My American

by Stella Gibbons

  “Dan?” For the moment she did not know who he meant. She had been away from home so much during the last year that her memory of local characters was a little dimmed, and in any case she had never been interested in local characters whose activities lay, so to speak, south of the tracks. All her folks, her friends and her interests, lay north of the tracks in the pleasant residential district. And Dan had left Vine Falls years ago.

  “Dan Carr.”

  Then she remembered.

  “But——!” she began—and was silent.

  “Sure,” said Bob hardly, “you remember now.”

  “But why are you meeting him, Bob? Isn’t he dangerous?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he want to see you for?”

  “We’re going on a little trip together.”

  She was silent, too appalled to speak. Terrified thoughts whirled round and round in her head as she wondered wildly what to do.

  “You see,” Bob went on, in the same indifferent voice, “I’m not going back to the Owen Vallance next term.”

  “Because of what’s happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bob,” began Helen, trying to speak in her usual voice, “Everybody knows how bad you feel about this. You can’t believe anyone thinks you did it on purpose.”

  “I don’t care what in hell they think.”

  “Well, then. Why’re you going with Dan? All you’ve got to do is to go away for a while, and when you come back, maybe—maybe people’ll have forgotten——”

  Her hands were trembling so, and her voice, that he noticed, and said, “You’d better let me drive.”

  “But you mustn’t.”

  “Who’s to see me, out here?”

  Silently she let him get into the driver’s seat, and settled herself beside him, pulling her fur jacket tightly round her, for she was very cold. Oh, how she longed to keep silent! To sit beside him as the car went on through the dusk, between the lonely fields covered with snow, and not force herself to speak, and him to answer! But she was so frightened by what he had said that she forced herself to go on. I must find out where he’s going, and what he’s going to do, she thought.

  “Does your father know you’re going with Dan?” she asked at last, with an effort.

  “Yes.”

  “But … didn’t he … what did he say?”

  “Told me to quit.”

  “Told you to quit?” she repeated, slowly. “But I can’t believe it! Why?”

  “He thinks I’m ungrateful,” said Bob. She could tell by his voice that he was smiling, and turned quickly to look at him. But it was too dark to see his face.

  “Why?”

  “He fixed up a swell crook lawyer for me, didn’t he? I ought to be grateful.”

  “But, Bob——” she said, and then was silent again.

  “You were going to say I knew what they were up to, and I needn’t have stood for it.”

  “Well … I was, yes.”

  “Oh yes, I knew all right. But I couldn’t face up to things. So I let Dad and Schroder fix it.”

  She was still silent, for she could not think of a word to say.

  “I kept on thinking about the work,” he said suddenly. “I kept on thinking it would finish me, if I went to prison, and I could never be a doctor. Dad said it would, too. So I let them talk me into it.”

  “You don’t know that it really was Schroeder who got you off, Bob. The jury might have brought in Not Guilty anyway.” She was trying desperately to persuade him that he was not to blame.

  “They were fixed, too.”

  “What?” Then she really did turn to face him, swinging right round in her seat, and staring at his profile in the dusk, as though she had not properly heard what he said. “What did you say?”

  “I said, the jury was fixed. Dan did it.”

  “But——”

  “Francey was with me on the night of the smash. When I came round, she’d gone, but Dan called me up next day and asked me not to say she’d been with me.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t want the police to pick her up and third degree her about him.”

  “But he couldn’t fix the whole twelve!”

  “He didn’t have to. There were only two who were likely to want fixing. All the others … knew me … and of course Judge Bronson was all right.”

  She nodded. Judge Bronson was an old friend of Bob’s family, as he was of her’s.

  “Dan said if I didn’t say Francey was with me, he’d take care of the jury for me. And I let him.”

  “I think you were right!” she cried, with tears running down her face. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t mean to kill Sally. It’s more important that you should go ahead with your work than—than——”

  “You think so?” he said indifferently. “I don’t. I used to think I was the type to make a doctor. Now I don’t. First I kill a kid speeding, then I can’t stand up to a fair trial. Swell doctor I should have made.”

