Part 5

“I was there once, but for only three days. It was when I went to school in the East. A girl I knew lived there. She married a lawyer named Trigan, or something like that. You didn’t know him, I guess.”

And now there was a hungry, dissatisfied look on her face.

“God! I’d like to live in a place like that, not in this hole! There hadn’t no man better tempt me.” When she said that she giggled again. Once during the evening they walked across the dusty road and stood for a time by the river’s edge, but got back to the bench before the others had finished their dance. Maud persistently refused to dance.

At ten-thirty, all of the others having got a little drunk, they drove back to town, Maud again sitting beside John. On the drive Alf went to sleep. Maud pressed her slender body against John’s, and after two or three futile moves to which he made no special response, she boldly put her hand into his. The second woman and her husband talked with Tom of people they had seen at Lylse’s. “Do you think there’s anything up between Fanny and Joe? No; I think she’s on the square.”

They got to John’s hotel at eleven-thirty, and bidding them all good night, he went upstairs. Alf had awakened. When they were parting, he leaned out of the car and looked closely at John. “What did you say your name was?” he asked.

John went up a dark stairway and sat on the bed in his room. Lillian had lost her looks. She had married, and her husband had divorced her. Joe was a trouble-shooter. He worked for the International Harvester Company, a swell mechanic. Herman was a drayman. He had five kids.

Three men in a room next John’s were playing poker. They laughed and talked, and their voices came clearly to John. “You think so, do you? Well, I’ll prove you’re wrong.” A mild quarrel began. As it was summer, the windows of John’s room were open, and he went to one to stand, looking out. A moon had come up, and he could see down into an alleyway. Two men came out of a street and stood in the alleyway, whispering. After they left, two cats crept along a roof and began a love-making scene. The game in the next room broke up. John could hear voices in the hallway.

“Now, forget it. I tell you, you’re both wrong.” John thought of his son at the camp up in Vermont. “I haven’t written him a letter today.” He felt guilty.

Opening his bag, he took out paper and sat down to write; but after two or three attempts gave it up and put the paper away again. How fine the night had been as he sat on the bench beside the woman at Lylse’s! Now the woman was in bed with her husband. They were not speaking to each other.

“Could I do it?” John asked himself, and then, for the first time that evening, a smile came to his lips.

“Why not?” he asked himself.

With his bag in his hand he went down the dark hallway and into the hotel office and began pounding on a desk. A fat old man with thin red hair and sleep-heavy eyes appeared from somewhere. John explained.

“I can’t sleep. I think I’ll drive on. I want to get to Pittsburgh and as I can’t sleep, I might as well be driving.” He paid his bill.

Then he asked the clerk to go and arouse the man in the garage, and gave him an extra dollar. “If I need gas, is there any place open?” he asked, but evidently the man did not hear. Perhaps he thought the question absurd.

He stood in the moonlight on the sidewalk before the door of the hotel and heard the clerk pounding on a door. Presently voices were heard, and the headlights of his car shone. The car appeared, driven by a boy. He seemed very alive and alert.

“I saw you out to Lylse’s,” he said, and, without being asked, went to look at the tank. “You’re all right; you got ’most eight gallons,” he assured John as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

How friendly the car, how friendly the night! John was not one who enjoyed fast driving, but he went out of the town at very high speed. “You go down two blocks, turn to your right, and go three. There you hit the cement. Go right straight to the east. You can’t miss it.”

John was taking the turns at racing speed. At the edge of town some one shouted to him from the darkness, but he did not stop. He hungered to get into the road going east.

“I’ll let her out,” he thought. “Lord! It will be fun! I’ll let her out.”

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Copyright, 1925, by The Century Co. Copyright, 1926, by Sherwood Anderson.

GERTRUDE DONOVAN[3]

By NATHAN ASCH

(From _The Transatlantic Review_)

A sound of cutting reached her ears. She halted and listened. So they were ripping the ticker out, as Charlie said they would. Then it was all over. She didn’t believe it yet. Failed. Bankrupt. She didn’t understand it. What did it mean? Then she remembered what Charlie had further said: a new job. And she saw a picture of herself going downtown to the employment office early in the morning; filling out a blank; being told that she would be notified if an opening could be found. Then waiting; every morning waiting for the postman, and finding that there was nothing for her. Then the call at the office. The manager would first look at her legs, then at her neck.

He would measure her with his eyes. The old look. She tried to picture the new boss. Fat? Thin? Good looking? Will he try to get fresh? She’d put him in his place.

