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Joan Thursday

<h2>VI</h2> Joan's was an awakening of another order; like the thoroughly healthy animal she was, the moment her eyes opened she was vividly and keenly alive, completely acquainted with her situation, in full command of every faculty. With no means of determining the time save by instinct, she was none the less sure that the hour wasn't late: not late, at all events, for people who didn't have to be behind counters by half-past eight. So she lay still for many minutes, on the worn leather couch, listening intently. There was a great hush in the lodging-house: not a foot-fall, not a sound. Yet it was broad daylight—a clear and sunny morning. Her quick eyes, reviewing the room in this new light, realized the substance of a dream come true. She liked it all: the high and dusty ceiling, the immense and gloomy bookcases, the disorderly writing-table, the three sombre and yellowing steel engravings on the walls, the bare, beaten path that crossed the carpet diagonally from door to window, the roomy and dilapidated chairs, even the faint, intangible, ineradicable smell of tobacco that haunted the air, even the generous cushion beneath her head. Against this last she cuddled her cheek luxuriously, a shadowy smile softening her lips, her lashes low. She was enchanted by the novel atmosphere of this roomy chamber, an atmosphere of studiousness and clear thinking. And her thoughts focussed sharply upon her memories of the early morning hours, especially those involving the man who had put himself out to shelter her. She was consumed with curiosity about him and all that concerned him. In her inexperience she found it rather more than difficult to associate his courtesy, his solicitude and generosity with his aloofness, abstraction and detachment: the type was new and difficult to classify. Was it true, then, that Man—flesh-and-blood Man as differentiated from the romantic abstractions that swaggered through the chapters of the ten-cent weekly libraries—could be disinterested with Woman, content to serve rather than be served, to give rather than take? On the one side stood That One of the taxicab adventure, together with John Matthias: arrayed against these, a host composed of Ben Austins and Mr. Winters and men with knees—beasts of prey who stalked or lay in ambush along all the trails that webbed her social wilderness. Were they truly different, Matthias and that other one? Or were they merely old enemies in new masks? How was one to know?... A noise in the basement, the rattle of a kitchen range being shaken clear of ashes, startled the girl to her feet in a twinkling. However sharp her inquisitiveness and her desire to see and to know more of this man, she entertained no idea of lingering to be found there by him.... After bolting the door and before surrendering her tired body to the invitation of the couch, she had yielded to the temptation to make a brief tour of enquiry. The result had satisfied her that Matthias had lied in one particular, at least: unquestionably this was his work-room, but no less surely the man lived as well as worked in it, much if not all of the time. In its eastern wall Joan found a door opening into a small bedroom furnished with almost soldierly simplicity. And there were two large closets in the southern wall of the chamber; in one she found his wardrobe, a staggering array of garments, neatly arranged in sharp contrast to the confusion of his desk; the other was a bathroom completely equipped, a dazzling luxury in her eyes, with its white enamel, nickel-plate, glass and porcelain fittings. She refreshed herself there after rising—not without a guilty sensation of trespass—returning to the larger room to complete her dressing; no great matter, since she had merely laid aside skirt, coat, and shirtwaist, and loosened her corsets before lying down. In a very little time then, she was ready for the street; but with her hands on the doorknob and bolt, she hesitated, looking back, reluctant to go a thankless guest. Slowly she moved back to the centre-table, touching with diffident fingers its jumble of manuscripts, typewriter-paper, memoranda, and correspondence. There were letters in plenty, a rack stuffed with them, others scattered like leaves hither and yon, one and all superscribed with the name of John Matthias, Esq., many in the handwriting of women, a few scented, but very faintly. Joan wondered about these women and his relations with them. Was he greatly loved and by many? It would not be strange, she thought, if he were.... Her temper curiously unsettled by these reflections, she stood for a long time, staring and thinking. Then a renewed disturbance in the lower regions of the house sent her packing—but not until she had left an inadequate scrawl of thanks, whose poverty and crudity she felt keenly. Why had she never learned to write a hand of delicately angular distinction to bear comparison with the hands that had addressed those impeccably "correct" notes?... The hallway was deserted. She let herself hastily out, believing she had escaped detection. Sunlight swept the street from side to side, a pitiless and withering blast. Already every trace of last