“What’s this about you pulling a gun on a customer?” asked the new manager, who was called Roland something.
“Never,” Ralph had said.
“Frank said you did. Frank said…”
Frank said this and that, and Roland had told Ralph all this with a nasty and suspicious smile, as if he might be expecting Ralph to deny these charges, but as if he, Roland, believed them.
“Conlan might’ve said these things to my face,” Ralph had said. “He won’t, because he knows they’re not true.”
“Plenty of other guard jobs in New York,” Roland had said with a wave of his hand, walking off.
On his last day of duty, Ralph had lingered—Frank was even that day late—in order to say to Frank Conlan’s face: “You’re a nasty customer, Conlan. Backbiting and bitchy as a woman!” And Ralph had walked off, out into the sullen daylight, holding his head high, shutting out the filth that Conlan shouted after him, trying and succeeding in not hearing it.
Such warped characters as Frank Conlan were best erased from memory, thought Ralph. The world was full of them, but why dwell on them? The world was full of beautiful things too, though they were rarer and fewer. Ralph went to an employment office to say he had been fired for no particular reason, or if there were a precise reason, he would be glad to learn it. No questions were asked at the office, Ralph was offered another place, which he declined because of its location, way up on the East Side. Ralph said he would come back in a few days.
Meanwhile he had unemployment benefits, and he meant to enjoy a couple of weeks of leisure, even though it was the dead of winter and dirty snow lay around the city, covering nasty patches of ice in the gutters.
Oddly, in just these days when he had ample time to find Elsie on the streets, to watch her from a distance, follow her at any hour of the day or night, he lost her. It was amazing. He went to the coffee shop on three or four days and evenings, and she wasn’t there, and he almost asked one of the other girls—three or four now, so it looked as if Elsie had been replaced—if Elsie were sick or if she had quit, but he knew the faces of two of the girls, and knew they did not like him. So he didn’t ask even the new girls.
He walked through Minetta Street at 1 in the afternoon, at 6 p.m., sometimes at 2 a.m., and he never saw Elsie, though the third floor windows, where he knew she lived, were often lit behind their drawn curtains, and once he had seen the girl with long dark red hair, the girl with whom Elsie shared the apartment, Ralph thought, coming out of the house, alone. He even went twice after midnight to the street where the Star-Walkers bar or nightclub was, spent perhaps half an hour walking down the block and back again, without seeing Elsie.
Had she moved from Minetta Street? Mrs Sutherland would know, Ralph thought, but he could hardly ask her. He saw her occasionally in the neighborhood, but she seemed never to see him, and always looked as if she were daydreaming, or thinking only about where she had to go, to a taxi or the Christopher Street subway. “Excuse me, Mrs Sutherland. May I ask if Elsie is all right or is she sick?” Ralph might have dared ask, but he did not want to chance being rebuffed or ignored by Mrs Sutherland.
Once he had seen Elsie on the east side of Seventh, running uptown, meeting Mrs Sutherland on the sidewalk. They had walked off into that triangle part of Sheridan Square that went into Waverly Place, talking away. Why wasn’t Elsie so free with him, as happy with him? Ralph could have followed them, but hadn’t. He realized that he hadn’t wanted to be seen by either of them, when both might have turned on him, made some kind of fuss in public. When had that been? January, Ralph thought, when Elsie had still been working at the coffee shop.
Now, on the fifth day of his leisure, his freedom, Ralph realized that he was unhappy, confused, and somehow frightened. He had walked the familiar streets so many times, prolonging his shopping expeditions, prolonging God’s airings. He had stared at corners where he had once glimpsed her, by that bookshop on a corner of Sheridan Square, along the rows of cheap shops on Christopher Street, and on lower Seventh Avenue, of course, on that stretch between the coffee shop and Downing and Carmine Streets, either of which Elsie would probably walk through to get to Minetta Street.
He wondered if she had gone back home, to that small town in upstate New York? But that seemed unlikely, since Elsie was so enamored of New York City. Had she been kidnapped, was she being gang-raped somewhere, mouth gagged? This thought made Ralph squirm, made his hands shake. But you never knew! In New York what seemed extremely unlikely could happen.
