Turnabout

by Thorne Smith

  “You see, Dr. Jordan, I kept my promise, didn’t I?” he said in Sally’s most seductive tones. “I did even better than that, but I knew he wouldn’t behave. That husband of mine never takes anything seriously.”

  The great face of Dr. Jordan cleared. So that was the explanation. Tim Willows was a bit of a joker. Oh, well, the church needed more of that sort. He could use Tim Willows to advantage. Perhaps he might be induced to become a regular member of the congregation. True, there was a suggestion of rye in the air, but maybe… . He beamed his beamiest upon the pair and spoke richly.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome, friends,” reiterated the doctor. “I need your sort behind me.” Tim wondered what he meant by that. “You’re a bit of a larker yourself, Mrs. Willows, but a lark flies up to heaven, as you, too, some day shall fly.” (“How gloomy,” thought Tim.) “Glad to have you with us to-night, Mr. Willows. I hope it will not be the last time. Come in some day and smoke a cigar with me. Mrs. Willows, I expect great things from you to-night. Find tables, find tables.” His strong hand swept the room and nearly knocked the false teeth out of the mouth of one of his staunchest workers. “So sorry!” cried the Rev. Dr. Jordan, turning to the injured party, who was clutching or rather muffling his mouth with both hands. And when Dr. Jordan turned back again both Tim and Sally were tottering among the tables.

  “Charming couple,” thought Dr. Jordan, then moved away from the gentle cloud of alcohol still floating in the air.

  “What did he mean about expecting great things of you?” demanded Tim.

  “I’m on a committee,” replied Sally vaguely. “Civic Betterment. It means nothing.”

  Blake and Helen Watson, Vera and Ted Hutchens, Flo Jennings and Carl Bentley were grouped in a depressed huddle. They all wore a beaten expression. They were furtively critical and just a trifle superior. At the approach of the Willowses the beaten look on Bentley’s face became almost mutilated.

  “Ha!” snorted Blake Watson, pulling at his moustache. “Hah!”

  “Bah!” retorted Tim, looking at the man coldly through Sally’s brown eyes. “What a hell of a jam this is.”

  At the sound of Tim’s voice issuing from the sweet lips of Sally the statuesque Mr. Bentley gave a start and began to sweat unbecomingly.

  “My dears!” exclaimed Sally, squeezing Vera’s and Helen’s hands with her much larger ones. “So sweet of you to have come. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  And with this she kissed them both.

  “What’s the big idea?” cried Blake Watson, giving Sally a violent push.

  This treatment of his wife immediately aroused Tim. With a small foot he neatly tripped Watson, who fell with a crash among the chairs.

  “Nobody can treat my wife that way,” he announced, looking down at the fallen man.

  Helen, although only occasionally fond of her husband, could not permit this incident to pass unnoticed.

  She clawed Tim’s hat from his head and threw it on the floor. Sally, more outraged by the treatment of her hat than her husband, promptly shoved Helen down on top of Blake Watson, then, taking Tim’s arm, moved majestically away, disassociating herself as well as her spouse from the scene of disorder. It had all happened so quickly that even those who had been privileged to witness the scene at close range ascribed it to an accident. Church supper chairs are constantly doing things to people. They are almost human in their perverseness, either collapsing on a person or making a person collapse. Of course the noise attracted a great deal of attention, but the false and desperate laughter of the Watsons and the Hutchenses, swelled by the hearty boom of Mr. Bentley, served to dispel any suggestion of unpleasantness. Nevertheless the members of the little group were dazed. The strange conduct of the Willowses had momentarily numbed their faculties.

  “Both of them are as drunk as coots,” said Ted Hutchens. “That’s the only way I can explain it.”

  “She actually knocked me down,” observed Blake Watson in a puzzled voice.

  “And he darned well hurled me down,” put in Helen. “It was a sort of mixed scuffle as far as I can make out.”

  “It was very interesting to watch,” drawled Vera. “The hat part was pretty. How did you ever come to think of that form of retaliation?”

  “It was an inspiration,” said Helen. “Sally loves her hats.”

