I moved to take her in my arms but she turned her head away. “Please,” she whispered, “don't kiss me.” There was a harsh, but barely audible, agony in her voice which brought a lump into my throat. At that moment I knew the full tragedy of war. War injects the virus of sadness into the veins of all and the innocent suffer along with the guilty. Sometimes I feel that the dead are the fortunate for they, at least, no longer have to look upon the wreckage.
The lorry driver began to honk away with renewed vigor. I knew that if I kept him any longer he was sure to drive off without me. Under my breath I cursed the restless fellow and, stooping quickly, I kissed Gilberte's forehead and ran to the road without a backward glance.
Needless to say, I felt very sad. Instinctively, I was aware that I would never see Nurse Monet again. My heart was cold with misgivings, as though some strange, dark traveller had passed close by and I had felt the swish of his cloak.
Once beside my heavily-moustached companion, I turned for a last glimpse of her but the thick foliage above the low garden wall cut off the view.
As the lorry rattled and banged along the rural roads, quaking in every inch of its ancient frame, I tore open Anita's letter. This, too, was short. The handwriting was a scrawl, almost childish in its carelessness.
July 22, 1919
Dear Peter,
Received your letters and am happy to note that you have recovered from your illness. I have some great news for you which ought to cheer you up. The Great Eastern Drug Company is interested in buying the store! They are offering an incredible sum. You know that that is the chain with drugstores in almost every city and town east of the Mississippi. We can consider ourselves fortunate that they are interested in our place rather than Cavender's. Probably, after they take over, they'll force him out of business. Peter, maybe if we sell the store we can live in New York. What do you think of that? You can open a place there,- you know. We can talk about it some more when I see you. Cable me what boat you'll be on and I'll meet you at the dock.
Anita.
That's all there was. I turned the letter over and over in my hands, searching for something that was not there....
Again no word of love.
PART TWO. THE GROWTH
I BELIEVE that I have succeeded in giving you a rough resume of the events which preceded my homecoming from France. I have not gone into any great detail; firstly, because it might in some way confuse the main issue; and secondly, because many of the less important incidents have blurred in my mind with the passing of the years.
I have neither invented anything nor colored the events to favor myself. I have not tried to find any excuse for the things I did or the emotions I experienced. You will admit that the portrait I have painted of myself in no way depicts a hero or a martyr. But I do pray that you will credit my out-spoken truthfulness—; which I am essaying at any cost—;by learning the whole story before you turn thumbs down.
I must confess that there was no malicious plot brewed to ruin me and mark-me a murderer; and I do not consider myself a victim of circumstance. My trial on an indictment of First Degree Murder was the essence of fair play; the jury that convicted me was composed of very honest, unprejudiced citizens who, after hearing the preponderance of unfavorable testimony in the case, voted the only plausible verdict. I daresay had I myself been a member of that jury and somebody else been on trial, I would have been quite in accord with that decision.
Really, there is only one person to be blamed: myself. Of course when you have learned of Anita's actions, you may form the opinion that she did a frightful thing—;and you will be quite right. However, if I had not been such a blind idiot, the whole thing might never have happened. And although I blame her for permitting me to marry her, I blame myself more. Certainly, any half-witted child could have detected something mighty peculiar about my marriage from the very first; and there is nothing quite as inexcusable as utter stupidity.
The entire voyage—;from the time the ship left Havre until we sighted the Statue of Liberty—;I spent in trying to disperse the growing doubts and fears which assailed me. If the war had done much to injure me—;and it undoubtedly had—;it also did something to help. By virtue of my long absence from her side, I was able to view Anita more objectively. I was able to pick out motives for this and that which I had never noticed before. The clearer insight, unfortunately, was not very pleasant because not only could I see Anita less obscurely, I also took frank stock of myself. What could she possibly have seen in me?
It may be that I have an inferiority complex; a neurologist who visited the prison during my term told me that I have. The fact that I always have felt self-conscious in a new hat or overcoat seems to bear him out in this contention. But whether it is true or not, when I married Anita the successful outcome of my suit at once inflated my ego and I began to feel that I was somebody. How could I have felt subservient to anyone when I had the most sought-after woman in town as my wife? It was not until the war took some of the wind out of my sails and I had read and re-read several of her friendly letters that I began to seriously wonder if she really did love me. If she did, I reasoned, it was a very cool sort of love and not at all like the fierce passions of the French.
Much to my dismay, she substantiated this dark thought of mine by the way she greeted me at the dock. Surrounding us on all sides were lovers, families and close friends being reunited, openly kissing and embracing one another. But when I spotted Anita—;looking perfectly beautiful—;and hugged and kissed her, she turned her face away to preclude the possibility of any repetition. Not only that, she murmured in a slightly irritated tone of voice: “Oh, please. Must you do that here?”
I laughed, though not very convincingly. “Darling, I don't care if the whole world knows I love you! I want them to know!”
I kissed her again, over and above her protests and she said, “Well, that's very sweet of you and all that, Peter. But must you....?”