“Could happen,” Ralph said aloud, when he thought of the gang-rape, and he stood up and looked out his window. It was dusk, nearly 5 in the afternoon. Dreary hour! He could see yellowish lights in windows in the back of houses. Ralph felt very alone, deserted, lost. He could not analyse his emotion. Elsie had not been a friend or companion, far from it. She had been a dear little thing, like a godchild or a daughter, a beautiful little sprite, whom he glimpsed now and again—not often, perhaps, but he had counted on the joy of those glimpses—and now she had vanished.
A couple of days later, Ralph mustered his courage, put on his good coat and black rabbit-fur cap, and an air of calm politeness, and walked without God to the coffee shop. It was around 5 in the afternoon, the place was half full, with mostly young people devouring hamburgers. Ralph ordered a coffee from a solemn-faced girl with brown hair. When she brought the coffee, Ralph said:
“Excuse me, miss. Do you happen to know where Elsie is working now?”
“Elsie?” This girl was one of the new girls here, Ralph was sure.
“She used to work here. A blond girl. Could you ask?” He indicated, with a nod of his head, another waitress nearby.
The girl went over and spoke to the other waitress, who Ralph recognized as one of the old stand-bys. She looked at Ralph, then shook her head as she murmured something to the other girl, which might have been: “Don’t tell him anything.”
“We don’t know, sir. Sorry,” said the new girl when she came back, and she wiped some drops of ketchup from the counter.
Ralph saw the second waitress go through a door to the kitchen. Had she gone to report that he was here and had asked a question, a polite question, about Elsie’s whereabouts? An instant later, an older woman, who Ralph had learned before was the manager or owner, and who also wore a white and blue uniform, stuck her head around the kitchen door and saw him. But she did not come out, she ducked back with a negative gesture of her hand, and the second waitress turned and went back to her duties.
John Sutherland had said that Elsie was going to school how. But what school? New York was full of schools. Art and literature. Art appreciation? Or had Sutherland been lying to get rid of him, to try to snatch Elsie, in a way, beyond his grasp? Ralph did not like to think of John Sutherland lying. It didn’t go with Sutherland. Sutherland was the kind of man who looked you in the eye. If Sutherland had told him, and so firmly, to stay away from Elsie, it was only because Sutherland misunderstood his attitude toward Elsie. A great pity.
Would Elsie stick with a school course? Not long, if Ralph read her temptations aright. That was why the girl needed such watching over! But Ralph sensed that Mrs Sutherland might make Elsie stick with it, since it had been Mrs Sutherland’s idea, it seemed. Elsie had looked as if she were quite fond of Mrs Sutherland.
20
Jack approached the Hotel Chelsea smiling with anticipation. He had walked up from Grove at a fast clip but slowed as he turned the corner east into Twenty-third Street. No sign of Elsie or a cameraman out in front as yet. This was Elsie’s first big job. She had called up last night, sounding nervous and happy, and had asked if Natalia or he, or both, could come around noon to the Chelsea, because Berkman was taking pictures out in front starting at 11. Natalia said she couldn’t, because of work and a lunch date with Isabel and some buyers. It was another damned cold day with a wind kicking up dust and grit, hurtling litter of all kinds along the sidewalk on Twenty-third. Jack pressed his gloved hands agai
nst his ears, and entered the Hotel Chelsea.
He spotted Elsie at once in the back left corner of the lobby, standing near one of the black bench seats, surrounded by a few curious people, mostly male, and there was Berkman, Jack assumed, a plump dark-haired man with his camera on a tripod. Elsie stood in a black sleeveless dress with hand on hip, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and with a huge white flower like an oversized chrysanthemum fixed above her right breast.
“Back, please!” said Berkman, motioning to the little crowd, and stepping back himself with his camera.
Elsie looked up at the ceiling near the door, but she had seen Jack, who was standing between her and the front door, and had given him a quick smile.
“Ser-rious,” said Berkman. He took two or three shots.
“Ho-ho!” said a young man in levis and sweater, and clapped.