  “But what will you do, when—when you come back, if you’re not going to be a doctor?”

  There was a pause. Then he said:

  “I don’t know.”

  But she knew that he meant—“I’m not coming back.”

  For a long time they drove without speaking. She was crying quietly, helplessly. But even while she bit her lips to keep back sobs, and wiped away the tears that seemed as if they would never stop coming into her eyes, her mind was racing wildly, trying to think of a way to help him, to stop him going with Dan. But she could not think of a thing to do, for she was so alarmed by his looks and manner that all her usual ease with him had gone. In all the twenty-odd years that they had played and worked together, he had never once knowingly hurt her or failed to show affection and concern for her welfare; and what really drove home to her, now, the change in him, was the fact that he had not once thanked her for coming out in the snow to drive him up into the mountains, nor wondered if she would get home safely, nor said one word to show that he had ever felt the slightest affection for her. To sit beside him, and to feel that he was unaware of her misery, and would have been indifferent to it had she suddenly cried it at him, was to her the most dreadful part of this dreadful drive.

  At last she said:

  “Surely Aunt Sharlie doesn’t know you’re going, Bob?”

  He shook his head.

  “She was out.”

  “But Bob!” she exclaimed, “you can’t let her come home and just find you gone like that! You can’t! Think how she’ll feel! Please, please, darling, don’t be like this! We all … love you so much. …” She stumbled over the words, “and we’ll help you to win through if you’ll only stay with us. Please, please, don’t go with Dan!”

  “Oh … leave me alone,” he answered in a low impatient tone. “I’m not going to turn gangster, if that’s what you’re worrying about. I just want a little holiday, that’s all. I’ll find a job, maybe. Dan said he’s got one for me, as a matter of fact.”

  He spoke quickly, almost gabbling, as if his own control was nearly at an end.

  “But if we all helped—even if you don’t want me—I mean, if you’d only stay with us——”

  Then he suddenly turned violently on her.

  “Can’t you see I don’t want to stay with all of you? You’d all remind me all the time how I let Dad and Schroeder fix things. I want to get away. I’ll be all right with Dan. I know him and he knows me. Now leave me alone.”

  His voice was frighteningly loud, echoing over the dim fields mantled with snow. Helen shrank from the big figure that shouted at her and made uncontrollable movements, as though the misery inside it must escape, and said faintly: “Don’t … don’t. …”

  She heard a voice in her heart saying reassuringly: “This is Bob. It’s only Bob,” but she could not believe it.

  There was a long silence, while he sat staring at his hands on the wheel. She could feel his body trembling and did not dare to speak. At last he st
arted the car and they moved on.

  She was very frightened. It seemed to her that Bob had gone suddenly crazy. She still did not believe that he was going with Dan and might never come back; she kept expecting that he would suddenly turn to her and say: “I must have been crazy. Let’s go home.” But the minutes passed, and suddenly she could see lights far ahead on the dark mountainside, and still Bob did not say a word.

  So at last they came to the Black Lake Inn, and he stopped the car a little way down the road from the entrance. The hotel was open, and evidently the mild weather before the snowstorm had tempted some visitors to it, for one or two cars were parked outside and the radio was playing in the bar. Black pine forests shut the building in on three sides, and far below in a little valley there was a gleam, where the lake was just beginning to reflect the rising moon. The air was cold and still, yet awake.

  Bob groped at his feet for his case, and she suddenly sat up, realizing with a shock that it was here he was going to leave her.

  “Please, Bob. Please don’t go,” she said, trying to speak sensibly.

  He did not answer, and she stared at him while he got out of the car. He slammed the door, and stood for a second with his hand on it. The faint light from the windows of the Inn shone on the line of his cheekbones and the dark patches of shadow that were his eyes and on his mouth, still tender with youth. He was looking at her as though he did not see her.

  “Darling,” she said, staring at him, but the word was a whisper lost in the fur of her hood.

  “G’d-bye,” he muttered, looking at her. The faint light shone on her beautiful pale face in the raccoon fur hood. It seemed as though he would say something more, but he did not. He turned away, and walked on with his shoulders hunched against the cold, and she saw him go through the door of the bar, and disappear.

