“No one you know.”
“Maybe I do.”
Her words, falling like sharp claws on Yanci’s sensitive soul, were interrupted by an unintelligible outburst from the conductor. Scott bowed to Ellen, cast at Yanci one level glance and then hurried off.
The train started. As Ellen arranged her grip and threw off her fur coat Yanci looked around her. The car was gay with girls whose excited chatter filled the damp, rubbery air like smoke. Here and there sat a chaperon, a mass of decaying rock in a field of flowers, predicting with a mute and somber fatality the end of all gayety and all youth. How many times had Yanci herself been one of such a crowd, careless and happy, dreaming of the men she would meet, of the battered hacks waiting at the station, the snow-covered campus, the big open fires in the clubhouses, and the imported orchestra beating out defiant melody against the approach of morning.
And now — she was an intruder, uninvited, undesired. As at the Ritz on the day of her arrival, she felt that at any instant her mask would be torn from her and she would be exposed as a pretender to the gaze of all the car.
“Tell me everything!” Ellen was saying. “Tell me what you’ve been doing. I didn’t see you at any of the football games last fall.”
This was by way of letting Yanci know that she had attended them herself.
The conductor was bellowing from the rear of the car, “Manhattan Transfer next stop!”
Yanci’s cheeks burned with shame. She wondered what she had best do — meditating a confession, deciding against it, answering Ellen’s chatter in frightened monosyllables — then, as with an ominous thunder of brakes the speed of the train began to slacken, she sprang on a despairing impulse to her feet.
“My heavens!” she cried. “I’ve forgotten my shoes! I’ve got to go back and get them.”
Ellen reacted to this with annoying efficiency.
“I’ll take your suitcase,” she said quickly, “and you can call for it. I’ll be at the Charter Club.”
“No!” Yanci almost shrieked. “It’s got my dress in it!”
Ignoring the lack of logic in her own remark, she swung the suitcase off the rack with what seemed to her a super-human effort and went reeling down the aisle, stared at curiously by the arrogant eyes of many girls. When she reached the platform just as the train came to a stop she felt weak and shaken. She stood on the hard cement which marks the quaint old village of Manhattan Transfer and tears were streaming down her cheeks as she watched the unfeeling cars speed off to Princeton with their burden of happy youth.
After half an hour’s wait Yanci got on a train and returned to New York. In thirty minutes she had lost the confidence that a week had gained for her. She came back to her little room and lay down quietly upon the bed.
X
By Friday Yanci’s spirits had partly recovered from their chill depression. Scott’s voice over the telephone in mid-morning was like a tonic, and she told him of the delights of Princeton with convincing enthusiasm, drawing vicariously upon a prom she had attended there two years before. He was anxious to see her, he said. Would she come to dinner and the theater that night? Yanci considered, greatly tempted. Dinner — she had been economizing on meals, and a gorgeous dinner in some extravagant show place followed by a musical comedy appealed to her starved fancy, indeed; but instinct told her that the time was not yet right. Let him wait. Let him dream a little more, a little longer.
“I’m too tired, Scott,” she said with an air of extreme frankness; “that’s the whole truth of the matter. I’ve been out every night since I’ve been here, and I’m really half dead. I’ll rest up on this house party over the week-end and then I’ll go to dinner with you any day you want me.”
There was a minute’s silence while she held the phone expectantly.
“Lot of resting up you’ll do on a house party,” he replied; “and, anyway, next week is so far off. I’m awfully anxious to see you, Yanci.”
“So am I, Scott.”
She allowed the faintest caress to linger on his name. When she had hung up she felt happy again. Despite her humiliation on the train her plan had been a success. The illusion was still intact; it was nearly complete. And in three meetings and half a dozen telephone calls she had managed to create a tenser atmosphere between them than if he had seen her constantly in the moods and avowals and beguilements of an out-and-out flirtation.
When Monday came she paid her first week’s hotel bill. The size of it did not alarm her — she was prepared for that — but the shock of seeing so much money go, of realizing that there remained only one hundred and twenty dollars of her father’s present, gave her a peculiar sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She decided to bring guile to bear immediately, to tantalize Scott by a carefully planned incident, and then at the end of the week to show him simply and definitely that she loved him.
As a decoy for Scott’s tantalization she located by telephone a certain Jimmy Long, a handsome boy with whom she had played as a little girl and who had recently come to New York to work. Jimmy Long was deftly maneuvered into asking her to go to a matinee with him on Wednesday afternoon. He was to meet her in the lobby at two.
On Wednesday she lunched with Scott. His eyes followed her every motion, and knowing this she felt a great rush of tenderness toward him. Desiring at first only what he represented, she had begun half unconsciously to desire him also. Nevertheless, she did not permit herself the slightest relaxation on that account. The time was too short and the odds too great. That she was beginning to love him only fortified her resolve.
“Where are you going this afternoon?” he demanded.
“To a matinee — with an annoying man.”
“Why is he annoying?”
“Because he wants me to marry him and I don’t believe I want to.”
There was just the faintest emphasis on the word “believe.” The implication was that she was not sure — that is, not quite.