Other men clapped, smiled, and some drifted away while others, coming in through the front door, lingered to watch.
“Where’s her coat, Hester? We’re going out,” said Berkman.
Jack stepped nearer a wall of the lobby.
Berkman carried his camera outdoors, accompanied by Hester, a lanky young woman in a long skirt, and Elsie came over to Jack, carrying her polo coat. Elsie had good make-up on, Jack saw, a line of dark at her eyes which was just right. Her lips seemed slightly changed by the red lipstick and for the better, or the more glamorous, anyway.
“You look just—terrific,” Jack said.
“Thanks for coming. Thanks.” Elsie glanced nervously at the glass front door. “It’ll take him a minute to pick the right background. Whew!—Where’d Marion go?” Elsie looked around, then gave a wave to someone sitting among other people at a side wall.
A girl with shortish dark brown hair, soft and wavy around her head, came toward them rather shyly. This was the guitar-player Natalia had told Jack about. She had no make-up, and wore blue jeans, fur-lined boots and a denim jacket lined with imitation sheep’s wool.
“Marion Gill,” Elsie said. “This is Jack Sutherland.”
“Oh!” Marion had a big smile. “How do you do, Jack? I heard about you.”
“Hi,” Jack said.
Elsie had suddenly acquired poise, Jack thought. Or if she were feigning poise today, she was doing a good job. Two or three fellows strolled around, looking Elsie over, but they might not have existed for Elsie. Jack was reminded of her indifference to her admirers in the Seventh Avenue coffee shop. She held her head high. Her hair was longer than when Jack had seen her last.
“You’re the one who sings. With the guitar,” Jack said to Marion.
“Yes. I’m here today just to give Elsie moral support.” Marion shifted slowly from one booted foot to the other. “Don’t you have to change, Elsie?”
“He wants one more in this dress outside,” Elsie replied.
The Berkman assistant called Hester summoned Elsie.
“Put your coat on till he’s ready,” Marion said to Elsie. “It’s freezing out.”
Elsie drew her coat on as she walked toward the door. Jack followed. Berkman had his tripod on the sidewalk west of the Chelsea’s doorway. Elsie was to stand ten feet to the west of the awning also, and Berkman was waiting for the right passerby for background, and both Marion and Hester stood ready to take Elsie’s coat.
“Not behind her, please!” Hester shouted to some of the curious, motioning them away.
“Okay!” said Berkman, focusing.
Elsie removed her coat and Marion took it, and stepped aside.
“Arm up!—Behind your head! Right leg!” shouted Berkman, and Elsie stood on her right leg, right hand on hip, left hand behind her head.
“Ah-h!” said someone in the crowd, half-mockingly.
She had to do more. Nobody who was bundled up against the cold should be seen in the background, so it was slow work.
Jack caught Marion’s eye, and pointed to the Chelsea’s door to indicate that he was going in. He wanted to look at the art work on the walls. There was a big picture of Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe done in monochrome dots like a blown-up newspaper photo, which Jack thought was rather amusing. Another that he liked was a trio of heads and shoulders made of curving brushstrokes of varying colors: a pleasing composition on human imbecility, maybe, because the trio looked quite witless. Jack had told Elsie on the telephone that he would like to invite her to lunch today, and now it seemed that Marion might be coming along too. Jack didn’t mind. Marion was Elsie’s new girlfriend, according to Natalia.
The minutes passed. It became a quarter to 1. Elsie came into the lobby with Marion near her, and said to Jack:
“I have to change now in the ladies’ room. If you’re getting bored—”
“I’m not bored,” Jack said.
The clientele of the Hotel Chelsea was not boring. There were young people, the middle-aged and the elderly coming and going, whose faces Jack did not attach a name to, but he liked to imagine them writers, painters, poets, maybe. He knew that some painters paid their bills here by donating a picture for the lobby’s walls. There was a table of brochures—flyers—about New York night spots, about a crafts sale for needy artists and sculptors. Elsie was back in the lobby again in no time in a different outfit, a white linen dress with short sleeves and a black patent leather belt. Marion dropped the polo coat over Elsie’s shoulders.
