“It’s nothing to me, but I cannot see your only daughter throw away her life on a dissipated man. If I had a daughter of my own who was about to throw away her life, I would want somebody to tell me, and so I have come to tell you. Of course, after this I cannot stay in your house, and so I bid you good-by.”
At quarter after twelve, waiting anxiously in the drawing-room, he heard Mr. Dorsey come in. He rushed downstairs, but Mr. Dorsey had already entered the lift and closed the door. Turning about, Basil raced against the machine to the third story and caught him in the hall.
“In regard to your daughter,” he began excitedly--”in regard to your daughter--”
“Well,” said Mr. Dorsey, “is something the matter with Jobena?”
“I want to talk to you about her.”
Mr. Dorsey laughed. “Are you going to ask her hand in marriage?”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, suppose we have a talk after dinner when we’re full of turkey and stuffing, and feeling happy.”
He clapped his hand on Basil’s shoulder and went on into his room.
It was a large family dinner party, and under cover of the conversation Basil kept an attentive eye on Jobena, trying to determine her desperate intention from her clothes and the expression of her face. She was adept at concealing her real emotions, as he had discovered this morning, but once or twice he saw her eyes wander to her watch and a look of abstraction come into them.
There was coffee afterward in the library, and, it seemed to Basil, interminable chatter. When Jobena arose suddenly and left the room, he moved just as quickly to Mr. Dorsey’s side.
“Well, young man, what can I do for you?”
“Why--” Basil hesitated.
“Now is the time to ask me--when I’m well fed and happy.”
“Why--” Again Basil stopped.
“Don’t be shy. It’s something about my Jobena.”
But a peculiar thing had happened to Basil. In sudden detachment he saw himself from the outside--saw himself sneaking to Mr. Dorsey, in a house in which he was a guest, to inform against a girl.
“Why--” he repeated blankly.
“The question is: Can you support her?” said Mr. Dorsey jovially. “And the second is: Can you control her?”
“I forgot what it was I wanted to say,” Basil blurted out.
He hurried from the library, his brain in a turmoil. Dashing upstairs, he knocked at the door of Jobena’s room. There was no answer and he opened the door and glanced inside. The room was empty, but a half-packed suitcase lay on the bed.
“Jobena,” he called anxiously. There was no answer. A maid passing along the hall told him Miss Jobena was having a marcel wave in her mother’s room.
He hurried downstairs and into his hat and coat, racking his brains for the address where they had dropped Skiddy De Vinci the other afternoon. Sure that he would recognize the building, he drove down Lexington Avenue in a taxi, tried three doors, and trembled with excitement as he found the name “Leonard Edward Davies De Vinci” on a card beside a bell. When he rang, a latch clicked on an inner door.
He had no plan. Failing argument, he had a vague melodramatic idea of knocking him down, tying him up and letting him lie there until it blew over. In view of the fact that Skiddy outweighed him by forty pounds, this was a large order.
Skiddy was packing--the overcoat he tossed hastily over his suitcase did not serve to hide this fact from Basil. There was an open bottle of whisky on his littered dresser, and beside it a half-full glass.
Concealing his surprise, he invited Basil to sit down.
“I had to come and see you”--Basil tried to make his voice calm--”about Jobena.”
“Jobena?” Skiddy frowned. “What about her? Did she send you here?”
“Oh, no.” Basil swallowed hard, stalling for time. “I thought--maybe you could advise me--you see, I don’t think she likes me, and I don’t know why.”
Skiddy’s face relaxed. “That’s nonsense. Of course she likes you. Have a drink?”
“No. At least not now.”
Skiddy finished his glass. After a slight hesitation he removed his overcoat from the suitcase.
“Excuse me if I go on packing, will you? I’m going out of town.”
“Certainly.”
“Better have a drink.”
“No, I’m on the water wagon--just now.”
“When you get worrying about nothing, the thing to do is to have a drink.”
