Calico Palace

by Gwen Bristow

  Now Marny heard it too, from just beyond the kitchen door. The mew of a cat.

  Marny set down her cup so abruptly that she spilt chocolate on the table. Kendra had sprung to her feet and flung open the door.

  Into the kitchen walked Geraldine. She came in calmly, and with the utmost self-assurance looked up at them and made the sound that they had learned meant in cat language, “I am hungry and you will please do something about it.”

  Kendra snatched her up and held her close. Marny glared at her.

  “You miserable beast,” said Marny, “I could gladly hang you in the plaza.”

  Geraldine replied that she was hungry and they would please do something about it.

  Kendra was already doing something about it. Even as she spoke Marny had been holding out her hands. Now she cuddled Geraldine in her lap, murmuring endearments while Kendra took the food pan from the shelf where she had sadly placed it. She had no chopped meat ready, so as on the night of Geraldine’s arrival she filled the pan with expensive milk and embellished the milk with an expensive egg.

  Geraldine was thinner than she used to be and her fur was stained with mud, but she showed no sign of having been hurt. Like most cats she preferred meat to milk, but just now she was hungry enough to be glad of whatever was set before her. While she lapped her eggnog Marny and Kendra asked each other questions.

  It was not hard to guess how Geraldine had come in. The big front door was always swinging as customers came and went, and cats had a way of slipping past people’s legs. But where had she been all this time? How had she taken care of herself? Where had she slept? What had she eaten? And how, oh how, had she escaped the trampling mob, the wheels, the hoofs? “We’ll never know,” said Kendra.

  “I told you,” said Marny, “Geraldine was a witch. Back in the Middle Ages some people used to say all cats were witches. Maybe they were right.”

  Having finished her eggnog, Geraldine chose a warm spot near the stove and began to wash herself. She had an air of velvety content.

  “No more crying for love,” Kendra said as they watched. “She’s had it.”

  “Yes,” said Marny, “she left her maiden bower and she’s a maid no more. Kendra, our little friend has learned the ways of the world.”

  A few evenings later Dr. Wardlaw dropped into Marny’s parlor and she consulted him about Geraldine. Dr. Wardlaw took Geraldine into his hands, smiled and nodded. Yes, they should turn the maiden bower into a nursery. Geraldine had run away in late February. The kittens would appear toward the end of April.

  As she went back to her card table Marny felt a sense of responsibility. But as she shuffled the cards she also felt a glow of affection.

  She still felt it as she came upstairs after closing time. How many kittens would there be? She did not know; she must ask Dr. Wardlaw. Would Geraldine’s little house do for a lying-in chamber? She supposed so; she would ask him about this too.

  As she neared the fourth floor landing she heard steps, as of someone pacing. Marny raised her candle and looked. The pacer was Norman. As he saw her he hurried to meet her.

  Norman’s face was drawn and almost pasty. He was handsomely dressed, but his hair was disordered, his collar awry.

  “Marny!” he exclaimed, almost in a gasp. “I thought you’d never get here. Marny, tell me what’s wrong!”

  “What’s wrong?” she echoed stupidly as she reached the top step.

  Norman gripped her shoulder. “Marny, what’s wrong with Hortensia?” He caught his breath. “Marny—she turned me down.”

  59

  MARNY HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN Norman’s plan to propose marriage to Hortensia. Her distress at the loss of Geraldine and her joy at Geraldine’s return had crowded Norman out of her thoughts. In the rare moments when she did recall what he had told her she had supposed that when he had anything more to say he would say it.

  She remembered now that Hortensia had gone out this evening. All the employees of the Calico Palace had their days of leisure, and Hortensia had reminded Marny that today it was her turn. “Mr. Devore will play the piano,” said Hortensia. “I’m going to a show.” She had not said who was to be her escort and Marny had not thought to ask. The games at her table had been brisk all evening and she had not troubled her head about Hortensia again.

  She had not even noticed Norman’s absence. When he made his tours of the gambling rooms he was careful not to disturb the players, and Marny concentrated so closely on her cards that often she could not have said whether or not he had been into the parlor all evening.