She became angry. They had no business hiring her, if they were going to fail. She wasn’t working for love. It’s no fun to be looking for a new job every day. Just as you get started, and the clerks stop looking at you as if you were lying naked on the bed waiting for them, you’ve got to give it all up and start all over again.

Her hands began automatically to hit the keys. And the Hudson Seal: she’d have to forget that, for this year. Mother would never let her off on the board. She’d start crying about the high prices, and the raise in rent, and a million and one other things. Then she’d look at her as if she were murdering her. No coat and no permanent wave next month.

Her hand momentarily stopped typing, and touched her hair; then opening a drawer in her desk, she took out a patent leather bag, from which she extracted a small mirror and examined her hair. It was getting loose. They charged you twenty dollars and it didn’t last more than a month.

She took out a powder puff, and powdered herself, twisting her lower lip over the upper and blowing at her nose.

A pink light shone out of the call box, and taking a pad and a pencil, she walked out of her cubicle.

With Mr. Glymmer in the room were Mr. Reed and Harry Widener. They did not notice her entrance but kept on talking with gravity. She sat down in the soft chair that she always took, crossed her legs, and did not adjust her skirt as she always did when the junior partner was not there, and waited. Her hand went once again to her hair, lifting it near the temples.

He was nice. Much nicer than Jim Denby. He always looked at you nice, and his dark eyes looked into yours something personal. He was a man. And he didn’t look as if he played servant girl to any woman, like Jim did. It was nice; it was equal, it was.

She caught a few words. Protective Committee and Supreme Court. Reed was as usual very cool, he sat on the edge of the desk, and his fingers played with a cigarette holder. Glymmer seemed more nervous. She didn’t like him. Too anxious to please always. Not to her or to the other clerks, but to the customers, or to his partners. She didn’t like his smile. She never had liked it. She wouldn’t trust any man with a smile like that.

She looked again at Harry Widener. He seemed amused at the whole affair. He hardly said a word, just looked at them, the corners of his mouth curled up. Then he looked at her, and she stiffened up. But his gaze immediately dissolved.

Then Mr. Glymmer began to dictate. She copied his words, with concentration as always, forgetting everything else, even ignoring the meaning of what she wrote. When he had finished, she rose and prepared to leave. But she stopped and asked.

“Mr. Glymmer, will the office be open tomorrow?”

“Mr. Zuckor, when he returns, will have an announcement to make.”

She became angry again, considered whether she should bang the door, became frightened, and then resolved that since she was losing her position she might as well bang it. So she did, and walked into the general office.

“Well, Cutie,” said Charlie when he saw her, “it’s up.”

“Do we work, tomorrow?” she asked.

“Not a chance. Better take a typewriter home with you. It’ll be your pay.” The other clerks laughed.

“If I don’t get my pay,” she said, “I’ll have Mr. Glymmer arrested.”

“Harry Widener, too?” asked Charlie.

She stiffened up and said:

“Mind your business.” And walked back to her desk.

She began to copy the letter Mr. Glymmer had dictated to her. In typing it was different than in shorthand taking: she could think as much as she wanted to; the eyes communicated to the fingers unconsciously.

Harry Widener arrested! Harry Widener arrested! Arrested! Arrested!

“I know one thing,” she said nearly loud. “If Harry Widener asked me, I wouldn’t care if he were married a million times; I’d go with him.” She became frightened, and looked around to see if anybody were listening. Then she said in a high voice:

“I would!”

The telephone bell rang. Still repeating, “I would,” she answered it. A familiar heavy voice came from the other end:

“That you, Gertie?”

Jim. Oh, bother. What did he want?

“Just heard the news,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

She kept silent. In her mind she was comparing Harry Widener with Jim Denby. “He’s got better eyes and a better figure; and he’s nicer. Yes, he’s lots nicer.”

“Gertie,” she heard.

“What?”

“I’m coming around tonight. I’ve got something to tell you.”

She wished he wouldn’t. She didn’t want him around that night. And his hair was nicer. Straight and nice, not all curled up. And she’d bet he didn’t look so foolish when he kissed somebody.

“I’m tired, Jim,” she said.

And she thought, “I’d bet if he were asking me to see him tonight, he wouldn’t ask like that: he’d say something.”

“It’s all right, Gert. I won’t stay long.”

She hung up. What did he want from her? He would come around tonight, pestering. Would she marry him? He had two thousand saved up. Live in the Bronx. Two rooms and a kitchen. Toilet on the floor. Bath in the wash bowl. Not she.

Then Miss James, the telephone girl, came in. They began talking. Miss James told Gertie where she might look for a job.

