Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence

  III

  "Marty!" cried Joan.

  There was a curious glint in Martin's gray eyes, like the flash ofsteel in front of a window. His jaw was set, and his face strangelywhite.

  "You said you were going to bed."

  "I was going to bed, Marty dear."

  "What are you doing here, then?"

  "I changed my mind, old boy, and went out to dinner."

  "Chucked me in favor of Palgrave."

  "No, I didn't."

  "What then?"

  "He rang up after you'd gone; and going to bed like an old crock seemedsilly and feeble, and so I dressed and went out."

  "Why with that rotter Palgrave?"

  "Why not? And why rotter?"

  "You don't answer my question!"

  "Have I got to answer your question?"

  "You're my wife, although you don't seem to know it; and I object toPargrave."

  "I can't help that, Marty. I like him, you see, and humble littleperson as I am, I can't be expected to turn my back on every one exceptthe men you choose for me."

  "I don't choose any men for you. I want you for myself."

  "Dear old Marty, but you've got me forever!"

  "No, I haven't. You're less mine now than you were when I only saw youin dreams. But all the same you're my wife, and I tell you now, yousha'n't be handled by a man like Palgrave."

  They were in the middle of the floor. There were people all round them,thickly. They were obliged to keep going in that lunatic movement or berun down. What a way and in what a place to bare a bleeding heart!

  For the first time since he had answered to her call and found herstanding clean-cut against the sky, Martin held Joan in his arms. Hisjoy in doing so was mixed with rage and jealousy. It had been worsethan a blow in the mouth suddenly to see her, of whom he had thought asfast asleep in what was only the mere husk of home, dancing with a manlike Palgrave.

  And her nearness maddened him. All the starved and pent-up passion thatwas in him flamed and blazed. It blinded him and buzzed in his ears. Heheld her so tight and so hungrily that she could hardly breathe. Shewas his, this girl. She had called him, and he had answered, and shewas his wife. He had the right to her by law and nature. He adored herand had let her off and tried to be patient and win his way to her bylove and gentleness. But with his lips within an inch of her sweet,impertinent face, and the scent of her hair in his brain, and the woundthat she had opened again sapping his blood, he held her to his heartand charged the crowd to the beat of the music, like a man intoxicated,like a man heedless of his surroundings. He didn't give a curse whooverheard what he said, or saw the look in his eyes. She had turned himdown, this half-wife, on the plea of weariness; and as soon as he hadleft the house to go and eat his heart out in the hub of that swarminglonely city, she had darted out with this doll-man whom he wouldn'thave her touch with the end of a pole. There was a limit to all things,and he had come to it.

  "You're coming home," he said.

  "Marty, but I can't. Gilbert Palgrave--"

  "Gilbert Palgrave be damned. You're coming home, I tell you, if I haveto carry you out."

  She laughed. This was a new Marty, a high-handed, fiery Marty--one whomust not be encouraged. "Are you often like this?" she asked.

  "Be careful. I've had enough, and if you don't want me to smash thisplace up and cause a riot, you'll do what I tell you."

  Her eyes flashed back at him, and two angry spots of color came intoher cheeks. He was out of control. She realized that. She had never inher life seen any one so out of control--unaccountable as she found it.That he would smash up the place and cause a riot she knewinstinctively. She put up no further opposition. If anything were to beavoided, it was a scene, and in her mind's eye she could see herselfbeing carried out by this plunging boy, with a yard of stocking showingand the laughter of every one ringing in her ears. No, no, not that!She began to look for Palgrave, with her mind all alert and full of amischievous desire to turn the tables on Martin. He must be shownquickly that if any one gave orders, she did.

  He danced her to the edge of the floor, led her panting through thetables to the foot of the stairs and with his hand grasping her armlike a vice, guided her up to the place where ladies left their wraps.

  "We're going home," he said, "to have things out. I'll wait here." Thenhe called a boy and told him to get his hat and coat and gave him hischeck.

