by Shelby Foote
“I was filling a date,” she said. And soon afterward, as they lay in bed, profoundly immobile, looking up at the rectangle of light reflected on the ceiling from the transom, she said: “Gee, honey, I feel just like I’m robbing you. I really do.”
“I’ll worry about me,” Drew said. “You worry about you.”
She turned sideways, watching him, her weight on one elbow. “I like you,” she said. She put her hand on his shoulder. He did not look at her. “I really do. You remind me of someone.” Then she said softly, loverlike, “I’ll take off my bra if you want. You want?” Apparently this was a great concession, a more intimate surrender, beyond money. She took it off and hung it, suspended by the straps, on the back of a chair beside the bed. It resembled a badly sprung hammock. “There,” she said, “Now. Lets snuggle.” They snuggled. “Oh, I like you,” she murmured. “I really do. I was married once to a boy so much like you.… Honey, whats your name?”
Somewhat later they were lying there, again watching the rectangle of light from the transom, and Drew heard a whistle blow lonesome and far in the night: a long and a short and a long: a wail and a hoot and a wail. It was five after ten and the New Orleans train was approaching open country. He lay thinking of the empty drawing room, the berths turned down, the vibration, the faint and not unpleasant smell of cinders, and suddenly it occurred to him that Amanda must be hearing it too, alone in her bedroom or sitting with her sister in the big house on Lamar Street; she had stopped whatever she was doing and was sitting perfectly still, hearing the wail of the whistle. “I should have canceled the reservation,” he thought.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said, realizing he must have thought aloud.
He got up, naked, and crossed the room to where his suitcase sat in front of the dresser; it had sat there, packed and strapped, since early afternoon. He knelt. “What is it?” the girl said, sitting up in bed. Drew did not answer. He unlocked the suitcase and without having to fumble—for he knew just where it was, in just which corner; he had been prepared to do this in the dark—took out a parcel wrapped in tissue.
“Here,” he said, coming back to the bed where Alma sat with the edge of the sheet held under her chin despite the darkness. “This is for you.”
“What is?” she said; “What …” and then she had it. The tissue made whispering sounds, being unwrapped. “Golly,” she said in a tone she might otherwise have reserved for prayer; “a nightgown. It’s a nightgown.”
Drew had bought it that morning, going from store to store on Marshall Avenue until he found what he wanted, at a price he was willing to pay. It was Amanda’s bride-bed gown, and it had cost eight dollars. “Go on; see if it fits,” he said. He reached for the lamp.
“Not yet.” She caught his arm. “I’ll tell you when.” Her feet padded on the carpet. The gown rustled and whispered, much as the tissue had done, but softer, muffled. Drew could see her in silhouette against the window, with a few faint stars beyond. She made some final adjustments. “Now,” she said. He clicked the switch and she stood there with a froth of lace at her throat. “Aint that something?” she said; “I’m trembling like a bride.” She turned this way and that for his admiration. The gown was long and fell in pleats below the waist, its hem resting on the insteps of her broad thick feet so that only her toes peeped out, showing their crusted nails. She said again, “Aint that something?”
“Well,” Drew said—he paused. “Anyhow you fill it better than she would.”
“Who would?”
“She would. Come on back to bed.”
“Wait till I get the gown off—”
Next morning he woke late. He lay for perhaps five minutes, taking stock. Then, in accordance with a resolution he had formed last night on the way back to the hotel (and which he had already begun to act on when he reclaimed and destroyed the telegram to St Louis) he took up the phone, cleared his throat, and gave a number. “Mr Tilden, please. Yes. Hello, Til? Yes: Harley Drew. Fine. Say, Ive been thinking …” He laughed, or anyhow he imitated laughter. “That offer: I’d like to talk it over. No, seriously. Sure, anytime you—All right. Sure. Twelve-thirty. That will be fine.” He lay thinking; then he took up the phone again; “Toast and coffee. Right away,” and put it back. He mused, lying naked in the soiled bedclothes, the wrinkled sheets and tumbled spread, looking up at the water-stained ceiling where the rectangle of light had been reflected. “The things a man will do,” he said aloud.
