Root of His Evil
Page 18
Penn-Duquesne shot through my mind, and I walked through to the bedroom, wondering if I could be horrible enough to ruin her, now that the opportunity was right in my hand. All I had to do was ask them to leave, and say nothing, and she would be wiped out when the stock shot up on the news Mr. Holden had just told me, and I knew from Mr. Hunt she was heavily involved. But just about that time I noticed my breakfast on the wagon, with the covers still on it, where the waiter had put it. And then, all of a sudden, I knew what I was going to do. I went back, sat down, and said brightly: “Now!”
“Yes, Carrie. We’ve had so many distractions.”
Mrs. Harris was her old smiling self again, and I smiled right back and said: “Now, Agnes, you may serve my breakfast.”
“I—what! And how dare you call me by my first name?”
“I call you by your first name as is customary, for now you’re going to be my servant. For one breakfast only, but for that long you’re going to be a waitress, as I was once, and I’m going to call you by your first name.”
Grant got up and began helping her into her coat. “I don’t see any need to prolong this any longer, Mother.”
“No—this is simply absurd.”
“It is my intention, Agnes, to give you a very handsome tip—fifty thousand dollars, as a matter of fact, the money you paid me to get my divorce from Grant. But for tips I expect service.”
“My dear, I’m not accustomed to serving breakfasts for trifles like fifty thousand dollars.”
I let her get clear to the door before I made my next remark, which was: “Then perhaps your commitment in Penn-Duquesne may make you feel differently.”
She stopped, turned pale and stared at me. But I continued to speak in a cool and casual way: “It’s an excellent stock for speculation purposes, and I compliment you on your judgment in selecting it. The only trouble is, it’s erratic. There’s only one person in this room today who knows what that stock is going to do. I’ve taken the trouble to find out, solely for your benefit. I can tell you or not. It’s entirely up to you.”
Grant had stopped and kept looking from one to the other of us like some big St. Bernard dog. But she seemed to get ten years older all in a few seconds, and then she came over to me and leaned close, and spoke in a terrible whisper: “Carrie, tell me, what do you know about that stock? Yes, I’ve treated you very badly, but only because—Grant means so much to me. Now—let’s be friends. The stock, Carrie—what do you know about it?”
“You may serve my breakfast, Agnes.”
“...Yes. Anything. Anything!”
“Yes what, Agnes?”
“Yes, Mrs. Harris.”
Eighteen
THE PICTURE OF THAT next few minutes will remain in my memory a great many years, I think. Of Grant staring at her as though he couldn’t believe she would do such a thing. Of Mr. Hunt sitting on the sofa, fingering his moustache, his eyes shining, the color creeping up in his cheeks until his whole face was crimson. Of Mrs. Harris, like the middle-aged woman that she really was, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t break the eggs, and almost spilling the orange juice over me in her agitation. And of myself, sitting there munching ice cold toast, which was all I could get down, drinking my revenge and yet trying to appear calm and cool.
She was just pouring the coffee when Grant leaped at her. He grabbed her with one hand, her coat with the other, and began hustling her out of the door. “Get out of here!” he kept whispering at her, but in a rasping way, as though he could hardly restrain his fury. “Get out of here! Get out of here!” He opened the door, and kept jerking her along even when they were out in the hall.
Then Mr. Hunt jumped up. “All right, baby, you’ve done it. You’ve harpooned her, up to the hilt. Now—that stock! Give it to me quick. Remember, I’m aboard that deal, too.”
“Cover.”
He hardly waited for me to finish before he dashed out. I got up to put the coffee cup back on the tray. When I turned around Grant was standing there, still panting. He closed the door and started over to me, his eyes dancing in an almost inhuman way. I backed away from him, but he grabbed me. “Carrie!...You’ve done it! You’ve set me free!”
He began kissing me then, but I was still so surprised I didn’t give any response, and then he threw himself on the sofa and began pounding on the cushions with his fists. “Don’t you suppose I knew what she was—what she did to us, and all the rest of it? Don’t you think I hated myself, that I let her use me, make a fool out of me, torture me! Of course she broke up our marriage, and I knew she was doing it, and knew how she was doing it and why—but her will was stronger than mine! I couldn’t go up against her—nobody can. You’ve no idea what she’s like. And I was doing all sorts of things to break loose—starting unions, trying to break the System—”
“Marrying me.”
