by Gwen Bristow
By this time it was as if her single great pain had changed into a thousand small ones striking her with swift short anguish, each in a different place from the one before. Earlier, there had been no details. Now whatever she saw, every object she touched, stabbed her with its own small blade of memory. She could not pick up a table-napkin without remembering what fun she and Arthur had had choosing the linens for their home. Every time she opened the china-closet she could hear their secret laughter as they garnished the top shelf with the atrocities some of their relatives had thrust on them as wedding presents. If she looked out of a front window she could almost see Arthur coming down the street from his office and raising his head to see if he could catch sight of her anywhere and wave at her before he came into the house. Arthur was everywhere, so vividly that there were even moments when she forgot he would not be there any more. She would wake up in the night and begin to turn over softly so as not to disturb him; sometimes if the library door was closed she would find herself tiptoeing past it, lest the sound of her approach interrupt the work he had brought home to do. When this happened she would bring herself up with a start that reminded her, “But he isn’t there, he’ll never be there again.” The pain would slash into her, deep and quick, until she thought, “This is worse than it was at first. And there’ll never be anything else. Arthur is dead.”
She did not make any display of her grief. This was partly because she had an inborn dread of public weeping, but mainly because it did not occur to her to do so. What she and Arthur had shared had been too profound for them ever to talk about it except to each other. Now it would have seemed sacrilegious and obscene to try to tell anybody else what he had meant to her. Arthur had been her husband; no matter how much his friends valued him, he did not stand in that relationship to anyone but herself, and only she could feel the severing of that tie. So she bore what she had to bear alone and in silence.
It was a matter of embarrassing astonishment to her Aunt Grace. Aunt Grace was very fond of Uncle Clarence, and would have been deeply distressed to lose him, so when Elizabeth said nothing whatever about Arthur, Aunt Grace was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that Elizabeth had no soul. To Aunt Grace one’s soul meant the sum of one’s emotions, and to her an emotion was synonymous with its expression. When she was happy she laughed, when she was unhappy she cried, if she liked you she kissed you and if she was angry with you she lost her temper. Regarding these manifestations as identical with the states of mind that inspired them, when she observed that Elizabeth expressed nothing she concluded that Elizabeth felt nothing, and therefore had no soul.
Elizabeth took no interest in her aunt’s reactions, nor, for that matter, in anything else. Her friends were being very kind to her. They urged her to go out with them, saying it would do her good. She tried going out, but it did her no good whatever. For they did the same things in the same places as when Arthur had been among them; whether they played in the snow or had dinner at a favorite restaurant or sat around someone’s fire and talked, every gathering reminded her of him. She would come home and sit down wearily, sorry she had gone. It was easier staying at home, where at least she did not have to put up any ghastly pretense of being cheerful.
And then one morning, in the spring after the Armistice, she discovered that she did not have much money left to live on.
It gave her a start, not because she had thought she was rich but because in the past few months she had not thought about it at all. She had been spending very little, mechanically writing checks for such necessities as food and rent since it was part of the inescapable routine. When a phone call from Uncle Clarence—who had again constituted himself her guardian, as he saw she was in no state to attend to her affairs herself—advised her that she should meet him at the bank the next morning, she obeyed his summons, mildly wondering what it was about. Uncle Clarence and the bank vice-president told her it was to make arrangements for her pension as a soldier’s widow.
The words revolted her. Without trying to understand her reaction, she exclaimed in protest. Arthur had given his life for his country and that was all there was to it. Nothing his country could give her could restore him and she had no desire for anything else. But when she tried to tell them this, Uncle Clarence and the banker, two kindly men with gray mustaches and sympathetic if astonished eyes, explained to her as gently as they could that it would be very foolish of her to insist that she had no need of a pension, since she unquestionably had. Most of what her father left had been spent on her education. And then—didn’t she remember?—when she married she had spent a good deal on furnishing her home. Arthur’s insurance, though as much as he could have afforded, was small—and in short, the American lawmakers had taken all these matters into account when they provided pensions for the widows of men who died for their country. Uncle Clarence knew this was a painful subject; he would have liked to spare her these details, in fact, he had already attended to everything, but there were a few forms to be filled out, and then her signature here, and here, and here —the banker dipped the pen into the ink and held it out, the handle pointing to her.
Elizabeth took the pen and looked at it an instant, then as though it were a horrid object she threw it down on the blotter and stood up. “No!” she exclaimed, and she meant it, though she could not just then have told what prompted her. “No. I don’t want the government to pay me for Arthur. I can earn my own living. I’d rather.”
Before they could reply she ran out of the bank, leaving Uncle Clarence to apologize for her strange behavior, and the banker to answer Uncle Clarence that it was quite all right, he understood, the poor girl was young and had no idea of money, and she had undoubtedly received a great blow, just come back when she’s more reasonable, glad to see you both any time.