At twelve-thirty, bathed and shaved and breakfasted, he was climbing the steps of the Planters Bank & Trust Company when a man came out of the double doors and cried his name; apparently he had been watching from a window. They stood together in the sunlight, shaking hands. The man was in his early forties, already with a low tight round little paunch. He had to tilt his head far back, looking up at Drew, for he was only just over five feet tall. His face was baby pink, round without being fat; it had a well scrubbed look, and though the morning shave was four or five hours old by now, he appeared never to have needed to shave at all. Except for the paunch and the baldness, which was exposed when they entered the restaurant and removed their hats, he had changed very little since the war. That was where Drew had known him. His name was Lawrence Tilden; he had been adjutant of Drew’s regiment—Aunt Tilly, they had called him because of his fussy, excitable manner with documents and the way he took off for the rear whenever the first warning order came. He had shown a great fancy for Drew; it amounted to hero worship, in fact, though Drew was ten years younger. Anything he could do for him he did, everything from arranging a few days’ extra leave to sharing his boxes from home, and this had resulted in even more jeers from the other officers and sidelong, knowing glances from the men.
Drew had seen him early the previous week, soon after coming to Bristol. “Drew! Lieutenant Drew!” he heard a voice cry; he was on the street, and he turned and it was Tilden. He took Drew into a restaurant for coffee. They stayed an hour, talking about the war and what had happened since. Tilden did most of the talking. He had taken over his father’s bank, the leading one of three in Bristol. He was married, had been married more than eight years now, but there had been no children; “Not yet,” he said in the tone of a man repeating a hope he has long since ceased to believe in. Then he began to talk business and his voice rose to a wail. “Ive got plans,” he said; “such plans. But no one to work with.” That was when the notion first came to him, apparently. “Why dont you come in? A few months learning the ropes and youd be set.” He leaned over his cup of cooling coffee and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Youve got what I need, what the bank needs. Salesmanship, personality—someone to jar them out of their rut. My God, Harley, you ought to see the deadwood I have to work with.” He was leaning half across the table, gripping its edge so hard that his dimpled knuckles were white with the strain.
It was really a little absurd, Drew thought, looking into the round smooth baby-pink face, the eyes showing a bit of white between the irises and the lower lids because of Tilden’s need to look up at whomever he talked to, even when seated. Now the eyes held urgency, desire—it was really absurd. Drew laughed, but more from nervousness than amusement; he laughed as a young girl might have done in a comparable situation. Then he regretted the laugh, also as the young girl might have done, and explained that he was committed to Anson-Grimm, the cotton trust. He made it as kindly as he could, and he did not exactly decline the offer (he never exactly declined any offer): he merely said he was tied up. And Tilden listened with his eyes averted, looking down into the cup of quite cold coffee as if it had been perhaps as deep as a well. Then they parted. He had called the hotel three or four times since, inviting Drew out to his house for dinner; once he had even had his wife do the calling. But Drew had always declined; he was tied up, he said.
That was last week and he had not seen him since. Then Monday night, returning from the parting scene with Amanda—the one in which he told her, “There will never be anyone else for me”�
��he began to worry; he began to imagine fears. He had told himself at the outset he was lucky no one else had thought Amanda worth the gambit, and now he could not believe his luck would hold. Someone else (‘local talent’ he said to himself) would see it, would move right in. He had been the first and it had been easy; perhaps it would be that much easier for the second, now that he had shown the way—the right as well as the wrong way, for he knew now that he should have worked on the major first. It would be necessary to stay, to protect his investment. Then he remembered Tilden and he halted in his tracks, halfway between the house and the hotel: “Thats it!” he cried; he actually snapped his fingers. He hurried on, stopped at the desk, and reclaimed the telegram.