At that moment a Customs officer interrupted the scene and I was grateful. Her marked indifference to my happiness at seeing her hurt me no end and, had we been alone, I think a scrap would have started. As it was, an hour later in a taxicab my repressed anger cooled and I slid an arm about her shoulders. She was far too exquisite to fight with and since she did not draw away from me or try to remove my arm, any suspicions I might have had—;that she no longer cared for me—;fled.
We checked in at the Martinique Hotel, having decided to stay in the city overnight before taking the train for Ithaca. The desk clerk, a war veteran himself, kept me in conversation—; much to Anita's disgust—;while I registered. Although I was very tired from the ordeal of the dock formalities, she insisted that I immediately go out and purchase some civilian clothes.
“That uniform will be the death of me,” she complained. “While you've got it on, anyone, even a street-cleaner, feels he's your equal. Besides, you're not an officer.”
At this, I demurred. “I want to bathe and take a nap for a few hours first, darling. It's much too hot to shop in this sun. The stores stay open until seven and I can buy them then. Right after I've put on the new duds, we can eat dinner.”
Anita sighed wearily, as though I was some idiot whom she was eternally fated to humor. “You're hopeless but I suppose there is nothing that can be done about it. All right. Have your nap. But be sure you wake up and get your shopping done in time for an early dinner. I want to go to the theatre tonight.”
I stared at her stupidly.
After having been separated from her husband for almost two years, she wanted to spend the first night of the reunion in a theatre!
Because I was unable to finish my medical course due to the sudden death of my mother, I am not a doctor; neither am I a psychoanalyst or a physiologist; but I am of the opinion that the sexual appetite of a person is the thermometer by which the degree of his or her love can be measured. By this I do not mean to infer that love is mere animal lust; certainly not. I do believe, though, that if a person
is in love, sex follows naturally and continues to fire both parties only just so long as mutual adoration remains.
All this, of course, is but a prelude to my telling you that Anita had to be coaxed.
I write of this in embarrassment for I cannot conquer the feeling that I am revealing secrets rightfully belonging not to me alone, but to a sacred partnership. As a matter of fact, this entire tale is difficult to tell since the greater part of it concerns a woman now dead and unable to admit or deny its implications.
This self-consciousness comes not from reviewing events which cannot be confirmed by concrete evidence, but because I realize that I am, in part, admitting the charges against me as set forth in the indictment. My attorney has pleaded with me to discontinue the writing of this manuscript, warning me that should it find its way into unfriendly hands it might be used against me. Despite everything he says, I have decided to ignore this potential danger. It is far more important to me that I be understood. Blame this on the newspapers which labelled me an insane killer and deliberately misquoted and misconstrued everything I said to reporters.
Perhaps my digressions confuse; if they do it is unintentional. Remember that I am only a druggist, temporarily borrowing the pen. If this work is ever completed, I am sure that the desire to write anything else will never infect me. As it is, I don't feel at all at home writing and, were it not for the fact that I wish to offer my side of the story, I would remain silent.
I have said that Anita had to be coaxed; and while some of you will disdainfully make the observation that I am hardly a person to arouse in any woman the warm efflux of genuine passion, at least I can lay claim that if this is so, I have always been the same. If Anita had been in love with me once—;and she must have been to have married me—;there was no plausible reason why she should suddenly change.
Be this as it may, when we returned to the hotel from the theatre that night, she manifested an obvious disinclination to retire to our room. She hung back in the lobby.
“Let's not go up yet,” she begged. “I don't want to go to bed. We're in New York so seldom, you know.”
“But we have a very long train ride tomorrow, Anita. We'll be all worn out....”
“Let's not, Peter. We can doze on the train.”
I looked at my watch. “But Anita darling! Don't you realize it's almost one o'clock! Where would you want to go at this hour of the morning?” '
She hesitated and bit her lower lip. “You had a nap this afternoon so you shouldn't be tired. We might,” she suggested after a brief moment of thought, “try one of those funny little cabarets below Fourteenth.”
Even with the nap I was feeling rather spent and I firmly objected to this whim, trying to laugh her out of the notion. Moreover, having been deprived of my wife for so long a time, I had eagerly anticipated the moment when I might once more have her to myself. I do not think that it was unreasonable of me to suppose that she shared this feeling. If she loved me, as I was sure she did, she, too was thirsting for me.
“But I do want to see the Village, Peter!”
“You will,” I promised. “We'll come down here soon again, you and I. And when we do,” I added with forced gaiety, “we'll do New York up brown.” I took her elbow and gently urged her away from the revolving door. “But not tonight, dear.”
“Is that a promise?” she asked skeptically.
“Cross my heart!”
Anita seemed to come along reluctantly and she was pouting as we entered the elevator and shot up to our floor. I put the key into the lock and kicked the door open with a bang. Happy that we were at last by ourselves for the remainder of the night, I became jubilant as a schoolboy. I lifted her slim body, kicking, in my arms and staggered with her over the threshold. Still weak from my long convalescence in France, I am afraid that I was breathing heavily as I deposited her on the double bed. She sprang to her feet as though rebounding from the bed-springs.
“Peter!” she protested testily. “What under the sun has gotten into you? You know better than to try that! You're certainly in no condition to...”