  “We all do—when we get them,” remarked Vera, with a significant look at her husband.

  “You don’t love hats,” sneered Mr. Hutchens. “You bow down and fairly worship them.”

  A middle-aged but infinitely weary-looking woman came up to Tim and took him by the arm.

  “Dear Mrs. Willows,” she said in a harassed voice, “would you mind lighting that newfangled gasoline stove for us? You’re so clever about such things.”

  Sally, with a smile of unholy enjoyment, watched the dazed Tim being dragged off in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Which stove do you mean?” asked Tim of the weary woman. The kitchen seemed full of stoves, all of which were working briskly.

  “That one,” replied the woman, pointing to a sinister-looking object squatting defiantly in one corner.

  “Ah,” said Tim with the confidence born of alcohol. “I’ll show you how to light that baby. It’s really quite simple.”

  So saying, he turned on a tap until his ears were pleased by the jocund sound of gurgling fluid. Then he struck a match, pushed a button, and applied the light. There was a muffled boom, an odoriferous flame, then the room became lost in a deep, heavy pall of gaseous vapor. And from the bosom of this reeking cloud issued a volley of vile obscenities uttered in the deep voice of an infuriated male. The edges of this vocal display of frightfulness were garnished by the stifled shrieks of women. A short time later the Girls, gallantly led by Tim, debouched into the supper room like a troupe of blackfaced comediennes. Never had the Girls received such a shock and never had a church supper been so lively and entertaining. First Mr. and Mrs. Watson had got themselves entangled in some chairs, and actually fallen down on the floor in a most diverting manner. This was hugely funny and furnished no end of bright conversation. But to see the Girls in battle array issuing from the smoke of the kitchen was almost too much of a good thing. Of course, the explosion occasioned a certain amount of consternation, but this was quickly dispelled as soon as the bellowing voice of Dr. Jordan assured the company that all danger was past. The Girls and Tim required a certain amount of washing, which was administered by willing and tender hands. During the process of ablution Tim found an opportunity to empty virtually all of the contents of his flask. When once more he appeared in public he was feeling decidedly set up. The Girls were much more interested in trying to discover the source of the obscene language than that of the explosion. They never did, although they entertained some well-founded suspicions.

  The supper proceeded coughingly, and although the food tasted weirdly of smoke and gasoline it was consumed with true Christian humility and fortitude. Then came the singing, which taxed the Willowses far beyond their capacity to stand taxing. This was especially true of Tim. At one moment he sang lustily in a clear, unmistakable baritone and at the next he startled both himself and everyone within hearing distance by swooping up to the dizzy altitudes of a soprano. Sally was experiencing the same difficulty, only not to the same extent. It was entirely forgivable if those sitting at her table were rendered mute with amazement when they heard proceeding from the mouth of an adult male the trebling alto of a choir boy. It is even more forgivable if they gasped with incredulity when they heard those ringing notes descend to a faint, embarrassed rumble. Up and down the scales fluctuated the voices of the Willowses until at times they seemed almost inspired. During a lull in the singing a lady leaned over to Tim and said, “My dear, I don’t know how you can do it.”

  “It’s a gift,” replied Tim modestly. “I don’t know how I manage it myself. Nobody ever taught me.”

  “Nobody should,” remarked an old man.

  When a l
ong-faced individual asked Sally how she accomplished the feat she passed it off by saying that her mother’s great-aunt by marriage had been a professional ventriloquist. This answer only partially satisfied the man. He kept brooding over the problem of how much influence one’s mother’s great-aunt by marriage could have on one’s voice. Not a great deal, he decided. Certainly, not enough to justify the amazing demonstration of vocal gymnastics he had just heard. The singing ended, the speeches began, but little did Tim realize that he was to be among the speakers until he heard Dr. Jordan calling in a loud voice for Mrs. Sally Willows to address the assembled multitude on the subject of Civic Betterment.

  “I’ll do no such damn thing,” Tim muttered to Sally.

  “Don’t let me down, Tim” she whispered. “You know as much about the subject as anyone else. Go on up there and just say you approve of civic betterment and all that.”

