Philip Wylie - The Other Horseman

Jimmie swallowed. “Yeah. Hello, Harry. Look. This is going to seem like a cockeyed call to you. My name is Jimmie Bailey. Sarah’s brother. I just got back from England—”

The voice rose in pitch. Audrey could hear the words and the alarm in them. “Is something the matter with Sarah?”

Jimmie laughed. “No!”

“Then—!”

“Listen, mug! I’m her brother and I’ve just found out she’s nuts about you.”

“So what,” said Harry bitterly.

“So your family sicks dogs on me.”

“I’m trying to call back the dogs, if you’ll give me a chance. Listen. I’m a right guy. Are you?”

“I try to be. Go on.”

“You sound like it. Harry, did you ever tell Sarah that you were partly Jewish?”

There was a long pause. Very long. A voice incredibly strained. “Didn’t she know that—all the time?”

“I dunno, Harry. I’m going to find out. Only I wanted to be sure first that you were still—interested in her.”

“Interested!” The youth yelled the word. “Look! I’m mixed up, now! If you mean what I think you do—I believe I get it! I never did have one of those long talks about what went wrong—with Sarah. I don’t like scenes, and she was so darn mean and icy the last time I saw her, I got hurt about it—and walked out. You think it would make any difference if she didn’t know—and then did?” Jimmie could hear him swallow on the end of that.

“I’ll see.”

“Will you call me back, then? Hell! How can a fellow go and toot a clarinet, wondering about a thing like that—after he’s tried to quit wondering for a whole, long lot of months!”

“I’ll call you, Harry.”

Jimmie hung up. “Now—Sarah,” he said to Audrey. “I like the way this Harry talks.”

“Jimmie! I—look. Can I call Sarah?”

“Why, sure!” He smiled quietly. “The woman’s gentler technique?”

“Not that. But I thought—if we’ve guessed right about this—then telling Sarah will be doing her a big favor.”

“What do you want to do her a favor for?”

“So she’ll know I’m not mad that she read my diaries.”

Audrey was dialing. Jimmie slid behind her, and for a moment weltered in the thought that this was the essence of generosity. Then there came another thought—another possible face to put on Audrey’s deed: this was also the essence of a smart tactic. If Sarah were overcome with the news, overcome with joy—then, all the secrets in Audrey’s diaries would be forever secure.

Audrey’s father worked people that way, apparently.

Jimmie tried to shake off the suspicion—and he could not; although Audrey’s words, and her behavior, seemed to deny the truth of such a construction.

“Hello? Miss Bailey, please… a friend… personal… Hello? Sarah?… This is Audrey Wilson… Hey! I know you don’t want to talk to me… But I want to talk to you

… No, not about Jimmie… about Harry.”

Then, in a clear and gentle tone, Audrey told all about Harry—and the notion she and Jimmie had discussed. After that Sarah talked for several minutes. Jimmie could not hear a word. He heard, only, the low, intense pitch of his sister’s voice. But he did see that Audrey began nodding. And she sniffled once.

At last she spoke again: “No, Sarah… I wouldn’t do it tonight… no train and you couldn’t pack… Just phone him at the hotel… Yes… He certainly is expecting a call! Good night, darling… I’m glad—you feel like that!”

Audrey hung up. She buried her face in her hands for a moment. “That,” she said presently, with a sigh, “is probably a new high of some sort in marriage proposals. Sarah didn’t know. Said she might have heard once—and forgotten. But I think she just didn’t know. She was going to start for Chicago tonight. I advised her not to. But I bet Harry will start, tonight, for Muskogewan! And there will be merry hell to pay around town tomorrow! Wow!” Audrey laughed delightedly. She turned in the booth, hugged Jimmie, and she kissed him, lightly. “We’ve done a good deed that’ll last quite a while. Two lifetimes, maybe.”

“You’re a nice woman, Audrey.”

“Yeah. In a peculiar way—I am. Glad you found it out.”

“I—I—went back—that night—to Dan’s house. Did you hear me?”

Silence. “Went—back?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Jimmie! But you didn’t knock!”

“No. The house was dark and I could hear you—either crying or laughing—I couldn’t be sure—”

“Laughing!”

“I couldn’t tell—”

“Jimmie Bailey, did you even think, for one second I was laughing? Is that what you thought? And you sneaked away again! Laughing!! Does a girl who yanks out the lights and throws herself on a divan and practically chokes to death on tears for two hours sound like she was laughing! No kidding, Jimmie! I’m disappointed in you—terribly. And a telephone booth is no place to have our first quarrel! What does a girl have to do to convince you she’s mad about you, anyhow?”

Audrey pushed the door open. Jimmie stepped out, shakily. She followed, disheveled and damp from the warmth of the booth, and the anxiety of the calls, and the intense if vicarious emotion. Several people turned to look at them. The conclave on the porch had come to an end. Among those people was Audrey’s father. He nodded to Jimmie. He deliberately cut his daughter.

“I want to leave,” Audrey said. “I’ve got Dan’s car. Oh, Jimmie, I wish you had knocked! I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for thinking I might have been—laughing.”

“You going to Dan’s still? It’s late.”

“I live there.”

“ Live there!”

She walked across the foyer. The doorman produced her raincoat and umbrella.

“Certainly. We’ve kept it quiet, but it’s bound to spread around, sometime. Didn’t you see the affectionate regard with which Dad greeted me? Didn’t I tell you he’d throw me out for seeing you? Well, I told him I was going to—and he did throw me out. So Dan and Adele have given me sanctuary. And Mother, I understand, has taken to her bed.”

Jimmie said, “Hey! Wait! You can’t leave now!”

She smiled and whispered, “Night, Jimmie.” The man opened the big front door.

Wind skirled like bagpipes. Her skirts rippled. A sheet of rain splashed across the porch.

The door closed with a solemn bang.

AGAIN, THE WEEKS ground. Jimmie felt like a hard lump in a dull-edged mill.

No word from Audrey. He had taken to chasing her, failed to catch up, and decided that this was a new act. Flight. Dan and Adele were always polite, on the phone or at the door.

She’d gone out—they didn’t know where. She’d run up to Chicago for the week end. Out.

Away. He hunted for her among her friends without success. He wrote a note to her. No answer. So he quit. The kind of game she played was too intensive, too unfunny, too exhausting. He heard that she had flown East, finally. Visiting somebody in the Carolinas.

Biff came home. Jimmie heard all about that, too, from the rant and waggle of Muskogewan tongues. Biff was healed—even could drive a car. But he was not well. The accident must have injured his head, or something, they said. Jimmie was worried about that—until he heard the rest of the story. Biff couldn’t sleep, had terrible headaches, demanded constant care. And so—he’d brought home a special nurse.

Genevieve, of course.

Jimmie smiled wryly inside himself. Outwardly, he shook his head and said it was too bad. He wondered what his father and mother would do if they found out the reason for Biff’s malingering. Dalliance. The moron!

The one bright spot in all that creep of time was a mere flash: Sarah’s call, with Harry—to introduce a new husband and rapturously to thank an older brother. Sarah’s good looks were that day organized into meaning. All the meaning was focused on Harry.