Fancies and Goodnights Read online

  Mr. Rankin was a large and rawboned man on whom the newest suit at once appeared outdated, like a suit in a photograph of twenty years ago. This was due to the squareness and flatness of his torso, which might have been put together by a manufacturer of packing cases. His face also had a wooden and a roughly constructed look; his hair was wiglike and resentful of the comb. He had those huge and clumsy hands which can be an asset to a doctor in a small upstate town where people still retain a rural relish for paradox, thinking that the more apelike the paw, the more precise it can be in the delicate business of a tonsillectomy.

  This conclusion was perfectly justified in the case of Dr. Rankin. For example, on this particular fine morning, though his task was nothing more ticklish than the cementing over of a large patch on his cellar floor, he managed those large and clumsy hands with all the unflurried certainty of one who would never leave a sponge within or create an unsightly scar without.

  The doctor surveyed his handiwork from all angles. He added a touch here and a touch there till he had achieved a smoothness altogether professional. He swept up a few last crumbs of soil and dropped them into the furnace. He paused before putting away the pick and shovel he had been using, and found occasion for yet another artistic sweep of his trowel, which made the new surface precisely flush with the surrounding floor. At this moment of supreme concentration the porch door upstairs slammed with the report of a minor piece of artillery, which, appropriately enough, caused Dr. Rankin to jump as if he had been shot.

  The Doctor lifted a frowning face and an attentive ear. He heard two pairs of heavy feet clump across the resonant floor of the porch. He heard the house door opened and the visitors enter the hall, with which his cellar communicated by a short flight of steps. He heard whistling and then the voices of Buck and Bud crying, «Doc! Hi, Doc! They're biting!»

  Whether the Doctor was not inclined for fishing that day, or whether, like others of his large and heavy type, he experienced an especially sharp, unsociable reaction on being suddenly startled, or whether he was merely anxious to finish undisturbed the job in hand and proceed to more important duties, he did not respond immediately to the inviting outcry of his friends. Instead, he listened while it ran its natural course, dying down at last into a puzzled and fretful dialogue.

  «I guess he's out.»

  «I'll write a note — say we're at the creek, to come on down.»

  «We could tell Irene.»

  «But she's not here, either. You'd think she'd be around.»

  «Ought to be, by the look of the place.»

  «You said it, Bud. Just look at this table. You could write your name —»

  «Sh-h-h! Look!»

  Evidently the last speaker had noticed that the cellar door was ajar and that a light was shining below. Next moment the door was pushed wide open and Bud and Buck looked down.

  «Why, Doc! There you are!»

  «Didn't you hear us yelling?»

  The Doctor, not too pleased at what he had overheard, nevertheless smiled his rather wooden smile as his two friends made their way down the steps. «I thought I heard someone,» he said.

  «We were bawling our heads off,» Buck said. «Thought nobody was home. Where's Irene?»

  «Visiting,» said the Doctor. «She's gone visiting.»

  «Hey, what goes on?» said Bud. «What are you doing? Burying one of your patients, or what?»

  «Oh, there's been water seeping up through the floor,» said the Doctor. «I figured it might be some spring opened up or something.»

  «You don't say!» said Bud, assuming instantly the high ethical standpoint of the realtor. «Gee, Doc, I sold you this property. Don't say I fixed you up with a dump where there's an underground spring.»

  «There was water,» said the Doctor.

  «Yes, but, Doc, you can look on that geological map the Kiwanis Club got up. There's not a better section of subsoil in the town.»

  «Looks like he sold you a pup,» said Buck, grinning.

  «No,» said Bud. «Look. When the Doc came here he was green. You'll admit he was green. The things he didn't know!»

  «He bought Ted Webber's jalopy,» said Buck.

  «He'd have bought the Jessop place if I'd let him,» said Bud. «But I wouldn't give him a bum steer.»

  «Not the poor, simple city slicker from Poughkeepsie,» said Buck.

  «Some people would have taken him,» said Bud. «Maybe some people did. Not me. I recommended this property. He and Irene moved straight in as soon as they were married. I wouldn't have put the Doc on to a dump where there'd be a spring under the foundations.»

  «Oh, forget it,» said the Doctor, embarrassed by this conscientiousness. «I guess it was just the heavy rains.»

