I laughed softly to myself. Leave it to the papers! The next thing you know they’d have him running for governor. I threw the paper out the window and drove on.
I pulled to the curb in front of Ruth’s house, got out of the car, and went in. The same funny elevator boy that had first taken me up was on again. He kept staring at me curiously all the way up. I got out at her floor and walked to the door. I pressed the bell button.
I could hear the chimes all the way back in the apartment. I waited. It seemed like an hour. At last the door opened. Ruth stood there.
I just stood there and looked at her and she looked at me. It was almost as if we were strangers—as if we had never seen each other before.
“Ruth,” I said, standing there in the hallway, not daring to move.
Suddenly she was in my arms, crying: “Frankie, Frankie!”
The door closed behind us. The hall was dim. Her head was against my chest and the sobs racked her throat. I stroked her head, softly, gently. “Ruth, Ruth, it’s all over! Don’t cry, darling.”
“Frankie, I thought you weren’t coming back.”
“I promised, Ruth, I promised.”
She looked at me. Her head was up, her eyes strangely luminous. I kissed her. I could feel her lips quivering and trembling.
“Darling, darling!”
“I was afraid you’d change your mind, Ruth. I was so afraid.”
She covered my lips with hers.
Arm in arm we walked into the living room. We sat down on the large sofa. She turned to me. “It’s the last day in June, Frankie.”
“That’s why I came,” I whispered. “I said you’d be a June bride. Get some things packed. We’re going up to Meriden to be married.”
She moved away from me, toward the other end of the sofa where the cigarettes were kept in a small china tray. A look of studied calm came over her face as she took one. I lit it for her, watching her face as I did so. She looked back at me, her eyes unblinking.
I waited for her to speak. At last, after a few deep puffs on the cigarette, she did.
Her voice was calm. “No Frankie, we’re not getting married.”
It was my turn to act calm. I lit a cigarette before I spoke. Then I asked simply: “Why?”
“Because you don’t love me.” She held up her hand to keep me from speaking. “Not really, you don’t. It’s all part of the plan you have—just like the deal you made with Jerry. To step from one phase of your life to another, you’re only marrying me to complete the transition. The perfect touch! You’re ready to don the mantle of respectability, and you only want me to furnish the finishing touch to the costume.
“You haven’t really learned anything. You really don’t believe in what you’re doing. You’re only doing it because you know you’re through and you’re making the best of a bad bargain. Jerry told us what you’ve made him do, and it didn’t take me very long to sit back and think things out. You’ve got to learn sometime: you can’t just bargain with people’s lives.”
I cut in. My voice was still quiet. “Do you love me?” I asked.
She looked at me. Her face had grown very pale. “Love you?” she asked. “I’ve loved you so much ever since we were children that at night I couldn’t sleep for the wanting of you, that when we didn’t know where you were I would dream about you, that all these last months I was longing for you to take me—I wanted your child inside me under my heart.” Her voice was strained and shaking with emotion. “That’s why I won’t bargain with you, Frankie. That’s why I’m not going to marry you.”
I crushed my cigarette out in the tray beside me and took her by the shoulders roughly, squeezing my fingers into her arm. She made no sound, just looked up into my face.
“You stupid little fool!” I was raging mad. I could feel the pulse pounding in my forehead. “Maybe that’s the way it started, but can’t you see what I’ve done is for you—that what I’ve thrown away has been for you? Don’t think I couldn’t have cleaned up this mess if I didn’t want to. I had a dozen places in the United States I could have gone to and operated from, and they never would have been able to touch me. I didn’t have to quit. I quit because of you. If it weren’t for the way I felt about you, I would have beat this the same way I beat everything else that got in my way; I’d have ruined Jerry’s career as I could have.
“You were the only reason I threw in the towel—because I fell for the line you gave me. Maybe I always knew deep inside you were right, but it was for you that I did it.
“I didn’t make any bargain with you. I’ve turned my life inside out for you. I’ve traded a fortune for you, I’ve traded a loaf of bread for a pie in the sky, steak and potatoes for an ideal. And if you still think I don’t love you, baby, you can go to hell!”
I let her go. She sank back on the couch, and I started out of the room.
“Frank,” she called after me in a still, small voice.
I turned around. She was standing there. “Frankie,” she said in the same small voice, filled with wonder, “you’re crying!”
Ruth and I were married at Justice of the Peace Smith’s in Meriden, Connecticut, on Monday, the last day of June 1941.
The justice’s voice was deep and strong.
“Do you, Francis, take this woman, Ruth, to be your lawful wedded wife, and promise to love, honor and cherish her, in sickness and health as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
“Do you Ruth, take this man, Francis, to be your lawful wedded husband, and promise to love, honor and cherish him, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, as long as you both shall live?”
Ruth looked up at him then at me. Her eyes were the deepest blue I had ever seen. Her voice was warm and soft and rich. “I do.”
The judge made a gesture. I placed the ring on her finger.
