Place in the City Page 16

  Miserable, O’Lacy walked in the rain, his wet club wet in his hand. And walking, something timeless settled about him; he was the eternal in the street, the one living thing beside the plane tree that was as much there as the brown houses. He rounded the corner, nodding to Timy Dolan, who was just going into Meyer’s store; but under his breath O’Lacy growled, cursing Timy. O’Lacy went on, head down, water rolling from his stubb-toed shoes. At Kraus’ saloon he shook his head savagely. Prohibition made no difference here; they went on selling liquor openly. O’Lacy went on through the hissing rain. His figure blended with the night, into which he disappeared.

  Timy Dolan went into Meyer’s store, and pointed to a fifteen cent brand. He was preoccupied with something, so preoccupied that he didn’t notice Jessica until he had torn the tinfoil wrapper from the cigar. Then he nodded at her, watched her through half-closed eyes while he bit off the end of the cigar and lit it. He took off his derby and tilted the water out onto the floor.

  “Lousy weather,” he said, the while studying her, and wondering just how she was connected with Shutzey, and whether she had had anything to do with Shutzey’s proposition that they hijack a truckload of Canadian rye.

  She stared at him coolly, half smiled, and then nodded.

  Beautiful, Timy considered, but ice; and that was an admission for him to make. If she was in it, she was running Shutzey; Shutzey was a fool.

  “You’re a beautiful girl,” he said, giving his voice a dignified turn, looking at her fatherly.

  “Yeah?”

  “You could go a long way with that face—and brains.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Seen Shutzey?” he demanded suddenly.

  “Why should I see Shutzey?”

  He had gripped the counter with his pudgy white hands when he said that, but now he relaxed. He took the cigar out of his mouth, blew a cloud of smoke, and relaxed.

  “No reason,” he said, thinking: “The hell with Shutzey. I got trouble enough of my own, without thinking about that dumb pimp.”

  “No reason,” he said again, and then he went out of the store.

  Then, for the first time, it occurred to Jessica that Shutzey might not come back tonight. She hadn’t really thought of it that way before, but now something in Timy’s manner caught her up. If Shutzey got it tonight, he would lie there in the wet, all of his big animal body sprawling, with his face up to the rain. And the water would make a sheen on his bluish cheeks.

  “Timy ain’t no dope,” she said slowly.

  But he was a small man, fat and round, with pink cheeks, with little blue eyes that popped out from under his brows. Not like Shutzey. With one big hand, Shutzey could take him and squeeze him and break him.

  “What the hell’s the matter with me?” she wondered. “If he don’t come back—” She shrugged her shoulders, putting the box of cigars back in their place.

  Her mother came down. “Go upstairs, Jessie,” she said. “Go up and stay with poppa a little while.”

  She went up. Her father was sitting in a chair, his head in his hands, but when she came in, he glanced at her. Then he smiled.

  “Come here, Jessie.”

  She went over to him, hardly seeing him, thinking: “If Shutzey don’t come back—is Timy Dolan next?”

  “Sit down by me, Jessie.”

  (I don’t love Shutzey—I don’t. Do I want him to come back, then? If he don’t come back—Timy?)

  “Jessie.”

  She smiled at her father.

  TIMY went on into Kraus’ saloon. Nobody was there now but Kraus, who was polishing glasses. Timy laid his hat on the bar and asked for a small beer.

  “Dis kind uf weder,” Kraus said, “makes me think.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I vunder veder—”

  “Where’s Danny?” Timy demanded impatiently. “Was he here yet?”

  “Danny?”

  “Was Danny here? Are yu deaf, you fat-headed Dutchman?”

  “All right, Timy.”

  Timy whirled; Danny was standing there at the door, grinning, his face wet with the rain, shining. Danny would grow old some day, suddenly; now he looked like a boy.

  “All right, Timy,” he repeated. “What are you throwing a fit on the Dutchman for? I’m here, ain’t I?”

  “Yeah.” Timy picked up his hat, but remained where he was, staring at Danny, as if he hadn’t seen Danny before, only now, as if he was wondering who Danny was, what he was. He shook his head, wiped a few drops of rain from his nose.

  “Hullo, Danny,” Kraus said.