night's shower had vanished, blotted up by an atmosphere all a-quiver with the impetuous passion of those early, slanting rays. As if every living thing had been driven to shelter, or dared not venture forth, the street was quiet and empty. In violent contrast, the tides of life ran brawling through Longacre Square on one hand and Eighth Avenue on the other. Joan turned toward the latter, moving listlessly enough once she had gained the grateful shadow of its easterly sidewalks. A clock in the window of a delicatessen shop told her the hour was half-past seven, while the sight of the food unattractively displayed proved a sharper reminder of breakfast-time. She had no other concern in the world just then. It would be hours before she could accomplish anything toward establishing her independence; and what steps she was to take toward that consummation remained altogether nebulous in her understanding. She had not gone far before a dairy lunch settled the question as to where she was to breakfast. It was a small, shabby, dingy place, its walls plastered with white tiling and mirrors. Joan's order comprised a cup of brownish-yellow liquid, which was not coffee, and three weighty cakes known as "sinkers." These last might have been crude, childish models in putty of the popular American "hot biscuit," but were larger and slightly scorched on top and bottom, and when pried open revealed a composition resembling aerated clay. Joan anointed them generously with butter and consumed them with evident relish. Her powers of digestion were magnificent. The price of the meal was ten cents. She went away with a sense of repletion and seventy-two cents. She turned northward again. An empty day of arid hours confronted her perturbed and questioning imagination. She was still without definite plans or notion which way to turn for shelter. She knew only that everything must be settled before nightfall: she dared not trust to find another John Matthias, she could not sleep in the streets or parks, and return to East Seventy-sixth Street she would not. She had her own exertions to rely upon—and seventy-two cents: the one as woefully inadequate as the other. Near Columbus Circle she bought a copy of the New York World for the sake of its "Help Wanted" advertisements, and strolled on into Central Park. Here she found some suggestion of nature rising refreshed from its over-night bath to bask in sunlight. The grass was nowhere scorched, and in shadowed spots still sparkled with rain-drops. The air was still, steamy, and heady with fragrance of vegetation. Upon this artificial, rectangular oasis a sky of robin's-egg blue smiled benignly. A sense of peace and friendly fortunes impregnated the girl's being. Somehow she felt serenely sure that nothing untoward could happen to her. The world was all too beautiful and kindly.... She discovered a remote bench and there unfolded her newspaper and ran hastily through its advertising columns, finding one reason or another for rejecting every opening that seemed to promise anything in the nature of such employment as she had theretofore known. There were no cards from theatrical firms in need of chorus-girls, and nothing else interested her. She was now obsessed by two fixed ideas, as they might have been the poles of her world: she was going on the stage; she was not going back behind a counter. Yet she must find a way to live until the stage should open its jealous doors to her.... The morning hours ebbed slowly, with increasing heat. From time to time Joan, for one reason or another, would drift idly on to another bench. Once, as she sat dreaming with vacant eyes, she was roused by the quick beating of muffled hoofs, and looked up in time to see a woman on horseback pass swiftly along a bridle-path, closely pursued by a man, likewise mounted. The face of the horsewoman burned bright with pleasure and excitement and her eyes shone like stars as she glanced over-shoulder at her distanced escort. She rode well and looked very trim and well turned out in her habit of light-coloured linen. Joan thought her charming—and unspeakably blessed. Later they returned; but now their horses walked sedately side by side; and the woman was smiling softly, with her eyes downcast, as she listened to her companion, who bent eagerly close to her and spoke in a low and intimate voice. For hours afterwards Joan was haunted by the memory, and rent with envious longing. A hundred times she pictured herself in the place of the horsewoman; and the man at her side wore always the manner and the aspect of John Matthias.... About two o'clock in the afternoon she lunched meagrely on crackers-and-milk at another dairy establishment on Columbus Avenue—reducing her capital to sixty-one cents. Then, recrossing the park, she made her way back through the sweltering side-streets toward her late home. She arrived in time to see her father's burly figure lumbering heavily up the street. His gaze was to the sidewalk, his mind upon the poolrooms, his thick, pendulous lower lip quivered with incessant, inaudible repetition of race-track names and records. He would not have recognized Joan had he looked directly at her. And he didn't look. She was safe, now, to make her final