He held up his hands. “By the powers vested in me by the state of Connecticut, I pronounce you man and wife.” he drew a deep breath. “You may now kiss the bride.”
I turned to kiss her. Her lips pressed against mine lightly then drew away. I looked at the judge.
He smiled at me. “Congratulations, young man! Two dollars, please.”
I gave him five for luck.
We got back to my apartment about eleven o’clock. I carried her over the threshold and kissed her.
“Hello, Mr. Kane!”
“Hello, Mrs. Kane!”
I put her down and went over to the phone and got room service. I ordered four bottles of champagne and they came up in a jiffy.
I waited outside the door while she made ready for bed. Nervously I drank from the glass in my hand. I walked over to the window and looked out. New York was bright across the river.
I smiled at my reflection in the windowpane. Suddenly I lifted a glass to New York. “Here’s to you!” I said.
My reflection in the window lifted its glass and drank to me.
“Frank.”
Her voice was so soft I almost didn’t hear it. I turned from the window and went to the door. “Yes, Ruth.”
There wasn’t any answer. I put the glass down, flicked off the wall lights, and opened the bedroom door. There was a soft lamp glowing near the bed. I crossed the room.
Ruth was standing near the window. She held her hand toward me. “Frank, come here a moment and look.”
I stood beside her, but all I could see in the glow of the light was Ruth.
“Frank,” she said, her voice strange and full of mystery, “look out of the window. Did you ever look out and see the whole world before you? A world, large and beautiful, waiting for you?”
I didn’t answer. The moonlight fell across her face. She was beautiful.
She turned toward me. “Frank, what do you think our son will be like?”
I kissed her lightly on the cheek. She moved closer into my arms.
“I don’t know,” I said softly. “I never thought about children; I never wanted any.”
She moved still close
r to me. “Do you think he’ll be like you—wild and strange and wicked and handsome?”
I tightened my arms around her. “If he’s anything like me, we’d better not have him.”
My lips were against her throat. Her voice was whispering in my ear: “Frank, our son will be beautiful.” I moved my lips along her neck to her shoulder. “Frank, do you know you’re beautiful?” I laughed and moved my lips along the swell of her breast.
Her hands suddenly caught my head and held it close to her. She bent and kissed the top of my head.
I lifted my lips to hers. They were aflame. “Do you know you’re beautiful?” I whispered.
She reached out one hand and turned out the light.
It was later—much later. I had lain there quietly a long time watching her sleep. There were little tears in the corners of her eyes. I reached over and brushed them away. Suddenly I wanted a cigarette.
I fished with one hand on the side of the bed. No cigarettes! I moved slowly, carefully: I didn’t want to wake her.
I could still hear her voice: “Frank, are you happy? Am I all you wanted me to be?”
I went into the other room. I closed the door quietly and flicked on one of the table lamps.
She was all I ever wanted.
There were cigarettes on the end table. I went over and picked up the pack and took one and lit it. I drew a deep breath of smoke and let it come out my nose. It smarted a little and felt good.
I looked down at the table. There were some letters there that had been delivered while I was away in New York. Idly I picked my way through them: some bills, some advertisements.
I was at the bottom of the pile when I came across the postcard. It was a penny government card. On the back of it was something that looked like a printed form. I read it.
Local Board No. 217
Selective Service.
Notice of Classification
Registrant… Francis Kane Order No. 549 has been classified in Class… 1A Until… by x Local Board.
June 24, 1941
My cigarette was almost finished. I put it out in a tray and walked toward the bedroom. It wasn’t until I reached over to put out the light that I realized I still held the card in my hand.
I flicked off the light and scaled the card across the room. The hell with it! I’d call Carson in the morning and get him to fix it up.
What Came After
Martin suddenly felt weak. He sank into a chair and stared at Janet. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice trembling.
Jerry too looked at his wife. This was what he wanted to know. He already knew part of the story but now he was to hear the rest of it. Some of the tension left his face and he leaned back in his chair.
“We all knew Ruth was going to have a baby,” she began, seating herself so that she faced the two of them, “and when we received the terse telegram from Frank that Ruth had died in childbirth, containing no allusion to the child, we assumed that the child had perished with her. We were wrong.
“You, Martin, were already overseas, and all we could do was to write and tell you what had happened. A month later Jerry went over, and for a while life just seemed to stop.
“A few weeks before Jerry came back, a visitor came in to see me. He was a chaplain—a captain in the outfit Frank was in—and had seen him die. We already knew that Frank was dead. I received word from the War Department about him on April 16th. But Captain Richards brought a message: a letter from Frank that he had entrusted to the chaplain to deliver personally.”
The chaplain was tired. It seemed like years since he had last slept. A man lived a thousand years from morning to night every day. And a thousand years a day was too long a time to live.
The sound of the guns had fallen away to a dull boom he scarcely heard. Yesterday this had been a field hospital; today it was a base hospital—the front had moved thirty miles away in one day. And still the wounded kept coming in. The doctors worked frantically, ceaselessly, tirelessly, but still the wounded piled up in front of the door of the operating room.