“Yes!—and I did something that time. You went up against her and you made her knuckle. I could have jumped up and yelled, like some kid at a football game. It—broke something. I could feel it snap. I was free! Think of that—she’s gone and gambled my money in some stupid stock deal—and I don’t care! I don’t care!”
He came over and looked at me. Then he touched me, the reverent way you touch something to make sure it’s there. “I know now what you meant,” he said, still in a kind of trance,—“what you meant that night. That night when I asked you to marry me, and you said I didn’t say anything about love. I didn’t know what love meant. No, I never loved you. Not then. Not until now—when I saw you fasten your will on her and make her bend to it. Oh, yes—now it’s different. Now everything’s different.”
He disappeared into the bedroom for a minute or two, then he came out and laughed. For the first time since we had been married, almost, he was the old Grant, the one I remembered from the first walk we took together, when we had hooked little fingers together and the cop had told us not to mind him. “Sorry, Carrie. I’ve—I’ve been through hell, and I’m a little off my nut.”
I desperately wanted to run into his arms and make up, but I didn’t. I got up and wheeled the breakfast tray out into the hall, and when I came back I said: “Well, it’s all very well for you to turn around and say you’re sorry, or whatever it is that you mean—but I’m afraid I can’t forget quite that easily.”
He nodded, very seriously. “I know. I’ve got some ground to win back. Don’t worry, I’ll do it. I told Bernie out in the hall just now he could cross me off his damned payroll and from now on I start.”
“Start what, may I ask?”
“My Indians.”
“How? I think you said such researches cost money.”
“I’ll find it, don’t you fear. And there’s other things I’ll do, too. For instance, that guy Holden. I’ll get him, I’ll make him like me before I get done. There’s a guy. But the first thing—I’m starting my life work. It’s the kind of life work that doesn’t show a profit, but never mind that. It’s worth doing. Well—so it takes money. Well—then I’ll get it. All right, I’m off. I didn’t expect you to take me in your arms. But you’ll be hearing from me—soon.”
I didn’t want him to go. I wanted him to stay, so I could quarrel with him until I was ready to make up. So when he picked up his hat, I jumped up. “Well—if you’re looking for money, I think I can give you a name.”
I went to the mantel where the envelope with the money in it was lying, having been entirely forgotten during the rather hasty exit taken by his mother. It had my named typed on it, and I handed it to him. “...What’s this?”
“A name. I think she’ll be good for anything you need.”
He opened it, and when he saw what was inside he caught his breath. “Oh—the tip.”
“Yes, but it’s really yours. She’s cheated you out of it.”
I lay down on the sofa and he came and put the envelope on the table in front of me. “I didn’t quite get you at first. No, it’s yours. I can’t take money off you, Carrie.”
“Do you mean it
about the Indians, or not?”
“Of course. But—”
“Then you take things any way you can get them.” Then I added: “That’s what I always do,” and raised my foot in a very provocative way and began to wave it around in the air. So the next second I was in his arms, and there had never been any quarrel, or any Lula, or any mother, only him and me. So I spent the weekend in sin, and it was Sunday afternoon before I remembered I was supposed to spend it at Mrs. Jerome’s, and we laughed and laughed because now I was a social celebrity, but had forgotten to show up.
I return now to our sloop, which isn’t anchored off the Bay Islands any more, but off Puerto Cortez, where Our equipment is due tonight on a freighter, and tomorrow we start into the interior, for excavations and I don’t know what-all. We spent two weeks in sin, as a matter of fact, at Atlantic City and a lot of places, for it took all sorts of red tape before Grant could get a license in New York. He had to prove the divorce was not granted against him on the ground of infidelity, or something. He kept his promise about Mr. Holden, and we all became good friends, and I don’t think Mr. Holden felt hurt any more. We spent some time getting ready for the expedition, and it took a lot of my money, but I don’t care. Tomorrow, Grant says, we start a perfectly hellish life, with mosquitoes, snakes, heat and everything else to bother us, and I guess it will be hard. But tonight there will be the Caribbean moon, and as it dances across the water, I shall think of the Modern Cinderella, and pretend that the light on the waves is really the silver slipper falling into her lap.
THE END
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copyright © 1951 by James M. Cain
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