The Cocktail Waitress

23

If I slept I don’t know. I must have, but I was awake at daybreak and decided I had to get up. But when I put my foot out of bed I did it softly, making no whisper of noise. I opened the bathroom door an inch at a time, so I could go in, wash my face, comb, and put on my pantyhose. I went back in the bedroom, walking on stocking feet and not putting my shoes on until ready to go out. Then, a little bit at a time, I opened the sitting room door to peep if he was there. He wasn’t and I tiptoed through, making the hall and closing the door silently. Then I scooted for the stairs, not punching the elevator button for fear it would keep me there, waiting in the hall. Our suite was on the third floor, and I wound my way down and into the lobby. A clerk was at the desk, working on some sort of paper, but I simply said, “Good morning,” as though it meant nothing at all that a young bride should be up and out at six in the morning after her wedding night. Then I was on the street, walking.

The sun hadn’t come out yet, the whole place was veiled in fog and completely deserted, in spite of which I began to feel better. I walked to Trafalgar Square, which I knew from pictures I’d seen of it, to a statue of Queen Victoria, and on to a big ugly building I didn’t recognize. A police officer was there, as well as a sentry, and when I asked them what it was, the sentry said, “Buckingham Palace, ma’am.” A slight chill went over me. It was, I knew, the residence of the Queen, and if I’d ever envied her I didn’t anymore. Having to live in such a horrible place, I thought, must certainly take the fun out of the rest.

I decided I’d come far enough and turned around to walk on back. Now people were out, most of them women, who I knew by their looks were servants of one kind or another. And I was suddenly upset, that to make a living they had to get out at such an hour-it was still not yet seven. When I got back to the hotel it came to me that in some ways I liked the country a lot, in other ways not at all.

When I got back to the hotel I stopped at the desk to send a cable to Ethel. By now, of course, I knew the papers must have had the marriage of Earl K. White, but courtesy called for a wire from me, so I wrote one that began, “Surprise, surprise,” and then told her, and wound up, aiming for a friendly tone, with “Love, see you soon, Joan.” I paid for it myself, without it being charged to the room. Then I went up to the suite, to face my lord and master.

He came out of his bedroom with a razor in one hand, his face all lathered up, and wanting to know, “Where’ve you been?”

I told him “Out,” and then gave him a kiss like the one I’d allowed him the night before, a peck. He reacted so fast that it startled me, changing from annoyance to surprised affection, and pleading for “one more” as though it were something from heaven. I gave him one, realizing suddenly something I hadn’t quite got through my head before: that his feeling for me, though so far as I was concerned repulsive, was real. Or in other words, if I chose, I could have this man utterly, wind him around my finger and make him do as I wished any time I chose. And I thought to myself, then choose. He has all that you want out of life, not only for you but your child. So get on with it, get on with him, so life can move forward.

Easier said than done.

I spent the whole day trying to go through with my big idea, of being nice to him. There were three buttons on the table, each with a picture beside it, one of a waiter, one of a maid, and one of a bellboy. “A lot of their guests,” he explained, “don’t speak any English, so for them it’s made plain.” I punched the one for a waiter, and suddenly there he was, a napkin on one arm, a menu card in his hand. “I never take anything but rolls, buttermilk, and black coffee for breakfast,” said Earl. Of course I wanted bacon, eggs, and toast, but I smiled and went along with his tonic water of a breakfast for myself as well. We ate it together in the sitting room, he still in pajamas, I in my walking clothes. When the food was gone, he dressed, not inviting me to watch, to my relief. Then started what would have been an interesting day, if it hadn’t been for the finish I was dreading it would have.

We went to lunch at Simpson’s, a place I’d heard about, which was just a few steps from the hotel. I ordered steak, being hungry still from breakfast, “a Delmonico steak, just a small one,” but the waiter told me they didn’t have one-“We’re strictly a join-’ouse, ma’am.” “Join-’ouse” seemed to mean a place that served roast meat only, so I ordered roast beef instead. When it came he carved and served me- one slice only, and I fear my face blanched, or perhaps my stomach rumbled. Earl passed over a coin, and the waiter, looking pleased and surprised, said “Oh, thank you, sir,” and cut me another slice. “You’d think,” said Earl when the waiter had gone, “that no one had had that idea before, of pitching in with an extra shilling-in point of fact it’s a ritual. If I hadn’t done it he’d have found some way to remind me. They’re a funny bunch, the English. They always have to pretend.”

I, meanwhile, was wolfing down the meat, which was tender and terrific. I wanted to know more about it, so when we had finished our lunch Earl disappeared for a minute, only to return with the manager, who showed me around the kitchen while my new husband took some more coffee at our table. I must say I was fascinated. The meat hangs on hooks at the end of chains, which turn slowly in front of a bank of live coals, roasting out in the open. To keep it from burning they wrap it in brown paper.

When I went back upstairs I felt I had learned something.

It was after three when we got back to the hotel, and he led the way up to the suite. “Time I took my nap,” he said, “Doctor’s orders-but everyone ought to do it, they’d feel better, and probably live longer. Why don’t you take one, Joan?”

“Then O.K., why not?”

I didn’t much care, one way or the other, but if it pleased him, was willing to give it a try. So we went up, he going to his room, I to mine. I slipped off my clothes, and was just reaching for my nightgown when there he was at the door. He stood there for a long moment staring at me. “… I hope you don’t mind,” he stammered. Then: “You’re so beautiful I have to look.”

“I don’t like to be looked at,” I answered. “At least in the daytime — it doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

“Day or night doesn’t make much difference in how you look. You’re the same girl, either way.”

By now he was close to me, and I instinctively turned my back, but that turned out a mistake. When he put his arms around me, it put his hands over my breasts, and he did what he’d done the night before: cupped them and kneaded them with his fingers. I hated it, and began pushing him off, hooking my fingers in his, to pull them away from me and make him turn me loose. We began to wrestle, he making a game of it, laughing and gasping for breath. But I’m fairly strong, and pretty soon had his hands in mine, holding them clear, while I shoved him with my hip. Then suddenly he gasped, and when I looked was lying across the bed, his hands pressed to his chest. “Joan,” he whispered, “will you get my pills for me-my nitro pills, from my bed in the other room? They’re in a bottle, at the head of the bed. In a little vial-would you hurry, please?”

I hurried, not waiting even to throw something on, and there sure enough, on the shelf at the head of his bed, was the tiny bottle he spoke of, and I raced with it back to him, unscrewing the top as I

went. “That’s it,” he gasped. “Give me one-so, in the palm of your hand.”

He took the pill I gave him, popped it into his mouth and then poked it under his tongue with his finger. Then, in a moment: “Give me another one, Joan.” I did, and he jammed that one under his tongue, too. Then he lay there, eyes closed, as though waiting. Slowly the strain on his features began to subside. Then: “I’m sorry, Joan-I can’t help it. The pain is indescribable, and the pills help but it still goes on.” Then: “If I die-”

“Earl!”

“If I die,” he insisted, speaking still with some difficulty, “I want you to know what to do. Please have me cremated-it’s important to me, Joan, please listen. Have me cremated and take my ashes to Maryland, for burial in our family plot, in the College Park Cemetery. My will is drawn, signed, and in my deposit box. You’re the sole beneficiary, Joan, except for some remembrances to my staff. I had my lawyer see to it.”

“Please don’t talk like that.”

“I try to face reality.”

I didn’t think he was going to die. I certainly didn’t want him to, despite what he’d just told me about his will. All I could think of was that now at last I’d have a real excuse for holding him off, and not letting things get started in the way he seemed to want, when it came time for me to undress.