The Outsider Page 7

  “I’ve got to go down to the drugstore and get a prescription filled,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m leaving a hypodermic needle and a syringe boiling in a pan on the gas stove. Turn out the fire under it in two or three minutes, will you?” She shot him a sidelong glance. “You ought to be able to do that now.”

  “You can go to hell,” he growled at her.

  “I’d gladly go, if only I could take you along with me,” she snapped at him and pulled the door shut behind her so violently that it sounded like a rifle shot.

  His nerves twitched in protest, then he was conscious that the droning murmur of the doctor’s voice in the bedroom had ceased and he heard Dot’s distressed voice ringing out:

  “Oh, Cross! What was that?”

  Before he could reply the doctor had opened the door and was glaring at him.

  “The girl slammed the door,” Cross told the doctor sheepishly.

  “This child’s a nervous wreck,” the doctor said, throwing up his hands in despair. “She’s got to be kept quiet.”

  Cross huddled forward in his chair. The doctor went back into Dot’s room, drawing the door shut.

  Once more the masculine murmur of the doctor’s voice resumed. What was he saying to her? And what had she told him? He was convinced that he was under discussion and it made him feel deprived of his humanity, converted into a condemned object, exposed to the baleful gaze of a million eyes. He crept softly to the door, cocked his head and listened, but he could not distinguish any words. Now and then he could hear Dot’s silvery voice rising in a melody of complaint, of protest. Goddamn…Why had she called in that doctor without telling him? If she’d only trust me…But he knew that her trusting him would not get her what she wanted; he was in no position to marry her. All right; suppose Dot was in trouble? Did that justify her subjecting him to shame? The South Side was a small community and if Dot had revealed their relations to this doctor, their predicament would be on the lips of a thousand gossiping men and women in a day’s time…

  He had a hot impulse to rise and flee the apartment and disappear forever…What had he to lose by throwing up this fool’s game? His job? It was not worth a damn, so mortgaged was he with debt. He really had nothing to lose. What a stupid situation for an intelligent man to find himself in! What greater shame was there for a man than to walk the streets cringing with fear of grasping women whose destructive strokes were draped in the guise of whimpers and accusations? Somehow he would shake loose from this and never in all his life let himself be caught again…

  He was already supporting Dot, but she could, if she wanted to be brutal about it, compel him, at the behest of a court of law, to support the child after it was born. He knew that she would do such only if she were certain that he would never marry her. Had Gladys told her that a divorce was impossible? More than likely she had…

  He ought to leave now… But he sat, hating himself. He yearned to roll himself into a tight little black ball and fling himself away as far as his strength would allow. But, no; there were his small sons, Cross, Junior, Peter, and Robert, whom he loved and did not want to leave. He would regain his influence over Dot; all was not lost. Dot had gone berserk because he had broken his promise to see her this morning and now he would have to be with her constantly to bring her around. Above all, he had to persuade her to abort the child for her sake, his sake…

  A gurgle of water sounded in the kitchen. That pot that Myrtle had told him to look after! He ran and turned out the gas just in time, for there were but a few bubbles left in the pan.

  The telephone rang. He entered the hallway and stood uncertainly.

  “Shall I answer it, Dot?” he called through the door.

  “Yes, please,” Dot answered weakly.

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Dot? Is that you?” It was the voice of a woman speaking with breathless eagerness.

  “No, this is not she,” he said.

  “Who’s speaking?” the voice was cautious now, but still urgent.

  “Just a friend,” Cross said, disguising his tone. He was always afraid of Gladys’ trapping him in Dot’s apartment.

  “Is this Mr. Damon?”

  “No,” he lied, hoping that his voice would not carry to Dot’s room. “I’m a friend of Myrtle.”

  “Won’t you please call Dot to the phone?”

  “I’m afraid she can’t come. She’s in bed. The doctor’s with her. Who’s this?”

  “Mary, a friend of Dot. Listen, tell Dot I’ve found her a lawyer. He’s a whizz. She’s to call me as soon as possible.”