  Five minutes later, in pulsating silence, both of them angry andinarticulate, they stood in the street waiting for a taxi. The soft airtouched their hot faces with a refreshing finger. Hardly any one whosaw that slip of a girl and that square-shouldered boy with his unlinedface would have imagined that they could be anything but brother andsister. The marriage of babies! Was there no single apostle of commonsense in all the country--a country so gloriously free that it grantedlicenses to every foolishness without a qualm?

  Palgrave was standing on the curb, scowling. His car moved up, and theporter went forward to open the door. As quick as lightning, Joan sawher chance to put Martin into his place and evade an argument. Wasn'tshe out of that old country cage at last? Couldn't she revel in freeflight without being called to order and treated like a school-girl, atlast? What fun to use Palgrave to show Martin her spirit!

  She touched him on the arm and looked up at him with dancing eyes and ateasing smile. "Not this time, Marty," she said, and was across thesidewalk in a bound. "Quick," she said to Palgrave. "Quick!" And he,catching the idea with something more than amusement, sprang into thecar after her, and away they went.

  A duet of laughter hung briefly in the air.

  With all the blood in his head, Martin, coming out of utter surprise,made a dash for the retreating car, collided with the porter and stoodruefully and self-consciously over the burly figure that had gone downwith a crash upon the pavement.

  It was no use. Joan had been one too many for him. What, in any case,was the good of trying to follow? She preferred Palgrave. She had nouse, at that moment, for home. She was bored at the mere idea oftalking things over. She was not serious. She refused to be faced upwith seriousness. She was like a precocious child who snapped herfingers at authority and pursued the policy of the eel at the approachof discipline. What had she cried out that night in the dark with herchin tilted up and her arms thrown out? "I shall go joy-riding in thathuge round-about. If I can get anybody to pay my score, good. If not,I'll pay it myself, whatever it costs. My motto's going to be 'A goodtime as long as I can get it, and who cares for the price!'"

  Martin helped the porter to his feet, stanched his flow of County Kerryreproaches with a ten-dollar bill and went back into the Crystal Room.He had gone there half an hour ago with a party of young people to killloneliness and forget a bad hour of despair. His friend, HowardOldershaw, who had breezed him out of the reading room of the YaleClub, was one of the party. He was in the first flush of speed-breakingand knew the town and its midnight haunts. He had offered to showMartin the way to get rid of depression. Right! He should be put to thetest. Two could play the "Who cares?" game; and Martin, cut to thequick, angry and resisted, would enter his name. Not again would he puthimself in the way of being laughed at and ridiculed and turned down,teased and tantalized and made a fool of.

  Patience and gentleness--to what end? He loved a will-o'-the-wisp; hehad married a butterfly. Why continue to play the martyr and follow thefruitless path of rectitude? Hadn't she said, "I can only live once,and so I shall make life spin whichever way I want it to go?" He couldonly live once, and if life was not to spin with her, let it spinwithout her. "Who cares?" he said to himself. "Who the devil cares?" Hegave up his coat and hat, and went back into that room of false joy andsyncopation.

  It was one o'clock when he stood in the street once more, hot and winedand careless. "Let's hit it up," he said to Oldershaw as the car movedaway with the sisters and cousins of the other two men. "I haven'tstarted yet."

  The red-haired, roistering Oldershaw, newly injected with the virus ofthe Great W
hite Way, clapped him on the back. "Bully for you, old son,"he said. "I'm in the mood to paint the little old town. I left my carround the corner in charge of a down-at-heel night-bird. Come on. Let'sgo and see if he's pinched it."

  It was one of those Italian semi-racing cars with a body which gave itthe naked appearance of a muscular Russian dancer dressed in a skin anda pair of bangles. The night-bird, one of the large army of citygypsies who hang on to life by the skin of their teeth, was sitting onthe running board with his arms folded across his shirtless chest,smoking a salvaged cigar, dreaming, probably, of hot sausages andcoffee. He afforded a striking illustration of the under dog cringingcontentedly at the knees of wealth.