“He told me yesterday,” she said. “Theatrical office. Twenty-two a week, and you don’t get killed like here on the Street.”

Theatrical office. Maybe she’d get a chance to go on the stage. She’d been quite good at it in school. And then Jim had taken her a few times to the theater. It was easy. All you needed was pull.

And then, maybe Harry Widener. If she’d be an actress, it would be all right. Actresses can do those things. Why, you read about them in the papers.

“I don’t know,” she said to Miss James. “A girl is taking an awful chance going to one of those theatrical offices. Why, the manager would want you to do all kinds of things for the job.”

“What’s the difference,” said Miss James. “Twenty-two a week. Me for money. If I could take shorthand....”

The afternoon slowly wore on. At four Zuckor came into her office and dictated to her an announcement, that owing to the liquidation of the firm’s assets the office would be closed. Gertrude copied what he said without hearing it. The office had stopped interesting her. She was leaving, and it already represented a forgotten past. And she would have completely ignored this fact of bankruptcy if not that it represented a parting from Harry Widener. In the few months that she had been with Glymmer, Reed the junior partner had become a part of her. True she knew that, while in the office, there was a gulf that divided them, a gulf that was insurmountable: the difference between employer and employee. Each one had his or her rights, which were not to be disregarded. And although at times she almost wished that the junior partner would tear that difference away, something within herself said, that if he did, he would not be Harry Widener, and she would cease being Gerty Donovan. She knew that although physically they would come nearer, there would be a complete divorce of their spirits. And she knew that now their spirits were near, that he noticed her, that when she passed he looked at her with eyes puzzled, and that whenever their eyes met, for however a fleeting moment, a union had been accomplished. And she had been satisfied, even gratified by this fleeting communion.

He had been her criterion. She had used him as a standard by which she measured all her acquaintances. She had never been dissatisfied with Jim Denby. She had known him for a long time, for so long that the beginning of their acquaintance was completely forgotten. She had taken for granted that some day she would marry him, she had been encouraged in this thought by her mother, by all who knew her. She had to get her man.

But when she had seen Harry Widener, she became doubtful. Intuitively she knew that he was a higher type of man than her accepted future husband. And although she could not define his finesse, nor possibly even locate it, she knew it existed. And she noticed that in all comparisons Jim failed and Widener triumphed.

And possibly she would have been satisfied with Jim if she could continue to see the other. Even to be near him. She somehow felt cleaner, more refined, in a higher world with the junior partner. She saw him rarely. He did not come into the office often, but stayed at his club, from where he sent in any new business he had secured. But sometimes he did come, and she knew he would, and it was enough. He was a rare drug, that she needed but seldom, but without which she felt she could not live.

And now it was over. Harry Widener was no more. She was to go home and stay with Jim Denby. She was made for such as he. For men with warm, moist palms, and warm, moist faces, and warm, moist looks. For men who do not take but beg. For sixty dollars a week, and a bookkeeper’s household, and a bookkeeper’s children, and a bookkeeper’s life. Oh! Hell!

Absentmindedly she cleaned her typewriter, and was ready to place the cover, and then she remembered that it didn’t matter, and left it where it always lay during the day, under her desk. Then she turned to the wall where her cloak and hat were hung. No, she should go into the general office and say goodbye. She didn’t want to. But she might yet see Harry Widener. So she went in.

She was surprised to see the office as it had always been. It was not at all changed. You might come in tomorrow and begin to work again. Possibly it was all a lie. Or a joke. There was no failure. It would go on as before. And she would continue to see Harry Widener. Harry Widener. Harry Widener. Harry Widener, something shouted into her ear.

She saw him halfway across the general office. He was sitting on a desk, reading an evening paper, and smoking. The blue smoke twined itself about his manicured finger nails. Run over to him now, and ... and what? Why, kiss him, of course, and tell him you want him, that he can do anything he wants to with you. He can walk over you, and spit on you. But quick, or it’ll be too late. Hurry. Hurry. He’s looking up. He’s looking.

“I guess it’s all over, Miss Donovan,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, Mr. Widener,” she answered.

“Too bad,” he said, and returned to his paper.

Her knees weak, she passed him. It was too late. It was too late. Too late. What shall she do?

There was a little group near Mr. Zuckor’s desk. He was paying off. He seemed very pale and very tired. He called her.

“Miss Donovan, here’s your pay.”

She came over. Took it. Signed the receipt. Too late.