Elizabeth was walking quickly along the street. She felt somehow strong and free, stronger and freer than she had felt since the day she had received that terrible telegram. All her senses were abruptly alert. She noticed that there was a tingle of spring in the air. People were walking fast, as if they had somewhere of importance to go. All of a sudden she stopped in front of a store window and said “Ah!”—not an audible exclamation, just the swift little catch of her breath that she would have given this time last year at the sight of a smart black hat with a red feather.
Her thrill was gone in an instant. She had time only to think, “Why, this is the first time I’ve noticed anything,” before the tiredness was back on her and she was saying to herself, “What difference does it make what I wear now?” Looking up at the store front, she remembered that she had bought many hats here in the past. One afternoon she had called Arthur and told him to pick her up here on his way home. He had come in while she was still hesitating, and had made the choice for her—“Here’s the one for you, Elizabeth, black with a red feather.” She caught her breath again, but this time it was to stifle a sob, and she hurried home as fast as she could.
Once at home she sat down tensely, asking herself with a sense of desperation, “Can’t I ever get away from this?” Then, suddenly, she became aware that in asking the question she had unconsciously, by the words she was using, provided the answer. She had to get away.
But though the answer had come, it was not clear. For a few moments this morning she had been exhilarated, until the hat with the feather had brought him back. What was it, she asked herself how, that had given her that brief bright sense of being alive again?
It was something that had happened at the bank. She had said she did not want to be paid for losing Arthur. No wonder they had heard her with such surprise, for on the face of it that was a foolish thing to say. Nobody could believe a war widow lost her self-respect by receiving a government pension. But her words had given her the impression of shaking off a burden. As she thought of it she remembered what else she had said. “I can earn my own living. I’d rather.”
Naturally they had been startled. She knew no more about e
arning her own living than a child. The idea of such a possibility had never occurred to her before. She had spoken without thinking, and yet she had somehow been thinking of something much more vital than the source of her income. She sought to recall it, more than once drawing back, for the operation was too painful to be continued without pause, but at last she found what she was looking for. “I was thinking of something, not about a pension or about my going to work. Just for a minute I got a flash of it and it was like being waked up with a dash of cold water—I know—I was realizing that I didn’t have to keep on being dependent on Arthur.”
That hurt. She stood up and walked around, her whole spirit protesting against the hurt of it. “I want to be dependent on him! I was so happy when all day I was thinking of him. ‘I’ll tell Arthur about this, he’ll laugh and laugh.’ ‘I must ask how she makes that sponge-cake, Arthur would love it.’ ‘Do you really like my bracelet? Arthur gave it to me.’ Arthur, Arthur, all the time, never anything but Arthur. Stop it, Elizabeth! I don’t care how it hurts, stop it! Arthur is dead. Yes, say it and get used to it. He’s dead, and you’re burning yourself up like those Oriental women who lie down on their husbands’ funeral pyres. Arthur wouldn’t want this. He loved living and he wasn’t afraid of dying, but he’d hate this imitation death you’ve been slipping into. If you’re ever going to be anything better than a sick vegetable, you’ve got to learn to count on yourself. The only minute you’ve felt alive since you lost Arthur was the minute you said you didn’t have to depend on him any more.”
But as she walked around the house, or looked out at the sidewalk and its familiar trees, she knew more and more certainly that as long as she stayed within sight of these things she would continue to lean on her memory of him. She would be, not an individual, but Arthur’s widow, a poor object standing around like something a traveler had forgotten to take with him on his journey. But if she turned down that pension and went to live in a strange environment it would mean she would have to take care of herself, no matter how much her resolution might waver. Her fists doubled up and her whole body tense with the effort, Elizabeth faced the necessity. She had to go. She was going.
She chose California because neither she nor Arthur had ever been there. Neither of them knew anybody who lived west of the Rockies, and there was nothing in California that would remind her of him. Once her decision was made she set about vigorously getting ready to leave Tulsa, doing everything briskly lest she be overwhelmed with the pain of parting. Her first act was to buy a ticket for Los Angeles. Having it there bolstered her determination on the occasions when she thought she could not go through with it. The ticket safely in her desk, she began deliberately to strip herself of the physical objects that linked her with Arthur. She had to do this, because if she had taken them with her she would simply have built up another home like this one, where she could not pick up any article of use without remembering that Arthur had touched it. She sold most of her household possessions, and what she could not sell she gave away. It was hard to do, but not as hard as it would have been to live among these reminders of her lost happiness. Her acquaintances were puzzled by her vehemence, and Aunt Grace was volubly shocked. They could not understand what she was doing, and believing like most other people that if they could not understand a matter it had no explanation, they said, “Who would have thought Elizabeth was so heartless?” Aunt Grace agreed sadly, and told them Elizabeth had not only sold the desk where Arthur had worked, but had even given his clothes to the Salvation Army. Oh well, said Uncle Clarence, Elizabeth was young, and the young were noted for their springing adaptability. But Aunt Grace shook her head. “She has no soul,” said Aunt Grace. “And after all we’ve tried to do for her.” Contemplation of Elizabeth’s lack of soul sometimes moved Aunt Grace to tears.