  "Good man," said Oldershaw, paying him generously. "Slip aboard,Martin, and I'll introduce you to one of the choicest dives I know."

  But the introduction was not to be effected that night, at any rate.Driving the car as though it were a monoplane in a clear sky, with anopen throttle that awoke the echoes, Oldershaw charged into FifthAvenue and caught the bonnet of a taxicab that was going uptown. Therewas a crash, a scream, a rending of metal. And when Martin pickedhimself up with a bruised elbow and a curious sensation of havingstopped a punching bag with his face, he saw Oldershaw bending over thecrumpled body of the taxi driver and heard a girl with red lips and asmall white hat calling on Heaven for retribution.

  "Some men oughtn't to be trusted with machinery," said Oldershaw withhis inevitable grin. "If I can yank my little pet out of thisbuckled-up lump of stuff, I'll drive that poor chap to the nearesthospital. Look after the angel, Martin, and give my name and address tothe policeman. As this is my third attempt to kill myself this month,things ought to settle down into humdrum monotony for a bit now."

  Martin went over to the girl. "I hope you're not hurt?" he asked.

  "Hurt?" she cried out hysterically, feeling herself all over. "Ofcourse I'm hurt. I'm crippled for life. My backbone's broken; I shallhave water on both knees, a glass eye and a mouth full of store teeth.But you don't care, you Hun. You like it."

  And on she went, at the top of her voice, in an endless flow of farceand tragedy, crying and laughing, examining herself with eager hands,disbelieving more and more in the fact that she was still in the onlyworld that mattered to her.

  Having succeeded in backing his dented car out of the debris, Oldershawleaped out. His face had been cut by the glass of the brokenwindshield. Blood was trickling down his fat, good-natured face. Hishat was smashed and looked like that of the tramp cyclist of thevaudeville stage. "All my fault, old man," he said in his bestirrepressible manner, as a policeman bore down upon him. "Help me tohike our prostrate friend into my car, and I'll whip him off to ahospital. He's only had the stuffing knocked out of him. It's no worsethan that.... That's fine. Big chap, isn't he--weighs a ton. I'll getoff right away, and my friend there will give you all you want to know.So long." And off he went, one of his front wheels wabbling foolishly.

  The policeman was not Irish or German-American. He was thereforeneither loud nor browbeating. He was dry, quiet and accurate, and itseemed to Martin that either he didn't enjoy being dressed in a littlebrief authority or was a misanthrope, eager to return to his noiselessand solitary tramp under the April stars. Martin gave him Oldershaw'sfull name and address and his own; and the girl, still shrill andshattered, gave hers, after protesting that all automobiles ought to beput in a gigantic pile and scrapped, that all harum-scarum young menshould be clapped in bed at ten o'clock and that all policemen shouldbe locked up in their stations to play dominoes. "If it'll do you anygood to know it," she said finally, "it's Susie Capper, commonly called'Tootles.' And I tell you what it is. If you come snooping round myplace to get me before the beak, I'll scream and kick, so help me Bob,I will." There was an English cockney twang in her voice.

  The policeman left her in the middle of a paean, with the wounded taxiand Martin, and the light of a lamp-post throwing up the unnatural redof her lips on a pretty little white face. He had probably gone to callup the taxicab company.

  Then she turned to Martin. "The decent thing for you to do, Mr. Nut, isto see me home," she said. "I'm blowed if I'm going to face any moreattempts at murder alone. My word, what a life!"

  "Come along, then," said Martin, and he put his hand under her elbow.That amazing avenue, which had the appearance of a great, deep cut downthe middle of an uneven mountain, was almost deserted. From the longline of street lamps intermittent patches of light were reflected asthough in glass. The night and the absence of thickly crawling motorsand swarming crowds gave it dignity. A strange, incongruous Orientalnote was struck by the deep red of velvet hangings thrown up by thelights in a furniture dealer's shop on the second floor of a whitebuilding.

