Jane Bowles - My Sister's Hand in Mine - The Collected Works of Jane Bowles

“I believe so,” said Arnold’s father. “It must have been. Of course I did not mention to her anything concerning my sentiments about you, but she will have guessed that, and such things are better left unsaid.…”

He looked down at his woolen gloves and said no more for a little while. Suddenly he reached in his pocket and pulled out another letter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I almost forgot. Here is a letter from Arnold.”

“Now,” said Miss Goering opening the letter, “what can this be about?”

“Surely a lot about nothing and about the trollop he is living with, which is worse than nothing.” Miss Goering opened the letter and proceeded to read it aloud:

Dear Christina,

I have told Father to explain to you the reasons for our recent change of domicile. I hope he has done so and that you are satisfied that we have not behaved rashly nor in a manner that you might conclude was inconsiderate. Lucy wants you to send her check to this present address. Father was supposed to tell you so but I thought that perhaps he might forget. Lucy, I am afraid, has been very upset by your present escapade. She is constantly in either a surly or melancholic mood. I had hoped that this condition would ameliorate after we had moved, but she is still subject to long silences and often weeps at night, not to mention the fact that she is exceedingly cranky and has twice had a set-to with Adele, although we have only been here two days. I see in all this that Lucy’s nature is really one of extreme delicateness and morbidity and I am fascinated to be by her side. Adele on the other hand has a very equable nature, but she is terribly intellectual and very much interested in every branch of art. We are thinking of starting a magazine together when we are more or less settled. She is a pretty blonde girl.

I miss you terribly, my dear, and I want you to please believe that if I could only somehow reach what was inside of me I would break out of this terrible cocoon I am in. I expect to some day really. I will always remember the story you told me when we first met, in which I always felt was buried some strange significance, although I must admit to you now that I could not explain what. I must go and take Bubbles some hot tea to her room now. Please, please believe in me.

Love and kisses,

Arnold

“He’s a nice man,” said Miss Goering. For some reason Arnold’s letter made her feel sad, while his father’s letter had annoyed and puzzled her.

“Well,” said Arnold’s father, “I must be leaving now if I want to catch the next ferry.”

“Wait,” said Miss Goering, “I will accompany you to the dock.” She quickly unfastened a rose that she had been wearing on the collar of her coat and pinned it on the old man’s lapel.

When they arrived at the dock the gong was being sounded and the ferry was all ready to leave for the island. Miss Goering was relieved to see this, for she had feared a long sentimental scene.

“Well, we made it in the nick of time,” said Arnold’s father, trying to adopt a casual manner. But Miss Goering could see that his blue eyes were wet with tears.… She could barely restrain her own tears and she looked away from the ferry up the hill.

“I wonder,” said Arnold’s father, “if you could lend me fifty cents. I sent all my money to my wife and I didn’t think of borrowing enough from Arnold this morning.”

She quickly gave him a dollar and they kissed each other good-by. While the ferry pulled out, Miss Goering stood on the dock and waved; he had asked her to do this as a favor to him.

When she returned to the apartment she found it empty, so that she decided to go to the bar and drink, feeling certain that if Andy was not already there, he would arrive sooner or later.

She had been drinking there a few hours and it was beginning to grow dark. Andy had not yet arrived and Miss Goering felt a little relieved. She looked over her shoulder and saw that the heavy-set man who owned the hearse-like car was coming through the door. She shivered involuntarily and smiled sweetly at Frank, the bartender.

“Frank,” she said, “don’t you ever get a day off?”

“Don’t want one.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to keep my nose to the grindstone and do something worth while later on. I don’t get much enjoyment out of anything but thinking my own thoughts, anyway.”

“I just hate thinking mine, Frank.”

“No, that’s silly,” said Frank.

The big man in the overcoat had just climbed up on a stool and thrown a fifty-cent piece down on the bar. Frank served him his drink. After he had drunk it he turned to Miss Goering.

“Will you have a drink?” he asked her.

Much as she feared him, Miss Goering felt a peculiar thrill at the fact that he had at last spoken to her. She had been expecting it for a few days now, and felt she could not refrain from telling him so.

“Thank you so much,” she said in such an ingratiating manner that Frank, who approved little of ladies who spoke to strangers, frowned darkly and moved over to the other end of the bar, where he began to read a magazine. “Thank you so much, I’d be glad to. It might interest you to know that I have imagined our drinking together like this for some time now and I am not at all surprised that you asked me. I had rather imagined that it would happen at this time of day too, and when there was no one else here.” The man nodded his head once or twice.

“Well, what do you want to drink?” he asked her. Miss Goering was very disappointed that he had made no direct answer to her remark.

After Frank had served the drink the man snatched it from in front of her.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s go and sit in a booth.”

Miss Goering clambered down from her stool and followed him to the booth that was farthest from the door.

“Well,” he said to her after they had been sitting there for a little while, “do you work here?”

“Where?” said Miss Goering.

“Here, in this town.”

“No,” said Miss Goering.

“Well, then, do you work in another town?”

“No, I don’t work.”

“Yes, you do. You don’t have to try to fool me, because no one ever has.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You work as a prostitute, after a fashion, don’t you?”

Miss Goering laughed. “Heavens!” she said. “I certainly never thought I looked like a prostitute merely because I had red hair; perhaps like a derelict or an escaped lunatic, but never a prostitute!”

“You don’t look like no derelict or escaped lunatic to me. You look like a prostitute, and that’s what you are. I don’t mean a real small-time prostitute. I mean a medium one.”

“Well, I don’t object to prostitutes, but really I assure you I am no such thing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“But how are we to form any kind of friendship at all,” said Miss Goering, “if you don’t believe anything I say?”

The man shook his head once more. “I don’t believe you when you say you’re not a prostitute because I know you’re a prostitute.”

“All right,” said Miss Goering, “I’m tired of arguing.” She had noticed that his face, unlike most other faces, seemed not to take on any added life when he was engaged in conversation and she felt that all her presentiments about him had been justified.

He was now running his foot up her leg. She tried to smile at him but she was unable to.

“Come now,” she said, “Frank is very apt to see what you are doing from where he is standing behind the bar and I should feel terribly embarrassed.”

He seemed to ignore her remark completely and continued to press on her leg more and more vigorously.

“Would you want to come home with me and have a steak dinner?” he asked her. “I’m having steak and onions and coffee. You could stay a few days if everything worked out, or longer. This other little girl, Dorothy, just went away about a week ago.”