“Don’t marry him.”
“I won’t — probably.”
“Yanci,” he said in a low voice, “do you remember a night on that boulevard — — “
She changed the subject. It was noon and the room was full of sunlight. It was not quite the place, the time. When he spoke she must have every aspect of the situation in control. He must say only what she wanted said; nothing else would do.
“It’s five minutes to two,” she told him, looking at her wrist watch. “We’d better go. I’ve got to keep my date.”
“Do you want to go?”
“No,” she answered simply.
This seemed to satisfy him, and they walked out to the lobby. Then Yanci caught sight of a man waiting there, obviously ill at ease and dressed as no habitue of the Ritz ever was. The man was Jimmy Long, not long since a favored beau of his Western city. And now — his hat was green, actually! His coat, seasons old, was quite evidently the product of a well-known ready-made concern. His shoes, long and narrow, turned up at the toes. From head to foot everything that could possibly be wrong about him was wrong. He was embarrassed by instinct only, unconscious of his gaucherie, an obscene specter, a Nemesis, a horror.
“Hello, Yanci!” he cried, starting toward her with evident relief.
With a heroic effort Yanci turned to Scott, trying to hold his glance to herself. In the very act of turning she noticed the impeccability of Scott’s coat, his tie.
“Thanks for luncheon,” she said with a radiant smile. “See you tomorrow.”
Then she dived rather than ran for Jimmy Long, disposed of his outstretched hand and bundled him bumping through the revolving door with only a quick, “Let’s hurry!” to appease his somewhat sulky astonishment.
The incident worried her. She consoled herself by remembering that Scott had had only a momentary glance at the man, and that he had probably been looking at her anyhow. Nevertheless, she was horrified, and it is to be doubted whether Jimmy Long enjoyed her company enough to compensate for the cut-price, twentieth-row tickets he ha
d obtained at Black’s Drug Store.
But if Jimmy as a decoy had proved a lamentable failure, an occurrence of Thursday offered her considerable satisfaction and paid tribute to her quickness of mind. She had invented an engagement for luncheon, and Scott was going to meet her at two o’clock to take her to the Hippodrome. She lunched alone somewhat imprudently in the Ritz dining room and sauntered out almost side by side with a good-looking young man who had been at the table next to her. She expected to meet Scott in the outer lobby, but as she reached the entrance to the restaurant she saw him standing not far away.
On a lightning impulse she turned to the good-looking man abreast of her, bowed sweetly and said in an audible, friendly voice, “Well, I’ll see you later.”
Then before he could even register astonishment she faced about quickly and joined Scott.
“Who was that?” he asked, frowning.
“Isn’t he darling-looking?”
“If you like that sort of looks.”
Scott’s tone implied that the gentleman referred to was effete and overdressed. Yanci laughed, impersonally admiring the skillfulness of her ruse.
It was in preparation for that all-important Saturday night that on Thursday she went into a shop on Forty-second Street to buy some long gloves. She made her purchase and handed the clerk a fifty-dollar bill so that her lightened pocketbook would feel heavier with the change she could put in. To her surprise the clerk tendered her the package and a twenty-five-cent piece.
“Is there anything else?”
“The rest of my change.”
“You’ve got it. You gave me five dollars. Four-seventy-five for the gloves leaves twenty-five cents.”
“I gave you fifty dollars.”
“You must be mistaken.”
Yanci searched her purse.
“I gave you fifty!” she repeated frantically.
“No, ma’am, I saw it myself.”
They glared at each other in hot irritation. A cash girl was called to testify, then the floor manager; a small crowd gathered.
“Why, I’m perfectly sure!” cried Yanci, two angry tears trembling in her eyes. “I’m positive!”
The floor manager was sorry, but the lady really must have left it at home. There was no fifty-dollar bill in the cash drawer. The bottom was creaking out of Yanci’s rickety world.
“If you’ll leave your address,” said the floor manager, “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
“Oh, you damn fools!” cried Yanci, losing control. “I’ll get the police!”
And weeping like a child she left the shop. Outside, helplessness overpowered her. How could she prove anything? It was after six and the store was closing even as she left it. Whichever employee had the fifty-dollar bill would be on her way home now before the police could arrive, and why should the New York police believe her, or even give her fair play?
In despair she returned to the Ritz where she searched through her trunk for the bill with hopeless and mechanical gestures. It was not there. She had known it would not be there. She gathered every penny together and found that she had fifty-one dollars and thirty cents. Telephoning the office, she asked that her bill be made out up to the following noon — she was too dispirited to think of leaving before then.
She waited in her room, not daring even to send for ice water. Then the phone rang and she heard the room clerk’s voice, cheerful and metallic.
“Miss Bowman?”
“Yes.”
“Your bill, including tonight, is ex-act-ly fifty-one twenty.”
“Fifty-one twenty?” Her voice was trembling.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you very much.”
Breathless, she sat there beside the telephone, too frightened now to cry. She had ten cents left in the world!
