The Puzzleheaded Girl Page 5

  After work there was a summer storm and he did not have his coat. Still, he went up to the library. She was there. They walked about around the halls and staircases; and she was casual, made no excuse. “Where are you living now? With your brother?” “Oh, no, he’s married. I went there”—for the first time she seemed to be complaining—“they had only one bed. I can sleep on the floor. It’s good for the nerves. There was another room, a boxroom, or larder, something. I could have slept there.” “And where are you now? Are you at home?” “Home?” “At your father’s?” “I never see my father; he moved, I think,” she said, after a pause. “But you have somewhere to stay?” Another pause. “Yes, kind people. I like it there.” “Where are you then?” “At the YWCA.” He was relieved. She continued, “It’s too dear for me. There are other places I’ve heard of.” With his grimy handkerchief, he had a ten-dollar bill he had borrowed from the cashier. He turned and twisted it in his pocket. The thunder and lightning continued. The city steamed and the water poured straight down, flushing the streets. “You have no coat or umbrella, Honor?” “Yes, I left it at the door with a parcel.” She walked about with him confidently. He listened to the steps on the marble floor. “I like it here,” said Honor. The storm began to clear; streaks of sunlight were seen. “Did you want to ask me something, Honor?” She looked straight into his eyes. “No, I am all right.” He could return the ten dollars tomorrow to the cashier; but he would not mind going into debt for the girl, if she needed it. “You had no request to make?” He had these old-fashioned words, got from his immense reading of the old books, as a boy. “Oh, no. The rain’s over now. Good-bye.” She shook his hand, made a sort of half curtsy and ran down the steps, did not look back. He was relieved, thrust the ten dollars back into the handkerchief and went home.

  An old house in Eleventh Street had been transformed into apartments. He had the ground floor, two lofty rooms separated by a sliding door; and in the back, a small kitchen and bathroom. They slept and ate in the back room, which had iron bars on its tall windows and overlooked an old garden. They would have to move again soon because of the baby.

  Dinner was ready. “I’m sorry I was late. A funny thing happened. Do you remember that girl who worked in Farmers’ Utilities, Honor Lawrence?” “She came back? Does she want a job?” “I don’t know what she wanted. It wasn’t money.” “Does she look well off?” “Hard to say. Older, but quite well; you might say elegant. It isn’t money spent on clothes: she wouldn’t do that. It’s style, a personal style.” “What did she want?” “She said she had to see me. The office wouldn’t do. I met her at the library.” He recounted the episode fully, gaily and anxiously. “I assure you, I was as taken aback as you are now.” “Oh, I’m not taken aback,” said Beatrice in her hollow, soft and husky tones; “you’ll see her again. If she came back after two years, you’ll keep on seeing her.” “I won’t. What has she to do with me?” “I don’t know,” said the wife.

  They ate and the wife began to worry. “There’s no air in this apartment; the old trees cut out any light or air even when those windows are open. I owe it to David to go to Morristown in this weather, and Mother wants me there. This apartment has no air, only a through draught. The kitchen isn’t hygienic; there’s no real place to bathe the baby out of a draught and the sink gets stopped up because the pipes are laid so flat. There are roaches coming up the pipes.”

  “Well, go to Morristown, if you must.”

  “You know how I hate it. What do you get out of this marriage? I know you never wanted the child,” she said crankily and full of doubt.

  He sighed. “I don’t know, Beatrice. I do my best.”

  “How long can we go on like this? Is this life? Oh, this is awful.”

  “I’m afraid you’re very unhappy.”

  “Your only dream is to be happy!” she said in anguish. “The word makes me shriek.”