  "Look for a row of women's ugly wooden heads painted by some onesuffering from delirium tremens," said Miss Susie Capper as they turneddown West Forty-sixth Street. "It's a dressmaker's, although you mightthink it was an asylum for dope fiends. I've got a bedroom, sitter andbath on the top floor. The house is a rabbit warren of bedrooms,sitters and baths, and in every one of them there's some poor deviltrying to squeeze a little kindness out of fate. That wretched taxidriver! He may have a wife waiting for him. Do you think thatred-haired feller's got to the hospital yet? He had a nice cut on hisown silly face--and serve him right! I hope it'll teach him that hehasn't bought the blooming world--but of course it won't. He's the sortthat never gets taught anything, worse luck! Nobody spanked him when hewas young and soft. Come on up, and you shall taste my scrambled eggs.I'll show you what a forgiving little soul I am."

  She laughed, ran her eyes quickly over Martin, and opened the door witha latchkey. Half a dozen small letter boxes were fastened to the wall,with cards in their slots.

  "Who the devil cares?" said Martin to himself, and he followed the girlup the narrow, ill-lighted staircase covered with shabby carpet. Two orthree inches of white stockings gleamed above the drab uppers of herhigh-heeled boots. Outside the open door of a room on the first floorthere was a line of milk bottles, and Martin sighted a man in shirtsleeves, cooking sausages on a small gas jet in a cubby-hole. He lookedup, and a cheery smile broke out on his clean-shaven face. There wasbrown grease paint on his collar. "Hello, Tootles," he called out.

  "Hello, Laddy," she said. "How'd it go to-night?"

  "Fine. Best second night in the history of the theater. Come in andhave a bite."

  "Can't. Got company."

  And up they went, the aroma following.

  A young woman in a sky-blue peignoir scuttled across the next landing,carrying a bottle of beer in each hand. There was a smell of onions andhot cheese. "What ho, Tootles," she said.

  "What ho, Irene. Is it true they've put your notice up?"

  "Yep, the dirty dogs! Twelve weeks' rehearsals and eight nights'playing! Me for the novelties at Gimbel's, if this goes on."

  A phonograph in another room ground out an air from "Boheme."

  They mounted again. "Here's me," said Miss Capper, waving her hand to aman in a dirty dressing gown who was standing on the threshold of thefront apartment, probably to achieve air. The room behind him was foggywith tobacco smoke which rose from four men playing cards. He himselfwas conspicuously drunk and would have spoken if he had been able. Asit was, he nodded owlishly and waggled his fingers.

  The girl threw open her door and turned up the light. "England, Homeand Beauty," she said. "Excuse me while I dress the ship."

  Seizing a pair of corsets that sprawled loosely on the center table,she rammed them under a not very pristine cushion on the sofa.

  Martin burst out laughing. The Crystal Room wine was still in his head."Very nippy!" he said.

  "Have to be nippy in this life, believe me. Give me a minute to powdermy nose and murmur a prayer of thanksgivin', and then I'll set thefestive board and show you how we used to scramble eggs in ShaftesburyAvenue."

  "Right," said Martin, getting out of his overcoat. How about it? Wasthis one way of making the little old earth spin?
br />   Susie Capper went into a bedroom even smaller than the sitting room,turned up the light over her dressing table and took off her littlewhite hat. From where Martin stood, he could see in the looking-glassthe girl's golden bobbed hair, pretty oval face with too red lips andround white neck. There, it was obvious, stood a little person femininefrom the curls around her ears to the hole in one of her stockings, andas highly and gladly sexed as a purring cat.

  "Buck up, Tootles," cried Martin. "Where do you keep the frying pan?"

  She turned and gave him another searching look, this time of markedapproval. "My word, what a kid you look in the light!" she said. "Noone would take you for a blooming road-hog. Well, who knows? You and Imay have been brought together like this to work out one of Fate'slittle games. This may be the beginning of a side-street romance, eh?"

  And she chuckled at the word and turned her nose into a smallsnow-capped hill.