And now he and Tilden were sitting in the restaurant, the same one they had gone into that first time; they had given their order and were sitting there. So far nothing had been said about the object of their meeting. “What made you change your mind?” Tilden asked suddenly. He kept his eyes down, rearranging the silverware with hands as pink and hairless as his face. He was more businesslike today, not exactly distant but anyhow cautious. Drew regretted those declined invitations.
“I got to thinking,” he said. He sat well back in his chair, watching Tilden, who still would not look at him. “A man, a traveling man—I never was meant for that kind of life in the first place. Ive seen them and they go to seed at fifty. A man wants to settle down, call someplace home, and I decided if I didnt quit now I never would. Tell you the truth, thats why I waited to see you: I wanted to think it through for myself, on my own. Because I dont mind telling you it’s a mighty good job I’d be leaving.” Drew paused to let this point sink in; then he continued. “Well, Ive been thinking. Ive decided. And I dont mind telling you something else, though it might sound foolish to some. Part of the reason is Bristol. The river, the trees, all this—” he gestured vaguely; “Ive been walking around and talking to people. Ive fallen in love with this sleepy little town.”
“Not foolish at all,” the other said, and the waitress put plates on the table.
“Will that be all, Mr Tilden?”
“Thank you, Flora,” Tilden said. She went away.
Drew looked down at his plate. It held a slice of roast beef oozing blood as if it had just been cut from the living cow, mashed potatoes, canned asparagus, and green peas; the salad was a leaf of lettuce under a cube of Jell-O, ruby red, with a dab of mayonnaise and a sprinkling of grated cheese—the two-color ice cream would come later. This was the businessman’s lunch. He wondered how many years he would be eating it before he moved on to home-cooking in the house on Lamar Street. Major Barcroft had a tough and stringy look: that kind sometimes lived on past a hundred.
Tilden thawed in the course of the meal, recovering from his peevishness at the declined invitations. They went from the restaurant to his office at the bank, and by that time he was as enthusiastic as he had been a week ago, over the cooling coffee. “Here’s how it will be,” he said, sitting behind the polished expanse of a desk about the size of a billiard table. He explained the hierarchy of banking. Normally a man started out as a runner, but they would skip that; Drew would begin as a teller. “Youll handle money: get the feel of it. Thats important.” After six months of this he would move back to the general bookkeeping department, where he would get ‘the big picture’ and an outline of bank policy as to its loans and its relations with other banks.
“With other banks?”
“Yes. Thats important.”
“I see,” Drew said. He did not see at all.
There would be a year of this, more or less, depending on how well he did. “Youll do all right,” Tilden said. “Youll do fine. I’m sure.”
“Hm,” Drew said.
Then would come the big jump: Assistant Cashier. An assistant cashier was an officer; he had a desk out front, where he sat and heard requests for small personal loans. More important, though, he handled the accounts of cotton buyers, such loans being covered by cotton receipts. Here was where Drew’s experience with Anson-Grimm would be invaluable. “This is cotton country, and of course like everyone else down here, we make our money out of cotton, one way or another.”
“I see,” Drew said. He had resolved to ask no more questions at this time, and he was having trouble resisting a desire to squirm.
The next step was Cashier, but they would skip that; “It’s just technical,” Tilden said with a deprecatory gesture. Drew’s next step would be Assistant Vice President. As such he would be one of the policy makers. “Thats where I’m counting on you,” Tilden told him. “Youve no idea the deadwood a bank accumulates over the years.”
Drew thought it best not even to say Hm to this, but he nodded as if he understood—or anyhow sympathized. Two things were bothering him: 1) Salary, and 2) Tilden had mentioned no time-span that would apply to the intermediary position of assistant cashier.
“Now—salary,” Tilden said; it was as if he had read Drew’s mind. He looked down at his hands, which rested pink against the polished surface of the desk. “Banks are notoriously low on salary. The usual beginner draws a hundred a month; when he moves up to teller he gets one twelve fifty. We’ll start you at that, with a raise to one twenty-five as soon as you go back to the books, in say six months. Within a year (after that, I mean) youll be making one fifty-seven fifty. How does that sound?”