  «By gosh!» Buck said, glancing at the besmeared point of the pickaxe. «You certainly went deep enough. Right down into the clay, huh?»

  «That's four feet down, the clay,» Bud said.

  «Eighteen inches,» said the Doctor.

  «Four feet,» said Bud. «I can show you the map.»

  «Come on. No arguments,» said Buck. «How's about it, Doc? An hour or two at the creek, eh? They're biting.»

  «Can't do it, boys,» said the Doctor. «I've got to see a patient or two.»

  «Aw, live and let live, Doc,» Bud said. «Give 'em a chance to get better. Are you going to depopulate the whole darn town?»

  The Doctor looked down, smiled, and muttered, as he always did when this particular jest was trotted out. «Sorry, boys,» he said. «I can't make it.»

  «Well,» said Bud, disappointed, «I suppose we'd better get along. How's Irene?»

  «Irene?» said the Doctor. «Never better. She's gone visiting. Albany. Got the eleven-o'clock train.»

  «Eleven o'clock?» said Buck. «For Albany?»

  «Did I say Albany?» said the Doctor. «Watertown, I meant.»

  «Friends in Watertown?» Buck asked.

  «Mrs. Slater,» said the Doctor. «Mr. and Mrs. Slater. Lived next door to 'em when she was a kid, Irene said, over on Sycamore Street.»

  «Slater?» said Bud. «Next door to Irene. Not in this town.»

  «Oh, yes,» said the Doctor, «She was telling me all about them last night. She got a letter. Seems this Mrs. Slater looked after her when her mother was in the hospital one time.»

  «No, »said Bud.

  «That's what she told me,» said the Doctor. «Of course, it was a good many years ago.»

  «Look, Doc,» said Buck. «Bud and I were raised in this town. We've known Irene's folks all our lives. We were in and out of their house all the time. There was never anybody next door called Slater.»

  «Perhaps,» said the Doctor, «she married again, this woman. Perhaps it was a different name.»

  Bud shook his head.

  «What time did Irene go to the station?» Buck asked.

  «Oh, about a quarter of an hour ago,» said the Doctor.

  «You didn't drive her?» said Buck.

  «She walked,» said the Doctor.

  «We came down Main Street,» Buck said. «We didn't meet her.»

  «Maybe she walked across the pasture,» said the Doctor.

  «That's a tough walk with a suitcase,» said Buck.

  «She just had a couple of things in a little bag,» said the Doctor.

  Bud was still shaking his head.

  Buck looked at Bud and then at the pick, at the new, damp cement on the floor. «Jesus Christ!» he said.

  «Oh, God, Doc!» Bud said. «A guy like you!»

  «What in the name of heaven are you two bloody fools thinking?» asked the Doctor. «What are you trying to say?»

  «A spring!» said Bud. «I ought to have known right away it wasn't any spring.»

  The Doctor looked at his cement-work, at the pick, at the large worried faces of his two friends. His own face turned livid. «Am I crazy?» he said. «Or are you? You suggest that I've — that Irene — my wife — oh, go on! Get out! Yes, go and get the sheriff. Tell him to come here and start digging.
You — get out!»

  Bud and Buck looked at each other, shifted their feet, and stood still again.

  «Go on,» said the Doctor.

  «I don't know,» said Bud.

  «It's not as if he didn't have the provocation,» Buck said.

  «God knows,» Bud said.

  «God knows,» Buck said. «You know. I know. The whole town knows. But try telling it to a jury.»

  The Doctor put his hand to his head. «What's that?» he said. «What is it? Now what are you saying? What do you mean?»

  «If this ain't being on the spot!» said Buck. «Doc, you can see how it is. It takes some thinking. We've been friends right from the start. Damn good friends.»

  «But we've got to think,» said Bud. «It's serious. Provocation or not, there's a law in the land. There's such a thing as being an accomplice.»

  «You were talking provocation,» said the Doctor.

  «You're right,» said Buck. «And you're our friend. And if ever it could be called justified —»

  «We've got to fix this somehow,» said Bud.

  «Justified?» said the Doctor.

  «You were bound to get wised up sooner or later,» said Buck.

  «We could have told you,» said Bud. «Only — what the hell?»

  «We could,» said Buck. «And we nearly did. Five years ago. Before ever you married her. You hadn't been here six months, but we sort of cottoned to you. Thought of giving you a hint. Spoke about it. Remember, Bud?»

