And in fifteen seconds of time, you see Rose again. First, you walk up to the door at the address Viola gave you and you knock at the door. The handle on the door turns, and in fifteen seconds, the door has swung back and Rose is standing there. But there are other things you must do before you knock at the door. You can’t go up there looking like a bum. So, first, you hail a cab and you get in it. Then you give the driver the address of the Gedney; it’s not a very good hotel, but the management knows you, and they will let you have a room when you’re checking in without luggage.
Rafferty peeled the wrinkled clothes from his body and tossed them to the bellboy. ‘Have these pressed for me,’ he said, ‘and tell the valet to pick me up a new white shirt and a plain tie.’
‘What size?’ asked the bellboy.
‘Seventeen,’ replied Rafferty. ‘Also, I want you to bring me up a fifth of Scotch, and some ice.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the bellboy. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He hurried away.
Rafferty crossed the room to the dresser where he had left the sealed, brown envelope. Picking up the heavy packet, he turned it slowly in his hands thinking of the hours, days, weeks... months of his life with which he had paid for it. His head felt light with weakness and fatigue, and the room suddenly swiveled around him, the four walls a blurred panorama of paint and pictures. He closed his eyes tightly; in a moment the dizziness passed, and he reopened his eyes and walked to the bed and sat down. Deliberately, carefully, he tore the end from the envelope and placed the contents on the bed... three ornately engraved United States treasury bonds. Each for the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars! A heavy knocking at the door interrupted him, and he slipped the bonds under the spread on the bed, walked to the door, and opened it. It was the bellboy returning with the liquor, and the ice tinkled like small bells as he placed the tray on the dresser. Rafferty paid him, and the boy left.
Placing ice cubes in the heavy glass tumbler, he poured the liquor over them and carried the glass to the small chair by the writing desk, where he seated himself, sprawling his legs in front, crossing his ankles. Suddenly he had the illusion that his remaining strength was draining from his body into his legs, spreading from his feet in an invisible pool along the floor of the room. It seeped under the door into the hall, flowing in small waves along the corridor, cascading in falls down the stair wells seeking the level of the street, until it reached the ground floor. With a conscious effort, he uncrossed his feet, and planted them firmly on the carpet and the illusion passed. He raised the glass in his hand, watching the light play along the crystals of ice glowing in the soft gold of the liquor; then he placed the glass to his mouth and drank. The liquor raced to his stomach touching it with warmth, and slowly he removed the glass from his lips and held it in front of him, toying with it deliberately in his fingers.
‘Here’s to you, Stack,’ he said finally. ‘Here’s to you, you son-of-a-bitch! Here I am in the Gedney, where you were. But where’re you now? Here I am with a good drink in my hand, and you can’t even use a sip of water.’ He reached for the bottle, refilling the glass slowly. ‘I’ve got the dough, but you... money won’t ever do you any good. And tonight,’ he waved the glass lightly, in the suggestion of a toast, ‘I’ll be seeing Rose...’The triumph drained from his voice, and abruptly he became angry. ‘Goddamnit, Stack! Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?’ He arose from the chair and stood unsteadily beside it, his face beaded with perspiration. He was not drunk, but he felt ill and the liquor lay uneasily on his empty stomach.
I better take a shower, he thought. By the time I finish, my clothes will be back, and I’ll get dressed. Then I’ll get something to eat, then... before I go down to see Rose. He removed his shoes, socks, and shorts and went into the bath. It was a small room with a combination tub and shower, and stepping into the tub, he drew the rubber curtains around it before turning on the water. The spray from the shower beat against his chest, and he turned slowly so the water could play along his neck and shoulders. But it brought him neither relief, nor stimulation, and he turned off the water. Pushing back the curtain, he stepped from the tub to dry himself.
Moisture from the shower had condensed on the cool tile of the floor and his foot slipped in the small pool of water. He fell backward and his head struck the side of the heavy tub. Instantly, there was nothing but blackness.