  Helen sat there for a long time. One or two cars came up and people got out and went into the Inn. It was quite dark now, and the moon was sailing above the pines, making the snow glitter. She wondered if she should go into the bar and look for Bob, but she was afraid. She was afraid of Dan, of the far-off whisper of violence that seemed to hover in the air when Bob had spoken his name. If she went in there to look for Bob, Dan might shoot her. Things like that happened every day.

  At last she moved, shivering in her fur, and slid into the driver’s seat again and started the engine. I’ll drive to Gow Flats, she decided, and call up Uncle Webster from there. That’s all I can do.

  There was a gasolene station at Gow Flats, a village five miles back on the Vine Falls road, and from there she got through to the town.

  “Hullo there,” said Myron’s voice, sulkily.

  “Myron? This is Helen. Get Mr. Webster for me, will you, it’s important.”

  “He ain’t in.”

  “Well—Lou, then—anybody. Only do hurry!”

  “What’s the grief? Everybody’s out.”

  “Oh——!” Helen swayed from side to side, distracted. “It’s Bob. He’s in trouble.” She was thankful to have Myron at the other end of the line, who had known them all as children.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “He says he’s going off with Dan Carr.”

  “Gone off with that rat? He’s crazy!” came back the sharp New England voice, suddenly high up in the nose, supercilious yet shocked.

  “Oh Myron,” wept Helen, leaning against the wall, “he isn’t! It’s true. He’s at the Black Lake Inn, waiting for Dan now. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, quit cryin’, fer a start. Where are yer?”

  “At Gow Flats, at the gasolene station.”

  “I’ll be right over in the Ford. Wait fer me there.”

  She hung up the receiver, and went into the little eating-house attached to the gasolene station, where she sat down and ordered coffee and lit a cigarette. It was comforting to think of Myron hurrying to her in the Ford, but what could they do when he got there? By the time they reached the Black Lake Inn, Bob might be twenty miles away. There was nothing—nothing—that she or Myron or any of them could do now.

  Bob went across to a far corner of the bar and sat down at a table. A waiter came up, and he ordered a drink, and sat there with it in front of him, staring at the wall. The room was empty except for a small group laughing with the bar-tender.

  Presently a man came in through the swing doors, and after a casual glance round walked over to Bob’s table and sat down opposite to him.

  “Hullo, kid,” he said gently.

  Bob looked up and nodded.

  “Hullo, Dan.”

  “Sorry if I kept you waiting. I was just waiting till Helen drove away.”

  “That’s all right. How about a drink?”

  “Thanks.”

  The waiter came up again and Dan ordered for them both. When the drinks came he sipped at his glass, holding it carefully in one manicured hand; Bob drained his at once. They sat for a while in silence, Bob looking down at the table and Dan gazing indifferently about the room. The group round the bar had gone, and the bar-tender was reading a magazine. At last Dan said in the same gentle tone:

  “I took care of those two for you, all right. Didn’t have any trouble, did you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s fine.”

  There was silence.

  “I didn’t have any trouble, either,” said Dan. “They both wanted to help.” He smiled a little. “Old Powell’s got a little grand-daughter he’s very fond of, and Tracey and his wife only opened a cleaning store six weeks back. Tracey’s intelligent. He only needed a hint. I had to talk to the old man a little longer. He couldn’t get the idea at first. But I told him times had changed, and then he got it, all right.” He took another sip at his drink.

  “How about another?” he asked.

  “Thanks.” The boy came up, and Dan paid.

  “Well, now,” said Dan, “about this little trip. How about coming up into the woods for a bit? I’ve got a nice little place up there. We could get some shooting. I’ve got to lie low for a while, and you need a holiday.”

  “Do I?” Bob laughed.

  “Now, kid, don’t be like that,” said Dan gently. “You’ve been crucified. Anybody can see that. But just try and take it easy. Sure, I know how you feel, the first time you ki—” He stopped, and sipped slowly at his glass. “… I know how you feel. But try and take it easy. We’ll go up to the woods and shoot, and maybe read a bit, and talk.”