He stepped out of the small building that served as the hospital. On the ground as far as a block away the wounded were lying on stretchers, awaiting their turns in the operating room or transportation to the rear. It was almost night. The first star flicked incongruously in the sky. Slowly he picked his way past them to his tent. He had to get some sleep. He couldn’t stay awake any longer, even if in his sleep he would see them, their faces white with pain, and hear their voices heavy with their suffering.
Slowly he walked toward his tent, his head bowed, his feet dragged, his heart heavy in his anguish.
“Captain Richards.”
The chaplain heard the voice. He felt it rather than heard it. Its impact was more mental than physical. As a sound it was almost nothing in the intensity of pain that surrounded it. He stopped.
“Captain Richards, over here.” The voice was weak but steady.
The chaplain walked around a stretcher to the sound and looked down at the man who had called him. The man was one with the others. He was anonymous: another man wrapped in a blanket up to his neck, only his white face staring up at him. He didn’t know the man and got to one knee to better see him.
“Captain,” the man said, “don’t you remember me?”
The chaplain shook his head. There were so many men. “I’m Kane, remember?” the man asked.
With a feeling of shock the chaplain remembered. He remembered the first time he had seen the man. He had just come into the army then, and Kane was a sergeant. He had asked Kane to attend some services. Kane had laughed. What was it he had said? It was hard to remember, it was so long ago. Oh yes, Kane had laughed. “Going to services now won’t help me much, Padre,” he had said. And the chaplain had answered: “Going to services will always help. It’s never too late to turn to God.” And the man had laughed again and answered: “If it ever comes to that, Padre, I hope to do my turning in person,” and had walked off. The chaplain had watched Kane for a while after that. He thought Kane was rather old for so strenuous a fighting job, and was surprised to learn that despite his almost white hair Kane was still in his early thirties.
“Yes, Kane, I remember now,” the chaplain said. He pulled his coat tight beneath him and sat down on the cold ground. He sat on a small rock and shifted his position a little until he was comfortable. He could see the red first-aid markings on Kane’s forehead now. The moon was coming up.
“I’m going to die,” the man said simply. There was no fear in his voice—he was only stating a fact.
“Come now,” the chaplain said, trying to get some cheer into his voice—but it didn’t sound right even to his own ears—“don’t talk like that!”
“Don’t kid me, Father!” the man said. He tried to laugh, but his laugh was only a windless, choking sound. “They don’t live with what I’ve got. I’ve seen too many of them.”
The chaplain tried to speak but the man cut him off.
“Oh, it doesn’t hurt, Padre. That’s not it. I’m so full of morphine I don’t even know if I had a body—that is, if I have one.” The man’s eyes turned toward the chaplain. “Besides, they put me on the wrong side of the hospital door.”
Startled, the chaplain looked around him. The man was right. Those that could not hope to live were placed on this side; those that could were on the other side of the door.
“I’ve been watching them walk past me for the last two hours,” the man said. “Every now and then one of the first-aid men would give me another shot of dope and chalk up the score on my forehead.” He chuckled again, the same windless, soundless laughter. “I don’t blame them. It’s better to help those that have a chance.”
The chaplain found his voice. “Look, you’re going to be all right, I tell you.”
“O.K., Father,” said the man in an oddly comforting voice. It was as if he were whole in body and the chaplain were in his place. “If you say so. But there’s something I want you to do for me just in
case I do go.”
“What is it, Kane?” the chaplain asked. The rite of absolution came into his mind. They all came to God sooner or later.
He was a little disappointed in the answer. “I have a letter I want you to deliver for me, Father,” the man said quietly. “Deliver—not mail. It’s in my pocket. Get it.”
The chaplain bent forward, put his hand under the blanket, felt for the letter, found it, and took it out.
“That’s it, Father,” said the man. “It’s to a woman.” He saw the look of the chaplain’s face. “It’s not to my mother, wife, or sweetheart, Father. They have gone before me. It’s to a friend and her husband and their friend and I don’t want them to get it until the war is over and they’re all together.” He fell silent. Thoughts were flickering through his mind.
The chaplain watched him for a few moments silently. Tiny drops of blood were falling from the man’s ears, forming a large dark blob on the stretcher that kept steadily growing larger. “Don’t worry about the letter, son. I’ll deliver it. Is there anything else I can do?”
Only the man’s eyes seemed to move. The chaplain had the impression they were laughing at him, that they read his mind and intention. “Yes, Father,” said the man. “Give me a cigarette.”
The chaplain stuck a cigarette in the man’s mouth. The man’s lips were cold and thin. He could feel them move under his fingers, say a thank you that was almost like a kiss.
He turned around to get a match from his back pocket. When he turned back the man was dead.
He had slipped from this world into the next without sound or motion. Only his eyes were open. They seemed alive with expression. The chaplain looked at them a moment. They were softer now than he had ever seen them. They were warmer now than he had ever remembered them in the living man. A veil had dropped from them.
Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double Page 47