I couldn’t get a restaurant job, which was the only kind of work I knew, since I couldn’t get a health certificate. And I couldn’t get that, of course, until I got over the dose. So practically flat broke as I was—without even money enough for a room—it looked like I was really in a pickle.
I said it looked that way. Because actually, I guess, it was lucky I didn’t have room money. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gone into that cheap little burlesque house just to rest a while and try to think.
There were four chorus girls in the line. Pretty old girls, it looked like. I didn’t think they could sing half as good as I could, and the dancing they did was mostly just wiggling and shaking. I watched and listened to them a while. Finally, I got up enough nerve to go to the manager and ask him for a job.
He took me into his office. I sang and wiggled for him, and he said I was okay, but he didn’t have a job open right then. Then, he winked and asked me how about it—you know—and said there was a fast ten bucks in it for me. I told him, I couldn’t. He offered me twenty, and I told him no again. And I told him why, because it would be a dirty trick on him. He was awfully appreciative. He said most girls in my position would have taken the money, and not given a damn whether they dosed some poor son-of-a-bitch. (Those are his own words and I’m only repeating them because I want to tell the whole truth and not leave out anything. Not a bit more than I have to. I don’t use that kind of language myself.)
He appreciated my telling him so much that he gave me a job after all. He had to fire another girl to do it, and naturally I was sorry for that. But she was really too old to be working, anyway. I told her so, when she started cursing me out. And she didn’t have much to say after that.
I started seeing a doctor right away—as soon as I got a paycheck. He got me cleared up fast, and things were pretty nice from then on. For quite a while. All the men who came to the show—you hardly ever saw a woman—liked me. They’d start clapping and whistling and calling for me, even while the other girls were doing their numbers. Then, when I went on stage they wouldn’t let me go. They were really crazy about me, even if it doesn’t sound nice for me to say so, and I couldn’t begin to tell you how many of them tried to date me up. If I’d been willing to you-know for money like some of the other girls did, I could have made all kinds. I wouldn’t have had to just barely skimp by like I was doing, because that manager could really squeeze a quarter until the eagle screamed. But, anyway, I didn’t do it. Not even once, as much as I was tempted.
I remember one time when I just about had to have a new pair of shoes, and I saw an absolutely darling pair in a window, marked down from twenty-three ninety-nine to fourteen ninety-eight. It was such a wonderful bargain, I just didn’t see how I could pass it up. I felt like I’d die if I didn’t have those shoes! And while I was standing there a man who came to the show all the time came along, and offered to buy them for me. But I turned him down. I hesitated a moment first, but I did.
My real name is Agnes Tuttle, but I changed it when I went to work at the show. I was going to make it something kind of unusual, like Dolores du Bois. But the other girls had given themselves fancy names—Fanchon Rose, and Charlotte Montclair and so on—so I decided to make mine simple. It seemed best to, you know. It stood out more. And if I’d had the same sort of name as those other girls, people might have thought I was cheap and shoddy, too.
I’d been at the show about six months when the police raided it and closed it down. The manager got a big fine, and had to leave town. The girls went back to doing what they had been doing, which was you know what. I hardly knew what to do.
I felt it would be kind of a step down to take a waitress job. There’s nothing wrong with being a waitress, of course. But it doesn’t pay much, and it’s darned hard work. And in view of my experience, I felt that I simply ought to and had to have something better. I was like that then; awfully ambitious, I mean. Willing to do almost anything to be a big-name singer or something like that. Now, I feel just about the opposite. In the first place, I know I’m not much good as a singer and never will be, like Rags McGuire says. In the second place, I just don’t care. All I want now is just to be with Ralph, forever and always—and by golly, I will be!—and…
But I’ll tell you about that later.
I didn’t have money to travel on, and there weren’t any jobs like I wanted in Fort Worth. Oh, there were a few, of course, but I couldn’t get them. All the talent for them was hired through New York agencies, so I didn’t stand a chance, even if I’d had the training and the presence and the clothes. I guess I was pretty awful, then. And I don’t just mean my voice. I tried to wear nice things without being flashy, and I tried to be careful about makeup and using good English. But trying isn’t enough when you don’t have money to work with, and you’re not sure of what you’re trying for.
I guess I couldn’t really blame Rags for thinking I was something that I wasn’t.
I was working in a beer garden at the time I met him. It wasn’t a very nice place, and it wasn’t a real job. I just hung out there, like several other girls did. I got to keep any money a customer gave me for drinking with him, and I also got a commission on what he bought. Then, a few times a night I’d sing a number. And the orchestra and I divided the change that the customers tossed up on the bandstand.
Well, Rags dropped into the place one night, and a waitress tipped me off that he was a big spender. So, after I’d done a number, I went over to his table. I didn’t know who he was—just about the greatest jazz musician of all time. I just thought, you know, that if he was going to throw money around, he might as well throw some my way. And I thought he looked awfully interesting, too.
