by Tully, Jim
She hoped that he would always love her. The thought of another man, at any price, made her shudder. She wanted to sing, to laugh, to cry.
She covered him gently and resumed her pleasant revery.
If she had a child, and it was a boy—she would call it Brandon—and if it were a girl—she thought of different names. If the judge would not let her have it, she would run away until after it was born—then let Sally have it and come back to him. She wanted the baby and she wanted him.
The rain continued to rattle on the roof, softly, then harder and harder, like the professor’s hands going rapidly over the piano keys.
She would write to Dr. Farway in the morning. It had been so long since she had seen him—nearly two years.
She would soon be twenty-one. For a moment she was homesick.
Then, with a full heart, her thoughts returned to the man at her side.
At last her mind quit racing. She dozed. She awoke with a start.
The judge’s arm rested heavily upon her. She tried to move it cautiously. The elbow did not bend. She touched his hand. It was still warm, but stiff. Her hand went to his heart.
It was still.
She sat erect for a moment, and rubbed her eyes. In an instant she turned on the lights.
The judge’s head was buried in the pillow. His mouth was open. His eyes stared straight upward.
Her eyes too paralyzed for tears, she fell across him for a moment in a daze, then kissed the dead mouth and choked her sobs in the pillow beside him.
Like the jab of a needle in her brain, the clock struck three. She stood erect, her hair down, her slender body, unmindful of the chilled room, uncovered except for the coat of a suit of silk pajamas.
She knelt at the bed beside him, her hands going up and down his arm.
A mist came to her eyes. She wiped them with the sheet. Hurrying to the closet, she put on the other half of the pajamas, a fur coat, and slippers.
She stood for a second in the middle of the room. A clap of thunder roared down the sky.
The windows shook as the rain fell harder against them. The wind whistled and was silenced by louder thunder. Wild flares of lightning turned yellow the water running down the windows.
She left the room quietly and went to Mother Rosenbloom. The large lady lay in a flesh-colored and beribboned nightgown. Her reading lamp, which she had forgotten to turn off, threw a light across the bed.
“What is it, Leora?” Mother asked.
“The judge is dead,” she whispered.
The bed sagged in the middle as Mother Rosenbloom sat up suddenly and exclaimed tersely, “My God, how do you know?”
“I felt his heart,” answered Leora.
The rain still swished against the windows.
“Wake Mr. Everlan up—but not the chauffeur yet,” said Mother Rosenbloom.
She hurried from the bed and put on a satin robe. “Let’s go to him,” she commanded.
Leora followed.
She immediately felt the judge’s heart, then his pulse. “You go ahead, Leora, open the front door—then wake Mr. Everlan.”
Leora hurried forward.
The mammoth woman took the body of the judge, pulled the legs and arms together, and threw it across her shoulder. The rain fell in cycles white as silver in the street as Leora opened the door.
With set jaws, the woman moved with her burden toward the limousine at the curb. The rain whipped upon them as Mother Rosenbloom held the corpse and Leora opened the car door.
In another second, Mother placed the body erect in the rear seat.
Shutting the car door carefully, she followed Leora into the house.
Bedraggled with rain, her thin clothing plastered to her huge body, the giant woman fell on the davenport and sobbed. Controlling herself long enough to say, “Run and wake Mr. Everlan, dear,” she sobbed again.
Then, with a mighty effort, she followed Leora.
Alice came to the door.
“Let me in, dear—something has happened.” Mother Rosenbloom stepped inside.
Shaking the sleeping man, she said in a hoarse whisper, “Judge Slattery’s dead—I have put him in your car—you must leave here without Alice—I’ll wake the chauffeur… he must not know. I’ll tell him that you and the judge wish to go to your home. You can discover he has died of heart trouble on the way.”
The chauffeur sat stiffly in his seat, while Mr. Everlan said, “The judge and I wish to go to my home, Joe.”
The car moved forward through the rainy night.
The three stood in silence.
Mother reached out her arms and drew the girl to her. “I’m so sorry for you, dear,” she said to Leora.
“Don’t mind me now—you’re dripping wet,” Leora said to Mother Rosenbloom. “Come, we must put some warm clothes on you.”
She put her fur coat over Mother Rosenbloom’s shoulders. Shivering, she followed Alice and Leora to her own room.
The girls rubbed her body with towels and put her into bed.
The clock struck four.
There came a dying rumble of thunder. The rain stopped.
The morning papers announced that Judge Slattery, famous political boss of the ______Ward, had died suddenly of heart trouble while riding with his lifelong friend, J. Whitlau Everlan, the distinguished financier.
His funeral, attended by the governor, was one of the largest ever held in the state. Rich and poor crowded about his bier for a long last look at him.
Young boys sang,
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie,
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me;
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Leora left with Alice.
An ancient beggar stood outside the church.
“It doesn’t seem right,” said Alice. “He was so full of life—and this—” She looked at the beggar.
Leora, her eyes in a mist, said quickly, “He didn’t gladly die—I know better.” She held her cousin’s arm and sobbed, “Oh, Alice!”