  Six months later, in winter, he was again called to the waiting room in his office and there was Miss Lawrence, though now she wore a dark grey coat, well cut but too large for her. “Can I see you privately?” But he was afraid of office gossip. She said, “Will you meet me in the Public Library?” “I could meet you downstairs in this building in about twenty minutes. Takes a seat and wait and I’ll come.” He was taken by surprise: she had come for a loan. “Enough to buy some clothes—you may be sure I’ll pay you back. I met a lady in San Francisco who is interested in me and who is taking me to Italy tomorrow. You know my mother was in Italy as a girl. Italy is very interesting now, it’s an age of youth. I want to study art and painting. I think I can do something real in Italy. I need twenty dollars for clothes.” “Twenty dollars! Can you get clothes for that sum?” “Oh, yes, I can.” Debrett had to take her upstairs, to ask the cashier for a twenty-dollar loan. People were about and two or three customers, men standing by, heard her further frank remarks. A big man said, “Twenty dollars—I’ll lend you that, little lady; but what will I get for it?” He took money out of his pocket; the others began to laugh. She said gravely, “Give me a piece of notepaper, please.” The man picked a sheet off a memo pad and gave it to her. “And a pencil, please.” She went over to the desk, wrote and handed him the sheet of paper. He looked, looked at her, handed it to the others and burst out laughing. “Big day in my life!” She had written, “I will give you a kiss.” He looked around with a big gay laugh, a popular man’s man, the kind trusted to take out-of-towners around New York. He screwed up an eye, stared at her, looked her up and down, stopped laughing, turned back and pulled money out of his pocket, and handed it to her gravely, “I’ll do a good deed, they can put my name in after Abou ben Adhem.” She took the money and, before another word was said, ran out of the office. “Who is that?” “Debrett’s friend.” “Your friend, Gus?” “She worked for me once, years ago. She’s only a kid.” “Is she crazy or what?” “Just a nice girl.” One of the salesmen showed the notepaper; “Nice girl or smart girl.” Debrett took it and threw it in the trashbasket. “I know her history. For her it hasn’t the implication it has for you.”

  An hour later, she was at Saul Scott’s asking for a passport in her assumed name of Honor Lawrence. “Can I alter my birthplace? I want to make it Boston. I am going with a rich woman who likes me and she thinks I am from Boston.”

  Saul Scott’s solid red face smiled kindly. “I’ll tell you your rights. Put that money in your purse; you can’t pay me. I’m too dear. And Vera Day, on your way out, will give you all the help you need. She’ll fill in the forms.”

  But, with the forms filled in, she hurried out of the office; and then, with the news of her Italian journey, she visited Tom Zero, Arthur Good and others unknown. Zero refused to see her, but she was in his office before he knew it. He refused to lend her money, but in the end did so: “Twenty dollars to buy clothes to go to Italy.” “Thank you, you will be repaid,” she said and was gone in her usual way.

  Tom told his wife Myra. “How did she know your address?” “I don’t know. She went to see Saul Scott and others.” “Gus Debrett?” “Yes, for one.” “Beatrice won’t like it!” “Why?” “You know how everything depresses her. Where has the girl been all this time?” “California apparently. That’s where she met this woman. She’s travelling with a monied woman.” “How these tramps get around,” said Myra. “They spend in travelling the money we spend in rent and comforts,” said Tom. “Very simple.” Myra telephoned Beatrice, who was very gloomy. “Of course Gus lent her money and of course she’ll keep coming back. According to Gus, she’s painfully honest, never told a lie. How does she create that impression?” “It’s the New England look.” “And she’s an Italian,” cried Beatrice. “Well, she’s gone to Italy, Beatrice. It sounded final to me. Don’t think about it any more.” “Oh, she’ll be back, we’re haunted,” said Beatrice. “We have no luck.” When she turned to her husband she said sharply, “What’s this trip about then?” “Search me: self-improvement, I think.” “I envy her. She’s free and she can ge
t away from her local entanglements, whatever they are.” “We can do it too, Beatrice. She’s got the courage to go and try her luck; why not us? She hates this money world, so do we. I have been thinking about it, as I walked home. If a slip of a girl who knows no foreign language has the courage to rise out of that hard cruel poverty where she was starved and humiliated, why not us? I could find a job, France or Italy.” “To Italy—” cried Beatrice. “France. Or England or Germany. I know all the chief cities as I know my own East Side.” Beatrice was silent. At last, she said quietly, “If you want to go—I’ll go. I must get away from Mother and the others. I can’t stand family quarrels. How can people live like that? Among total strangers there must be calm.” “Calme, luxe et volupté—,” said Debrett, with a radiant expression. “Mother likes a good fight; it gives her tone and she looks radiant. I hate it. I could cut my throat. When you’re there, they expect you to take part. If you don’t, you’re selfish. When the whole family is at each other’s throats, there you are with your nose buried in a book. I often wanted to go and throw myself in the East River as a child.” “Instead, we’ll throw ourselves into the Atlantic; but we’ll swim to the other side.” He came towards her, “I’m so glad, I’m so happy you want to go. It will make all the difference to us. You’ll see, you’ll be happy over there.” “You are right, perhaps. Your girl friend has no husband or child, so it’s rather different; and apparently she has found someone to look after her. It was bound to come to that,” she said mournfully. “What future is there for that puzzleheaded girl?” “Beatrice,” said Debrett solemnly, “never mind about Honor Lawrence. She is out of our lives for good. Our lives are now in the future; and I swear you will be happy. You have me to look after you.”

