The Moth

8

The rest of that fall, I guess we played some football, but who we played and how it came out I wouldn’t know. I wrote her or wired her or sent her something every day, and then after the Hopkins game, which was played in Baltimore, I called up Doc Henry, that had tended me ever since I could remember, and got him to certify by wire to the college that I needed a little toe-nail-ectomy, something like that. Then without any more than calling up the house, I beat it for the station and took the train for Easton. I saw her a little sooner than I expected. I got in late at night, and next morning went down in the dining room and had breakfast, wondering if I could ever make the clock go around until it would be time to ring her telephone. But I had sent her a wire I was coming, and when I looked up, who should be there, following the waiter over to my table, but her, even younger-looking than she had been, with a little brown hat over her blonde hair, a fur coat, and a flower for my buttonhole. I was so glad to see her I could hardly eat my eggs. “Well, June, what would you like to do? I put a few lies on the wire and had a doctor send some, so I’m free till this time next week, if you are. I mean, we played our last game yesterday, and I’ve fixed it so I’m not due back to the kiddy-pen until after the Thanksgiving holidays.”

“Who won, by the way?”

“We did... And I have a suite. Would you like to see it?”

“... Jack, I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason I’m here so early to head you off from coming to see me. So I won’t have to have you at my house... Jack, it happened. If it just took us by surprise so we had a lovely night — oh, all right, two lovely nights and a long, dreamy day — and I’m not ashamed. Life is like that, and it has little lyric poems in it, as well as other things. But a lyric is one refrain, and there’s no second verse. I loved you, for one week end, as beautifully as I’m capable of loving. But I couldn’t go on with it. And not here. I forgot to tell you, I guess. I’m prominent. I belong to clubs and things. I have friends, who wouldn’t understand. And you’d be most difficult to explain.”

“Why?”

“Well — who are you?”

“A guy in love.”

“Yes, but — they’d expect to know more.”

“All right, tell them more.”

“What, for instance?”

“A guy in love that you’re engaged to.”

“That wouldn’t do.”

“People get engaged, you know.”

“Grown women, with children, don’t get engaged to babies going to college — or if they do, they don’t expect anybody to believe it. What they get taken for is what they are, somebody’s sweetie. And that I won’t have.”

“All right, a guy in love, that you’re married to.”

“What?”

“They get married, too.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“The bureau’s not open on Sunday.”

“Then tomorrow.”

“Jack, please be serious.”

“I am.”

I began to lean on it, then, to get it through her head that I meant business. I told her about myself, the money I’d made singing, the way I was going ahead at the mechanical engineering, and all the rest of it. I said we’d sell my stock, if that was what we’d have to do, and she could come with her kids and live at College Park, or I’d come to Easton and make a deal with Lafayette to play football. Or, I said, I’d quit school and we’d start over, here in Easton or wherever. She looked at me sharp when I spoke of the stock, asked me some questions, and said I’d better check on it, as things had happened. Then: “Jack, I see I’ll have to tell you the truth. Let’s go up to your suite.”

So we went up there and she called her home and told the maid she wouldn’t be in until supper. Then she was in my arms and it was late afternoon before we did any talking. But when she started she hit it on the nose: “Jack, I think I’m going to get married.”

“To me?”

“No.”

“Well — that’s making it plain, so a guy can understand it. When did all this happen, or do you mind my asking?”

“It hasn’t happened.”

“You’re just considering?”

“Not even that. But — it’s being considered.”

“I see.”

“A woman knows, I suppose, when something of that sort is in the wind, and I’m quite sure at the proper time, in the proper way, I’ll be asked. I’ve done nothing with you I’m not free to do, nothing I’ll feel bound to mention, as it concerns nobody but ourselves. Just the same, it makes sense, and you don’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a baby, for one thing.”

“Just an infant. But why does ‘it’ make sense?”

“‘It’ was a friend of my husband’s, and he’s known me since I was married, and he’s fond of the kids, and they’re insane about him, and — I hate to bring this up, but it’s important: He’s very rich, and—”

“I got it now.”

“I don’t think you have.”

“Do you love him?”

“Not as I love you, here and now.”

“But, he’s rich—”

“Jack.”

“What?”

“Stop being offensive.”

“Am I?”

“Yes... If I were myself alone, and you asked me to do this mad thing, I don’t say I wouldn’t. I might. It’s mad enough, to be with you, like this. But I’m not myself alone. I have children, family, friends, position, all sorts of things to think of, that I will not give up. To have you I must give them up, for as you’ve said, it will involve a complete new start. With him, I do nothing much about it, and life goes on, pleasantly, sensibly, satisfactorily. And one other thing: When did riches become so loathsome?”