The phone rang and he answered it, squeezing the receiver close to his ear:
“Yes. . . . I can’t talk now. . . . Yes. . . . At half-past five then. It’s now about four. . . . I’ll explain why when I see you. . . . Good-by.” He hung up. “My office,” he said with affected nonchalance . . . “Won’t you have a little drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Never worry. Enjoy yourself.”
“It’s hard to be visiting in a house and know somebody doesn’t like you.”
“But she does like you. Told me so herself the other day.”
While Skiddy packed they discussed the question. He was a little hazy and extremely nervous, and a single question asked in the proper serious tone would send him rambling along indefinitely. As yet Basil had evolved no plan save to stay with Skiddy and wait for the best opportunity of coming into the open.
But staying with Skiddy was going to be difficult; he was becoming worried at Basil’s tenacity. Finally he closed his suitcase with one of those definite snaps, took down a large drink quickly and said:
“Well, guess I ought to get started.”
They went out together and Skiddy hailed a taxi.
“Which way are you going?” Basil asked.
“Uptown--I mean downtown.”
“I’ll ride with you,” volunteered Basil. “We might--we might have a drink in the--Biltmore.”
Skiddy hesitated. “I’ll drop you there,” he said.
When they reached the Biltmore, Basil made no move to get out.
“You’re coming in with me, aren’t you?” he asked in a surprised voice.
Frowning, Skiddy looked at his watch. “I haven’t got much time.”
Basil’s face fell; he sat back in the car.
“Well, there’s no use my going in alone, because I look sort of young and they wouldn’t give me anything unless I was with an older man.”
The appeal succeeded. Skiddy got out, saying, “I’ll have to hurry,” and they went into the bar.
“What’ll it be?”
“Something strong,” Basil said, lighting his first cigarette in a month.
“Two stingers,” ordered Skiddy.
“Let’s have something really strong.”
“Two double stingers then.”
Out of the corner of his eye Basil looked at the clock. It was twenty after five. Waiting until Skiddy was in the act of taking down his drink he signalled to the waiter to repeat the order.
“Oh, no!” cried Skiddy.
“You’ll have to have one on me.”
“You haven’t touched yours.”
Basil sipped his drink, hating it. He saw that with the new alcohol Skiddy had relaxed a little.
“Got to be going,” he said automatically. “Important engagement.”
Basil had an inspiration.
“I’m thinking of buying a dog,” he announced.
“Don’t talk about dogs,” said Skiddy mournfully. “I had an awful experience about a dog. I’ve just got over it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I don’t even like to talk about it; it was awful.”
“I think a dog is the best friend a man has,” Basil said.
“Do you?” Skiddy slapped the table emphatically with his open hand. “So do I, Lee. So do I.”
“Nobody ever loves him like a dog,” went on Basil, staring off sentimentally into the distance.
The second round of double stingers arrived.
“Let me tell you about my do
g that I lost,” said Skiddy. He looked at his watch. “I’m late, but a minute won’t make any difference, if you like dogs.”
“I like them better than anything in the world.” Basil raised his first glass, still half full. “Here’s to man’s best friend--a dog.”
They drank. There were tears in Skiddy’s eyes.
“Let me tell you. I raised this dog Eggshell from a pup. He was a beauty--an Airedale, sired by McTavish VI.”
“I bet he was a beauty.”
“He was! Let me tell you--”
As Skiddy warmed to his subject, Basil pushed his new drink toward Skiddy, whose hand presently closed upon the stem. Catching the bartender’s attention, he ordered two more. The clock stood at five minutes of six.
Skiddy rambled on. Ever afterward the sight of a dog story in a magazine caused Basil an attack of acute nausea. At half-past six Skiddy rose uncertainly.
“I’ve gotta go. Got important date. Be mad.”
“All right. We’ll stop by the bar and have one more.”
The bartender knew Skiddy and they talked for a few minutes, for time seemed of no account now. Skiddy had a drink with his old friend to wish him luck on a very important occasion. Then he had another.