The governor met the reporters at the door of the church. His face was the color of a weather-beaten nut. His mouth, at the edges of which were sly quirks of humor, now drooped.
He removed the gold spectacles from his hawk-like nose. Years of success had given him poise. One would not have suspected that as a lad he had shot dice in an alley.
He looked casually about the throng as though expecting a photographer. When several appeared, he posed for a picture. He then said, in a tone of deep affection, and with careful and slow enunciation,
“I will walk silently in his great shadow all the rest of my days. In him were personified the purest and most unselfish of American ideals. He wanted no office for himself. He believed in service to the common good, and now, he lies before us, silent as an empty house through which the wind has blown. Knowing him better than most men, I saw his soul and heart in motion. He would stop to pat the noses of cold horses on the street. I have seen the tears come to his eyes when a beggar passed. I recall as a young man when we were both in deep struggle to find money for ourselves and others that he at last managed to pay forty dollars for an overcoat. It was a staggering price. It was a blue chinchilla and it had a velvet collar, and when we went to dinner together, which cost fifty cents each, he placed the coat on a hook, and upon leaving the restaurant we found that someone had stolen it. Weeks of effort had gone into the getting of that coat, but when the proprietor assured him that he knew the man who had stolen it, and that he could send the police and arrest him, my great friend, who now lies silent forever, said, ‘No, no—how badly he must have needed that coat to take the chance of going to jail to steal it—let him have it—I’ll get another one.’
The governor of the state paused and wiped the nose-glasse
s in hand.
“We came,” he went on, “out of the sludge of life together. Even as a boy he was cruel as the lash of a whip toward all injustice. Like all of us who try to pierce the veil, he often lost his way, but somehow or other he would find it out of the forest of despair by the light in his own soul. And I venture to say that tonight at hearthstones simple and grand many a heart will ache for the great comrade who has gone on the far and outward trail. He will live in men’s hearts until time becomes a hollow echo.”
“Will Judge Slattery’s death have any effect on the policy of his party?” a reporter asked.
“None whatever,” replied the governor, “except as a great memory.” He hesitated, “But of course the Democratic Party will ever strive to perpetuate his unflinching love of duty, and his high ideals.”
The governor entered his limousine. The reporters wrote swiftly.
James J. Blaidor finished his writing first. “This is a lot of bologna,” he said, “but by God, he was a great guy.”
Chapter 31
Mother Rosenbloom did not attend the funeral. She was ill with pneumonia. For days she tossed on her bed while doctors and nurses came and went silently.
No word was said to the men who came in search of sex. Business went on as usual. Mother would not have it otherwise.
“I’ll whip this thing,” she would wheeze. “Just leave it to Mother.”
The secretary came at the appointed time and received the earnings from the housekeeper.
The professor played music more softly, and if a guest asked about Mother he was told that she had a slight headache.
She had apparently gained strength on the eighth day.
The girls were allowed to gather for a half hour in her room.
“Why, I’m not leaving you yet, girls. I still have work to do.”
The nurse wanted to remove her rings. She would not allow her.
She put a hand on Leora, and said in a whisper, “We did our best, dear.”
“How strong you are, Mother,” responded Leora. “The poor man,” said Mother. “What did it all mean —for a day or two I thought I’d be seeing him soon.”
“I wish I could,” said Leora.
Mother’s eyes roved over the ceiling.
“Why did I have to carry him out?” she asked herself. “Nothing could have hurt him ever again.” She breathed heavily.
“But he’d have done it for me. I remember once before he had a heart attack—and he quit drinking for a year—he was a wild man, but his heart was gold. You’ll never know, dear, how good a man he was—he’d have given you the sun on a winter day and have stayed in the shade himself.”
Mother adjusted the sheet over her enormous breasts, and fought for breath.
“It’s all so strange, Leora—here I am, dealing in women like cattle—and only one man has ever been in my life—a pure old virgin—for him.”
Mother’s barrel body stiffened for a moment and then relaxed. Her hand closed over Leora’s.
“It was a long time ago,” she said. “He’s a shadow I can never get out from under.” Her voice went to a whisper, “And there was a boy who looked like him—he’s gone too—and here I am—a withered old tree waiting for the ax.”
She tried to touch Leora’s reddish-brown hair, and sighed deeply.
“But, Mother,” said Leora, “you’ll be with us a long time yet.”
“You mustn’t tell funny stories.” Mother smiled wanly. “You can’t fool Mother—I can hear the birds calling across the river, and all they keep saying is ‘Come home, come home.’ “
There was a slightly longer silence before Mother said, “The poor judge—I never thought he would go like other men—”
She smiled at Leora, “And in bed with a beauty like you—dear, dear.”
“But I loved him, Mother.”
“I know, dear—so did I—and everybody. He was the biggest tree in the woods, and even the birds loved him.”
Mother’s eyes half closed in thought, “And to think he’s like me—he leaves nothing behind—not a drop of his own great blood left in the world.”
“Mother—” whispered Leora—“I have his baby."