  The following afternoon, Miss Lawrence came again to see Debrett in his office; she looked tired. “Why didn’t you go to Italy?” “I couldn’t go.” “Has the boat sailed?” “Yes. The lady went but she took someone else.” “Oh, Honor! Poor girl! She let you down.” “She said I let her down.” “How is that?” “I’m afraid I can’t tell you here. Something dreadful happened. Can I see you alone?” “Not here, Honor.” “In the Public Library tonight at six.” He was put out. He telephoned his wife and explained why he would be late. The line was silent. “Beatrice, what is it?” “Oh, that girl, that gadfly—” “I thought you were sorry for her.” “I’m sorry for women—for the struggle, without hope—” “Yes, so am I, Beatrice. Don’t you want me to see her? I’ll get a message to her somehow.” “Oh, see her, see her,” she said with bitter hopelessness. “I can see she’s going to be with us for the rest of our lives.” “Oh, no, she is not. I am going to see what is wrong, and if I can fix it up for good. I will tell her she can’t keep calling upon me. You see, it’s her innocence; she doesn’t see it as hurtful, as a nuisance. She’s in trouble; and, like a lost child, she cries out to the first person she meets.” “I understand, Gus. I know you; I know you mean well.” “Yes, I do.”

  When he met the girl he was tired. “Why didn’t you go? How could you have been deceived like that? I thought you were eager to go and were great friends.” “I couldn’t go in such circumstances.” “You’ll have to be more explicit, Honor. I don’t understand you.”

  “It was terrible. She’s a dreadful woman, mad I think. She got me a room in a hotel, down there,” she said vaguely. “Last night she came to call on me. She brought something to drink. I don’t drink. Then she put her hand around my waist. I don’t like that. I stopped that. She kept on and I slapped her. Then she turned into a fiend, her face was all screwed up, all in wrinkles, she looked like a bird and she flew at me, saying things in a little voice—and she threw me out, wouldn’t let me stay in the hotel, wouldn’t pay for me, she said.” He waited. “What really happened, Honor?” “I don’t know. I said to her, that’s a nice blouse, where did you get it? What’s wrong in that? She began to behave so wildly. She ground her teeth, her eyes opened, she glared at me and said in a rude voice, I made it myself; and did you make that yourself? And she pulled at my dress and tried to tear it off me. Then I knew she was mad. She was such a wonderful woman,” said Honor slowly, turning her head away. She never cried. “I thought she liked me. She used to come and see me in California, when I had a little room with some friends, and she brought me presents and she took me to the art shows. People didn’t like me in California and she was good to me.” “People didn’t like you? I thought you made friends easily.” “Eva, this woman, took me everywhere, and I stayed with her. She gave a party for me; but they never spoke to me and, if I spoke to them, they’d turn their heads away pretending not to hear; or they would get up and go away. So she said, she’d take me to Italy, where people were old and civilized and hadn’t little suburban ideas; and we would see new people. And I told her what I had never told anyone, all about my father and mother; and she said, she would be father and mother to me.”