  Danny swaggered up to the bar, ordered beer. Kraus was drawing it, when Timy took his arm. “Come on into the back room,” Timy said. “Bring a pitcher of beer in,” he told Kraus.

  They sat down at the table, and Timy attempted to light his sodden cigar. After three matches, he swore savagely and threw it into a corner. Then Kraus came in with beer and glasses. He set the beer down and stood by the table, looking at Timy. Something was up; he wanted to remain and hear what was up.

  “Get out, Dutch,” Timy told him.

  Then Timy sat staring at Danny, who was blowing into the pitcher of beer, noticing how the suds spread themselves apart. Danny was happy. He was very content and happy, and he thought it would be nice if he could go on this way for a long, long time, content and happy. Alice had said to him tonight: “Don’t be long, Danny. You know how I am now—and when you’re away from me—”

  Timy ought to know. Danny didn’t spend so much time with the boys now, but he was as close to Timy as ever, and a thing like this Timy ought to know about. But Timy was worried about something, and maybe it wouldn’t do to tell him now. Danny lit a cigarette and poured himself beer.

  “What’s up, Timy?” he wanted to know.

  Timy stared at him.

  “No trouble, Timy. We’re straight enough, the way I figure it. What’s eating you?”

  “You’re a friend of mine, ain’t you, Danny?”

  Danny laughed and drained the beer. “Am I a friend of yours? Now isn’t that a hell of a question to ask me, Timy.”

  “Yeah—”

  Danny took a good laugh and blew suds from the pitcher. Then he looked at Timy fondly; he liked Timy.

  “All right,” Timy went on, “you’re my friend. I paid for your school. I put you on to things, and maybe you could say I put you where you are now.”

  “Sure I could say it, Timy. Don’t I know you pulled me out of the gutter and made me into a God damn good lawyer? I owe you a lot. I’d do anything for you, Timy—you know that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. Listen, Timy. I got some news for you. Maybe you won’t like this—”

  “Wait a minute, Danny.”

  Danny saw it in Timy’s eyes then; they were cold and a little afraid—but hard, too. “What is it?” Danny asked slowly. “What happened, Timy?”

  “The school contracts. You know how I’m in it with Haggerty—neck deep. So today the board grants an investigation, an’ they’re going through the bids. An’ I’m on the wrong end. And I can’t take it, Danny. I got to go to the senate next year. If this comes out, it’ll queer me—for good.”

  “I see.”

  “Bryan on the board will get it in the neck—and spill.”

  “Bryan don’t know you’re behind it,” Danny said slowly.

  “Bryan dealed with you,” Timy nodded.

  Then they sat in silence, looking at each other, and Danny was thinking how he had promised Alice to be right back. Well, maybe he would be right back. And then Danny sat and wondered how long it would take Timy to say what he had meant to say all the time, and what he would say to Timy after Timy told him.

  “Maybe they won’t get a thing on you,” Timy said. “Maybe I’ll be able to fix it. Anyway, Danny, it ain’t a hell of a lot for you to worry about.”

  “You want me to take it?”

  “It ain’t that, Danny,” Timy protested. “I don’t want you to take no rap for me.
There ain’t much chance that they’d convict you, an’ if they do it won’t be more than a year. We could spring you before then. But where do you stand if I go under? That’s what I wanna know, Danny? Where do you stand them?”

  “And if I go to jail—?”

  “Hell, no, Danny. I tell you it ain’t that bad.”

  Danny looked at him. Danny’s face was open and hurt, and Timy saw that it was just a kid’s face, hurt the same way a kid is hurt when he sees injustice—injustice without reason. No poker player, Timy was thinking. Danny began to shake his head; he was scared, too, Timy realized.

  “Maybe if you don’t owe me nothing,” Timy said, “then it ain’t reasonable for me to ask. But maybe you owe me a thing or two. Maybe you wouldn’t be living in a nice apartment uptown, if it wasn’t for me. Maybe you’d be layin’ in a stinkin’ gutter—”

  “Maybe I would,” Danny whispered.