  Bud nodded. «Funny,» he said. «I came right out in the open about that Jessop property. I wouldn't let you buy that, Doc. But getting married, that's something else again. We could have told you.»

  «We're that much responsible,» Buck said.

  «I'm fifty,» said the Doctor. «I suppose it's pretty old for Irene.»

  «If you was Johnny Weissmuller at the age of twenty-one, it wouldn't make any difference,» said Buck.

  «I know a lot of people think she's not exactly a perfect wife,» said the Doctor. «Maybe she's not. She's young. She's full of life.»

  «Oh, skip it!» said Buck sharply, looking at the raw cement. «Skip it, Doc, for God's sake,»

  The Doctor brushed his hand across his face. «Not everybody wants the same thing,» he said. «I'm a sort of dry fellow. I don't open up very easily. Irene — you'd call her gay.»

  «You said it,» said Buck.

  «She's no housekeeper,» said the Doctor. «I know it. But that's not the only thing a man wants. She's enjoyed herself.»

  «Yeah,» said Buck. «She did.»

  «That's what I love,» said the Doctor. «Because I'm not that way myself. She's not very deep, mentally. All right. Say she's stupid. I don't care. Lazy. No system. Well, I've got plenty of system. She's enjoyed herself. It's beautiful. It's innocent. Like a child.»

  «Yes. If that was all,» Buck said.

  «But,» said the Doctor, turning his eyes full on him, «you seem to know there was more.»

  «Everybody knows it,» said Buck.

  «A decent, straightforward guy comes to a place like this and marries the town floozy,» Bud said bitterly. «And nobody'll tell him. Everybody just watches.»

  «And laughs,» said Buck. «You and me, Bud, as well as the rest.»

  «We told her to watch her step,» said Bud. «We warned her.»

  «Everybody warned her,» said Buck. «But people get fed up. When it got to truck-drivers —»

  «It was never us, Doc,» said Bud, earnestly. «Not after you came along, anyway.»

  «The town'll be on your side,» said Buck.

  «That won't mean much when the case comes to trial in the county seat,» said Bud.

  «Oh!» cried the Doctor, suddenly. «What shall I do? What shall I do?»

  «It's up to you, Bud,» said Buck. «I can't turn him in.»

  «Take it easy, Doc,» said Bud. «Calm down. Look, Buck. When we came in here the street was empty, wasn't it?»

  «I guess so,» said Buck. «Anyway, nobody saw us come down cellar.»

  «And we haven't been down,» Bud said, addressing himself forcefully to the Doctor. «Get that, Doc? We shouted upstairs, hung around a minute or two, and cleared out. But we never came down into this cellar.»

  «I wish you hadn't,» the Doctor said heavily.

  «All you have to do is say Irene went out for a walk and never came back,» said Buck. «Bud and I can swear we saw her headed out of town with a fellow in a — well, say in a Buick sedan. Everybody'll believe that, all right. We'll fix it. But later. Now we'd better scram.»

  «And remember, now. Stick to it. We never came down here and we haven't seen you today,» said Bud. «So long!»

  Buck and Bud ascended the steps, moving with a rather absurd degree of caution. «You'd better get that … that thing covered up,» Buck said over his shoulder.

  Left alone, the Doctor sat down on an empty box, holding his head with both hands. He was still sitting like this when the porch door slammed again. This time he did not start. He listened. The house door opened and closed. A voice cried, «Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo! I'm back.»

  The Doctor rose slowly to his feet. «I'm down here, Irene!» he called.

  The cellar door opened. A young woman stood at the head of the steps. «Can you beat it?» she said. «I missed the damn train.»

  «Oh!» said the Doctor. «Did you come back across the field?»

  «Yes, like a fool,» she said. «I could have hitched a ride and caught the train up the line. Only I didn't think. If you'd run me over to the junction, I could still make it.»

  «Maybe,» said the Doctor. «Did you meet anyone coming back?»

  «Not a soul,» she said. «Aren't you finished with that old job yet?»

  «I'm afraid I'll have to take it all up again,» said the Doctor. «Come down here, my dear, and I'11 show you.»