  “Yes, now I see,” said Debrett; and he asked her if she had a place for the night. She had, she said; and after a long pause, looking into his face, she touched his hand and left him. He went home and told his wife the story. “You see, I am right about her. I know her. She is utterly innocent and unsophisticated. What do you make of it?” “Myra Zero has just telephoned me to say that your child-woman called on Tom at his office and told him she had not gone to Italy, but could never tell him why; and he gave her ten dollars for a place for the night. Of course, she is going to pay him back.” “She always does, Beatrice. She is completely, painfully honest. She always tells the truth.” “Perhaps she does,” said Beatrice.

  It was four months before Debrett heard of her again. She telephoned him at his office. “What is it this time, Honor?” “I must see you.” “No, no, I’m too busy. Tell me now.” “No, I can’t speak about it like this; I must see you.” “I can’t see you, Honor.” She was in the waiting room in five minutes. He heard her calling his name. He was alone; the reception clerk had gone to lunch. She had no need of money, she said at once. She looked older, even dissipated. Her dress, usually neat, was untidy. She no longer wore short skirts and high blouses and had lost some of her charm: her thick hair was uncombed. She was in disorder and even dirty; but was still grave and prudish. “I just wanted to see you, Mr. Debrett, to tell you my troubles are over. I know you worry about me. I have a home now. I tried for a job but didn’t get it. I went to a business college and told them to give me a certificate, but they wouldn’t give me one.” “Did you study at the college?” “No. But I told them I had all the skills, they could take my word.” “Well, you say you have a home, Honor?” She smiled triumphantly. “Yes, I have been invited to live as companion in the home of a lady in charge of a mental rest home.” “Will that suit you?” “Oh, yes, she understands me. She says I will be a tonic to her after all those sick minds. She says I am quite unusual.” She stood in front of him, upright, looking into his face and with a sweet self-pleased look, waiting for him to be pleased. “I see. And what can I do for you?” “Nothing. I just thought I ought to see you.” As he turned, she put her arm around him. “I need friends,” she said.

  He looked at her profile. She upset him; he was puzzled. “I was just going out for a snack. Would you share a sandwich with me?” She agreed and they went to a cheap lunchroom, where he often ate. She ate greedily, but accepted only one sandwich and a glass of milk. While he paid the bill, she walked out; and when he reached the sidewalk he saw her hurrying, almost running down the street; she skipped once, twice, on the kerb. Was she just a child; or a free soul? He remembered what a friend had told him, “Once going down Eighth Street I saw a girl do the splits and then walk on as if nothing had happened.” He did not call after Honor or try to follow her. She had left him in the middle of a conversation.

  During the brief meal he had said, “When did you meet this woman?” “A week ago.” “You want to be careful; she may be a Lesbian.” “Oh, no, she’s an American, she’s from New England, just as I—” “You didn’t unde
rstand what was wrong with that woman who was taking you to Italy, did you?” “Oh yes, she was mad.” “Honor, go and see my wife. She’ll explain. I’m going back to the office—” She had gone. He went back to the office where he was finishing up the week’s work; and he telephoned Beatrice.

  “I know,” said his wife, “she’s here now. I’ll take her to the park with David and we’ll talk.”

  He went home troubled and could not eat his dinner. His wife, a keen, solid but morbidly uneasy woman, rested on his face those large, gloomy, beautiful eyes which had always held him spellbound. She said at last, “Well, I saw that girl, Gus. You’re worried about her, aren’t you? You can’t eat. Every time she comes into our lives, you don’t sleep. Watch out, Gus. I can see you in a mess.” “Over the poor suppliant? Don’t be silly. To her I’m a kindly uncle, someone she worked for. She has a high opinion of herself and probably thinks I didn’t pay her enough. I was her first job. She’s not interested in men. But I am worried. Don’t laugh at me, I feel she partakes of a sacred character, those the gods love, or hate: it’s the same. If the suppliant demands and you don’t give, you’re accursed. That’s an old idea. You can see the same thing in Cuore, by Edmondo de Amicis. At least in the old countries there is this idea that the sick and maimed are sent for your especial care.”