J. Powers - Morte D'Urban

Sally closed the phonograph and came away from it, saying, “Now I’m ready for a swim, if you are.”

After a moment, he said, “As a matter of fact, I’m not.”

“No swim?”

“If you’re serious, no.”

She smiled. “It’s dark out there, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“No, if you rented bathing suits — gray cotton ones — I still wouldn’t go in, if you follow me.”

“No.”

“Too cold.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s enough. We’ve had too much to drink, I don’t have to tell you. You could get a cramp, in your condition, and drown.”

“Wouldn’t you save me?”

He caught the implication, thought it unworthy of her, ignored it. “ I could get a cramp. You wouldn’t be strong enough to save me. We’d both drown. What a way to go. Think it over.”

Sally lit a cigarette, and did seem to be thinking it over — as well she might, for the potential for scandal was practically infinite. “I’m going in,” she said.

“Could I have one of those?” he said, reaching for her cigarettes. “Thanks.” He was in a bad spot, but to act like it would be the worst thing he could do. He recalled the gameness displayed by the keeper of the late Bushman at the Lincoln Park Zoo, man and beast out for their daily walk around the grounds, but out for hours before the gorilla — changed overnight from youngster to monster, knowing his strength and wanting his way — chanced to wander into his cage. Snap! And Bushman had had his last walk. How easy it would’ve been for the keeper to panic. He had not. He had held on. Father Urban handed Sally her cigarettes and got to his feet, saying in a yawning tone, “Come on, let’s go.”

“ I ’m going in.”

“Come on. Let’s not spoil it.”

“Spoil what ?”

“Come on.”

“ I ’m going in.”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t try to stop me, would you?”

“No,” said Father Urban, but seeing that this made her smile, he said, “Yes, if need be. But come on. Let’s go. Let’s not spoil it.”

“Oh, all right.”

He got up.

And she got up, but then she changed her mind, and in a matter of moments, she was standing before him, before the fire, back to him, wearing nothing but her shoes. They were high-heeled shoes. Calf. Golden calf. Lovely woman. No doubt of it.

“All right,” she said, turning around. “Try and stop me.”

“You’ve got me covered,” he said, and took his eyes off her, and kept them off, commending himself. It was like tearing up telephone directories, the hardest part was getting started.

“ Not going to stop me?”

“No, I’ll wait.” He moved over to the phonograph. He gazed into the lamplight. If he’d had a cigar, he would’ve lit it. That would’ve been something to do. When he heard her heels on the stairway, he moved back to his chair, sat down, and gazed into the fire. He was thinking ahead, wondering how he could make it easier for her later. “Don’t be too long,” he said. He was playing it down.

The first shoe hit him on the shoulder, a glancing blow, and landed in the dead ashes at the front of the fire, from which he quickly retrieved it, but the second one struck him on the head. “Hey!” he yelled, but did not turn around and look at her. The second shoe had hurt. It might have killed him. What a way to go.

He heard the trapdoor open and shut. He stood the shoes together, and, looking at them there, felt sorry for Sally. Life here below, no matter how much you might wish it other-wise, was shoes — not champagne, but shoes, and not dirt, but shoes, and this, roughly speaking, was the mind of the Church.

He heard the diving board rumble overhead. Baroomph! said the lake. He heard splashing, and then he heard nothing. She could be climbing the rungs set in the wall of the castle. No, she was still in the water.

Was it too much to hope that she’d return to him chastened in spirit? Water perhaps the best therapy known to man. Listen for sounds of drowning, and hope for the best, and try to make it up to her somehow. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Not scorned. Not a-tall. Lovely woman. Tell her so, if need be. Play it down, way down. Oh, I understand. You just wanted to pull up the shrubbery and throw stones at the tigers, but that’s all past now. Why, who lives here? The door’s open! Say, why don’t you wait inside while I … that’s it, while I see if I can find some bananas. Snap!

Putt-putt. No! Oh yes. Putt-putt-putt. And putt-putt-putt-putt-putt.

“Hey!” yelled Father Urban, shooting out the door, and almost killing himself in the dark. “ Hey! ”

Father Urban stood on the stone pier, where the launch had been berthed, and hoped that Sally would return for him and her clothes, but after a few minutes of this, he went back into the castle, only hoping that she’d manage to slip into the house and up to her room unseen. There was little reason to believe that she’d rescue him later that night, and morning didn’t strike him as a very good bet either. In any case, he preferred not to spend the night in the castle. Too much had already happened there. If he had to swim for it sooner or later, the best time was now, in the cover of night.

So he placed the screen in front of the fire, extinguished the lamp, and checked out of the castle. At the end of the stone pier, he sat down and removed his shoes and socks. No stars, only a cloudy half-assed moon, and the lake more or less invisible. It was very definitely there, though, in motion, noisy with waves, waiting for him. After tying his shoes together, and then to his belt, he slipped down into the cold, cold water, and struck out for the mainland. It was perhaps fifty yards away.

He soon discovered that the wind, like everything else that day, was against him. Somewhere between the island and the mainland, when he could see neither very well, and the waves seemed to shove him down, he sensed the beginnings of a cramp, panicked, and, feeling that it was him or them, he got rid of his shoes. He did go along better after that, but when he reached the other shore — when this was no longer his only objective in life — he knew what he’d done. Even as a child, he hadn’t liked going barefooted, and what he’d felt then, the innate cruelty of sticks and stones, he felt again. This, though, was nothing now. Wet and woebegone and shivering, he sat on a fallen birch and put on his socks and hid the whiteness of his feet from himself.

He was down the shore about two hundred yards from the Thwaites house. He was tempted to head for the main road, to go on without his bag, and hope that it would somehow reach him later, but this, he realized, could be a bad mistake, the same kind of mistake he’d made when he’d jettisoned his shoes. He would just be letting himself in for more trouble, trouble that could easily be avoided — easily, that is, if all his instincts weren’t for getting off Mrs Thwaites’s property before something worse happened to him.

But he did go to the car and he did get his bag out of the trunk. Then he thought of his collar, left on the front seat, but it wasn’t there. He felt around on the floor. Not there, either. So he went on without it. If Sally had taken it, he was afraid that more was wrong with her than he’d thought.

On the main road, cars passed him by. He didn’t blame them. When he came to a filling station, with a nice warm stove in it, and a pay telephone, he didn’t blame the attendant for looking at him as he did: Think he’d sell his bag before his shoes. “Use this one,” the attendant said, pointing to the telephone on the desk. “It won’t cost you.”

“Well, I must say that’s nice of you,” said Father Urban. There was only one person he could call, once he really thought about it, and fortunately that one was in. “And don’t send anybody else,” Father Urban said. “Come yourself.”