  Whether it was Sally or the liquor within him that prevailed upon Tim to mount the platform and stand swaying dangerously at its edge will never be known. The fact remains that he did this mad act and actually offered himself up on the altar of Christian martyrdom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in a voice that snapped the supperites erect in their chairs. “Members of the Congregation,” he continued in softly cooing accents. “Friends, would perhaps be better,” he amended rather briskly. “I shall soon get started. A short time ago I gave a successful demonstration of how not to light a gasoline stove. I shall now endeavor to show you how not to make a speech.”

  Tim paused to permit his audience to become convulsed, and during that pause he lost control of his thoughts and almost lost his balance.

  “Look out!” Sally whispered piercingly, and Tim swayed back from the edge of the platform.

  “Friends,” he began again, this time making no effort to disguise his voice, “I believe in physic betterment—I mean, civic betterment. We should have a bigger and better civic—pardon me again, I mean, physic—no, I don’t—what I mean is, we should have a bigger and better betterment. Oh, yes, and a much bigger and better city. We must have much wider streets with lots of sidewalk cafes.” Desperately Tim’s hands sought for his pockets and, finding none, plucked impotently at his skirt. “And we should have bigger gardens,” he continued. “Great big gardens running off to the skyline. Everything should be bigger, much bigger and much better. Bigger houses, bigger schools, bigger stores, bigger everything. Great big moving-picture theatres with fountains. Must have fountains.” Once more Tim’s hands struggled into non-existent pockets and succeeded in disarranging his skirt. Sally was beginning to get nervous. “Then there’s another thing. We should have bigger and better churches. And I suggest that congregations should be drafted so that all the churches would be filled and the preachers wouldn’t have to deliver their sermons to eleven or twelve dispirited-looking ladies who don’t need to be saved. And I believe in free education for preachers. So many preachers are dumb because they lack the time and opportunity to continue their studies. Give ‘em a chance to dig into economics, psychology, and sociology—any number of subjects. Give the poor devils a break, say I.” Here the dress was strained to its utmost. “On the other hand I believe in the legalization of the ancient and honorable profession of prostitution.” Gasps from the audience. Wild signals from Sally, but Tim was warming to his subject. “Many a sweet girl has gone wrong because she was not allowed to become a good, honest prostitute. Do you know that last year 2,540 girls disappeared from their homes? Why, I ask you, why? Why did all those lovely girls disappear from their homes? Because they weren’t allowed to become good, honest prostitutes—that is, most of them.” He paused to watch the frantic approach of the Rev. Dr. Jordan. “Prostitution is an amiable and artistic profession. It develops a social instinct and—”

  At this point the dress gave up all resistance and descended with a snap. The next moment the person believed to be Mrs. Sally Willows stood before the supperites and gave them the shock of their lives. The Rev. Dr. Jordan, whether from modesty or admiration, stopped in his tracks and gazed at the lovely figure. The step-ins were becomingly short and Sally’s legs were becomingly shaped. Altogether the revelation was not at all bad. The supperites were in a state of ferment. Tim was almost frantic. He was making fluttering signals of anguish to Sally. Strange to say, disgraceful to say, that hard-boiled young lady was laughing. Tim could have poisoned her. What had broken Sally down was the small flask of whisky strapped so neatly around Tim’s waist. The presence of that flask explained a lot to Dr. Jordan. In fact, it explained everything. Tim took a few frightened steps, tripped and fell. During the general commotion that followed, Sally adjusted Tim’s dress and dragged the broken man from the church. Once in the car she gave him a huge drink. Then she drove him home herself.

  “Well,” said Tim at last, “we certainly made a go of that church supper.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sally. “The Willowses were an immense social success—a riot, in fact.”

  “And the Rev. Dr. Jordan got a great deal more than he expected,” added Tim.

  “You opened his eyes to a lot of things,” said Sally.

  Chapter 9

  A Shocking Discovery

  When Tim Willows discovered he was going to become a mother he nearly went mad. Sally was forced to lock up all the grog and to take a day off from the office in order to be with the semi-demented prospective mother of her child.