‘You all right, mister?’ the voice asked. It seemed to Rafferty that he had been hearing the voice a long time. He opened his eyes and stared into the face of a stranger.
‘Who’re you?’ Rafferty asked.
‘I’m the valet. I brought up your clothes and found you here on the floor. You all right?’ The face withdrew, and the overhead light of the bathroom blazed in Rafferty’s eyes.
Rafferty attempted to raise himself, and pain lanced through his head, shattering to shreds of gaudy-coloured light in the back of his skull. He closed his eyes and hunched his body to one elbow. ‘Help me up,’ he said. The valet stepped behind him and placed his arms around Rafferty’s chest, straining to lift him to his feet. Rafferty clawed at the side of the tub, and lunged erect, his stomach churning, and his throat convulsed in spasms of nausea. He leaned weakly against the wall.
‘I better call a doctor,’ said the valet.
‘No! No doctor!’ Rafferty opened his eyes, and in his head pain began throbbing at an exact tempo, keeping a regular beat with the coursing flow of his blood. It bit into his brain, neither gaining nor losing intensity, and he staggered from the bath, falling forward on the bed, his face half buried in the cheap chenille spread. ‘I’m all right.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I’m all right. Go on... you can go on, now...’
The valet hesitated anxiously by the door to the hall, his hand on the knob. ‘Okay, if you say so,’ he said. ‘But you got an awful whack on the head...’
‘I’m okay,’ said Rafferty. Agony raced up the muscles of his neck, starching them stiffly with pain.
‘If it was me, I’d see a doctor. I’ll be glad to get you one,’ the valet urged.
‘No thanks...’It was with difficulty that Rafferty could follow the words.
Quietly the valet stepped into the hall and gently closed the door behind him. Rafferty lay on the bed, eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of pain in his head... feeling it ground out in a macabre two-four time in endless repetition. Finally he lost consciousness a second time.
It was night when he awakened, and the room was dark. Beneath him, the spread was damp with the perspiration of his body. The fiercely burning pain had left his head and it had been replaced with a dulling, numbing ache which blurred his thoughts and played tricks with his eyes. The fabric of the cloth close to his face seemed to come alive, the very fibers quivering with the animation of life. He turned his eyes to the window sill, and the varnished wood opened and spread until he could see the strata of the grain and the structure of the cells which pulsated in an infinite tiny dance.
He rolled on his back, and light streamed into the room from the partly opened door of the bath. Pulling himself to a sitting position on the bed, he sat there, witless and without volition, for a long time. Finally he struggled to his feet and began walking around the room, gathering up his clothes. Eventually, he succeeded in getting dressed.
The fifteen seconds during which he first saw Rose again were not entirely the way Rafferty had imagined them. It was true the walk-up building was the same: cheap walk-ups, on cheap streets, are the same in big cities the world over. The dark, uncarpeted hallway, on the narrow third-floor landing, contained the same obnoxious mixtures of long-held odors—burned meals, disinfectants, body smells, and molds—held by the very wood of the building, cemented into the dust of the air. Rafferty was conscious of nothing in this night of his triumph, this moment of his success, except the door in front of him. He had been driven to this minute by the strength of his body, by his unbreakable determination, and, more important, by his love for Rose Pauli. He was here to find her, and to clai
m her again.
As the door opened, a woman stood there facing him. He recognized her. He recognized her in spite of the grotesque, parrot-beak nose, and dulled silver-gilt hair blackened at the roots. Her face was slack, and she displayed no surprise at seeing him. He stepped across the door and put his arms around her, and she turned her face away so he could not kiss her. ‘Rose,’ he said softly,’ I’ve come back...’
‘I knew you would,’ she replied, her voice emotionless. She twisted slightly in his arms, loosening his hold, withdrawing from him.
He dropped his arms, freeing her, and she turned away. His eyes were puzzled as he watched her put the distance of the room between them. ‘You don’t seem very happy to see me,’ he said softly.
