It had been a knife before that had almost done it and then not done it. It wasn’t the first time he had reached this point. Not the first by any means. But always something had lifted him through the moment and beyond it and on safely to the other side. What was it that had carried him over and past it? Most often nothing more than mere curiosity, an interest in his own plight, narcissism itself, a curiosity and interest to know what was going to happen next—even the time he had reached bottom that black week in Provincetown, the very depth of spirit, when the will was so weak he could scarcely write the two or three notes he felt were necessary to leave behind. In a state of depletion, cut off through his own carelessness without a single nickel left and unable somehow to get in touch with anyone who would help, he had stayed on after the season was finished, stayed on out of exhaustion and sheer inability to get away, like a derelict abandoned, stayed long after the last summer visitor had gone and the street lights had been turned off at night for the rest of the year and no one lived in that part of the town but himself. The shack he had rented at the tip end of Whoopee Wharf and no longer had the money to pay for (but who cared? who even knew?) was as isolated from the world as the lonely melancholy bell-buoy that rang dolefully all night long somewhere out in the bay. With no food, no money, no drink, no possibility of getting himself out of there, he had gone into a fit of depression, a weariness of life, that was illness, that was each day worse, that had lasted longer and struck deeper than any depression he had ever suffered before. Three or four days usually saw the end of such a spell, but this had lasted a week now, this must be meant, this was supposed to be the one. His only visitors were a group of violent Portuguese fishermen who, drunk and predatory, began now systematically to terrorize him. Out of an absolutely silent night (save for the sad clanging harborbell and the querulous wail of the seagulls) they would come thundering along the wharf at two in the morning shouting his name, demanding money, demanding to be let in, yelling for booty, clothing, drink, his very person. They would pound on the flimsy walls and curse him with laughter, calling him names he didn’t dare listen to or think of the meaning of. He would lie breathless in the dark, knowing only too well what they would do to him if they got him (he covered his ears as they shouted insanely: “Donnie boy! Come out and get your breakfast!”) He was the more terrified because he knew he had brought this on himself, it was a kind of grotesque retribution, he and he alone was solely responsible for their wrath. He had carried on wastefully, wantonly, with all kinds of people, for weeks, throwing money away, drinking up more money in a weekend than the Portuguese made in seven days of hard work. They knew all this; they had seen it happen all summer; they had watched meekly, even sheepishly, envying him his continual holiday, his Mrs. Scott and his Doris, his gay shirts, his long idle afternoons, and his nights; and now that he was left behind alone and the others had abandoned him, all their hatred and contempt came out in these night maraudings, these ineffectual but terrifying raids. When they had got tired, convinced perhaps that he himself had finally managed to get away maybe the evening before, they clumbered off down the wharf to the town again. He listened to the footsteps and laughter and violent talk dying away, and then the tolling bellbuoy and the seagulls took over once more, their plaintive thin cries sounding like chalk scraping fitfully, intermittently, on some vast blackboard raised high in the black night. When daylight came at last, his despair had reached its peak. He wrote his three notes, exactly alike; he got out the Bavarian huntingknife that had come with his lederhosen and which he used to wear stuck in the little leather slit provided for it just below the right hip; he drew the still-sharp blade tentatively across his wrist a few times, till the thin skin was streaked with three or four tiny hair-like lines of red. He gazed at the wrist lost in thought, almost without interest, almost with indifference, and the silly notion came to him: “Maybe tomorrow I’ll regret this, maybe tomorrow I’ll wish I hadn’t.…” He put the knife away and promised himself that if he felt like this tomorrow he’d do it then, he’d give himself one more chance, he’d wait one more day; then if his despair demanded such a way out, it was right that he should go through with it. He went out on the pier and lay in the sun, too weak to walk farther. During the morning he saw the fishermen. They came along Whoopee Wharf to look over their idle boats and nets. They nodded politely to him, saying quietly, “Good morning, Mr. Birnam.” He looked at them and answered hello. He knew that these same men, now so mild and respectful, would be back again in the night, derisive, ribald, dangerous, shouting the obscenities that were as much a part of their nature as these shy and gentle daytime manners. He knew they would be back in full and maybe greater force, next time; and he knew, too, that tomorrow morning he would go through the same performance with the knife, like a ritual, trying to see how it was or how it would be, and telling himself that if the next day he felt this low again.…