Since it was useless to explain to Aunt Grace, Elizabeth kept quiet and went on doing what she had to do. If she was going to leave, the break had to be entire. There was no other way. She parted with everything except a few keepsakes too precious to be given into alien hands, but even these she packed in a covered box which she put underneath the clothes in her trunk when she took the train for Los Angeles.
As she crossed the continent she looked out with amazement at the immensity of her native land. No book of geography had given her any conception of such space. This, she told herself as she looked out at the cities, the ranches, the desert, this was what Arthur had died for. Every acre of it was a safe place where Americans could live in security. Watching the states go by, Elizabeth felt as if she was drawing strength from the strength of her country.
In Los Angeles she learned to typewrite, and took the first job that offered itself through the employment office of the business school. It happened to be a minor clerkship in a law office, where a large part of the business was concerned with the contracts of Hollywood actors. This was before the days of the great agencies, and actors were supposed to handle their own contracts with the advice of privately retained lawyers. Elizabeth’s work was mostly routine, answering the telephone and copying legal documents, but the moving picture business was young and even her own small contact with its bounding growth was interesting enough to demand all her attention.
When she woke up in the morning she no longer faced the blankness of an empty day, and at night she was tired enough to go to sleep. She had an apartment consisting of one room with a bath and kitchenette, but she was not uncomfortable. With the other girls in the office she talked about the immediate affairs of the day. She never talked about Arthur. They had not known him and could not be interested in him, and this was the reason why she had come to California.
As for the men in the office, they might have been sexless for all the thought she gave them. The first time one of them asked her to have dinner with him she felt startled, with a curious under-feeling of resentment; but it was the most ordinary sort of invitation from a friendly young fellow who disliked eating alone, and she accepted, though still with a sense of strangeness. But they had a pleasant evening, talking about nothing more personal than the bad temper of their boss and the unreasonableness of all actors, and when she came back to her apartment she looked at herself in the glass thinking, “I do believe I’m getting normal again.”
She was getting normal again; she could feel it, like the return of equilibrium after dizziness. Her fellow-workers liked her and she was beginning to enjoy their companionship. When she got a promotion and a raise she felt a justification of herself that was real delight. As her job in the office brought her into contact with a great many employees of the moving picture industry, her acquaintance increased and with it her invitations. She lost her sense of strangeness at going about with men who were not Arthur. There were plenty of them to go out with, and there was nothing unpleasant in discovering again that she was an attractive woman. She did not try to pretend to herself that she was happy, but she was not unhappy either. There were still hours when she ached for Arthur but she was grateful for what she had.
She had been in California two years when she met Spratt Herlong.
Spratt worked in a studio publicity department. It was sometimes necessary for him to visit the office where Elizabeth was employed, to get information about screen players under contract to his company. The girls in the office liked him, because while he was always friendly he never stared meaningfully at their legs while he talked to them, or sat on their desks killing time that they would have to make up by staying an extra hour to finish the day’s assignment. Though she had not been long in Hollywood, Elizabeth had already had sufficient experience of both these habits to appreciate the lack of them. She observed also that Spratt worked hard and got results in the form of a great deal of magazine and newspaper space for the actresses he was paid to publicize, and her own brief career in the business world had taught her to admire anybody who concentrated his attention on doing his job well.
As Spratt was invariably good-humored and reasonab
le in his requests—in contrast to some of his colleagues, who were too impressed with ideas of their own importance to take the trouble of being either pleasant or reasonable with office clerks—she responded by giving him all the assistance she could, even when it meant extra effort on her part. Spratt was grateful, and proved it not only by telling her so but by sending her tickets to premieres, coming by to drive her home in the evening, or calling up for lunch or dinner. Elizabeth liked him increasingly. Before long she found herself hoping, when she started for work in the morning, that there would be a call from him to enliven her day.
Spratt was very unlike Arthur. Later, Elizabeth thought that one reason for her immediate pleasure in his company had been that he roused her interest without at the same time rousing her memories. Spratt was terse, practical and coolly ambitious. He liked the moving picture business and intended to be successful in it. His expectation had no elements of uncertainty—he was as matter-of-fact about it as a man who walks toward a chosen destination with the purpose of reaching it. Elizabeth had no doubt of his getting what he wanted. Spratt knew his trade. Though he had never done anything in a studio more important than direct publicity build-ups for actors, he had learned so much about how pictures were put together that he astonished her with his technical expertness. He rarely talked about himself, but he enjoyed talking about his business, and he regarded it, with characteristic clearness, as a business and not an art. “Look around you,” he said practically. “Hollywood is a factory town, where several big industrial plants manufacture a product that is packed in tin cans and shipped out to be sold to consumers. The honest manufacturers do their best to turn out a product that will be worth the money they get for it. That’s all.”