But I stopped the rapid flow of her words by covering her mouth with kisses. With my mouth pressed hard against her's, I forced her back onto the bed. Our feet in dusty shoes soiled the pillows. So tightly were we together that I could feel her pelvis bones against me and her teeth behind her closed mouth and her full, hard breasts.... With one hand I felt for the snaps at the side of her dress.
“I love you, Anita,” I groaned.
“You're hurting me,” she answered.
Some time later, as we lay on our backs and stared up at the dim expanse of the ceiling, Anita touched my arm. “Peter dear,” she whispered softly.
I thrilled at the affection in her tone. It at once brought to me a sense of contentment which complemented the delightful tranquil state that was now my body's. “Yes, sweetheart? What is it? Can I get you anything?”
Her voice came back to me, wistfully out of the shadows. “Can we live in New York after the store is sold? You know how much I love it here and... well, Ithaca has never seemed like home to me.”
I sat up in bed with a start. Anita was taking it for granted that I intended to sell out! Such, you may be sure, was not my plan. The thought of disposing of the thing I had dreamed about and worked for since its humble beginning four years before had not once merited my consideration. My store was now the largest of its kind in Ithaca and, since receiving Anita's letter informing me of Great Eastern's offer, I had been playing with the idea of opening a branch. Maybe I, too, would someday operate a chain of drugstores!
Something cautioned me, however, and I held my tongue. Everything was peaceful now; why spoil it? “We'll talk about it tomorrow,” I said and pounding my pillow with a fist, I dropped back and closed my eyes.
“You're a darling, Peter,” Anita went on and I felt cool fingers pass over my face in a soothing caress. “I just know you will. We can have a much better time here. Did you know that most of your friends have moved away since you left? Mrs. Burtleson and the Crespis and Walt Mandeville have all gone. Joe Crespi has a job selling Packards down here. Doing very well, too, I understand. And Myra Parsons got married to a Brooklyn man. He manages a factory or something. And she has a baby almost a year old, too. What do you think of that! Somehow I never thought of her becoming a mother! Always liked to gad about when I knew her. And oh, yes. Harvey Bond—;you remember him, don't you? Tall, funny-looking fellow with glasses and red hair? Sure you do. He used to live right next door to the Carpenter place on the Heights....”
She stopped short. I could almost hear her teeth snap shut. I am positive that she had not meant to mention that name. But though I opened my eyes in the darkness, I made sure not to move a muscle. I was certain that if I showed any sign that I had noticed the slip, she would be embarrassed or uncomfortable.
In a second, to cover up, she went on with a show of defiance. “Yes, and by the way, I hear that Leo Carpenter is down here somewhere. Somebody—;I think it was Tom Murphy—;said that he plans to go to Vienna soon to study. Lucky dog! His father left him a mint of money. He's about the only thing I've got against New York and he won't be here long, thank God.” She paused for a few minutes until I thought that she had gone to sleep. Just as I was congratulating myself that such was the case, she recommenced the one-sided debate. “So you see. Peter, about the only people left in Ithaca whom we know at all well are Mrs. Michaelson and that awful Turnbull person. And you couldn't call them friends very well, now could you?”
I did not answer her. I pretended that I had fallen asleep.
The next morning, much to Anita's disappointment, we boarded a train for Ithaca. I was in a state of high spirits; for returning to the town of my birth—;which many times during the war I had never expected to see again—;was a prospect both pleasant and exciting. I am one of those, I guess, whom the Cornell students slurringly refer to as “native sons.” I have rarely had the desire to go to the big city with its stal
e smells, its filthy streets and its unbearable noises; preferring to remain peaceful and perhaps slightly bored in the country areas. Anita, on the other hand, was moulded from different clay. But she didn't reveal her restless spirit until after we had been married.
To this very day, I don't know whether it was Ithaca or my own poor company that fired her with the wish to live in New York... or whether it was the desire to be near Leo Carpenter. The whole thing is as vague now as it was then. At times I am sure that her mind never toyed with thoughts of infidelity; and, whatever the world may think, I still accept Anita's statement that she was never untrue to me while I was away at war at its face value.
But I am forgetting myself and speaking of her as though she were still alive and not lying so stiff in her coffin.
The train had scarcely pulled out of the station when Anita introduced the subject I had this far managed to evade. I tried my utmost to be indefinite, reminding her that I had not as yet interviewed the agent for The Great Eastern and that I could not possibly decide one way or the other until a thorough examination of the terms they offered was made.
“Unless it is something extraordinary,” I said, “I think it might be wise to hold on to the place. The store has been newly equipped, you know. Besides, the lease I hold is very favorable and still has quite a long time to run. We don't need money badly enough to throw away a good thing, do we? The Great Eastern wouldn't be interested in the place if they didn't know it was a live investment.”
“Oh, you'll like the offer they're making, all right,” predicted Anita confidently. “Young Murphy couldn't believe his ears when the man approached him and named a tentative sum. How long do you think it will take before we can move, Peter? I've already spoken to the Carpenter Realty Company about putting the house on the market. They don't believe we'll have much trouble getting rid of it.”
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