Thinking of this now, he suffered almost a nausea of shame for the infantile curiosity that always had, in the past, carried him safely by and beyond such a moment. He had never had the guts to see it through, not even when he wanted it, deserved it, and had to have it. Or that is, he had the guts; but his self-interest and self-absorption had refused to allow him to take himself from the scene, to erase himself for good and all, and thus not be on hand to see what happened afterwards. What was the good of carrying off such a thing if its full effect was to be lost on the one person most interested?—himself. If he weren’t there, he of all people, to appreciate the result of what he had done, it was all wasted and gone for nothing, lost to him, lost on everyone else. The thing that saved him was as inane and trivial and contemptible as that: he couldn’t stand not being around to know all that would happen, all that would be said and done, because of his death. It was shameful to think of; but, if that’s what he owed his life to now—if that’s what had given him back his life to throw away again, or preserved it till just such a day as this when the effect would not be lost, when the full shock of his death or his dying would strike Helen between the eyes as she opened the door—
When the doorbell rang, he was utterly unstrung. He couldn’t believe it had happened, this very thing he had been waiting for. He seemed to go to pieces because the last enormity, inevitable though it had been all day, was finally at hand. He slumped in the chair half in faint and waited for the doorbell to ring itself out, as it would very soon with no one here to answer it. The bell buzzed and buzzed and finally, abruptly, stopped.
He lay in the arms of the chair, almost patient, now, for the rest of it. He knew what was going on. Helen was on her way down the filthy stairs into the cellar to get the keys from Dave. He saw her standing on the lower step explaining, and he saw the West Indian face of Dave eyeing her stupidly, trying to puzzle out whether he should or shouldn’t. But he always did, no matter how well you tipped him, no matter how many times you told him that under no circumstances, no matter who it is—
There were steps in the hall, on one of the landings. Not the two ladies going out and down. Somebody was coming up. He lay helpless now, soaked with sweat, unable to do more than stare at the doorknob to the outer door still plainly seen in the dusk through the little foyer. He held it with his eye as if his life depended on it, as it did indeed. If he saw it turn—what could he do? When he saw it twist and turn, as it was bound to do any minute now, would he be able to spring to the violent action, come sharply alive out of the demand and desperation of the moment and put to instant use all the strength that could not now lift his hand from the arm of the chair? His breath came in painful gasps; he was almost smothered in panic.
He heard the footsteps on the last flight. There were two, not one; two of them. They were not talking. They merely came on, slowly enough, but on till they reached the landing outside his door. He saw (as one too sick or weak to protest the surgeon’s knife that will kill or cure) the doorknob turn.
Helpless rage swept up in him because he was suddenly sobbing now and could not stop.
He was going to pieces in spite of himself and not in the way he had meant to; he was breaking up as if before his own eyes, entirely apart from and beyond his own control or power to stop it.
Somebody was rapping on the door. Then there was a silence in which he listened too. The doorknob turned again, and then again. Then a key was put in the lock.
The door opened and there was Helen and Dave. But only for a moment. Helen turned. “That’s all, Dave. Thank you very much. You can go now.” Dave tried to peer around her into the room but Helen quietly closed the door and came in.
“Hello,” she said.
He was dog-sick. His stomach began to rise, his throat retched; but nothing came. Only noises like a dog somewhere out of his chest. Helen didn’t seem to hear. She merely said Hello and went into the kitchen and set down some package on the kitchen table. She came back and turned on the light near the bookcase, then the floor-lamp at the end of the couch. As the glow spread in the room, making a light in which he could be plainly seen now—in which he was exposed raw and helpless for anyone to see—a quaking shook him like a chill, his arms flopped up and down off the arms of the chair as if danced or dandled on wires. She could see him now if she looked—and his legs waggled and knocked at the thought. If she looked at him now his head would begin bobbing like the Japanese toy.