  Timy’s anxious worried face broke into a smile, and he spread his pudgy hands wide on the table. “There you are then,” he said. “Now look, Danny, it ain’t the way you think, an’ it ain’t as if you’re being sent up for twenty years or so. Maybe if we don’t beat this thing, you’ll go in for a year, an’ I’m telling you I’ll spring you before the year is up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now I’m goin’ to get in touch with Haggerty, an’—”

  Danny stared at him, mouth open; at the side of his neck, the skin was pulsing—hard; and the hand he held out to Timy was trembling.

  “I can’t do it, Timy.”

  “What’s the matter—you yellow?”

  “I tell you I can’t do it, Timy. I’ll do anything else for you, I swear. But I’m not in this deal, Timy, and I can’t take a rap for you now. Geesus Christ, Timy, don’t you think I know what I owe you? Don’t you think I know, Timy? But I tell you I can’t take this rap. I can’t!”

  As Timy looked at him, the round pink face tightened; and Timy’s popping blue eyes became like bits of steel, icy cold. Timy wasn’t afraid any more, only good and sore, and Danny knew that he was good and sore. Danny knew that it was all up between him and Timy. Things happened like that. Timy wouldn’t stop; whatever he wanted to do, whatever happened, Timy wouldn’t stop. Timy would keep on going, up and up, only between him and Timy all things were finished. That’s the way things happen.

  “You little yellow bastard,” Timy said. “You ungrateful gutter bitch. Awright—”

  “Wait a minute,” Danny pleaded. “Don’t jump all over me like that, Timy. Wait a minute, and let me tell you. Don’t you see, Timy, I’m on the spot. My wife’s going to have a kid. I swear to God that’s the truth, Timy. Geesus, I was even going to tell you about it when I came in here. I was saying to myself, There’s nobody wants to hear about this like Timy does. I was thinking how it’d make you feel the same way I feel.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t you see, Timy? How can I go back and tell my wife that they’re going to put me away for two or three years? And she don’t know. She thinks I’m the best God damn lawyer in the city, and honest.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Awright, Timy. Maybe I don’t rate, so I’m sorry. But I’m not taking it.”

  Timy stared at him, lips parted just a little, eyes even and unmoving. Timy was a good poker player; there weren’t many better poker players than Timy.

  “Timy!”

  Timy smiled then, a broad full smile, the kind of a smile he used when he was telling a man how to vote. When you saw that knowing smile, you just knew that there were no two ways about it, that behind the smile the man was right.

  “Give me a break,” Danny begged.

  “Sure I’ll give you a break,” Timy nodded. “I’ll spring you—like I said. But you’re taking it. You ought to know—ain’t you a God damn good lawyer? Your name’s on everything. I ain’t in it. So you’re taking it, Danny, like you said you would.”

  SHE FED the children then, gave them their supper. You see, with her everything that concerned the children was ritual. The children alone were above the rest of the world.

  When Mary White saw the world, she saw the cul-desac of Apple Place. From the opening upon the avenue to the blank ending, it existed, the world existed, and beyond the open end she rarely dared to venture. Here, they knew her shame; here she could brazen out her lost womanhood; here she knew that the world was lost, sunk into the misery of itself. But outside—outside too many people laughed and lived as people should. Perhaps in Apple Place too, but she didn’t know.

  And in the place the gleam of the good, of the wonder of life, was the children. Whatever she did, the children made it good. She could sink to all the depths of human depravity, and then come back to the children and feel that she was coming into a place of intrinsic holiness.

  She gave them their supper this night; and this night, for the first time, the feeling was gone—because she felt that Peter knew. Not all of it; he couldn’t understand all of it yet: but he knew something, and as time went on he would know more and more, always more.

  “I’m his mother,” she thought.

  Peter stared at his plate somberly, but Sasha bubbled. Sasha always bubbled. She couldn’t stay still for more than a few minutes, and she couldn’t keep a smile from her face for much longer than that.

  “Eat,” Mary said. She bent over, kissing him.

  “I ain’t hungry,” Peter muttered.

  Sasha said: “Pede’s goin’ tu marry me, so whadu yu think of that?”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” Mary told her.

  “I’m sick uv girls,” Peter said.

  “Pede!”

  “Yeah.”

  Sasha forgot her food. She forgot everything, staring at Peter; she ran around the table and stood by him, staring at him and shaking her head. “Pede,” she whispered.