At a quarter before eight o’clock Basil piloted Leonard Edward Davies De Vinci from the hotel bar, leaving his suitcase in care of the bartender.
“Important engagement,” Skiddy mumbled as they hailed a taxi.
“Very important,” Basil agreed. “I’m going to see that you get there.”
When the car rolled up, Skiddy tumbled in and Basil gave the address to the driver.
“Good-by and thanks!” Skiddy called fervently. “Ought to go in, maybe, and drink once more to best friend man ever had.”
“Oh, no,” said Basil, “it’s too important.”
“You’re right. It’s too important.”
The car rolled off and Basil followed it with his eye as it turned the corner. Skiddy was going out on Long Island to visit Eggshell’s grave.
IV
Basil had never had a drink before and, now with his jubilant relief, the three cocktails that he had been forced to down mounted swiftly to his head. On his way to the Dorseys’ house he threw back his head and roared with laughter. The self-respect he had lost last night rushed back to him; he felt himself tingling with the confidence of power.
As the maid opened the door for him he was aware subconsciously that there was someone in the lower hall. He waited till the maid disappeared; then stepping to the door of the coat room, he pulled it open. Beside her suitcase stood Jobena, wearing a look of mingled impatience and fright. Was he deceived by his ebullience or, when she saw him, did her face lighten with relief?
“Hello.” She took off her coat and hung it up as if that was her purpose there, and came out under the lights. Her face, pale and lovely, composed itself, as if she had sat down and folded her hands.
“George was looking for you,” she said indifferently.
“Was he? I’ve been with a friend.”
With an expression of surprise she sniffed the faint aroma of cocktails.
“But my friend went to visit his dog’s tomb, so I came home.”
She stiffened suddenly. “You’ve been with Skiddy?”
“He was telling me about his dog,” said Basil gravely. “A man’s best friend is his dog after all.”
She sat down and stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Has Skiddy passed out?”
“He went to see a dog.”
“Oh, the fool!” she cried.
“Were you expecting him? Is it possible that that’s your suitcase?”
“It’s none of your business.”
Basil took it out of the closet and deposited it in the elevator.
“You won’t need it tonight,” he said.
Her eyes shone with big despairing tears.
“You oughtn’t to drink,” she said brokenly. “Can’t you see what it’s made of him?”
“A man’s best friend is a stinger.”
“You’re just sixteen. I suppose all that you told me the other afternoon was a joke--I mean, about the perfect life.”
“All a joke,” he agreed.
“I thought you meant it. Doesn’t anybody ever mean anything?”
“I like you better than any girl I ever knew,” Basil said quietly. “I mean that.”
“I liked you, too, until you said that about my kissing people.”
He went and stood over her and took her hand.
“Let’s take the bag upstairs before the maid comes in.”
They stepped into the dark elevator and closed the door.
“There’s a light switch somewhere,” she said.
Still holding her hand, he drew her close and tightened his arm around her in the darkness. “Just for this once we don’t need the light.”
Going back on the train, George Dorsey came to a sudden resolution. His mouth tightened.
“I don’t want to say anything, Basil--” He hesitated. “But look--Did you have something to drink Thanksgiving Day?”
Basil frowned and nodded.
“Sometimes I’ve got to,” he said soberly. “I don’t know what it is. All my family died of liquor.”
“Gee!” exclaimed George.
“But I’m through. I promised Jobena I wouldn’t touch anything more till I’m twenty-one. She feels that if I go on with this constant dissipation it’ll ruin my life.”
George was silent for a moment.
“What were you and she talking about those last few days? Gosh, I thought you were supposed to be visiting me.”
“It’s--it’s sort of sacred,” Basil said placidly. . . . “Look here; if we don’t have anything fit to eat for dinner, let’s get Sam to leave the pantry window unlocked tonight.”
