by Tully, Jim
It was now Thursday morning, and Leora’s heart sang as she early drew back the curtains.
Selma met her in the hallway and said with mock seriousness, “when you’re Mrs. Judge Slattery, Leora, won’t you use your influence to have me appointed a janitress in the State House?”
“And have me made official entertainer to the visiting delegates?” said Mary Ellen.
“You would ask for something like that,” Doris said, with raised voice. “You wouldn’t get rich at that job—a delegate never has any money.”
Mother Rosenbloom sent for Leora later in the day. “The judge won’t be able to meet you tonight.” Leora’s heart fell.
“He’s coming here with some newspaper men—he told me to hold you out for him.”
Again her heart beat fast.
The hours dragged until nine that night, when the maid admitted a fast-talking, half-drunken, little man wearing a shiny blue serge suit much too large for him.
“I’m from the Bulletin,” he said, “and I’m here to meet Judge Slattery—he’s entertaining the press tonight —giving the moulders of public opinion their yearly glance at women flesh.”
His hands were ink-stained. The knowledge that he represented what most men fear gave him assurance. Mother Rosenbloom had told the girls to be particularly nice to reporters. Obeying her without reserve, they crowded about the first arrival. For an hour he was a king in a harem.
“This is the life, girls—when I buy out the Christian Science Monitor I’m going to have my own whorehouse. An editor ought to make a great madam—everybody that works for him’s a whore—but they’re pushovers with round heels, and they don’t get paid nothing.”
The girls laughed gaily.
“We’re going to have some fun tonight, girls—believe me—you’ll all wonder where you’ve been all your life before I get through—why the Empress of Zulu sent for me when she couldn’t get satisfied in her own country—if I hadn’t stayed over there so damned long I’d be an editor now, and not doing police news for a God-damned paper that nobody reads.”
He took one drink after another. The girls, their breasts half showing, crowded about the young man in the shiny suit.
Selma put her arm about the reporter.
He looked at the lovely cavern between her breasts. “Oh boy—get me some champagne—we’re going to make a night of this—we’ll make things stand that’s got no feet—I’ll show you gals what the Empress of Zulu just adored.”
“Was she pretty?” asked Mary Ellen.
“Pretty’s not the word,” he answered, as Mother Rosenbloom entered— “She was a lalapalooza—skin like copper and bubbies hard as nails. She certainly got to liking me after that first night—I couldn’t understand a word she said, but I didn’t give a damn. I wasn’t there to talk.”
He noticed Mother Rosenbloom.
“Ah, Mother—you remember me—I’m James J. Blaidor—the city editor calls me Bladder—but he’s a jealous son-of-a-bitch—he hates anyone who can write—”
The maid stood before him with a glass of champagne. He pinched her cheek. “Now all you’ve got to do is keep my glass full tonight—you stick with me.” He looked at her slender and dark young body, and exclaimed, “God, you remind me of the Empress— She told me I was a God-damned fool to take up writing again—over there I had everything—the whole damned ocean belonged to me—the ships and the sky were mine—and the little gal who waited on the Empress wasn’t so bad—they called her the princess of the bedchamber—and the Empress said to me— ‘Now treat her nice, J.J.—it’s a very small woman who can’t share a good thing with another— Coming of a royal line as I do, I’m convinced that the chief pleasure in the world lingers around the womb of a woman’— The Empress was of the opinion that the only enjoyment in life was when you forget—and I used to make her forget—she’d trill like a lark when she forgot— Now don’t overwork me, girls— I’m the last stallion in the meadow—when I mount ‘em they stay mounted— I’m the Ambassador of Love to the queens of the world—no new method goes into effect at the Hague without my sanction— My grandfather was a great favorite with Queen Victoria
“Where’s that champagne?”
The copper-colored maid stood smiling at his side. “Oh, there you are, Empress.” He rushed for the glass and began to sing,
When I was a king in Timbuctoo,
I made no laws for the very few—
The rich and the poor
And the living and the dead—
Could all have pleasure in their bed.
He held the empty glass out to the maid, saying, “Here, Empress.”
Revealing her even teeth in a broad smile, she poured the bubbling liquid into the glass.
“You should live in Zulu, girls,” he said, “there’s a man for every mood—and they’re all rich—
The people that’s in Zulu nor richer nor the Jews—
There’s not the smallest young gossoon but travels in his shoes—
The professor played the tune on the piano, while Doris sang.
The reporter stumbled to a davenport. “I’m all in, girls— I do too much work for one simple sou— I saw a man die on the gallows today, and I was writing all about it before he was dead.”
“Tell us about it,” Selma asked quickly.
“Nothing to tell about him dying—except he was too smart to die for a dame.”
He held his empty glass out. The maid filled it instantly.
Mother Rosenbloom’s eyes danced. The reporter looked at the smiling faces around him and said, “He was a character, girls, he was a character,” the reporter hiccoughed. “The warden said to him, ‘Now if there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.’ The warden must be seventy-five; his wife looks older.
“‘All right,’ says the man who was going to die,—’get me a typewriter and a lot of paper.’ They sent the machine and paper down to him.