“All right.”

“They’re the foundation, at least moderate wealth is, of practically everything people want out of life, and this idea they’re so horrible, that a woman should never consider them, is just plain silly. Of course, that’s a man’s idea. No woman ever had it.”

She put her arms around me and came close. After a long time she said: “It’s not so terrible now, is it?”

“I just hate it.”

“You won’t.”

“Time the great healer, I suppose?”

“Partly. Partly that after you’ve thought it over, and the romance has palled, you’ll be turning handsprings I did marry somebody else. Because you’re not ready yet, for a wife and two children that aren’t even yours. You’d have to quit school, and I’d have to keep on with this job I’ve got, and — a lot of things. But, Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Send me one red rose a year.”

“All right.”

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

I guess trains run between Baltimore and Easton, because if they had one to take me there it looks like there’d be one to take me back. But I don’t remember any train, any change at Philly, or anything of that kind. All I remember is wandering around that night, on a bridge over some river, on a street with picture shows on it, and up and down a hill near Lafayette College, trying to get through my head what was going to happen, so I could kill what I felt for her and get used to it she was going to marry somebody else. As to what it meant, from where he sat, if he ever heard of it, that she’d go around with him and then spend a week end with me, I tried not to think and I can’t even make sense of it now. I guess, when you come down to it, if it was cockeyed enough, it could be what she said, a lyric, to be sung once and then forgotten. Then next day, Monday, I was home, in my room, going through the whole thing again. I thought it was funny my aunts had so little to say, specially about running off after the football game. But they just said hello and asked me no questions, and the house was so still you could hear the kids playing outside. Then along toward dark I heard my father’s voice downstairs, and Nancy called that he wanted to see me.

He was in the study, and didn’t look at me when we shook hands. He had nothing to say about the football game, or anything, until I had sat there some little time. Then: “Jack, I’ve bad news for you.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“Your securities.”

“... Oh. I’ve been hearing about them.”

“Then you know of the crash?”

“What crash?”

“Of Black Tuesday, as they’re calling it.”

“I’ve been — playing football.”

“Yes — I should have congratulated you.”

“It’s not important.”

He began, then, telling me about the stock-market drop, twisting his face with his hand, or untwisting it, maybe. He told me about this stock and that I’d had, how some of them had been sold and replaced with others, how he’d watched the dates so I’d always have dividend checks coming in, some due one month, some another. It seemed to give him quite a lot of satisfaction I’d had some profit on some of the deals, and that for four or five years now I’d been cashing dividend checks at the rate of twenty or thirty dollars a month. “But — I’m broke, Dad, is that it?”

“I don’t know yet. I didn’t do what many did, throw everything overboard for salvage value. I thought it over, I even resorted to prayer, I’m not ashamed to confess. And I decided if I held on, at least the stock was the stock. If, as, and when, the market recovers, it’ll be there, it’ll have a value, and it’ll pay dividends, or so we hope. Except, of course—”

“Come on, let’s have it.”

“Some I carried for you on margin.”

“And—?”

“It’s gone.”

“Well, what does the totalizer say?”

“I have the list here... It says, at the prices I paid for it, there’s three thousand dollars odd of stock in the clear, and two small government bonds. What any of that is worth now I’d hate to say. It could be sold, I guess. Whether dividends will continue, that we don’t know. But, disregarding the future, considering only now — it’s gone.”

“Everything?”

“Practically.”

“Well, that’s that.”

“Jack, it tortures me, it humiliates me, it — stultifies me, that I have to tell you this, after the issue I made of it. I’d give my right hand not to, for I think you’ll believe me when I say if I could draw the money from the bank and hand over what I lost for you, I’d do it. I can’t. I haven’t told you everything. There’s more. I myself am heavily hit. I said nothing to you, but I’ve expanded. With your friend Denny’s father, I leased a lot, on Mt. Royal near the Automobile Club, and started a big garage, with general service, pit for car wash, pumps, tanks, jacks — an installation in six figures. We were unequal to it alone, naturally, and went to a bank. And since this they’re pressing us hard. And while we’ve raised something — how I simply won’t tell you — we’re still in frightful shape. The big service station is completely gone as a possibility at this time. The agency, the North Avenue place, I keep, but it’s — involved. Heavily. All I can say is, when I can, if I ever can, I shall regard your funds as a debt, and you shall—”

“Look, everybody makes mistakes.”