  Now it appeared that Norman and Hortensia had spent this evening together. He had asked her to marry him and she had said no. Norman was in a state of shock.

  Again, as when he had told Marny of his decision, they sat down on the top step of the stairs. With stammering astonishment, Norman told her what had taken place.

  He could barely believe it himself. Norman had carefully arranged his program. He had never before asked any woman to marry him, and having determined upon this momentous deed he had intended to make it an occasion worth remembering.

  He had not been impatient. He had waited until there was a good comedy at the Jenny Lind. Norman did not like serious plays and neither did Hortensia; they both preferred to laugh. When he had asked Hortensia to go with him she had accepted gladly, saying she had a new dress and this was just the time to wear it.

  Before the show they had taken dinner at the Union Hotel. With her pretty dress and vivacious manner Hortensia had drawn much attention from the men in the dining room, who had looked at her with admiration and at Norman with envy. Then Norman and Hortensia had gone on to the theater, where he had reserved two of the best seats in the house.

  And Hortensia had enjoyed the play. He could tell. He was no innocent lamb about women. He knew when a woman was really having a good time and when she was merely trying to make him think she was. Afterward they came back to the Calico Palace. He conducted her into the largest and most sumptuously furnished of the private card rooms—he had left orders that it was to be kept for him this evening—and a bartender brought them the best champagne from the bar. Hortensia’s mood had been as sparkly as the champagne, until he made his carefully planned and carefully worded proposal of marriage. Then she had gone cold. She had said no.

  She had not been coquettish, not teasing like a girl who intends to say yes but wants to be begged. She had not even asked for time to think it over. She had said, simply and clearly, that she had not guessed this was what he had had in mind when he asked her to go out with him. Norman had escorted many girls to many shows. Hortensia had thought he wanted her company for one evening, not for the rest of his life. And now, would he please let her go to her own room?

  And that, Norman told Marny, was all.

  “What’s the matter with her, Marny?” he pled.

  Marny did not know what to answer, and Norman did not wait for an answer anyway.

  “I didn’t say a rude word to her, Marny!” he rushed on. “I was perfectly respectful every minute. I was going to marry her!”

  Compared to the blow Norman had received tonight, Rosabel’s desertion had been a trifle. He had been sorry to lose Rosabel, but the loss had done no great damage to his self-esteem. He had, in fact, turned down Rosabel by holding out against marriage.

  But Hortensia! This he could not comprehend. Over and over he kept saying, “But I was going to marry her!”

  Marny did feel sympathy for him, but she was also tempted to laugh. Norman had not once asked himself if Hortensia would want him; he had asked only if he wanted Hortensia. He had decided that he did. So he had offered the greatest concession of his life, and she had spurned it.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “I’m not old or fat. And I’ve got money. I don’t mean dust, I mean money.”

  Marny knew this was true. She knew the exact profits of the Calico Palace, and she knew Norman was canny about money. Hortensia had no income but her salary. From a financial
standpoint Norman was a mighty desirable suitor.

  —Of course, Marny thought as his words poured out, he is a good deal older than she is, even though he thinks he doesn’t look it. And he hasn’t exactly led an exemplary life. But neither, I suspect, has Hortensia. And they have been getting along well since she came here. She likes him. Still, there’s a difference between liking a man and wanting to marry him.

  “Norman,” said Marny, “would you be willing to let me talk this over with Kendra?”

  Norman was startled. It was bad enough to have Marny know a woman could turn him down; it would be unbearable to have the news spread about.

  “Kendra knows more about marriage than we do,” Marny urged.

  “What good could she do me?” he asked.

  “Maybe she can find out why Hortensia said no. She can ask her what the trouble is. Yes, Norman,” Marny exclaimed, “that’s it. Let Kendra speak to Hortensia. Women talk more frankly to other women than they do to men.”

  Norman hesitated for a while longer, but his curiosity at last prevailed over his pride. “All right,” he said. “You tell Kendra to find out what’s the matter with Hortensia.”