  “You always liked talking, didn’t you, Dan?”

  “Sure I like talking.” The gangster began to pull thick gloves of fine leather over his hands. “You can get drunk on talking, like you can on liquor. You know me. I don’t like liquor—much. I only like women sometimes. I like to talk and I like to read and I like to—I like knowing people’ll do what I say.” His dark eyes moved slowly about the room. “We’ll go into the woods and rest up a while, and shoot, and then I’ll find you a job where you’ll see some life. Go places, and learn things. An intelligent kid, like you, going to be a doctor—”

  “Keep off that, will you?”

  “Sorry, kid. But you won’t feel like that in a week or two.” He leant a little over the table to emphasize his words, and Bob caught, together with the faint smell of the good cloth from which his coat was made, the sharp smell of pine from the high woods through which he had been driving.

  “The air’s always so good up in the woods,” he said suddenly.

  For the first time they smiled faintly at one another.

  “Remember the time I nearly put your eye out, aiming at a killdeer?” said Bob, rubbing his unshaven cheek and yawning.

  “Sure. That was the second time we ever went out.”

  “Can you still shoot, Dan?”

  “I don’t have to do my own—now,” said Dan, gently. “But I can still shoot, if I have to.”

  “Let’s go,” said Bob suddenly, resting his elbows on the table and putting his face in his hands. “I’m tired.”

  “Su
re. We’ll go now.”

  He lifted his hand, and the waiter came over and Dan paid for the rest of the drinks. He moved compactly, as if he were all made in one piece and very strong. His face was dark and smooth and his custom-tailored clothes, because of the superb material of which they were made, had a bloom on them, sombre yet rich. Bob watched him tucking a silk scarf, exactly the colour of a violet, into his coat. Here was his saviour. If Dan had not taken care of the jurors, he, Bob, might have been in prison now, instead of sitting here. Or perhaps the other ten jurors, who had known the Vorsts for years, before he was born, might have talked them over. Perhaps he had let Dan fix those two, and let Schroeder fix the witness, all for nothing. He didn’t know. Anyway, it was done now. He rubbed his eyes, yawning.

  “You know,” said Dan, looking down at him and smiling as he tucked in the scarf, “the boys don’t call me Dan any more. They call me Silk. Because of this.” He touched the beautiful scarf with an almost graceful gesture. “You’d better call me Silk, too, maybe.”

  “All right, Silk. I don’t mind. Let’s go,” said Bob, swaying with weariness as he got up.

  He had stopped feeling remorse and shame. He felt nothing except tiredness, and the relief of being with someone who had known him for years, who expected nothing of him. He would go away with Dan and rest, and have a little shooting, and then maybe things would work themselves out. He followed the compact dark figure down the long room, and out through the doors into the spring night.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A MONTH LATER Amy was standing at the window of her flat in Hyde House, Hyde Park, watching the sun go down behind the trees.

  The last of the daylight was faintly reflected on a picture where Victorian ladies and gentlemen skated under a yellow sunset, very like the real sunset that Amy was watching from the window. On the other walls were the medieval battle scene with red and blue-clad soldiers, and the Japanese painting of birds on a bough laden with snow and flowers. In the middle of the yellow carpet was a round Victorian table of yellow wood (but without any hot-plate marks). Shelves were built into the walls on either side of the electric fire that lay flat against a sheet of copper, and on them were the solid backs of Dred: A Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp, St. Elmo, Say and Seal, and other friends of Amy’s childhood. Very out of place they and the old pictures looked in this room, in which the taste of a fashionable decorator had provided the background, and the affection of the owner for her few old possessions had provided the personal touch. The decorator had been so angry when he saw the photograph of Amy’s grandparents on the white sycamore-wood desk that he refused to have anything more to do with her, and a mutual acquaintance had repeated to Amy his furious comment: “The place for photographs is the servant’s bedroom.” “You tell him that’s his place, too,” Amy had retorted, with one of her flashes.