visit to the flat. Thursby could be counted on not to return before six o'clock. She hastened across the street and up the narrow, dark and noisome stairway.... Seated at the dining-table, over an array of dishes discoloured with the residue of the mid-day stew, her mother, seemingly more immaterial than ever, merely lifted shadowed and apathetic eyes to Joan's face as she entered. Edna, on the contrary, jumped up with a hushed cry of surprise not untouched by alarm. "Joan!" The girl assumed a confident swagger. It was borne in upon her, very suddenly, that she must prove a ready liar in answer to the storm of questions that was about to break. "Hello, people!" she cried cheerfully. "How's everything?" "Didn't the Old Man meet you on the stairs?" demanded Edna in a frightened breath. "Nope: I waited till he'd turned the corner," Joan returned defiantly. "Anyway I ain't afraid of him. What'd he say, last night, after I was gone?" Edna started to speak, stammered and fell still, turning a timid gaze to her mother. "No more'n he said before you went out," said the latter listlessly. "He won't hear of your coming back—" "A lot I care!" Joan retorted with a fling of her head. "All I'm after's my things. I've done enough for this family.... Now I'm going to look out for Number One." The mother made no response. She seemed no longer to see Joan, whose bosom swelled and palpitated with a suddenly-acquired sense of personal grievance. "I've done enough!" she repeated mutinously. Edna said in a tremulous voice: "I don't know what we'll do without you—" "Do as I done!" Joan broke in hotly. "Go out and get a job and slave all day long so's your father won't have to support his family. Go on and try it: I'm sick and tired of it!" She turned and strode angrily into the front rooms. Edna followed, awed but inquisitive. Pulling their bed out from the wall, Joan disentangled from the accumulation of odds and ends beneath it a small suit-case of matting, in which she began to pack her scanty store of belongings: all in embittered silence, ignoring her sister. "Where'd you stay last night?" Edna ventured, at length. "With a friend of mine," Joan answered brusquely. "Who?" the other persisted. Joan hesitated not one instant; the lie was required to save her face. "Maizie Dean, if you got to know." "Who's Maizie Dean? I never heard you speak of her—" "Lizzie Fogarty, then," said Joan roughly. "She used to work with me at the stocking counter. Then she went on the stage. Now she's making big money." "Is she going to get you a job?" "Of course—foolish!" "Where's she live?" "Down in Forty-fifth Street, near Eighth Avenue." "What's the number of the house?" "What do you want to know for?" "Ain't you going back there?" Joan shut down the lid of the suit-case and began to strap it. "Yes," she said with a trace of reluctance. "I might wanta write to you," insisted Edna. "Anything might happen and you not know—" "Oh, well, then," Joan admitted, with an air of extreme ennui, "the number's Two-eighty-nine. Catch that? Don't forget." "I won't." "Besides," Joan added, lifting her voice for the benefit of the listener in the dining-room, "you don't need to be so much in a rush to think I ain't ever coming back to see you. You got no right to think that of me, after the way I've turned in my pay week in and week out, right straight along. I don't know what makes you think I've turned mean. I'm going to come and see you and ma every week, and as soon's I begin to make money you'll get your share, all right, all right!" "Joan—" the younger girl whispered, drawing nearer. "What?" "They had a nawful row last night—ma and pa—after you went." "I bet he done all the rowing!" "He"—Edna's thin, pale cheeks coloured faintly with indignation—"he said rotten things to her—said it was because you took after her made you want to go on the stage." "That's like him, the brute!" Joan commented between her teeth. "What'd she say?" "Nothing. Then he lit into Butch, but Butch stood up to him and told him to shut his face or he'd knock his block off." "And he did shut his face, didn't he?" Edna nodded vigorously. "Yeh—but he rowed with ma for hours after they'd went to bed. I could hear him fussing and swearing. She never answered one word." Reminiscences of like experiences of her own, long white nights through which she had lain sleepless, listening to the endless, indistinguishable monologue of recrimination and abuse in the adjoining bedroom, softened Joan's mood. She returned to the dining-room. Her mother's head had fallen forward on arms folded amidst the odious disorder of unclean dishes. Through a long minute Joan regarded with sombre eyes that unlovely and pitiful head, with its scant covering of greyish hair stretched taut from nape to temple and brow and twisted into a ragged knot at the back, with its hollowed temples and sunken cheeks, its thin and stringy neck emerging from the collar of a cheap and soiled Mother Hubbard. With new intentness, as if seeing them for the first time, she studied the dejected curve of those toil-bent shoulders, and the lean red forearms with their gnarled and scalded hands. Dull emotions troubled the girl, pity and apprehension entering into her mood to war with