Well. I guess I did just about everything wrong that I could. I just botched everything up, not only that night but the next day when he gave me a singing try-out, and offered me a contract. I—I just don’t know! I still squirm inside when I think about it. But I know I didn’t act that way just because of the money. I wanted to get ahead, of course, but mostly I wanted to please him. I thought I was doing what he wanted me to do, and he seemed so terribly unhappy I felt that I should. But…
He had no use for me from then on. From then on, I was just dirt to him. He wouldn’t let me explain or try to straighten things out. I was just dirt, and he was going to keep it that way.
I tried to excuse him. I told myself that if I’d had a family like his, and the same terrible thing happened to mine that happened to his—though he won’t admit it did—why, I might be pretty hard to get along with, too. But, well, you can’t keep excusing people forever. If they’re simply determined to despise you, you just have to let them. And all you can do about it is to despise them back.
Rags has just done one nice thing for me in all the months I’ve worked for him. That was when we came here, and he introduced me to Ralph. He didn’t mean to be nice, of course. He meant it as a mean joke on me—telling me that Ralph was a very wealthy man and so on. But that was one time Mr. Rags got fooled. Ralph told me the truth about himself that very first night, and I told him the truth about myself. And instead of being mad and disappointed with each other, like Rags thought we would, we fell in love.
Ralph was so cute when he told me about himself. Just like a darling little boy. All the time he was talking I could hardly keep from taking him in my arms and squeezing him. He couldn’t make a living any more in this town, it seemed, because everyone was mad at his wife. On the other hand, he’d lived here all his life, and he wouldn’t know what to do anywhere else. Not by himself, I mean. And the idea he kind of had in mind in meeting me was—well, he got pretty mixed up at that point. But I understood him, the poor darling. He didn’t need to put it into words for me to understand, any more than he’s had to put certain other things into words.
While he was hesitating, not knowing quite how to go on, I patted him on the hand and told him to never mind. I said I was awfully glad he seemed to think so much of me because I liked him a lot, too. Bu
t maybe if he knew the truth, he’d change his opinion of me.
Well, he didn’t try to shut me up like most men would have. You know, just say to forget it and that it didn’t matter. He just nodded kind of grave and fatherly-like, and said, “Is that a fact? Well, maybe you better tell me about it, then.”
I told him. Everything there was to tell, although I may possibly have forgotten a few little things. When I finally stopped, he waited a minute, and then he told me to go on.
“G-go on?” I said. “But that’s all there is.”
“But I thought you were supposed to have done something bad,” he said. “Something that might change my mind about you.”
Well…
My eyes misted over. I could feel my face puckering up like some big old baby’s. I sat there, looking and feeling that way and not knowing what to do. And Ralph reached out and pulled my head against his chest.
“You go right ahead, honey,” he said. “You just cry all you want to.”
Well, I cried and I cried and I cried. It just seemed like I could never stop, and Ralph told me not to try. So I cried and I cried. And everything that was in me that wasn’t really me—that didn’t really belong there—was kind of washed away. And I felt all clean and nice and peaceful. And I was never as happy in my life.
Ralph…
I know I get pretty silly whenever I start talking about him, but I just can’t help it. And I just don’t care. Because however much I rave, I still don’t do him justice. He’s the handsomest thing you ever saw in your life, for one thing. A lot handsomer than most anyone in pictures—and don’t think I won’t make him try out for pictures when we get away from here! But that’s only one thing. Along with it, he’s just the nicest, kindest, understandingest—well, everything. He’s mature, and yet he’s awfully boyish. The most wonderful sweetheart a girl ever had, but kind of fatherly, too.
We saw each other every night after that. We talked about what we were going to do—kind of talking around the subject. Because it looked like there was just about only one thing we could do. And things like that, they’re not something you can very well talk about.
Yes, that mean old hen he was married to would give him a divorce, all right. Or he could just leave, like I’d suggested, and to hell with the divorce. She’d let him know that—those things—although she hadn’t said so in so many words. The trouble was she wouldn’t let him take the money that belonged to him, money he’d worked for and saved dollar by dollar. She wouldn’t even let him take half of it. She kept it under the mattress of her bed, and she made it clear to him that anyone who got it would have to kill her first.
Ralph was afraid to sue her. He had a record book of his savings, showing when and how much he put away. But that wouldn’t necessarily prove that the money was his, would it? She might have told him to keep the record for her. And, anyway, those lawsuits drag on forever, and the only ones that get anything out of ’em are the lawyers.
At first, I told Ralph to let her keep the money, the old bag! But Ralph didn’t want to do that; we’d need it ourselves to get a decent start in life. And after I thought about it a while, I wouldn’t have let him if he had wanted to.
It was his money, wasn’t it? His and mine. When something belongs to a person, they ought to have it and if someone tries to stop them they ought to have something.
I told Ralph that he ought to speak up to her, instead of just beating around the bush. I said that I’d be glad to talk to her myself, and if that didn’t do any good I’d slap some sense into her. But Ralph didn’t think that would be a very good idea. And I guess it wasn’t.
She’d probably put the money in the bank, and tell the police she’d been threatened. Then, if anything happened, why you know where we’d be.
I was sorry afterwards that I’d said anything like that to Ralph. Because I was perfectly willing to do what I said I would and heck of a lot more. But it might have sounded a little shocking to say so. I mean, even if I wasn’t a woman, if I was Ralph, say, and I said something like that to me, why I’d—oh, well, you know what I mean.