  “I’ll tell her. And now please, Norman, it’s nearly morning.”

  When Marny went into the parlor the next afternoon Hortensia was already at the piano, playing tunes. Marny went to the card table and told the Harvard man to take a rest.

  Later that day she told Kendra about Norman’s plight. Kendra too was surprised at Norman’s wish to get married. “But really, Marny,” she said, “do you think it’s any of our business?”

  “No,” said Marny, “but I’m sorry for him, Kendra! He’s so upset he doesn’t know east from west or up from down. Please help him out.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay in your room tomorrow,” said Marny. “Read a new book. If you haven’t got any new books Norman will get some for you. Don’t do any cooking. We can manage without cakes in the parlor, and one of the boys will bring you dinner from the Union Hotel. Keep yourself available. I’ll ask Hortensia to come in and talk to you.”

  The next day Kendra went to the kitchen only for breakfast, and left Lulu cleaning up while she came back to her own room. She took up one of the new novels Norman had provided, and was reading when she heard a knock. Laying her book aside she went to open the door, and met Hortensia.

  “Marny said you wanted to see me,” Hortensia said abruptly.

  Hortensia was wearing one of the plain dresses she usually wore behind the scenes, to spare the fancier clothes she wore in the parlor. Her dress was neat and her hair was brushed, but her face had a stubborn look.

  Kendra opened the door wide. “Won’t you come in?”

  Hortensia came in. She sat down on the edge of the bed. The bed had a counterpane of flowered chintz. Looking down at it, and following the design with her finger, Hortensia spoke shortly.

  “Look here, Kendra. I think I know what you want to talk about. You can tell Norman he’s treated me right and I like working here, but if he wants me to leave I’ll start packing right now.”

  Kendra drew a chair nearer the bed and sat down. “He hasn’t insulted you, Hortensia,” she said, as gently as she could. “He asked you to marry him.”

  “And I said no. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Nobody is saying you ought to marry him, Hortensia. But you said no and you didn’t give him any reason. He’s really hurt. More hurt than you know.”

  “He’ll get over it,” said Hortensia. She looked up, and with a flash of wise humor she added, “Norman hasn’t got the sort of heart that breaks easy.”

  This was so true that at first Kendra could not think of an answer. Hortensia looked down at her hands, folded now on her knee.

  At length Kendra spoke again. “Hortensia, you just told me Norman had treated you right. So now, won’t you treat him right? Won’t you let him know why you turned him down?”

  Hortensia still looked at her hands. She did not answer.

  “You don’t have to speak to him yourself,” said Kendra. “I’ll do it. Tell me something I can tell him. Just so he’ll understand why it is you don’t want to marry him.”

  For a while Hortensia still said nothing. Kendra waited. At last Hortensia blurted,

  “I don’t want to marry anybody. I’ve tried marriage and it’s a rotten stinking mess. That’s why I came to California. To get away from the man I married back in New York.”

  She had tried to be defiant, but on the last words her voice broke. She grabbed Kendra’s pillow and buried her face, trying to smother her sobs.

  Kendra sat on the bed and put an arm around Hortensia’s trembling shoulders. When she could control her voice Hortensia looked up. “Lend me a handkerchief, will you? Thanks. I’m sorry, Kendra.”

  “Don’t be sorry. We all cry sometimes. It’s good for us.”

  Kendra waited, saying no more. Hortensia swabbed her eyes dry and looked up again.

  “You’re nice,” said Hortensia.

  After another pause, Kendra asked, “Do you want to tell me about it? You don’t have to,” she added quickly. “If you’d rather not, I’ll never speak of it again.”

  Twisting the handkerchief, damp and bedraggled now, Hortensia murmured, “I guess it’s all right to tell you. I didn’t do anything disgraceful. I just fell in love with the wrong man.”

  She kicked at the leg of the bedside table.