selfishness and obstinacy. This drudge that was her mother had once been a woman like herself, straight and strong and fashioned in clean, firm contours of wholesome flesh. To what was due this dreadful metamorphosis? To the stage? Or to Man? Or to both?... Must she in the end become as her mother was, a battered derelict of womanhood, hopeless of salvage? Slipping to her knees, she passed an arm across the thin, sharp shoulders of the woman. "Ma ..." she said gently. The response was a whisper barely audible, her name breathed in a sigh: "Joan...." Beneath her warm, strong arm there was the faintest perceptible movement of the shoulders. "Listen to me, ma: I ain't going to forget you and Edna. I am going to work hard and take care of you." The mother moved her head slightly, turning her face away from her daughter. Otherwise she was wholly unresponsive. Joan might have been talking to the deaf. She divined suddenly something of the tragedy and despair of this inarticulate creature whose body had borne her, who had once been as her daughter was now. Before her mental vision unfolded a vast and sordid tapestry—a patchwork-thing made up of hints, innuendoes and snatches of half-remembered conversations, heretofore meaningless, of a thousand-and-one insignificant circumstances, individually valueless, assembling into an almost intelligible whole: picturing in dim, distorted perspective the history of her mother, drab, pitiful, appalling.... Abruptly, bending forward, Joan touched her lips to the sallow cheek. "Good-bye," she said stiffly; "I got to go." She rose. Her mother did not move. Edna stared wonderingly, as though a bystander at a scene of whose meaning she was ignorant. Joan took up her suit-case and went to the door. "S'long, kid," she saluted her sister lightly. "Take good care of ma while I'm away. See you before long." She hesitated again in the open doorway, with her hand on the knob. "And tell Butch I said thanks." She was half-way down to the next landing before she became aware of Edna bending over the banisters. "Joan—" "What?" The girl paused. "I 'most forgot: Butch said if you was to come in to tell you to drop around to the store th'safternoon. Said he had something to tell you." "What?" demanded Joan, incredulous. "I dunno. He just said that this morning." "All right. Good-bye." "Good-bye, Joan." To eyes dazzled by ambition, the news-stand, shouldered on either side by a prosperous delicatessen shop and a more prosperous and ornate corner saloon, wore a look unusually hopeless and pitiful: it was so small, so narrow-chested, so shabby! Its plate-glass show-window, dim with the accumulated grime of years, bore in block letters of white enamel—with several letters missing—the legend: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">       A  THUR BY Newsd  ler & Stationer  igars & Con   tionery </div> </div> Before the door stood a wooden newspaper stand, painted red and black, advertising the one-cent evening sheet which furnished it gratis. A few dusty stacks of papers ornamented it. The door was wide open, disclosing an interior furnished with dirt-smeared show-cases which housed a stock of cheap cigars and tobacco, boxes of villainous candy to be retailed by the cent's-worth, writing-paper in gaudy, fly-specked packages, magazines, and a handful of brittle toys, perennially unsold. The floor was seldom swept and had never been scrubbed in all the nine years that Thursby had been a tenant of the place. The establishment was, as Joan had anticipated, in sole charge of Butch, who occupied a tilted chair, his lean nose exploring the sporting pages of The Evening Journal. Inevitably, a half-consumed Sweet Caporal cigarette ornamented his cynic mouth. He greeted Joan with a flicker of amusement. "'Lo, kid!" he said: and threw aside the paper. "What's doing?" "Edna said you wanted to see me." "Yeh: that's right." Butch yawned liberally and thrust his hat to the back of his head. "Well?" said the girl sharply. "What do you want?" Butch delayed his answer until he had inserted a fresh cigarette between his lips, lighted it from the old, and inhaled deeply. Interim he looked her over openly, with the eyes of one from whom humanity has no secrets. "Dja land that job?" he enquired at length, smoke trickling from his mouth and nostrils, a grim smile lurking about his lips. "Haven't tried yet." "But you're goin' to?" "Of course." "What line? Chorus girl or supe in the legit?" "I'm going to try to do anything that turns up," Joan affirmed courageously. "Try anythin' once, eh?" murmured the boy with profound irony. "Well, where you goin' to hang out till you land?" The lie ran glibly off her tongue this time: "With Maizie Dean—Two-eighty-nine West Forty-fifth." "That where you stayed last night?" "Yes ..." she faltered, already beginning to repent and foresee unhappy complications in event Butch should try to find her at the address she had given. The boy got up suddenly and stood close to her, searching her face with his prematurely knowing eyes. "Look here, kid!" he said roughly. "Hand it to me straight now: on the level, there ain't no man mixed up in this?" She was able to meet his gaze without a tremor: "On the dead level, Butch." "That's all