‘Should I be?’ She was wearing a cheap print dress he had never seen before, and at her throat was pinned a small turtle set with imitation emeralds. The light playing on the pieces of glass caught his attention, and he watched it steadily until the glass came alive beneath his eyes, and quivered with life. ‘I answered your question,’ she said woodenly. ‘Why should I be glad to see you?’
He put his hand to his head, holding it there, regarding her intently. ‘I’ve come back for you, honey,’ he said. ‘Everything is all right.’
‘Nothing is right, Emmet. Now or ever.’ She took a step toward him, her voice suddenly placating. ‘Look... be a good guy. Go now, won’t you... I’ve got a friend coming up to take me out in a few minutes...’
‘You’re not going out with any guy,’ he said after a slight pause. ‘You’re my girl. You’re still my girl!’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied calmly. ‘I’ve had plenty of boy friends since I last saw you...’
‘Don’t say that!’ His voice ripped the space between them and the violence of it startled her.
‘Take it easy, Emmet.’ Her hands began picking uneasily at the ruffles of her dress. ‘You don’t have a claim on me... not any more...’
His face broke into an uneasy grin. Still grinning, he moved slowly toward her, his gaze pinpointing her slightest move. ‘You say that,’ he said, ‘because you don’t know what I have...’
‘It don’t make any difference what you got.’
‘I’ve got the dough. All of it. All seventy-five grand,’ he said softly, watching her face.
She smiled back at him, hesitantly. ‘Sure, Emmet,’ she said agreeing too quickly, too readily, ‘you got it. Now why don’t you go on out and spend it... have a good time!’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t believe me,’ he said. ‘You don’t think I have it. Well. I found it all right... and it’s here in my pocket.’ His hand reached to his coat and patted it mechanically.
‘I believe you,’ she said, but her tone gave the lie to her words. She hurried on. ‘Don’t you see, though, it don’t make any difference? Even if you had the dough,’ she quickly corrected herself, ‘even though you got the dough, it doesn’t change things now? It’s too late, Emmet...’
He moved quickly across the room and grasped her by the arm. ‘Listen,’ he said hotly, ‘I want to show you something...’He dropped her arm and reached in the pocket of his jacket, removing the three Government bonds. The heavy rustle of their paper whispered aloud, and the color of their ink matched the emeralds at her throat. He placed them in her hands. ‘Go ahead, look at ’em,’ he urged. ‘Go ahead!’
She walked to a littered table at the side of the cluttered room, and held the bonds close to a small table lamp. For a moment she stood there simply holding them in her hands, and then slowly she unfolded them, and began to read.
Suddenly she began to laugh.
The sound rose hysterically to the narrow room, rising and cracking in a high crescendo, beating at the wall, tearing at his ears. To Rafferty it seemed that she had been laughing forever, and he stood motionless on the exact spot where she had left him. He raised his wrist to his eyes and looked at the watch, but the unwound, unmoving hands told him nothing. For just fifteen seconds, his mind fumbled the thought: time is standing still!
Gradually her laughter died, and she regained control of her voice. ‘Come here,’ she called, ‘and take a look at this!’ He approached her cautiously, in wonderment, and took the bonds from her hands. ‘Read how they’re made out,’ she commanded. Slowly his eyes crawled along the face of a bond, afraid to see the thing that had caused her to laugh. The lines passed unseeing before his eyes, and finally he stopped and lifted his gaze to her face. She smiled at him, amusement mixed with contempt; she paused a moment before speaking, savouring her revenge, rolling it around her tongue.
‘You fool!’ she said finally. ‘Those aren’t bearer bonds. They’re just plain two per cent Treasury bonds made out to the Minontah State Bank of Wisconsin!’
The ache pressed over his brain, squeezing at his eyes, and he shook his head fiercely to clear it. He grasped her wrist in his anger. ‘They’re worth seventy-five thousand,’ he said. ‘You know it! Say you know it!’
She tore her hand from his grasp. ‘Sure they’re worth seventy-five G’s,’ she gasped, ‘but not to you... not to anybody. Just to the bank. That’s all! Just the bank!’
