The Wicked City. Beatriz Williams

Чтение книги онлайн.

       16

      HE’S LEFT a note. He’s a gentleman, after all. I won’t quote it here; it’s too intimate. To summarize: he had hoped, after such a night between us, after such a declaration on his part, after such kisses and so on and so forth. You get the general idea. And I have disappointed him. I have kept my soul to myself, while taking all of his. He is going back to New Jersey, and wishes my future happiness with all his heart. Billy likes to feel things, you see. He likes to feel them deeply, to experience life at its absolute rippingest, to italicize every thought and emotion that rises inside him. After some consideration—that is to say, gnashing of teeth and rending of hair and scribbling of yet more midnight letters—he’ll be back for more. And I’ll snatch him in my arms and whisper my thanks to the Lord. In the meantime, I’m due at the corner of Wall and Broad in twenty minutes.

      I expect you’re disappointed. A typing pool. You figured I was employed in some more extravagant capacity, didn’t you? Something glamorous and immoral. And it’s true, I do have a small but picturesque sideline in the immoral. Immorality pays so much better. (About which, more later.) But my mama’s example rusts before me as a cautionary tale, and since Sterling Bates had the goodness to hire me two years ago, as a pink-coated college dropout with eight nimble fingers and a pair of opposable thumbs, I find I can’t quite let poor Miss Atkins down. So many girls let her down. Anyway, who can resist the allure of a regular paycheck?

      My room contains no closet, properly speaking. I keep my dresses and suits on the hooks on the wall, neatly pressed, and my shirts folded in order in the second drawer of the bureau. Stockings and girdles and brassieres up top. I wash myself with the water from the pitcher and apply my navy suit, my white shirt, my dark stockings and sensible shoes. My small, neat hat over my shining hair. No cosmetics, not even a smear of lip rouge. Company orders. Banks. They’ve awfully conservative.

      Downstairs, Mrs. Washington has laid out breakfast. Some of the other girls are there, Betty and Jane and Betty the Second, drinking coffee and spooning porridge. Nobody speaks. The newspaper hasn’t been touched. The room contains its usual atmosphere of java and drugstore perfume. I pour myself a cup of coffee and spread a layer of jam over a slice of cold toasted bread. Pick up the paper and take in the headlines. Izzy and Moe led a raid the other night, fancy joint up on Fifty-Second Street. Eighty-six arrested, including forty-one ladies. (The paper drops the term ladies with conspicuous irony.) No mention of doings on Christopher Street, but I suppose Special Agent Anson charged in and ordered his milk well after deadline for the early morning edition. Anyway, I haven’t got time to read past page one. I stuff the crust in my mouth, gulp the last of the coffee, blow a good-bye kiss in the direction of my sisters (I’m getting the silent treatment these days because of Billy, and I can’t say I blame them), and as I whirl around the corner, thrusting arms in coat sleeves, fingers in mittens, I run smack into Mrs. Washington herself, wiping her hands on an apron.

      “Oh! Miss Kelly. There you are at last.”

      “Mrs. Washington. Can’t stop. Late for work!”

      “But, Miss Kelly—”

      “I’ll be back at six!”

      “—telegram?”

      Halt. Hand on doorknob. Skin prickling beneath muffler. Mouth going dry. I think, That door surely does want painting, doesn’t it?

      “Telegram?” I repeat.

      “Arrived last night. Put it under your door. Didn’t you see? Western Union.”

      “When?”

      “Oh, about eight o’clock or so. I hope it’s not bad—”

      Well, I brush right past Mrs. Washington’s hopes and on up the stairs, first flight second flight third flight, panting, fumbling for latchkey in pocket, there it is, jiggle jiggle, door squeaks open.

      Floor’s bare. Of course. I would have noticed a damned yellow Western Union envelope on my nice clean floor, wouldn’t I? Even enrobed by loveydovey. So Billy must have picked it up for me and put it somewhere. Forgotten to mention that fact, in the heat of things. Dear Billy-boy. Never would open the envelope and peek inside, because he’s a gentleman. The snow’s turned to sleet, clicking hurriedly against the window glass. The room’s in perfect order, every last meager object occupying its ordained place. Where would Billy put a Western Union envelope not intended for his own eyes? The bureau.

      But no splash of yellow interrupts the nice clean surface of my battered thirdhand bureau. Just the mirror and the hairbrush and the vanity tray. Washstand is likewise pristine. Heart goes thump thump, pushing aside my ribs. Hand clenches mittens. Where the devil, Billy? Where the devil did you put that telegram? Darling, love-struck Billy, consumed by worry, all of twenty years old and not thinking straight. Books lined up in rigid order on the wall shelf. Bed all made, flat as a millpond. Above my head, someone thumps across the attic floor and slams a door shut, and the furniture rattles gently.

      Rattles. Gently.

      Thump thump thump goes my neighbor down the stairs, around the corner of the landing, down the next flight. The washbowl clinks its porcelain clink. The way it does in the pit of a New York winter’s night, when you are expressing your carnal need for another human being, no matter how regardful you are of the walls and furniture and sleeping boarders.

      I sink to my hands and knees, and there it is, wedged upright between the wall and the bureau. A thin yellow envelope. Yank bureau away from the wall a couple inches, stick arm in gap. Miss Geneva Kelly, 11 Christopher Street, New York City. And I am correct about Billy Marshall’s principles. The glue’s undisturbed.

      For the smallest instant, I just sit there, back against the wall, legs splayed. Envelope pinched between my fingers. Black ink staring back. My name. The large Roman capitals WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM. As if I didn’t know.

      But no little black stars. Nobody’s dead. That’s something, isn’t it?

      I stick my index finger in the crease and rip.

      1924 JAN 31 PM 6 41

      MISS GENEVA KELLY

      11 CHRISTOPHER STREET NEW YORK CITY

      MAMA SICK STOP ASKING FOR YOU STOP COME HOME EARLIEST STOP LOVE JOHNNIE