“Well …” Drew was making a hundred and thirty now, plus expenses. It amounted to quite a come-down. He had thought it would be more.
“But dont just think of the salary,” Tilden told him, hurrying on. “There will be bonuses, chances for investment—think of those things, Harley.”
Drew, however, was thinking of Amanda. He really had no decision to make; he had made it last night, walking down Lamar Street. He rose. Tilden rose too. Suddenly, as if by signal, they leaned across the desk-top and shook hands. “Fine then,” Tilden said, smiling. “That will be fine.”
Back in his room two hours later, Drew sat looking down at a sheet of hotel stationery and nibbling at the penstaff. For a long time he wrote nothing; he looked and nibbled and thought. Then he began to write, phrase by phrase at first, then rapidly, and the pen made a steady scraping sound like mice in a wainscot. When he had finished he set the sheet aside to dry while he addressed the envelope:
Hon. Leo G. Anson
Anson-Grimm Bldg
St. Louis, Mo.
Then he set the envelope aside and read the letter. As he read he nodded appreciation of its tone and style, then folded the sheet and put it into the envelope. He mailed it, air mail, special delivery, when he went downstairs for supper.
12/5/28
Dear Mr. Leo:—
This is hard to write—hard to make clear, for you know how much all you have helped me means, & I would not if I could help. I can not help it, laid up here with Flu & convalescing, I have fallen in love with this sleepy little Southern town, & a position having been tendered me in the leading Bank by their board of Directors, I could not feel justified in turning down. I express myself poorly from my Emotion, thinking of your Many kindnesses on so many occasions & our many long talks & all, but the position I could not feel justified declining, as I said. I herewith tender my Resignation as of this inst., hoping your understanding will see with me on this. I want a home like any other man & all that goes with it.
Sincerely, your friend,
Harley Drew.
P.S. Mr. Leo, regarding severance pay I do not feel justified asking for it on such short notification. However if you feel I would be, send it c/o Planters Bank & Trust Co. here in Bristol. That is the name of the bank.
So he stood in his cage, the brass bars matching the brassy gleam of his mustache in the tiled, marble-slabbed, cavernous, high-windowed gloom. MR DREW was printed in small capitals on a metal shingle over the arch, so that even strangers could call him by name: which they did. Already in this first week, while he was yet a trifle slow in counting money and still none too familiar with the form
s, his window was the most popular with the ladies; they asked him to explain again how to fill out deposit slips and indorse checks, while the teller in the adjoining cage stood idle looking daggers. His name was Sanderson; he had patent-leather hair and was said to resemble Rudolph Valentino (of blessed memory) or anyhow Ramon Novarro. He had done two years as a runner and was into his second year in the teller’s cage, yet Drew had come to work at an equal salary and obviously was being groomed for higher things. No wonder Sanderson looked daggers, like Valentino in The Sheik or anyhow Novarro in Ben-Hur; he had been shoved aside, like so much extra baggage for a better load to ride. So he thought. It was months before he realized that he had nothing to fear from Drew, that there was no more a question of competition between them than there had been, say, between Dempsey and Kid Chocolate.
Though this was Drew’s first week in the cage, it was really his second week in the bank. He had spent what was left of the first week getting acquainted, getting settled. Tilden (who was Mister Tilden now, during business hours at least) took him around and introduced him to the others. “Howd you do,” they said, or just “How do”—without any tone of interrogation; they merely recited the words. The handshakes were quick and cool and distant, perfunctory. This was true of them all, from Mr Cilley the old bookkeeper who wore detachable collars and cuffs and had been there in Tilden’s grandfather’s time—the founder—down to Sanderson with his dark good looks and glossy hair; he was the youngest, five years younger than Drew, who was the next youngest. All their eyes were mistrustful, just short of enmity—though that was there too, veiled—and each handshake was like the one that precedes fisticuffs; Drew kept reverting to these comparisons with boxing. There was one exception: the Negro porter, Rufus, who was almost as old as Mr Cilley. “How do?” he said. It was really a question but he lost no dignity asking it, as the others had seemed to fear they would do.