After a few minutes, Jack went out to watch. This shot included a taxi, Elsie stepping out of the taxi’s open door under the Chelsea’s awning, and they had been lucky in the taxi driver, a chunky fellow in a cap who looked as if he enjoyed smiling. Elsie had to do it three times, opening the door, stepping out in a natural way. It pleased the crowd, which applauded.
Marion got the polo coat onto Elsie again. She had been holding the coat over a radiator in the lobby. “She’s cold as hell,” Marion said to Jack.
Then Elsie disappeared with Marion, and returned in blue jeans, polo coat and sneakers, Marion behind her. Elsie looked pale, as if flour covered her face.
“Let’s go get something hot,” Marion said, mainly to Elsie.
“May I invite you both to lunch?” asked Jack. “I know a place very near—”
“I think Elsie’s got a chill,” Marion said.
They were walking out onto the sidewalk. Jack could see Elsie’s jaw trembling.
“Take my gloves,” Jack said, because Elsie seemed to have none. “No, I insist! Let’s go to my house. Come on, I’ll get us a taxi.” He went to the curb, and luck was with him, as a taxi was just arriving with someone.
A few seconds later, they were rolling downtown.
Elsie sat huddled. “I had this once before. Ice-skating up where I lived.”
Jack exchanged a glance with Marion, who looked worried.
Upstairs in Jack’s apartment, he told Marion to get Elsie to lie down under blankets in the bedroom, opened the bed and added still another blanket. Then he got a couple of hot water bottles from the bathroom and filled them out of the tap, which was quicker than the kettle.
Elsie’s lips were colorless, and her pallor was frightening. She hugged one hot water bottle with both hands close to her chest. She was lying on her side. Jack shoved the second bottle under the covers between her ankles.
“It’ll take a few minutes,” he said to Marion. “Don’t worry.”
Marion seemed speechless. She pulled the covers up to Elsie’s ears and higher.
“A hot toddy’s a good idea.” Jack used hot sink water on top of a goodly measure of Glenfiddich, and handed the glass to Marion in the bedroom.
Then Jack started a fire in the living-room fireplace. When he had it going, he went back to the bedroom. Marion was sitting on a straight chair, holding the toddy which was half gone.
“She’s better,” Marion said with a glance at Jack.
Her lips looked better, Jack saw. Elsie’s eyes were closed, and her brows had drawn together, making her look puzzled.
“Elsie?” Marion held the toddy glass toward her, Elsie too
k it and sipped carefully and looked at Jack.
“Thank you,” Elsie said.
Jack gave a laugh. “Okay! I’ll see about some food.”
He chose lambchops, fresh from this morning’s shopping. In a couple of minutes, the chops were on a grill over the fire. Then he lit the oven and opened a package of french fries.
Marion came into the kitchen. “I think she’s pulling out of it.—Gosh, what a spread you’ve got here! And it’s all so tidy!”
“You call this tidy?”
“Compared to my place.—Elsie says you’re an artist. Or an illustrator.”
“Yep.” Jack put forks and steak knives on the kitchen table.
“Can I help you? We eat here?”
“No, in the big room. The white table. There’re the napkins, those orange ones.”
Marion set the table. “Ah, does that smell good!”
Jack checked his chops and put them aside, because they were cooking too fast. “Like a drink, Marion? Glass of wine?”
Marion preferred wine.
“You’re playing at a place in SoHo?”
“Star-Walkers. But not since last week. The place is folding. But all that means is new management coming in.” She looked at him with a frank and easy smile. “I play here and there, different nights. Sometimes at a place on West Thirteenth.”
“What kind of songs? I haven’t been to the Star-Walkers.”
“Sometimes ones I’ve written, sometimes a little folk. All kinds.—I know, your wife was there a couple of nights. I like her. So does Elsie.”
Jack looked at the french fries and turned them off. “We can eat in a couple of minutes. I hope Elsie’s up to it.”
Marion went into the bedroom, and Jack followed her.
Elsie sat up. “I think it’s gone.—Wow! I was scared!” She gave Jack and Marion a wide, happy smile, and reached for a sneaker from the floor.