right then. Only...." "Only what?" "There'll be regular trouble for the guy, if I ever find out you've lied to me." "What business—" "Ah, cut that!" snarled Butch. "You're my sister—see? And you're a damn' little fool, and somebody's got to look out for you. And that means me. You go ahead and try this stage thing all you like—but duck the men, duck 'em every time!" He eyed her momentarily from a vast and aloof coign of vantage. She was dumb with resentment, oppressed by amazement and a little in awe of the boy, her junior though he was. "Now, lis'en: got any money?" "No—yes—fifty cents," she stammered. "That ain't goin' to carry you far over the bumps. Who's goin' to put up for you while you're lookin' for this job-thing? Your frien' Maizie?" "I don't know—I guess so—yes: I'm going to stay with her." "Well, you won't last long if you don't come through with some coin every little while." Without warning Butch produced a small packet of bills from his trouser-pocket. "Djever see them before?" he enquired, with his mocking smile. Joan gasped: "My money—!" "Uh-huh," Butch nodded. "Fell outa your bag when you side-stepped the Old Man and beat it, last night. He didn't see it, and I sneaked the bunch while he wasn't lookin'. G'wan—take it." He thrust the money into her fingers that closed convulsively upon it. For a moment she choked and gulped, on the verge of tears, so overpowering was the sense of relief. "O Butch—!" "Ah, cut that out. It's your money, all right—ain't it?" She began with trembling fingers to count the bills. Butch tilted his head to one side and regarded her with undisguised disgust. "Say, you must have a swell opinion of me, kid, to think I'd hold out on you!" She stared bewildered. "There's twenty-two dollars here, Butch!" Her hand moved out as if offering to return the money. With an angry movement he slapped it back and turned away. "That's right," he muttered sourly. "I slipped an extra ten in. I guess I gotta right to, ain't I? You're my sister, and you'll need it before you get through, all right." She lingered, stunned. "But, Butch ... I oughtn't to...." "Ah, can that guff—and beat it. The Old Man's liable to be back any minute." Seizing her suit-case, he urged her none too gently toward the door. "It's awful' good of you, Butch—awful' good—" "All right—all right. But can the gush-thing till next time." Overwhelmed, Joan permitted herself to be thrust out of the door; and then, recovering to some extent, masked her excitement as best she could and trudged away across-town, back toward Central Park. Blind instinct urged her to that refuge where she would have quiet and peace while she thought things out: a necessity which had not existed until within the last fifteen minutes. Before her interview with Butch she had been penniless and planless. But now she found herself in circumstances of comparative affluence and independence. Twenty-two dollars strictly economized surely ought to keep her fed and sheltered in decent lodgings for at least three weeks; within which time she would quite as surely find employment of some sort. It remained to decide how best to conserve her resources. On the face of the situation, she had nothing to do but seek the cheapest and meanest rooming-house in the city. But in her heart of hearts she had already determined to return to the establishment of Madame Duprat, beyond her means though it might be, ostensibly to await the return of the Dancing Deans, secretly that she might be under the same roof with John Matthias. And in the end it was to Number 289 that she turned. At half-past four she stood again on the brown-stone stoop, waiting an answer to her ring. And at the same moment, John Matthias, handsomely garbed in the best of his wardrobe but otherwise invested in a temper both indignant and rebellious, instituted a dash from room to train, handicapped by a time-limit ridiculously brief. As the front door slammed at his back, he pulled up smartly to escape collision with the girl on the stoop. He looked at and through her, barely conscious of her pretty, pallid face and the light of recognition in her eyes. Then, with a murmured apology, he dodged neatly round her, swung down the steps, and frantically hailed a passing taxicab. Joan, dashed and disappointed, saw the vehicle swing in to the curb and heard Matthias, as he clambered in, direct the driver to the Pennsylvania Station with all possible haste. She stared after the dwindling cab disconsolately. He hadn't even known her! In another minute she would have turned her back on the house and sought lodgings elsewhere, but the door abruptly opened a second time, revealing Madame Duprat, a forbidding but imperative figure, upon the threshold. Timidly in her confusion the girl made some semi-articulate enquiry as to the address of Miss Maizie Dean. To her astonishment and consternation, the landlady unbent and smiled. "Ah!" she exclaimed with unction. "Mademoiselle is the friend of Monsieur Matthias, is it not? Very good. Will you not be pleased to enter? It is but this afternoon that the Sisters Dean have returned so altogether unexpectedly." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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