“I’ve brought you something to eat, Don,” she said as she went back to the kitchen. She emerged again and came toward him with a glass of milk and half of a sandwich on a plate.
He couldn’t look at the food, or her eyes, he could only shake his head.
“How long since you’ve eaten, Don? Yesterday? Two days?”
He shook his head and the tears streamed helplessly down his cheeks. He could die of shame for crying, but he couldn’t help it. He sank back weak in the chair.
“Your poor eye,” Helen was saying. “Is it sore, does it hurt?”
He tried again to shake his head no, and he felt his chin bobbing up and down, the whole head shaking till he was dizzy.
Helen looked away from him—(she knew, she knew thank God, and damn her too, damn her! she knew how he was hating her looking at him)—and found something to busy herself with, to leave him alone. She picked up the wet shorts and damp trousers lying in a heap at the foot of the bookcase and took them into the bathroom. He heard her at the washbowl, probably washing out the shorts. She went into the bedroom and opened his closet door. In a few moments she was back with a pair of clean shorts and some trousers to another suit.
“Here, Don, put these on. I want to take you down to my house.”
He shook his head.
“Can you put these on yourself? I’ll help you, if you want.”
He sat shaking his head and looking at the floor and wishing he might die—anything to end this misery of shame and pain and exhaustion, this rattling in the chair as if he was suffering a fatal chill, this agony of knowing now, now, now he was caught and finished, the spell of riot or escape was over, the terror hadn’t even begun. The night ahead without drink was a threat that scared him out of his wits. What could one do, what could be done to avert or avoid the oncoming night? …
“Please, Don. Try. You must get dressed. I want you to go with me.”
Finally he was able to speak. “I can’t.”
Helen sat down. “Listen, Don. You’re sick. You’re not well. You can’t stay here alone.” She spoke so quietly and calmly, without even any pleading, that he was sick with shame. Why, he couldn’t have said—for her words and her tone of voice and her whole gentle manner were as far from reproaching him as it was possible to be. “You need help, Don. I want to take you down to my house and take care of you.”
“I couldn’t” was all he could say.
“Why can’t you, Don?”
“I haven’t the strength. I couldn’t get up.”
“I’ll help you. Here, let me help you put on your shorts and your pants.”
“I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t make the stairs. I can’t get up.”
“Yes you can, Don. Please take a little milk first and I’ll help you.”
“Go away. Won’t you please go away and leave me?”
“Not like this, Don. I can’t leave you. Not here alone. Come down to my house, Don. You can take a bath and I’ll put you to bed. I’ll be able to take care of you there.”
“Helen, I can’t. I’m not strong enough. Please go away.”
“Wick will be back tomorrow, Don. You really must try to get back on your feet before then.”
“Tomorrow? Is today Monday?”
“Yes, Don.”
She got up and went into the kitchen. In a moment she was back again.
“Don, if there were any food in, I’d take care of you here. But there isn’t. And I don’t want to leave you while I go out and find something. Listen, Don, I’m going into the bedroom now and get your pajamas, and then your razor and toothbrush and a clean shirt. If I bother you looking at you, try to pull yourself together while I’m getting your things. I’m sorry, Don, but you’ve got to come down to my house. We’ll get Dave to help you on the stairs, if you like,” she added, as she moved off to the bedroom.
His breathing came harder and faster as he made the effort to pull on his shorts. But that was all he was able to do. He couldn’t even raise himself to slide them under him. They clung merely around his knees and his thighs. What had become of all his resistance, his anger, his defiance, his threat and promise of death now? Nothing could be more abject than the despicable shameful helpless creature he knew himself to be. He couldn’t even protest; and he knew—curse or weep or shake his head how he liked—that in another hour he would be in Helen’s bed and glad of it. How that impossible move could be brought about, was beyond him; and perhaps that was the very reason it could be done. Everything was up to Helen now.