  “I was working in a theater. I was getting on fine. There were men around the stage door every night and sometimes I went out with one of them, but I didn’t like living that way. I really didn’t, Kendra. I wanted to settle down. My mother was a married woman, God rest her soul, and I wanted to be one too. And I wanted some babies. I like babies. So I got married. He played a violin in the orchestra and he was good-looking and I fell in love with him. I really fell in love. I thought he loved me back.”

  Her voice almost broke again, but she swallowed hard and managed to go on.

  “We got along all right, fussed sometimes but I guess everybody does, and I was going to have a baby and I was real happy about it. And then one day I stumbled and took a bad fall and I had a miscarriage and I nearly bled to death and I was terribly sick. Of course it was expensive, doctors and all, and a lot of trouble, and one day he walked out and left me.”

  Kendra gave a start of horror. “You mean he left you alone?”

  “Yes. Just like that. I guess I would have died except the orchestra leader came around to ask why my husband hadn’t shown up for work, and he found me. I wasn’t more than half conscious, could hardly talk. He hurried out and told the people at the theater and they came to help me. Theater people always help each other. They’re good. The men took up a collection for me and the girls nursed me and after a while I got well.”

  “And that’s why you came to California?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hortensia. “I haven’t finished. I got well, like I told you, and I went back to work. I even got a raise in salary. I’m good on a stage. Ask Marny. So then, would you believe it, that boiled cabbage of a man turned up again. He said I should forgive him, he really did love me after all. But I knew he had come back because I was making good money and he had a right to it because he was my husband.”

  Kendra thought of the heartless girl Pocket had loved. The iniquity of some people!

  Hortensia went on. “And what could I do? There I was, stuck with that rat, and no way to get rid of him. Oh, I guess if you’re rich enough and can get high-priced lawyers they can do something about it, but I couldn’t. So I did what a lot of people are doing these days, I changed my name and set out for California.”

  “And you’re still married to him, Hortensia?”

  “I guess so,” Hortensia said wearily. She gave a terse little laugh. “It’s kind of a relief,” she added, “to get this off my chest.”

  “Why haven’t you talked about it before?” asked Kendra. “As you said you
rself, you didn’t do anything disgraceful.”

  “Well—I guess I didn’t want any of you to know I was such a halfwit. I was ashamed of myself for marrying that rotten egg. And then—something else—” Hortensia hesitated.

  “Yes?” Kendra prompted her, and added, “Don’t tell me if you’d rather not.”

  “Oh, I guess I might as well tell you,” said Hortensia. “I’m telling you everything else. One day just after I came to work at the Calico Palace, I was in Chase and Fenway’s with Marny, and a lady came in pushing a baby carriage. She knew Marny, and Marny introduced us. Her name was Mrs. Watson, Serena Watson. She asked how you were, and told me she used to work for you. She had a baby boy, such a pretty baby.”

  Kendra felt a pain in her throat, a pain of regret for her own child and envy of Serena. She tried to swallow the pain as Hortensia went on.

  “I admired the baby and let him put his hand around my finger the way babies do. But it made me feel sad because I thought if I’d had mine I could have been playing with my baby instead of hers. After a while she went on about her shopping, and then Marny told me not to talk to you about Mrs. Watson’s baby. Marny said it would make you sad because you had had a baby that died. I could understand this, because I thought if it made me so sorrowful to lose one that wasn’t even born, it must be ever so much worse to have one and love it and then have it die. So I didn’t say anything about mine—Oh Kendra, Marny was right! Your eyes are getting all teary. I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything now. I’m really sorry, Kendra!”

  Kendra had given Hortensia her own handkerchief. She went to the bureau and took a fresh one out of the drawer and dried her eyes.

  “It’s all right, Hortensia!” she said, making herself smile. “I’ll be seeing other women with babies as long as I live and I’d better get used to it.” She sat on the bed by Hortensia. “Well, now we know all about each other. It makes us friends.”

  Hortensia nodded. “You’re nice, Kendra,” she said again.

  Kendra wanted to shed no more tears. She made haste to turn the conversation back to Hortensia’s concerns.