It was best to keep things the way they’d been, except for that once. Talking about what had to be done, but not really talking about it. Not actually admitting that we were talking about it.
By doing that, you see, we’d never really know. There’d never be anything to make us uncomfortable about each other. After all, she was a pretty old woman. Her health was bad, and everyone in town hated her guts. And, well, all sorts of things could happen to her, without us having a thing to do with them.
And neither of us would need to know that we had unless…
The weeks raced by. They went by like days, and before we knew it the season was almost over. And we were still talking, and nothing had happened.
Then, that Monday night came.
The dance hall was closed that night. Ralph was working there—not any regular hours, but just until he got through. We weren’t seeing each other afterwards, because I had a sore throat.
I don’t know how I got it exactly. Maybe from sleeping in a draft. Anyway, it wasn’t really bad, and if I’d been anything but a singer I wouldn’t have bothered to call a doctor.
I was sitting out on the stoop when he came. He painted my throat, looking kind of nervous and haggard, and then he asked me why I hadn’t been in the first time he called.
“I spend thirty minutes finding the right cottage,” he said, “and then when I finally locate it—”
“I’m so sorry about that, doctor,” I said. “You see, I was taking a shower, and it was some time before I heard you calling and pounding at the cottage next door. I came right out as soon as I did, but—”
“W-what?” he said. “The cottage next…?”
“Uh-huh. It’s unoccupied; so many of them are…But I thought you saw me, doctor. I ran out on the stoop and called to you, just as you were driving away, and I thought you called and motioned to me. I supposed you meant you had no more time right then, and you’d have to come back later.”
He looked at me blankly for a moment. Then, his eyes flickered in a kind of funny way, and he snapped his fingers.
“Why, of course,” he said. “Now that I see you in the light, I can…You had a robe on, didn’t you, and a—uh—did you have a bathing cap?”
“That’s right,” I said. “A robe and a bathing cap, because I’d just come out of the shower. I suppose I looked quite a bit different than—”
“Not a bit,” he said firmly. “Not a particle. I’d have recognized you instantly, if it hadn’t been so fixed in my mind that you were in the other cottage. Let’s see, now—about what time was that?”
I told him I guessed it was a little after eight. Somewhere along in there. Just about the time it was getting dark.
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re absolutely right, Miss Lee. Let me compliment you on your memory.”
“Now, that’s real sweet of you, doctor,” I said. “But, after all, why shouldn’t I remember? I mean, a girl just about couldn’t forget anything connected with a distinguished looking gentleman like you.”
I smiled at him, looking up from under the lids of my eyes. He beamed and harrumphed his throat, and said I was a very fine young lady.
He repeated that several times while he was repacking his medicine kit. He said he wanted me to take very good care of myself, and any time I needed him, regardless of the hour, I was to let him know.
I thought he was awfully sweet and nice. Kind of distinguished and mature, like Ralph. He asked if he might use my phone, and I said, why certainly, and he called a number.
“Hank?” he said. “Jim…Just wanted to tell you that it’s—you know—all right…I remembered where—I mean, I can account positively for the time. There’s a young lady who saw me, recognized my car and my voice, and…Who? Well, that one. The one we were discussing. She—What? Why—yes, I suppose that’s true. I hadn’t thought about it that way, but…”
I’d gone o
ver by the door to be polite; so that it wouldn’t look like I was snooping, you know. He turned around and looked at me, kind of frowning as he went on talking.
“Yes. Yes, I see. Naturally, unless I was sure that she—unless there was an observer I could hardly be observed. But…Yes, Hank. That’s the way I feel. On the one hand…Absolutely. Had to be. No reason to consider it anything else…Exactly, Hank! And as long as that’s the case…Fine, ha, ha, fine. See you, Hank…”
He hung up the receiver. He picked up his medicine kit, gave me a funny little nod, and started out the door. On the stoop he paused for a moment and turned around, facing me.
“Allow me to compliment you again,” he said. “You’re a very smart young woman, Miss Lee.”
“Now, that is sweet,” I said. “That’s a real compliment…coming from a smart man like you.”
I gave him another under-the-eyelids smile. He turned suddenly, and left.
I thought he seemed a little cranky. I wondered if he thought I hadn’t really seen him that first time—because actually, I hadn’t. I said I had because he’d started off being so cross, and I was afraid he might think I hadn’t been at home when he called. But all I’d really seen was his car driving away. Or a car that looked like his.
Oh, well. Probably I was just imagining things. After all, he remembered seeing me perfectly, so why should he think I hadn’t seen him?
I put on some make-up and went out on the beach. I sat down with my back to the ocean. After a while, I saw a light come on in Rags McGuire’s cottage. I walked down to it, and knocked on the door.
He was sitting on the side of the bed, drinking out of a bottle. He’s been drinking a lot lately, but on Mondays he drinks more than usual.
“Well!” he said. “If it isn’t little Miss Bosoms, the girl with the tinplated tonsils! How come they let you out, baby, or ain’t you been in yet?”