  “I see.” His eyes widened.

  “Tell her that she’ll have to act fast to tie up Damon—”

  “I’ll tell her.” He struggled to keep his voice normal.

  There was a hesitating silence.

  ““Who’s this speaking?” Fear was in the voice.

  “Brown’s the name,” he lied.

  “Oh…For a moment I had the feeling you were Dot’s friend, that Damon man,” the voice sighed with relief.

  “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes—”

  “Nothing’s seriously wrong with Dot, I hope?”

  “No. She just needs some rest.”

  “Tell Dot that she’s got to hang on to her birth certificate; it’s her quickest way of proving that she’s under sixteen. My lawyer says that as long as she’s not sixteen, Damon’s guilty of rape. Now, Dot’s birthday comes in June, and that gives her four months of grace.”

  Cross felt a red horizon of danger closing in about him.

  “What did you say?”

  “Explain this to Dot,” the voice spoke distinctly. “Wait a minute.”

  He held his breath as a faint rustle of paper came over the wire.

  “I got it,” the voice was edged with satisfaction. “I copied it down as my lawyer read it to me this morning. Here it is: ‘…Every male person of the age of seventeen years and upwards who shall have carnal knowledge of any female person under the age of sixteen years and not his wife, either with or without her consent shall be adjudged guilty of the crime of rape…’ You know what carnal means, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Cross breathed; he felt wrapped in a nightmare.

  “‘…Every person convicted of the crime of rape shall be imprisoned in a penitentiary for a term of not less than one year and may extend to life…’ You got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, this Damon’s married, so he can’t marry Dot and wriggle out that way,” the voice went on in a tone of hard triumph. “So if Dot doesn’t get mushy, she’s got Damon where she wants him.”

  “I see,” Cross said. “But are you sure Dot’s under sixteen?”

  “I’ve seen her birth certificate,” the voice assured him.

  “I’ll tell her,” Cross promised heavily.

  “Good-by.”

  “’Bye.”

  He hung up, swayed a bit, then sat. Dot was a minor? How was that possible? He was certain that she had told him that she was seventeen. Jesus…Could this be true? He had been honest with her and she had tricked him! Yet, in casting back his mind, he remembered that he had often felt that she was younger than she had claimed. How in God’s name had he stumbled into a situation of such deadly seriousness? He sat hunched over in the chair, too stunned to move. If ever, now was the time to act upon the impulse of flight. He had about fifty dollars in his pocket. He ought to buy a railroad ticket for as long a journey as the money would cover, and vanish. There was no doubt now but that Dot had made up her mind, and from now on he had to regard her as his enemy. Longing for a drink, he rummaged in the kitchen and found an inch of gin in a bottle and drained it.

  The hall door lock clicked and Myrtle entered without glancing at him. Yes; she was in on this too. Her knowledge of his being a potential convict was what had made her so bold in sassing him. He glared at her as she pulled off her coat and went into the kitchen and returned with a tray; she went into Dot’s room, closing
the door behind her. That bitch…His talk with Dot would be decisive; either she called off the lawyer or he would drop her and let her do her worst. He had a last weapon, his gun, and it would change things and leave her dismayed…

  At last the doctor emerged, leaving Dot’s door open this time. Moving methodically, the doctor placed his black bag on a chair and proceeded to get into his overcoat. He pulled on his hat and looked at Cross with cold eyes. Abruptly he grabbed his bag and went unaided out of the door. Yes; Dot had identified him to the doctor. Cross felt sick and cheap.

  On his tongue was a storm of reproaches he wanted to hurl at Dot, but he checked himself. To lose his temper would be playing into her hands, giving her an opportunity to wallow in an emotional scene. He walked slowly into the room and saw Dot lying with her face to the wall. Myrtle sat huddled on a side of the bed with her head bent forward, her body shaking; she was weeping. The hypodermic needle and the syringe lay on the tray at the foot of the bed. A medicinal odor hung in the air.