“He began to write letters to the warden.
“The first one was:
Dear Old Pal:
You old screw bum, I’m not going to be long in this world, so I would like for you to do me a favor. Send that old hag of a wife of yours down to share my lonely nights. I’ll be nice to her. She’s in her second childhood anyhow, and you can’t do her any good. Please answer by return guard.
“The warden nearly died when he got the letter. But what in the hell can you do with a guy you’re going to kill anyhow? Even had the old fogy’s wife been willing to go, the warden would no doubt have objected.”
The tears ran down Mother Rosenbloom’s round cheeks as she said, “Men are so damn funny that way.”
The reporter began to talk again, as he held his glass for more champagne. . . .
“In a few days the warden gets another letter, ‘Listen, you old man-killer,’ it said, ‘why the hell don’t you send that old fuzzy-wuzzy down to me? How would you like to be penned up this way? Is it not a decent Christian thing to make a man’s last stay on earth one of bliss? I can’t wear the old hag out—you didn’t do it in fifty years. Suppose I have killed one woman; that’s no sign I’d ever kill another. Besides, the dame I killed burned my toast. Now what the hell would you do in a case like that? So gallop that old nag down to my cell—and I’ll show her how a Christian can die—among other things.’
“The warden opened no more letters from the condemned man. But each time one came his face became redder. He could hardly wait for the time to come for the prisoner to die. As he walked with the doctor beside him to the chair, the guy turned and said, ‘Say, Warden, I’ve got something on my mind, and I’d like to have you help me.’
“‘What is it?’ snapped the warden.
“‘Well, sir, I’ve just been wondering if you spelt c— with a c or a k.’
“The warden allowed the man to die in ignorance.” The maid nearly dropped the champagne, as the girls joined her in laughter.
Mother Rosenbloom rocked in glee, and, panting, asked, “Why did they ever ki
ll a man like that?” The doorbell rang.
Judge Slattery and four newspaper men arrived.
Chapter 27
The lover of the Empress was deserted as the girls gathered about Slattery and the newcomers.
“What the hell’s here?” he shouted. Smiling before him was the coffee-colored maid with the champagne.
He gulped another glass and mumbled, “All right, Empress.” Leaning his head to one side, he closed his eyes.
The room became animated. Slattery motioned to Leora. She came to him at once.
She noticed the fine texture of his clothes, and Slattery wore them as gracefully as a tiger did its skin. She liked that.
There was in his every movement something akin to the tiger. The touch of his powerful hand sent her blood tingling. She wanted to be near him, and, more than that, she wanted to hear him talk.
Slattery had never married. He had kept his mother until she withered away.
Mother Rosenbloom had talked of him that day.
“He can drink liquor like a funnel, and then whole months pass and he won’t touch the stuff. He can get a name in a minute and he never forgets it—and he makes it sound like music—so the person he talks to never forgets.
“They tell a tale about him I’ll never believe. They say that when Governor Millard was drunk in the Wilmington Hotel, he called up the penitentiary and asked for Willis, a man they were hanging. The warden told him Willis was to die, and the governor ordered him to the telephone. Millard always hated the judge—and he wasn’t satisfied to win over him the only time in sixteen years—he wanted to get him mixed up in something—Anyway, they brought Willis from the death cell, and if there’s anything in the story, he proved how loyal the judge’s friends are. When the governor said, ‘Listen, Willis—you die tonight—only one thing can save you—whom did you do it for—name him and you’re a free man. Remember, you’ll be a corpse tomorrow if you don’t. Was Slattery back of everything?’ The governor waited at the ‘phone and then he heard Willis say, ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Governor; let me die in peace.’”
Mother continued, “Millard was defeated and Willis went in.”
All of this went through her mind as she stood close to the great politician and heard him exchange sallies with Selma and the reporters.
Selma was in a high mood. The professor sat at the piano, his hands not moving, while his eyes, slightly bleared, were half closed.
He became more alert as Selma said, “That reminds me of a story about two old maids in the insane asylum.”
Eager to hear anything about women who had the effrontery to remain old maids, the girls said in unison, “Do tell it.”
“Well,” and Selma paused to see that she had the attention of all, “one time two old maids were together in a nut-house for thirty years. Finally one said, ‘I wish to to God I had a great big lover who’d just kiss me and love me till I screamed for more. I’m getting sick of this kind of life.’
“Her sister looked at her in surprise for several minutes. ‘Now you’re talking sense, Sister,’ she said. ‘If you keep on talking that way they’ll let you out of here in another week.’ “
All laughed merrily. Leora smiled at the judge.
“That’s like the Englishman who intended to start a sporting-house,” a reporter for the Argus began, “He said to the other members of his club, ‘Well, I think I’ll be going into business next week.’
“‘What kind of business?’ they all asked.
“‘A house of prostitution,’ he answered.
“‘That’ll cost you a lot of money—girls come high,’ a member said.
“‘Oh, no,’ said the Englishman. ‘I intend to start modestly. I’ll use some of my girl friends until we get well started.’"
Mother Rosenbloom’s body shook like blubber in mirth.
