” said Elizabeth, “if she had been my own daughter.”

“How old was she?” he asked.

“Twenty-two,” said Elizabeth, beginning to weep again.

“What a pity! What a pity!” he agreed. “Did she have any people?”

“No one who would do anything for her,” Elizabeth said. “Her mother died when she was thirteen — she was born out here on the Beetree Fork — and her father,” she added indignantly, “is a mean old bastard who’s never done anything for her or any one else. He didn’t even come to her funeral.”

“He will be punished,” said Gant darkly.

“As sure as there’s a God in heaven,” Elizabeth agreed, “he’ll get what’s coming to him in hell. The old bastard!” she continued virtuously, “I hope he rots!”

“You can depend upon it,” he said grimly. “He will. Ah, Lord.” He was silent a moment while he shook his head with slow regret.

“A pity, a pity,” he muttered. “So young.” He had the moment of triumph all men have when they hear some one has died. A moment, too, of grisly fear. Sixty-four.

“I couldn’t have loved her more,” said Elizabeth, “if she’d been one of my own. A young girl like that, with all her life before her.”

“It’s pretty sad when you come to think of it,” he said. “By God, it is.”

“And she was such a fine girl, Mr. Gant,” said Elizabeth, weeping softly. “She had such a bright future before her. She had more opportunities than I ever had, and I suppose you know”— she spoke modestly —“what I’ve done.”

“Why,” he exclaimed, startled, “you’re a rich woman, Elizabeth — damned if I don’t believe you are. You own property all over town.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she answered, “but I’ve got enough to live on without ever doing another lick of work. I’ve had to work hard all my life. From now on I don’t intend to turn my hand over.”

She regarded him with a shy pleased smile, and touched a coil of her fine hair with a small competent hand. He looked at her attentively, noting with pleasure her firm uncorseted hips, moulded compactly into her tailored suit, and her cocked comely legs tapering to graceful feet, shod in neat little slippers of tan. She was firm, strong, washed, and elegant — a faint scent of lilac hovered over her: he looked at her candid eyes, lucently gray, and saw that she was quite a great lady.

“By God, Elizabeth,” he said, “you’re a fine-looking woman.”

“I’ve had a good life,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself.”

They had always known each other — since first they met. They had no excuses, no questions, no replies. The world fell away from them. In the silence they heard the pulsing slap of the fountain, the high laughter of bawdry in the Square. He took a book of models from the desk, and began to turn its slick pages. They showed modest blocks of Georgia marble and Vermont granite.