  “Myrtle, what the hell’s eating you?” he demanded.

  As he had expected, they had been waiting for this signal; both women started to berate him at once. It was Dot’s voice that won out.

  “Please, Cross, in the name of God,” Dot begged, without turning to look at him. “Be gentle with Myrtle. She’s been waiting on me night and day. She’s all I got. Don’t insult her.”

  “I’m not insulting anybody—”

  Myrtle jerked upright, her limbs trembling and her face wet with tears.

  “You did! And what have I ever done to you?”

  “You started slashing at me the moment I got into this apartment,” he charged her.

  “But can’t you see what’s happening?” Myrtle blazed at him. “This poor child’s half out of her mind…Try to be human!”

  “That’s the trouble,” he almost hissed. “I’m simply too damned human.”

  “If I was Dot, I wouldn’t take this off you for a single minute,” Myrtle burst out in a torrent of rage. “Oh, boy, I’d have you in a way that you’d never forget!”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  “I’d get your money, your job, and throw you smack into jail!”

  “Oh, Myrtle, no…” Dot protested.

  Yes, Myrtle was going further than Dot wanted. Cross looked at the two of them. When he spoke he was not smiling, but there was a note of hard irony in his voice that was worse than laughter.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just a big, bad, black brute. Pushing little girls around. Taking advantage of the helpless. Spoiling innocent children. I’ve no feelings. I’m just having a damn grand time and making others suffer.” He summed up their case for them and then sat on the edge of the bed beside Myrtle.

  “You’re a man and you can’t dodge your responsibilities,” Myrtle told him wailingly.

  “I’m not responsible to you for anything,” Cross told her. “And I don’t like your meddling. Now, get the hell out of here and let me talk to Dot.”

  “You are a real bastard,” Myrtle said. “You ought to marry Dot, but I pity her spending a lifetime with you.”

  “Don’t worry,” he taunted her. “I’m not going to spend a lifetime with you.”

  “Cross, for God’s sake,” Dot whimpered. “Don’t be that way.”

  “That’s the only way he can be,” Myrtle said.

  “Get out of here, Myrtle,” Cross told her again.

  There was silence. He stood his ground. He was determined to wreck their rehearsed appeal to him. He felt that instinct was guiding them, prompting their attitudes and the strategy of their attacks. Both of them were weeping now and he made no move. He would let their tears flow futilely for awhile; they would see that he was not to be easily overcome.

  “You’re lucky that it’s Dot you’re dealing with instead of me,” Myrtle said. Weeping, she stood and walked from the room.

  Cross heard the door close behind his back. He could almost see the little wheels turning in the brains of both girls as they planned their next move. Men had to consult together for concerted action; women simply gravitated together spontaneously, motivated by their situation in life as women. They knew without prior consultation the most effective assaults. Cross was conscious of their consciousness. He knew them as women better than they knew him as man.

  “Dot, I want to talk to you,” he began. “Are you up to it, or should I come back in the morning?”

  Dot lay without moving. He knew that she was debating. Finally she slowly turned over and faced him, the mass of her tumbling brown tresses framing an oval of face delicate and demure. God, but she’s really beautiful…Her deep brown eyes were haunted, empty. She lifted her head an inch from the damp pillow and then let it fall again, as though she was too weak to bear the strain of holding it erect. She managed a wan smile. What an actress! How do they learn it? Is it instinct?

  “I’m sorry, Cross,” she whispered.

  And he was truly sorry too. He wanted in that instant to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he knew that she would at once take advantage of it, would exploit it, would try to wring out of a simple act of compassion a promise of marriage. Goddamn! He reined in his feelings. She was gazing toward the window and the thought shot through his mind: She’s about to switch her tactics…His eyes traveled along the slight outlines of her body stretching under the blanket; she was so tiny and yet somehow so strong, this girl. Woman as body of woman was not in his consciousness now, but there was rolling teasingly through his memory a memory of it. He did not really want to hurt her, but what was he to do? How could he avoid it?