FIRST BLOOD
“I remember your coming to me in despair when Josephine was about three!” cried Mrs. Bray. “George was furious because he couldn’t decide what to go to work at, so he used to spank little Josephine.”
“I remember,” said Josephine’s mother.
“And so this is Josephine.”
This was, indeed, Josephine. She looked at Mrs. Bray and smiled, and Mrs. Bray’s eyes hardened imperceptibly. Josephine kept on smiling.
“How old are you, Josephine?”
“Just sixteen.”
“Oh-h. I would have said you were older.”
At the first opportunity Josephine asked Mrs. Perry, “Can I go to the movies with Lillian this afternoon?”
“No, dear; you have to study.” She turned to Mrs. Bray as if the matter were dismissed--but: “You darn fool,” muttered Josephine audibly.
Mrs. Bray said some words quickly to cover the situation, but, of course, Mrs. Perry could not let it pass unreproved.
“What did you call mother, Josephine?”
“I don’t see why I can’t go to the movies with Lillian.”
Her mother was content to let it go at this.
“Because you’ve got to study. You go somewhere every day, and your father wants it to stop.”
“How crazy!” said Josephine, and she added vehemently, “How utterly insane! Father’s got to be a maniac I think. Next thing he’ll start tearing his hair and think he’s Napoleon or something.”
“No,” interposed Mrs. Bray jovially as Mrs. Perry grew rosy. “Perhaps she’s right. Maybe George is crazy--I’m sure my husband’s crazy. It’s this war.”
But she was not really amused; she thought Josephine ought to be beaten with sticks.
They were talking about Anthony Harker, a contemporary of Josephine’s older sister.
“He’s divine,” Josephine interposed--not rudely, for, despite the foregoing, she was not rude; it was seldom even that she appeared to talk too much, though she lost her temper, and swore sometimes when people were unreasonable. “He’s perfectly--”
“He’s very popular. Personally, I don’t see very much to him. He seem
s rather superficial.”
“Oh, no, mother,” said Josephine. “He’s far from it. Everybody says he has a great deal of personality--which is more than you can say of most of these jakes. Any girl would be glad to get their hands on him. I’d marry him in a minute.”
She had never thought of this before; in fact, the phrase had been invented to express her feeling for Travis de Coppet. When, presently, tea was served, she excused herself and went to her room.
It was a new house, but the Perrys were far from being new people. They were Chicago Society, and almost very rich, and not uncultured as things went thereabouts in 1914. But Josephine was an unconscious pioneer of the generation that was destined to “get out of hand.”
In her room she dressed herself for going to Lillian’s house, thinking meanwhile of Travis de Coppet and of riding home from the Davidsons’ dance last night. Over his tuxedo, Travis had worn a loose blue cape inherited from an old-fashioned uncle. He was tall and thin, an exquisite dancer, and his eyes had often been described by female contemporaries as “very dark”--to an adult it appeared that he had two black eyes in the collisional sense, and that probably they were justifiably renewed every night; the area surrounding them was so purple, or brown, or crimson, that they were the first thing you noticed about his face, and, save for his white teeth, the last. Like Josephine, he was also something new. There were a lot of new things in Chicago then, but lest the interest of this narrative be divided, it should be remarked that Josephine was the newest thing of all.
Dressed, she went down the stairs and through a softly opening side door, out into the street. It was October and a harsh breeze blew her along under trees without leaves, past houses with cold corners, past caves of the wind that were the mouths of residential streets. From that time until April, Chicago is an indoor city, where entering by a door is like going into another world, for the cold of the lake is unfriendly and not like real northern cold--it serves only to accentuate the things that go on inside. There is no music outdoors, or love-making, and even in prosperous times the wealth that rolls by in limousines is less glamorous than embittering to those on the sidewalk. But in the houses there is a deep, warm quiet, or else an excited, singing noise, as if those within were inventing things like new dances. That is part of what people mean when they say they love Chicago.
Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated) Page 211