  EVENING PRIMROSE

  In a pad of Highlife Bond, bought by Miss Sadie Brodribb at Bracey's for 25c

  MARCH 21 Today I made my decision. I would turn my back for good and all upon the bourgeois world that hates a poet. I would leave, get out, break away —

  And I have done it. I am free! Free as the mote that dances in the sunbeam! Free as a house-fly crossing first-class in the largest of luxury liners! Free as my verse! Free as the food I shall eat, the paper I write upon, the lamb's-wool-lined softly slithering slippers I shall wear.

  This morning I had not so much as a car-fare. Now I am here, on velvet. You are itching to learn of this haven; you would like to organize trips here, spoil it, send your relations-in-law, perhaps even come yourself. After all, this journal will hardly fall into your hands till I am dead. I'll tell you.

  I am at Bracey's Giant Emporium, as happy as a mouse in the middle of an immense cheese, and the world shall know me no more.

  Merrily, merrily shall I live now, secure behind a towering pile of carpets, in a corner-nook which I propose to line with eiderdowns, angora vestments, and the Cleopatraean tops in pillows. I shall be cosy.

  I nipped into this sanctuary late this afternoon, and soon heard the dying footfalls of closing time. From now on, my only effort will be to dodge the night-watchman. Poets can dodge.

  I have already made my first mouse-like exploration. I tiptoed as far as the stationery department, and, timid, darted back with only these writing materials, the poet's first need. Now I shall lay them aside, and seek other necessities : food, wine, the soft furniture of my couch, and a natty smoking-jacket. This place stimulates me. I shall write here.

  DAWN, NEXT DAY I suppose no one in the world was ever more astonished and overwhelmed than I have been tonight. It is unbelievable. Yet I believe it. How interesting life is when things get like that!

  I crept out, as I said I would, and found the great shop in mingled light and gloom. The central well was half illuminated; the circling galleries towered in a pansy Piranesi of toppling light and shade. The spidery stairways and flying bridges had passed from purpose into fantasy. Silks and velvets glimmered like ghosts, a
hundred pantie-clad models offered simpers and embraces to the desert air. Rings, clips, and bracelets glittered frostily in a desolate absence of Honey and Daddy.

  Creeping along the transverse aisles, which were in deeper darkness, I felt like a wandering thought in the dreaming brain of a chorus girl down on her luck. Only, of course, their brains are not as big as Bracey's Giant Emporium. And there was no man there.

  None, that is, except the night-watchman. I had forgotten him. As I crossed an open space on the mezzanine floor, hugging the lee of a display of sultry shawls, I became aware of a regular thudding, which might almost have been that of my own heart. Suddenly it burst upon me that it came from outside. It was footsteps, and they were only a few paces away. Quick as a flash I seized a flamboyant mantilla, whirled it about me and stood with one arm outflung, like a Carmen petrified in a gesture of disdain.

  I was successful. He passed me, jingling his little machine on its chain, humming his little tune, his eyes scaled with refractions of the blaring day. «Go, worldling!» I whispered, and permitted myself a soundless laugh.

  It froze on my lips. My heart faltered. A new fear seized me.

  I was afraid to move. I was afraid to look around. I felt I was being watched by something that could see right through me. This was a very different feeling from the ordinary emergency caused by the very ordinary night-watchman. My conscious impulse was the obvious one: to glance behind me. But my eyes knew better. I remained absolutely petrified, staring straight ahead.

  My eyes were trying to tell me something that my brain refused to believe. They made their point. I was looking straight into another pair of eyes, human eyes, but large, flat, luminous. I have seen such eyes among the nocturnal creatures, which creep out under the artificial blue moonlight in the zoo.

  The owner was only a dozen feet away from me. The watchman had passed between us, nearer him than me. Yet he had not seen him. I must have been looking straight at him for several minutes at a stretch. I had not seen him either.

  He was half reclining against a low dais where, on a floor of russet leaves, and flanked by billows of glowing home-spun, the fresh-faced waxen girls modeled spectator sports suits in herringbones, checks, and plaids. He leaned against the skirt of one of these Dianas; its folds concealed perhaps his ear, his shoulder, and a little of his right side. He, himself, was clad in dim but large patterned Shetland tweeds of the latest cut, suede shoes, a shirt of a rather broad motif in olive, pink, and grey. He was as pale as a creature found under a stone. His long thin arms ended in hands that hung floatingly, more like trailing, transparent fins, or wisps of chiffon, than ordinary hands.