  “I won’t be a mother,” Tim assured her in a trembling voice. “I’ll do something terrible to myself. A lake—that’s it. You’ll find me in a lake. All wet.”

  “Now don’t work yourself up, dear,” said Sally soothingly. “It will be bad for baby. Let me give you this footstool, sweetheart. It will make you much more comfortable. And I’ll get you a little shawl.”

  In response to these tender endearments, Tim Willows unleashed a scream of rage and dashed about the room looking for something to break. He picked up a clock, considered it, then returned it to its place. The clock was too expensive. Anyway he liked that clock. Finally he selected a large china vase. It made a very satisfactory sound when it crashed against the floor. He danced madly on the fragments, then fell exhausted into a deep chair.

  “I can’t stand it,” he gasped. “I can’t. Footstools and shawls. Oh, God.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself to carry on like that,” admonished Sally. “One would think you were demeaning yourself to be the mother of my child.”

  Once more Tim’s scream of impotent rage rang through the house. Springing up, he seized upon another china vase, which he shattered against the floor. The first one had proved efficacious. Why not this one?

  “Thank God, they’re gone,” said Sally, as she led the trembling man back to his chair. “I’ve always felt like smashing them myself, but never could work up the courage. If it hadn’t been for baby, they might have remained in the Willows family for generations. What are you hoping for, dear, a boy or a girl?”

  “A gorilla,” gritted Tim. “A monster. A two-headed calf.”

  “Don’t be silly, sweetheart,” Sally told him. “You should have nothing but sweet and fragrant thoughts now. I’ll get you a book about it—The Program of a Prospective Mother. You’ll love it. It will do you good.”

  Weakly, Tim looked round the room for another vase, then abandoned the idea through sheer physical lassitude.

  “You stop calling me ‘dear’ and ‘sweetheart’ and all those things,” he muttered darkly. “And if you bring that book into this house, I’ll burn it up on the front lawn and dance round the fire naked, screaming the vilest words I can muster.”

  “But, Tim, precious,” explained Sally, patiently, “neither of us knows the first thing about motherhood, or childbirth or anything along those lines.”

  “Don’t want to know,” snapped Tim. “Bring me a book on how to forestall a prospective infant and you’ll be doing a guy a good turn. I feel like going upstairs and wringing that damn little idol’s ne
ck. Of all the tricks to play on a self-respecting man. It was a bad day for us when that libidinous uncle of mine conceived the bright idea of sending him to us.”

  “Don’t talk disparagingly of Mr. Ram at this critical time,” said Sally. “We’ll be needing all the luck he can bring us. They say the first one is always the hardest.”

  “What?” ejaculated Tim. “The first one? Do you think for a moment I’d have another, assuming I have this one?”

  “I see no reason why you shouldn’t,” replied Sally, callously. “I see no reason why you shouldn’t have several. It’s high time we were doing something in the line of babies. Neither of us is getting any younger.”

  “That’s right!” cried Tim. “Make a regular Negro mammy out of me. Make me bear such a brood of children I won’t know exactly how many I have. I suppose you’re hoping for twins to begin with.”

  “Twins would be awfully cute,” admitted Sally. “While you’re at it, you might as well make up for lost time.”

  “You seem to regard me as a sort of factory,” Tim observed bitterly. “If I bear one very small and reluctant baby, you can consider yourself lucky.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Sally, cheerfully. “I expect great things from you.”

  “So did Dr. Jordan,” said Tim. “And he got much more than he expected.”

  “Everyone will be so pleased and excited when they find out,” Sally observed with a bright, anticipatory smile. “All the girls. Think of it.”

  “I’ll not even listen to it, much less think of it,” retorted Tim. “If you breathe a word of this to a single living soul, I’ll do something desperate and you’ll be eternally sorry. Just stick that in your hatband and keep it there as a reminder.”

  “Oh, we’ll have to let them know,” protested Sally.

  “That’s just what we won’t have to do,” said Tim. “Let ‘em find out for themselves. They’ll know soon enough. God, what a thing to have happened to a man. I guess I’m the first member of my sex ever to have gotten this way.”