  “Dot, let’s start from the beginning,” he commenced. “Are you going to do what I suggested?”

  “What do you mean, Cross?” she hedged, sparring for time, her eyes swimming helplessly at him.

  “About the child,” he told her. “I’ve got it all arranged.”

  She leapt to a sitting position. Her body rocked to and fro; she clenched her fists and shook them at him, her mouth gaping in protest.

  “No, no, no!” she pealed hysterically. “Don’t ask me that again! Please, Cross, if you do—”

  “I am asking you,” he said. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

  She sprang from the bed in her nylon gown and screamed, then ran on bare, scampering feet across the room to the window. He walked toward her, calmly. The door burst open and Myrtle stood staring at them with parted lips and tense eyes.

  “If you ask me that again, I’ll jump out of the window! I swear I will! I swear, I swear…” Dot sobbed, clawing blindly at the window latch.

  “Oh, God!” Myrtle exclaimed, grabbing Dot with both arms. “Darling, don’t! You don’t know what you are doing!” She looked beseechingly at Cross who stood near Dot. Cross had not budged; he regarded Dot coldly. “Please, Cross, help me to get her back to bed…”

  “Get back in bed, Dot,” Cross said in a detached voice; he still did not touch her.

  Dot sobbed brokenly, clinging convulsively to Myrtle. Then she slid heavily to the wooden floor, resting on her bare knees. The nylon gown was pulled taut across the curves of her firm, yellow thighs and through the sheer white translucence of the tissue he could see the dark smudge of her pubic hair. She beat her knees frantically with her fists, violently shaking her head, tears oozing from her eyes, her body rocking back and forth. She keened: “No, no! I’ll never kill my child! I’ll die first! You can’t make me murder…! It’s my child and I’ll keep it and love it like I love my own life…! Oh, God, don’t let this happen to me!” She gulped for breath and fell prone to the floor, her body jerking with nervous spasms.

  “Help me, Cross,” Myrtle begged, struggling with Dot.

  He did not move; he stood looking silently at both of them. Myrtle stood over Dot, looking from him to Dot. Yes, she’s trying to weigh how much influence this is having on me, he thought. A woman’s business is emotion and her trade is carried on in cash of tears…He would help to keep Dot from leapi
ng out of the window, but that was all he was prepared to do at the moment. And, besides, he was not convinced that she would leap.

  “Come, darling,” Myrtle coaxed, lifting Dot.

  Dot allowed herself finally to be led back to the bed. Myrtle eased her upon it and Dot sat and sobbed with tears streaming through the fingers of her hands which covered her face.

  “I won’t kill my child,” Dot took up the refrain. “I won’t…”

  “Darling, get in bed,” Myrtle cooed. “The doctor said you had to be careful. You’re not well, you know.”

  Cross knew that these words were aimed at him. When Dot was once more in bed, Myrtle turned to him.

  “Why do you treat her like that?” she demanded. “The doctor said—”

  “Leave me alone!” he shouted; he did not relent; he could not.

  “I never dreamed anyone like you existed,” Myrtle said.

  “You know better now,” he said tersely.

  Myrtle ran from the room. Cross sat on the edge of the bed and tenderly touched Dot’s shaking shoulder.

  “Dot,” he began, “try to listen calmly. This may be the last time I can talk to you like this—”

  “Don’t say that, Cross. You’re going to leave me?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said.

  Dot lay very still. Cross heard an “L” train thundering past outside. Night was falling and a dark blue sheen of sky stood at the windowpane.

  “You promised not to tell anybody about this without first telling me,” he began.

  “Oh, Cross, I had to tell the doctor,” she said in a rush of words. “I was so nervous and he kept asking me what was the matter—”

  “I’m not talking about that!”

  Dot’s eyes showed helpless bewilderment. He knew that her pretended naïveté was particularly dangerous, for in it was a pathetic appeal for love that his heart yearned to answer. He knew that her deception stemmed from her craving for security and that she was expecting him, if he ever caught her in it, to forgive her.