  Then Mary White went out. She went into her room, stood in front of the mirror, and looked at herself. She put her hands up, touched all parts of her face, and then traveled her hands over the rest of her body, searchingly; she went to her bed and sat down.

  “Time to go back,” she said.

  She attempted to smile, and succeeded only in contorting her face, and then with an effort she wiped her face clean of all emotion. Then she put up her hands and felt over the small sores that were breaking out. Her head was beginning to ache. Toward the end of the day, her head always ached, and at night she would lie awake for hours, feeling that narrow bands of iron were drawing in the center of her head, forcing the top of it out and out.

  But no use to think. Putting on her coat, she went back to the kitchen. Peter was eating, and opposite him Sasha was smiling contentedly. Then she slipped out, without speaking to them.

  Back in Shutzey’s place, she sat down in the parlor. She was all alone there; she thought it would be nice to sit for a while, just sit and not do anything. She hadn’t meant to listen, but she couldn’t help it. In the next room, Shutzey and Snookie Eagen were making their plans for the night. She listened until she heard that the truck would be Dutch Murry’s, whom she knew because now and again he came to Shutzey’s house. And then it was terribly simple for her to go out and phone Dutch Murry.

  She almost ran to Meyer’s store at the corner; she felt curiously light, full of life and eagerness. Meyer’s wife was behind the counter. When Mary asked for two nickels for a dime, Bessie turned’ her eyes away. She felt evil all over Mary White, from her white shoes to her furpiece and painted lips. Something inside of Bessie went sick when she looked at these women; she would think of her daughters, and sometimes in spite of herself put her daughters in their place. But thank God that whatever her daughters did, they were good women.

  “Thank you,” Mary said. She took the change, went into the booth and asked for her number. Then she explained how Shutzey planned to hijack thirty-thousand dollars’ worth of liquor.

  “Who are you?”

  “Never mind that. I’m tipping you off.”

  “How do I know i
t’s straight?”

  “You don’t have to know. Just make sure—” She hung up and stepped out of the booth. Then she turned around and saw Jessica, who was just coming down the stairs, too late to hear what Mary was saying. She looked at Jessica, stared at her, and felt her throat lump up at the fresh slim beauty. Mary almost ran from the store.

  WHETHER she felt it move or not, as she had imagined, it was inside of her, something growing and living inside of her; and she remembered how day by day it had bred in her such splendid calm. As if it drew all fear and worry from her. Even when she was sick, she did not worry, and she had been sick quite often.

  When Danny left, she set herself to sew, an even contemplative movement of the needle that would occupy the few hours until Danny came back. It was true that she was a little afraid whenever Danny was gone, but you had to expect that. She sewed a tiny quilt, thinking to herself that all mothers, for a long time before their children are born, sew on just such tiny things; and that in such anticipation there was really a great deal of pleasure.

  You see, Alice had dropped out of the world. Or perhaps the world had removed itself from her; anyway, she was alone, and completely content in her isolation. She had Danny and she had the something inside of her, and she didn’t need any more than that. She continued to sew until it became too dark, and then she rose and turned on the lamp.

  She embroidered a design on the quilt, with Danny’s initials and her own woven into it. She would have liked the child’s initials, but it wasn’t safe to do that, because how did you know whether it would be a boy or a girl? And they weren’t too certain what they would call it. Names was a game to fill evenings; and she had never known there were that many names in the world.

  She hummed and nodded and began to grow sleepy, lulled by the soft patter of the rain against the windows. It was good to be safe in your own home, warm. Danny was out in the rain; he would come in with his cheeks gleaming. She put the sewing away, went into the kitchen to warm water for tea. Danny would want tea when he came in.

  She watched the water come to a boil. Simple things had taken on meaning and interest. She couldn’t be bored, because even a small thing like watching water boil was enough to hold her and interest her. Then she set out two cups, two saucers, two spoons, two napkins, and then began to laugh, delighted with the sequence of two by two. Two by two and then three by three, and then on and on. Silly, she thought, but she sat smiling and happy, her eyes roaming around the kitchen, lighting upon all the precious things that were still new and shiny. Then she poured the water into the tea-pot, watched the leaves soak.