XI
Friday. She had scarcely slept. There were dark rings under her eyes, and even a hot bath followed by a cold one failed to arouse her from a despairing lethargy. She had never fully realized what it would mean to be without money in New York; her determination and vitality seemed to have vanished at last with her fifty-dollar bill. There was no help for it now — she must attain her desire today or never.
She was to meet Scott at the Plaza for tea. She wondered — was it her imagination, or had his manner been consciously cool the afternoon before? For the first time in several days she had needed to make no effort to keep the conversation from growing sentimental. Suppose he had decided that it must come to nothing — that she was too extravagant, too frivolous. A hundred eventualities presented themselves to her during the morning — a dreary morning, broken only by her purchase of a ten-cent bun at a grocery store.
It was her first food in twenty hours, but she self-consciously pretended to the grocer to be having an amusing and facetious time in buying one bun. She even asked to see his grapes, but told him, after looking at them appraisingly — and hungrily — that she didn’t think she’d buy any. They didn’t look ripe to her, she said. The store was full of prosperous women who, with thumb and first finger joined and held high in front of them, were inspecting food. Yanci would have liked to ask one of them for a bunch of grapes. Instead she went up to her room in the hotel and ate her bun.
When four o’clock came she found that she was thinking more about the sandwiches she would have for tea than of what must occur there, and as she walked slowly up Fifth Avenue toward the Plaza she felt a sudden faintness which she took several deep breaths of air to overcome. She wondered vaguely where the bread line was. That was where people in her condition should go — but where was it? How did one find out? She imagined fantastically that it was in the phone book under B, or perhaps under N, for New York Bread Line.
She reached the Plaza. Scott’s figure, as he stood waiting for her in the crowded lobby, was a personification of solidity and hope.
“Let’s hurry!” she cried with a tortured smile. “I feel rather punk and I want some tea.”
She ate a club sandwich, some chocolate ice cream and six tea biscuits. She could have eaten much more, but she dared not. The eventuality of her hunger having been disposed of, she must turn at bay now and face this business of life, represented by the handsome young man who sat opposite watching her with some emotion whose import she could not determine just behind his level eyes.
But the words, the glance, subtle, pervasive and sweet, that she had planned, failed somehow to come.
“Oh, Scott,” she said in a low voice, “I’m so tired.”
“Tired of what?” he asked coolly.
“Of — everything.”
There was a silence.
“I’m afraid,” she said uncertainly — “I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep that date with you tomorrow.”
There was no pretense in her voice now. The emotion was apparent in the waver of each word, without intention or control.
“I’m going away.”
“Are you? Where?”
His tone showed strong interest, but she winced as she saw that that was all.
“My aunt’s come back. She wants me to join her in Florida right away.”
“Isn’t this rather unexpected?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be coming back soon?” he said after a moment.
“I don’t think so. I think we’ll go to Europe from — from New Orleans.”
“Oh!”
Again there was a pause. It lengthened. In the shadow of a moment it would become awkward, she knew. She had lost — well? Yet, she would go on to the end.
“Will you miss me?”
“Yes.”
One word. She caught his eyes, wondered for a moment if she saw more there than that kindly interest; then she dropped her own again.
“I like it — here at the Plaza,” she heard herself saying.
They spoke of things like that. Afterwards she could never remember what they said. They spoke — even of the tea, of the thaw that was ended and the cold coming down outside
. She was sick at heart and she seemed to herself very old. She rose at last.
“I’ve got to tear,” she said. “I’m going out to dinner.”
To the last she would keep on — the illusion, that was the important thing. To hold her proud lies inviolate — there was only a moment now. They walked toward the door.
“Put me in a taxi,” she said quietly. “I don’t feel equal to walking.”
He helped her in. They shook hands.
“Good-by, Scott,” she said.
“Good-by, Yanci,” he answered slowly.
“You’ve been awfully nice to me. I’ll always remember what a good time you helped to give me this two weeks.”
“The pleasure was mine. Shall I tell the driver the Ritz?”
“No. Just tell him to drive out Fifth. I’ll tap on the glass when I want him to stop.”
Out Fifth! He would think, perhaps, that she was dining on Fifth. What an appropriate finish that would be! She wondered if he were impressed. She could not see his face clearly, because the air was dark with the snow and her own eyes were blurred by tears.
“Good-by,” he said simply.
He seemed to realize that any pretense of sorrow on his part would be transparent. She knew that he did not want her.
The door slammed, the car started, skidding in the snowy street.
Yanci leaned back dismally in the corner. Try as she might, she could not see where she had failed or what it was that had changed his attitude toward her. For the first time in her life she had ostensibly offered herself to a man — and he had not wanted her. The precariousness of her position paled beside the tragedy of her defeat.
She let the car go on — the cold air was what she needed, of course. Ten minutes had slipped away drearily before she realized that she had not a penny with which to pay the driver.
“It doesn’t matter,” she thought. “They’ll just send me to jail, and that’s a place to sleep.”
She began thinking of the taxi driver.
“He’ll be mad when he finds out, poor man. Maybe he’s very poor, and he’ll have to pay the fare himself.” With a vague sentimentality, she began to cry.
Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated) Page 308