The maid wheeled a tableful of food and liquor into the parlor.
“Do tell another story, one of you men,” said Mother Rosenbloom.
“Would you like one more serious?” asked a reporter, “about mother love, say?”
“Surely, we’re all mothers,” laughed Mother Rosenbloom, as all the women moved closer to the reporter.
He gulped several times, drained his glass, touched his lips with his tongue and began, “Well—it’s about a Hindoo boy who loved a girl too much for his own good, as many men will. He offered her the world, which, strangely enough, being a woman, she did not take—for she wanted something else.
“She hated the boy’s mother… ‘All I want is your mother’s heart,’ she said, ‘dripping blood from her body.’
“The boy hesitated, as even in those days it was not considered proper to murder one’s mother too hurriedly.
“But, after all, he was in love and he consented.
“Within a short time he had murdered his mother and was soon jaunting toward his sweetheart with her heart in a basket.
“Along a rough road he stumbled and fell, face downward in the dust.
“His mother’s heart rolled a few feet away from him.
“He heard a voice, as he groaned in pain. It came from his mother’s heart, and it asked,
“‘Are you hurt, my son?’ “
A pause followed.
“That story’s older’n God,” said James J. Blaidor, rubbing his eyes.
“Shut up, Bladder—if the Bulletin had it, they’d give it a headline,” the teller of the tale laughed.
“But you’ve got no right to tell stories like that. How in the hell can a heart talk?”
“In many ways,” said Mary Ellen, taking him seriously.
“That’s right,” put in Doris.
Old or new, the story had touched all the girls but Selma.
Leora moved in surprise. Slattery drew her to him. Mary Ellen looked at the speaker, then at Mother Rosenbloom.
Finally Mother Rosenbloom said, “That’s a fine story.”
Silence came for a full minute.
To relieve the tension, Selma sang in a mock tone,
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ Mine, 0 Mother o’ Mine-
I know whose love would come down to me…
Mother o’ Mine, 0 Mother o’ Mine
Mary Ellen shuddered. “Well, that’s enough about mothers. There’s no mother story can top that one.” “Indeed not,” put in Mother Rosenbloom.
Rising from the davenport with difficulty, James J. Blaidor joined the group.
“Let’s have a grandmother story— I’ll tell you about mine. She was a hundred and eight last month—and we were all talkin’ about sex after church, a man and me and a Sunday School teacher, and we all got to wondering how old a person had to be not to enjoy a little get-together party.
“The Sunday School teacher didn’t know. She wasn’t over seventy, so she asked my grandmother—”Well, Grandma shook her head and says,
“‘You’ve got to ask someone older’ n me.’ “
Mother Rosenbloom doubled in mirth.
“But that’s nothing, folks,” resumed James J. Blaidor— “My grandfather was a hundred and forty-seven when he died—it was a tough blow to Grandma—he’d started to church, and took a notion to stop in at Betsy Adal’s place where he knew all the girls— They served him a lot of liquor— Finally he takes the oldest battle-ax in the house up stairs—she must have been sixty-four. Anyhow, he got so damn rough with her she had to shoot him.”
“Did your grandmother marry again?” asked Judge Slattery.
“Oh yes,” was the answer, “a woman like Grandma couldn’t stay single long— ‘My body needs nourishment,’ she used to say—so finally she married a newspaper editor, and inside of two months she was cheating on him.”
Chapter 28
The professor pounded the piano until the laughter died away.
James J. Blaidor appreciated the merriment. Stumbling about the room he scowled in the direction of his fellow reporter and chortled, “You and your damn h
earts that talk—you stole that story from Longfellow or somebody—maybe it’s in the Bible—it’s old enough.”
“Well it’s a damn good yarn, ain’t it—and it goes well with women.”
“Oh, I don’t know—just because you’re a guest of the state is no sign you can tell all the old stuff here.” Judge Slattery winked.
“But, Jimmy,” he said.
“Bladder’s his name, Judge. He’d think he was in society if you called him Jimmy.”
“What is it, Judge—pay no attention to this riffraff.”
“Well, Jimmy, that happened to my grandfather.” “No, it happened to mine,” volunteered another reporter.
“None of you had grandfathers—you were all hatched out of eggs the cook threw away.”
He turned around, “Where’s the Empress?”
The colored maid was at his side with the champagne. The glasses were again filled.
The girls drank sparingly.
Judge Slattery moved to a large leather chair. A circle formed around him.
“If you clucks want a story—how about this one?” asked James J. Blaidor—”don’t answer, for it won’t be funny—
“There was a little girl in England, not over twenty, who was hanged for killing her baby because she wasn’t married. She was very pretty, and she sobbed a little before she went to the gallows. ‘Come on,’ said the hangman, ‘poor dear, poor dear—it’s God that knows I’d rather sleep with ye than hang ye.’”
“Oh,” Mary Ellen gasped.
“The poor little devil,” sighed Mother Rosenbloom.
“They’ll do anything in England,” said Doris Mahone.
“Except to give Ireland a break,” hiccoughed James J. Blaidor.
Slattery, whose parents came from Ireland, said nothing.