She was back. She put down the little bag she had packed, and bent over to help him pull on his shorts and trousers. He pulled on her shoulder for support and managed to stand.
“I’ve got to have a drink of water,” he said, “that’s all I want.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“No, let me try to get to the bathroom.”
Leaning against her, his arm across her shoulder, her arms around his waist, he crossed the room. In the bathroom, he braced himself against the washbowl and poured a glass of water. But he had barely got it down when suddenly it shot out of his mouth like spray from a hose. He collapsed on the toilet-seat, retching and gasping.
“I’ll get Dave,” Helen said.
“No, leave me alone. Oh, go away, go away.…”
Helen left. He folded his arms on the edge of the washbowl and lay his head down against them. In the bedroom, he heard Helen telephoning for a taxi.
A cab-driver. Seeing them leave the front door and step into his cab. Or passers-by on the sidewalk, seeing Helen helping him. Or Dave. Or Mrs. Wertheim. Or the boy from the tailor’s. How could he be seen? In this condition. How could Helen want to be seen with him? But she didn’t seem to care, she was ready to go through with it apparently without a qualm. If she didn’t care, why couldn’t he not care? But it was so different. She wasn’t the one who was helpless, the cab-driver wasn’t the one, Dave wasn’t—they weren’t the ones who suffered spasms of sudden fright at every sound, or at every glance directed their way. Only he was the bundle of exploding nerves and panic.
Not quite an hour later, he was in the tub. His clean pajamas hung on a hook by the door. Helen had filled the tub for him and he had managed to pull off his clothes in her bedroom and stumble along the hall in his shorts. Now he lay back in the hot water and felt so soothed and calm that he could almost sleep.
He would never know how they had got here. He remembered having to sit down again and again, a dozen times, before he could get up enough strength or courage to try the stairs. On each landing, sometimes in the middle of the flight of stairs, he had had to sit down again and rest. In the cab, terrified by the n
oise of the traffic, he had passed into a kind of oblivion, so that he remembered nothing of the trip down to the Village. Had they driven through Charles Street, he wondered? If they had, he didn’t know it. Could they actually have driven by Jack’s and he not know it? Not feel, even without knowing where he was, that the upstairs bar and the French-speaking waiter were somewhere near?—as if the place gave out some kind of vibration that he alone, of all the millions in the city, was sensitive to. Was he going to be bothered by that for the rest of his life? Could he lay that ghost—ever?
Helen tapped on the door. “Don? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing. I just wondered.” He heard her go back down the hall.
That was only one; that was one he happened to remember. How many other ghosts were there that he didn’t even suspect? Who was going to turn up and thunder at him “Look here, you did this and that, how about it, what have you got to say for yourself?” Whoever it was or would be, wouldn’t turn up here. He was safe here. Or if they did, Helen would never let them in; not now; not for days. He had escaped at last, escaped beyond the reach of all; all but one.
In the hall, now, he heard Helen on the telephone. Apparently she was having trouble getting her number, but eventually the call came through and she began to talk. He could not hear what she was saying, but instantly he knew she had called Wick. Don was okay, she had him here at the house, he was in the tub now, soon she was going to give him some light food and put him to bed, don’t worry, everything’s all right. That’s what she would be telling him; and Wick mustn’t worry, he didn’t need to worry any more. That’s what she would think and that’s what Wick would think too. The bat had flown his cloister’d flight and come to rest at last. Well, he was willing, why not? He was too weak to do anything about it but accept, he couldn’t have fought or protested or run out on them if he tried. It was infuriating to be so helplessly at their will and command, now; but that’s what he wanted, too, in a way. He was too exhausted and depleted to want anything else.
The Lost Weekend Page 22