Mother opened her eyes, “You have his what?”
“His baby, Mother—I could feel him in my womb.”
“Thank God,” said Mother, “that’s all you’ll ever need.” She lay back on the pillow.
Mary Ellen and Selma entered timidly.
Mother made an effort to smile.
After some moments, she whispered, “You girls must always be friends.”
They answered in unison, “Yes, Mother.”
When Doris came into the room, Mother held a hand toward her. She went to the bed, put a hand on Leora’s shoulder, and held Mother’s hand with the other.
Mother tried to talk again. The nurse entered and bade her be silent.
The house doctor came into the room, his huge body panting. Mother looked at him and smiled wearily, “It’s not a case for you, Doctor.”
Doris laughed outright, and held her hand to her mouth. The other girls smiled.
The doctor whispered.
The nurse held up her hand for silence, while Mother fought for breath.
The nurse touched Leora gently. Followed by the house doctor, she and the girls left the room.
Mother held her head far back, and closed her eyes. Like the exhausts of steam from an engine, her breathing became hard and sharp.
All but the house doctor went to Leora’s room.
Judge Slattery’s picture was still on the dresser. “He’s gone, and she’s going,” Leora sobbed a moment.
“You mustn’t,” said Mary Ellen, putting an arm about her.
“I’ll telephone for Alice,” said Leora.
“Let me do it, Leora.” Selma left the Loom.
Mother became weaker on the ninth day. In an effort to breathe, she moved her mountainous breasts furiously up and down.
An oxygen apparatus was hurried into her room. “It looks like the last curtain,” she gasped.
The priest came. Gentle as the dew and silent as an executioner, he delivered the extreme unction. She breathed more easily. Suddenly, she breathed no more.
It was two in the afternoon. She had pushed her hand outside the covers. The sun threw a slant of light upon her many diamonds.
A hush came over the house.
The professor, who had only left the house to get the mail since Mother’s illness, received the news of her death with a gulp. He sat silent a long time, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. Mary Ellen soothed him for a moment. Neither said a word.
Mother Rosenbloom was removed to an exclusive funeral parlor.
A wide purple crape was placed on the door, through which she had carried Brandon Slattery.
Chapter 32
WHEN the news of Mother Rosenbloom’s death went about the city, many men and women called. All were directed to the funeral parlor.
The church was crowded on the day her funeral was held.
She lay in an immense oak coffin, with heavy silver handles, in the same spot where less than two weeks before Judge Slattery had also lain.
Accompanied by Alice and the girls, Leora was in an end pew. The house doctor, the professor, and all of Mother Rosenbloom’s employees were opposite them.
While Mass was being said, Leora was lost in wonder. She again saw the tree upon which coffins grew. Again the lid of one flew open and her mother stepped out.
She tried to fathom why the judge had died, and why Mother Rosenbloom had followed him. She asked herself,—why had Mother carried him into the rain? She could still see the mighty woman, with the handsome dead man thrown over her shoulder. She could feel the floor shake as Mother Rosenbloom walked with her burden.
Father Gilligan, who had given Mother Rosenbloom extreme unction, threw a spray of Holy Water over her.
A censor, in the hands of an altar boy, filled the church with incense.
&
nbsp; Leora gazed at the pictures of Christ’s journey to the cross and beyond, then closed her eyes as the choir sang the haunting AVE MARIA.
Father Gilligan began talking—
“Our Holy Mother Church is the roof of God, under which there is room for all. It acknowledges sin, and that its children are weak and erring. It covers alike the rich and the poor, and the murderer and the thief, with the purple of its understanding charity.
“We walk in the sunlight of God’s love, holding out our hands to the cripple and the beggar, and the worn, and the heavy of heart.
“While men try to fathom mysteries, we accept them—for the mystery of the human heart is greater than all.
“It is my conviction, and that of the Holy Mother Church, that Jesus Christ is our Saviour, that He died to make us free—and like the rain from Heaven, His mercy falls on all.
“To follow the precepts of the Holy Mother Church is to walk in the resplendent shadow of God; and, though, we, like children, stumble and fall, He does not walk away from us, but helps us to rise and go forward, praising His name.”
The altar boy stepped nearer to the coffin with the censer, while Father Gilligan continued,
“She who lies here did not desert us, though married in an alien creed. She kept in pure vigor the flower of her womanhood, and died in the one true faith.”
The priest’s voice rose, “She has gone to a land that is fairer than gold. She walks the golden streets arm-in-arm with Jesus.
“All that she has loved and lost are there to meet her.
“The great being who lay here but a few days ago in the majestic zenith of his manhood will be there.” Leora covered her eyes. Alice put a hand on her arm. “There can be no death for such a man. If such a thing could be we are less than the dust, and not the immortal children of a thrice immortal Father.” Leora sobbed.
“For them that are gone, we should not mourn—they are the vanguard of our glory—the forerunners of the Life Everlasting.”
The light from the stained glass windows fell softly on Mother Rosenbloom while the priest stepped nearer to her.