He stumbled, haltingly, away from the table and lowered himself slowly into a soiled, slip-covered chair. He sat there, eyes fixed blankly on the floor, the bonds still clutched firmly in one great hand.
The door to the apartment opened. A middle-aged woman, with a tightly corseted figure, sauntered deliberately into the room, and stood for a minute surveying the scene. She was wearing a large picture hat, and it cast concealing shadows over her lined face. ‘Ooops, pardon me,’ she said casually, ‘I don’t mean to be intruding.’
‘Come on in,’ replied Rose, ‘I was just leaving anyway.’ She picked up a purse and a pair of gloves from the littered table.
‘Boy friend?’ asked the woman nodding her head toward Rafferty.
‘Just an ex...’ said Rose lightly, and laughed. She crossed the room, passing the woman, and stood before Rafferty. His face sagged, drained dry of strength or emotion, his eyes not seeing her at all. ‘Emmet,’ she said, ‘I never want to see you again. Never! If you were the last man in the world. I wouldn’t have you! I’ll settle for every other man first!’ She cleared her voice nervously, awaiting his reaction, but he made no move, no effort to speak. She walked uncertainly to the door, stopped and looked back. Then, taking a breath she stepped out into the hall. Her heels were loud as she clattered her way down the stairs.
The woman removed her hat, flinging it on the table, and she ran her hands through her dyed black hair, fluffing it up around her face. She lit a cigarette and cocked her head to one side, studying the quiet figure in the chair. ‘We haven’t been introduced’ she said, giggling, ‘but my name is Nona... Nona Markey. And any friend of Rose’s is a friend of mine.’
Her voice trailed away into the room leaving only an emptiness, and Rafferty gave no indication that he had heard her.
She walked over, standing in front of him, a smile painted permanently on her mouth. ‘Maybe what you need, honey, is a drink and a little party,’ she said coaxingly. She placed her fingers under his chin, and lifted his head.
Tears streamed silently from his face.
Chapter Fifteen
A man has his memories. Although they make lonesome companions. Light, gaudily clad jockeys, they ride high on his shoulders, weighing nothing but controlling his life, sawing at his mind with bits of steel, flogging his body with the whips of what-might-have-been. He walks down the street, and around him is a silence unpierced by the sounds of the taxis, the voices, the buses, the whistles of the cops, the streetcars, the boats, and the underground rumblings of the subway. The heat of the sun, the wet of the rain, the brilliance of day, and the darkness of night go unheeded. On his shoulders are the memories, pushing, crowding, fighting for his attention. They speak with a multitude of tongues, whispering, urging, babbling for his ear. Little jockey memories, with weazened faces, which each day become more
drained of life and warmth and reality, but stronger and uglier and more demanding. They refuse to leave him alone, whether day or night, alone or in crowds.
‘Look,’ says a jockey voice, ‘look! Look there! See... up ahead. That girl! That’s her!’
‘No!’ a man replies hopelessly. ‘I refuse to listen to you. I refuse to be fooled again!’
‘Don’t be a fool!’ The jockey voice applies the whip to trembling legs. ‘She’s the one. Walking up ahead there... pausing by the window. Look at the hair, man! Notice the way she walks... the swing of her hips. It’s her, all right. I tell you, she’s the one...’
‘Shut up! It can’t be!’ A slight pause, a lessening of determination: the slight building of hope. ‘If she doesn’t walk too fast, I’ll pass her anyway...’
‘Have it your way...’The jockey voice talks soothingly now, all the other jockey voices silenced for the moment, but still up there, still riding on the shoulders.
‘The way she walks... looks the same,’ the man says. ‘And the hair’s right. From the back... from the way she holds her head... it could be.’ Suddenly he becomes worried. ‘The way she’s acting... I think she’s going to cross the street at the next light...’
‘Hurry, hurry!’ whispers the jockey voice, urgently. ‘You’ll lose her! Stop her before she gets in a cab... or goes into a store. Hurry… hurry...’
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