“—be paid. Now, as to college—”

“I have a deal. If I want it, there’ll be a job.”

“What kind of a job?”

“I don’t know. They’ve got ethics now, though, whatever they are, and I can’t just play football.”

“But you can finish?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Sam Shreve shot himself, if that helps.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“He — gave us the benefit of his best judgment, but it wasn’t good enough, let us say.”

“That often happens.”

I went back to my room, lay down again, and thought of what she had said, about checking up on my stock. That seemed about all it amounted to: one more thing to remind me of her. As to being broke, that didn’t seem to mean anything, and as for his losing my money for me, I didn’t hold it against him. But it seemed funny to me, from the brush-off I gave it, that he wouldn’t know there was something on my mind, and at least ask me what it was. Well, why couldn’t I tell him what it was? If I knew that, I wouldn’t be writing all this up.

Almost at once, from a house where things were done in a freehanded way, it turned into a house that needed money, where everybody drew deep breaths, let them out trembly, and went whole days without looking at each other. It was the same up and down the street, all you heard at the drugstore on North Avenue, or anywhere. Denny felt it, and it was the first time I found out what his father did, besides going to Europe all the time. He was an investor. He had inherited property from his father, a cement works somewhere near Catoctin Mountain, where Lee and McClellan tangled just before Antietam, and then branched out into contracting, road-building, bridge-building, and stuff like that. But he let the superintendent attend to construction, and concentrated on backing businesses, or buying into them, or foreclosing on them, as some said, and taking his profit on those that panned out. So that was how he and the Old Man came to be mixed up in the Mt. Royal Avenue thing. Mt. Royal Avenue, in Baltimore, is a continuation of Mt. Royal Terrace and the same street they’ve got in every big city, the center of the automobile trade. The Old Man was a little ahead of his day, but he saw the need for what is now called super-service, with every kind of work done on the spot and none of it sent out, and trouble-shooting on a twenty-four-hour schedule. That kind of location cost money, the equipment cost money, and the stock cost money. But Mr. Deets got hit too, because he was one hundred per cent in the market, with no sidelines for a cushion if something went wrong. One day he was rich, the next day he was a bum, or as near it as a guy like that, with forty-seven connections, ever really gets. Denny took it hard, and that I could have stood, but he also took it big. I mean, he’d drop around, and we’d take a ride, because at least I had the Buick that followed the Chevvie. Then he’d talk about what we were going to do about it. I didn’t know, and I was still mooning about what happened in Easton. And then one day, just after Thanksgiving, when we’d gone back to college, he came in the room and closed the door in his same old hush-hush way. “Jack, I’ve been in town.”

“Baltimore?”

“Washington. The Willard. And I ran into the gang from Fall River.”

He didn’t say Fall River. He said a city not far from Fall River, but I’ve got my reasons for not naming it. “... What do you mean, Denny, you ran into them?”

“Maybe on purpose.”

“But not any good purpose, naturally.”

“Listen, Jack, they need players.”

“Why?”

“They had a row. Over a bonus that was supposed to be paid, or that some of them said was supposed to be paid, after their last game. And it wasn’t paid. And the backfield quit.”

“Sounds like a nice outfit.”

“I said they need men.”

“Stop feinting and jabbing around—”

“We could change our names, Jack.”

“And our faces?”

“That’s not so hard... O.K., I talked to the manager and tonight I’m to call. They’re due in New York, the Polo Grounds, Sunday, and I think it’s ours if we want it, fifty bucks and our fare apiece, and me, I’m in. I need fifty bucks.”

“I’m listening, stupid.”

So from then on, on Sundays, I played as a pro. Denny called himself Rex Atlas, but I settled for Jake Healy. We gave out that we were Washington “sand lotters,” whatever that meant, but it seemed to get by. Denny worked on my brows with some kind of dye he got, so they’d be brown, instead of yellow. For the pictures, whenever they were taken, he made little pinches of cotton, that we carried up the sleeve of our jerseys, and would stick in our mouths, between the gum and the lip, upper and lower, and it certainly gave us a queer, buck-toothed look all right. Looking back at it now it seems funny. It didn’t then. I felt ashamed, and if we were caught I didn’t know what I’d say to Byrd. From then on I was doing all kinds of things I couldn’t look myself in the eye over. I wasn’t a cocky, tingle-fingered kid any more. I was a guy with muscles for rent, that took no pride in what he did with them, and wanted to talk about something else whenever the subject came up.