She rode home with her mind a blank. She did not even read the paper which she had automatically bought with her ticket. Somebody gave her his seat, and she did not thank him, but absentmindedly sat down, drew on her gloves, and sat. People jostled over her, pressed her knees, stepped on her pumps, but she ignored this. There was nothing she could do. Everything was over. And she was not given to brooding.

Then she came out of the train, walked to the street, and turned the corner grocery toward her home. This was her neighborhood, where she had been born, brought up. Here was the motion-picture house, “The Lakewood,” where, when a little girl, she used to wait outside, for some one to take her in, children not being admitted without companions. Later, when she had entered high school, she used to come here every night, and in a corner, far away from even the dull light, she would sit with a neighborhood boy and mush: kiss, and soul kiss, and hold, and he would try to touch her not yet full grown breasts, and she would refuse and then unwillingly consent. There had been many couples in the corner, and they would all sit there, ignoring the picture; just sit in the dark and press one against the other.

And here was the ice cream parlor, “Gunn’s,” with its inviting display of sweets, and the little room in the back, with tables. After the movies she used to come here with her friends, and they would gorge themselves with the ice cream, ordering the most fancy concoctions, until their mouths would become like acid, from too many sweets.

Then she passed the “dark corner” of Harrigans’s, the hardware man’s. Here was the least light in the neighborhood. And into here, after the movies and the ice cream, her companion would pull her, and here they would stand in the shadow of the two glass cases, holding one another in their arms, and they would seek something which they did not understand, and did not know where to find it, until she, frightened at the lateness of the hour, would tear herself away and run home.

And finally just before her home, she passed the _Borough News_ printing works, above which was housed the Lakewood Business College, which she had entered after her two years in high school. Here was where she had learned stenography, and typing, and the little bookkeeping she knew. Nearly all her friends had entered this school which was their stepping-stone into the business world.

Mother was in the kitchen, and as she took off her coat Gerty wondered when would be the best time to break the news to her. Before dinner or after dinner? It would be better to get it over with before, but then again, dinner would be spoiled; there might even be no dinner at all. Gerty had no appetite, but she reflected that anything, even eating, was better than listening to her mother’s lamenting. So she decided to wait.

She walked into the dining room, took the doily off the table, went to the sideboard, and took out the napkins. Automatically she began to set the table.

Mother appeared, fat, satisfied, white aproned.

“That you, Gertie? Jim was here awhile ago. Said he’s coming after dinner.”

Gerty said nothing. She placed on the table the salt cellar, the knives and forks, the only really good things they had in the house. Came from the family. Solid silver.

“Would you believe it,” continued her mother, “butter’s sixty cents a pound. And eggs a dollar a dozen. I gave Strinelli a piece of my mind. Mrs. Brown told me he’s got no end of eggs in his cellar, and he’s keeping them for higher prices. I said to him: ‘It would be a good thing if they threw you foreigners out. Trying to live on us poor people. A dollar a dozen for eggs. The idea.’”

Gerty kept on setting. Even after she had finished placing on the table everything that apparently was necessary, she continued. She adjusted the position of the cutlery. Brought water, something very rare. Dusted off the top of the sideboard. Anything better than talking. An idea was being born in her mind, and her mother was preventing her from developing it.

Harry Widener would be with another firm, of that she was sure. Why not try to get a job there? She would ask him to recommend her. He couldn’t refuse her. She had been a good stenographer. Never late. No nonsense in the office. No peek-a-boo waists or transparent skirts. She didn’t chew gum or anything. Why shouldn’t she be able to get a job there? And then she would be with him.

Her mother fixed her nearsighted eyes on Gerty, followed her movements, and went on talking.

“Mrs. Denby’s awfully low. They expect her to go any day. The doctor said it was cancer of the stomach. Incurable, he said. Lying in St. Mark’s. Private room. A day nurse. A night nurse. It must be awful for Jim to pay all that. He’s nice to come down to see us, and his mother almost dead.”

Gerty understood her mother’s weak tactics. At other times it amused her to hear the older woman talking, praising Jim. But now it only served to irritate her. It was none of Mother’s business whom she was going to marry. She was free. Earning her own living. She could do as she pleased. She could even go to live by herself if she wanted to. She’d save money anyway. And time. With the subway, she was wasting two hours every day travelling. And if she went out in the evening it was two more hours lost. If this kept up, she’d do it. She wasn’t going to listen to anybody’s talking. She was a free and equal human being, she was.

“I’m hungry,” she announced.

Dinner proceeded more or less quietly. The few attempts of the mother at conversation were promptly squelched by her daughter’s silence. Only toward the end did Mrs. Donovan begin her attacks again.