A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

Gossip was leaping up on all sides like wildfire. She wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t been tight in the first place. My dear, certainly she had been tight, what then? She had said this and she had said that earlier in the evening. Dearie, she only did it because she thought her form showed up better under a wet frock. Kitty, kitty, nice kitty.

At length Sharlee covered her ears with her hands, walked backward and forward a couple of times, and cried out: “I’ll jump in it a second time if you don’t all clear out of here.”

The music started in to play again upstairs. They slowly faced around, two or three at a time, and turned toward the door. Their pocket flasks and Yale haircuts, their arched backs and panniers and flounces, their calves and jeweled heels, their perfumes and their whisperings, went up the stairs that youths in bathrobes and in running trunks were accustomed to use.

“I’m Gerald Jones.”

“Go away.”

“I’m Gerald Jones.”

“Go on away, I tell you.”

“But you’ll catch cold.”

Jemima came back. Jemima felt sorry. “I got this shawl for her,” she said. “I don’t know whose it is, but I got it anyway.”

Jonesy took it and put it around the unresistant and slightly shivering form that stood looking down into the depths of the water, brooding over the carnation that was slowly disintegrating petal by petal.

“Thanks, Jimmie, old top,” he said.

“You better give her some of our private stuff,” said Jemima. “I’m going back up and dance. See you later.”

Nothing was said for several moments.

“It isn’t bad,” Sharlee remarked, handing him back the flask. She went out on the diving board and sat down, swinging her feet above the water. “Gerald Jones, I like you. You’re a nice person.”

He crept out beside her. “Where’re you from?” he said.

“New York.”

“That’s funny. I’m from New York too.”

Sharlee didn’t say anything. She looked down into the water, and her eyes swam with the reflection of it.

“I’m s’posed to go back there too,” he added ruefully.

“I hate it here. I wish I hadn’t come,” said Sharlee. Her lip doubled over into an ugly pout.

“I’ll take you back with me.”

When he said that, she turned around and looked at him. A swarm of honeybees winged their way from her eyes and hovered about his head. He almost fell into the water.

“But I can’t walk a step,” said Sharlee. “I lost one of my slippers in the pool.”

“I’ll carry you to the train,” said he.

Upstairs there was no one on the floor any more. They were out in the moonlight doing a snake dance, hands on shoulders. Their legs rose and fell like pistons; they resembled figures from an Egyptian bas-relief. Jonesy with sleepy Sharlee in his arms tried to break through. Sharlee began half to laugh, half to whimper. They held their heads close together while jeering faces went around and around them in maddening succession.

“Nice Gerald Jones,” said Sharlee dreamily.

In New York Gerry went to see Angel Face, his mother. She lived in an apartment house that contained forty-two dogs and three monkeys but would not admit children under fifteen years of age.

“I’m Gerald Jones,” he told the maid at the door.

“Step in a minute,” said the maid. “She usually doesn’t see people at this hour of the day.”

“But I’ve come all the way from upstate.”

The maid came back and said: “She’s getting up,” and she gave him a look as of one who had seen a miracle performed. “It’ll take her a little while. She said for you to amuse yourself until she’s ready. You can turn on the radio or do anything you please.”

Gerry didn’t need the radio; there was music enough in his veins. He jumped onto a big divan with both knees and buried his face in the cushions. Through all the doors and all the windows Sharlee came in until the room was full of her and his heart was full of her too.

Then he saw that Angel Face was standing there looking at him curiously, with a blue and silver cap on her head and ribbons under her chin. “I’ve been standing here at least ten full minutes watching you,” she said. “And you never even saw me. It’s discouraging to think one is that thin.”

“Dearest!”

“Ger-ruld.” She deepened her voice purposely. Eyes blue as the skies of Paestum at high noon, blue as the fabled moon that is said to come once in a while.

“Sit down on my knee?” he wanted to know.

“I should say not.”

“Cigarette?”

“Never before noon.”

“Want me to go ’way again?”

“You can stay until half past ten,” she said. “A car is coming to call for me at eleven. You can stay all day for that matter,” she added, “only there won’t be a soul here.” She sat down to breakfast and immediately pushed her orange aside. “How was the prom?” she wanted to know. “Soaking wet, I suppose.”

“I have some news for you. I got married last night. Or rather early this morning.”

“What for?”

He looked at her for a long time, a long, long time, to gauge precisely what she had in mind. Then he said: “What does anyone marry for?”

“We won’t discuss that now. Who is she?”

“Sharlee.”

“Sharlee.” She seemed to be tasting it on the tip of her tongue. “Do I know her?”

“No.”